It took her past those tenements familiarly called the Pollard cottages: in one of which lived troublesome Mrs. Bond. All the inmates of these cottages were well known to Maria: had been known to her from childhood: the Rector of All Souls’ was wont to say that he had more trouble with the Pollard cottages than with all the rest of his parish. For one thing, sickness was often prevalent in them; sometimes death; and sickness and death give trouble and anxiety to a conscientious pastor.
“Mamma, you going to see old Susan to-day?” chattered Miss Meta, as they approached the cottages.
“Not to-day, Meta. I am going straight on to Mrs. Pain’s.”
Meta, who was troubled with no qualms on the score of ceremony herself, perceiving one of the doors open, darted suddenly into it. Meta was rather in the habit of darting into any open door that it took her fancy so to do. Maria walked on a few steps, and then turned and waited: but the little truant did not appear to be in a hurry to come out, and she went back and followed her in.
A lady in a rusty black stuff gown covered with snuff, her cap awry and her face somewhat flushed, was seated in state before a round deal table, doing nothing; except contemplating certain articles that were on the table, with a remarkably gratified expression of countenance. The lady was Mrs. Bond: and this, as Maria was soon to hear, had been a decidedly red-letter day with her. On the table—and it was this which appeared to be fascinating the attention of Meta—was a large wicker cage containing a parrot; a small parrot with a plumage as fine as Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s, an angry-looking tuft on its head, not at all unlike her hat’s tuft of feathers. Mrs. Bond’s attention appeared not to be so much absorbed by the parrot and cage, as by a green medicine-bottle, containing some clear-looking liquid, and a tea-cup without a handle. These latter articles were standing immediately before her.
Two or three years ago, Mrs. Bond’s eldest daughter, Peggy, a damsel who had not borne the brightest of characters for steadiness, had been taken out to Australia by a family to whom she engaged herself as nurse-girl. After sundry vicissitudes in that country—which she duly chronicled home to her mother, and that lady was wont to relate in convivial moments, over tea or any other social beverage—Peggy had come to an anchor by marrying. She wrote word that her husband was an industrious young carpenter, who was making his fortune, and they were quite at ease in the world. As a proof of the latter statement, she had sent over a parrot to her mother as a keepsake, and a trifle of money; which would be safely delivered by a friend, who was going the home voyage.
The friend was faithful. He had arrived on his mission that very morning at Mrs. Bond’s, delivering the parrot uninjured and in rude health—if its capacity for screaming might be taken as an indication. The money turned out to be eleven pounds: a ten-pound note, and a sovereign in gold. Peggy probably knew enough of her mother to be certain that the first outlay made would be for “something comforting,” and this may have induced her to add a sovereign, in some faint hope that the note would be preserved intact. Mrs. Bond had the sense to discern Peggy’s motive, and openly spoke of it to Maria. She was in an open mood. In point of fact she had gone right off to Prior’s Ash and changed the sovereign, bringing home that green bottle full of—comfort. It was three parts empty now, and Mrs. Bond, in consequence, had become rather red in the face, and was slipping some of her long words.
“But you will not think of changing the note, will you?” returned Maria, in answer to what Mrs. Bond disclosed. “How useful it would be to you in the winter for clothing and fire—if you would only keep it until then!”
“So it ’ould,” responded Mrs. Bond.
She dived into her pocket, and brought forth the note and a handful of silver, all lying loose, amidst a miscellaneous collection. “Don’t it look pretty?” cried she.