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Updated: June 4, 2025
But I told her the mother was dead, and that seemed to be an obstacle. She took a good deal of care of the child, for she said she would not see an innocent creature neglected, even if it was an incipient hod-carrier, but she did not relax in the least in her attention to Pomona's baby.
It's a-bringin' out them chills of hisn, an' the next thing it'll kill him. I admitted, but not with Pomona's hopefulness, that the child might be found as easily in Paris as here. "And we've seen everything about London," said Euphemia, "except Windsor Castle.
Euphemia's frequent reference to a trip to Europe had fired Pomona's mind, and she was now more wildly anxious for the journey than any of us. She believed that it would entirely free Jonas from the chills and fever that still seemed to permeate his being. And besides this, what unutterable joy to tread the sounding pavements of those old castles of which she had so often read!
"Another thing," I remarked, "I don't believe Jonas and Pomona like your keeping their baby so much to yourself." "Nonsense!" said Euphemia, "a girl in Pomona's position couldn't help being glad to have a lady take an interest in her baby, and help bring it up. And as for Jonas, he would be a cruel man if he wasn't pleased and grateful to have his wife relieved of so much trouble.
But I fell asleep at last, an' when I woke up, early in the mornin', the first thing I did was to feel for that lunertic. But she was gone!" "Gone?" cried Euphemia, who, with myself, had been listening most intently to Pomona's story. "Yes," continued Pomona, "she was gone. I give one jump out of bed and felt the gases, but they was all right. But she was gone, an' her clothes was gone.
Then as the bald disclaimer of any need for solicitude seemed a chill return for Pomona's cordiality, old Maisie hastened to add a corollary: "I did not find the time to thank your mother as I would have liked to do; but I get old and slow, and the coachman was a bit quick of his whip. I should be sorry for you to think me ungrateful, or your good mother."
Four doors off, a chemist's motley in bellied glasses crashed on the sight. Passengers along the pavement had presented to them such a contrast as might be shown if we could imagine the Lethean ferry-boatload brought sharp against Pomona's lapful. In addition to the plucked flowers and fruits of the shop, Rose Mackrell more attentively examined the samples doing service at the counters.
Lady Pomona hoped that Mr Carbury and his relatives, who, Lady Pomona heard, were with him at the Hall, would do the Longestaffes the pleasure of dining at Caversham either on the Monday or Tuesday following, as might best suit the Carbury plans. That was the purport of Lady Pomona's letter to Roger Carbury.
There was nothing in this good-humoured villager surely Pomona's self in a cotton print, somewhat older than is usual with that goddess nothing but what served to banish these nightmares of her lonely recollection. Only, mind you, Sam Rendall that was Wat Tyler's name, this time was a good man, who deserved to have had that daughter's children on his knee. She, Maisie, had deserted hers.
"Are you ready?" I cried, as the dog, excited by Pomona's wild shouts, made a bolt in his direction. "Good-day, if I must " said the agent, as he hurried to the gate. But there he stopped. "There is nothing, sir," he said, "that would so improve your place as a row of the Spitzenberg Sweet-scented Balsam fir along this fence. I'll sell you three-year-old trees " "He's loose!"
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