When Poll returned home and showed her empty basket, Jill could not help
uttering an exclamation of surprise.
"Why, mother, you han't brought in no flowers!" she said, "and I made
sure you had gone to fetch 'em."
"Let me set down, Jill. That pain in my side, it do seem to bite orful
hard this morning."
"Oh, poor mother! Set down and never mind the flowers. You shouldn't
have gone out so early, you know you shouldn't. Here's a cup of coffee.
Drink it, do."
The little kitchen was a picture of brightness and neatness; the small
stove was polished like a looking-glass. Jill placed a coarse white
cloth on the table, drew it up to her mother's side, placed the
breakfast cups and saucers in order, laid bread and a piece of salt
butter on the board, and, sitting down herself, filled two large
breakfast cups with coffee, which was really good and fragrant.
Mrs Robinson drank off a cupful thirstily. She laid it down with a
sigh of relief.
"You're a real good gel, Jill," she said. "And now I'll tell you what
happened to me."
"Never mind, mother. You take your breakfast, and set quiet; I'll go
and fetch some flowers myself, as soon as we ha' done."
"You can't, child; there ain't no money."
"No money? But there was plenty in the drawer last night."
"Look for yourself, Jill."
Jill paused in her occupation of cutting thick bread and butter. The
boys had already eaten their breakfasts, and gone away.
She gave a quick glance round the cosy little room. The sun shone in at
the window. The influence of the pleasant summer day was reflected all
over Jill's young face.
"There's time enough," she said, with a slow, satisfied smile. "You eat
your breakfast, mother, and I'll fetch the flowers arter."
"But you can't, when there ain't no money. I tell yer somebody crep' in
yere yesterday, most like when I wor--when I wor--"
"Never mind about that, mother. You had the pain bad, and you were
drowsy, and you left the door on the latch. That were how the thief got
in, worn't it, mother?"
"Ef you like to have it so, child. Seems to me--"
"Yes, I like to have it that way," repeated Jill. "You were drowsy, and
some one come in and took the money out of the drawer. Give me yer cup,
mother, and I'll fill it again."
Mrs Robinson pushed her cup away from her, and stood up.
"Do you know what it is?" she said. "That there are times over and over
again when I'd a sight rayther you struck me than took things as you
do."
"But I couldn't take 'em any other way, mother, you know I couldn't.
I--I love you too much." Jill's lips trembled. There was a fierce
passion in the way she said "I love you too much."
"And I put shame on you larst night, child. And now we are beggars.
All our little savings is gone, and it's owing to me."
"No, we ain't beggars--I ha' a stocking put away in another drawer.
It's for Nat and me 'gainst we set up housekeeping. I never spoke of it
'cause I 'arned every cent of it arter hours; but I'll take some to-day
to stock our baskets, and then we'll be off to work."
Mrs Robinson strode noisily across the floor. She took Jill's face
between her two hands, and kissed her on each blooming cheek. Then she
sat down with a profound sigh of relief.
"Ain't you a good 'un?" she said. "Any mother 'ud be proud of yer. You
hurry and buy the flowers, dawtie dear, and then we'll be off."
Breakfast was speedily finished, the breakfast things put away, and then
Jill, drawing a ribbon from inside her dress, produced a small key.
With this key she opened a small drawer, took some money out of an old
stocking, locked the drawer again, slipped the key into its
hiding-place, and went out.
After she was gone Poll sat very still. The bright colour which always
flamed in her cheeks had somewhat faded; her big, dark eyes looked
weary. After a time she gave utterance to a low moan.
"This pain's orful," she murmured. "I'd give the world for a nip of
brandy. Coffee! What's coffee when you ache as I ache? A sip or two
of hot gin, or brandy and water, 'ud make me feel fine. Jill's the best
gel, but she don't know what it is to have the thirst on her like me."
Poll went into the little sleeping-room and flung herself across the
bed. When Jill returned with the flowers she found her lying there, her
face white and drawn, her eyes closed.
At the sound of the brisk step, Poll made a vigorous effort to sit up,
but Jill's young glance could not be deceived.
"You shall not stir to sell a flower to-day," she exclaimed. "You lie
where you are, and take a good rest. I ha' got some beauties in the way
of flowers, and I'll sell 'em all, and we'll have a jolly supper
to-night. I met Nat when I were out, and he said he'd come in to
supper. You stay where you are, mother, and I'll ask Mrs Stanley to
come and see arter you. I know she will, ef I ask her."
"The pain's werry bad this morning, Jill."
"Mrs Stanley shall go and fetch a bottle of that soothing stuff from
the chemist round the corner. That'll put you to sleep, and then you'll
be a sight better. Now I must go."
Jill kissed her mother, took up her flower-basket, stopped at the next
landing to speak to Mrs Stanley, and finally tripped down-stairs with
her basket of blooming flowers on her arm.
Outside the house she was met by a tall fair-haired young costermonger
who took her basket from her, and turned to walk by her side.
"You shouldn't do it, Nat," she said. "It's a sin to be wasting your
time, and the morning's late enough as it is."
"Late?" echoed the young giant with a gay laugh. "Why, it ain't nine
yet, Jill, and anyhow I stole the time from my breakfast. I can just
walk as far as your stand with you. And you'll give me a posy for my
pains, won't you?"
"You choose it, Nat," said Jill.
"No, no, you must do that. Ain't you got a rose under all 'em flaring
poppies, and a bit o' mignonette? Them's my style. You make 'em up for
me, Jill, in a posy, and I'll wear 'em in my button-hole all day, no
matter who chaffs me."
Jill replied by a gay little laugh. The summer in the day got more and
more into her face. She gave Nat many shy and lovely glances.
"Look yere," he said suddenly; "you ain't answered my question."
"What is it, lad?"
"When are we to be married, Jill? I'll ha' a holiday in three weeks,
and I thought we might go before the registrar just then, and afterwards
go away for a week into the country. What do you say?"
"Oh, I can't say nothing. There's mother, you know."
"But your mother won't keep us apart, Jill. That 'ud be cruel."
"No, but I can't leave her. You know that."
"Well, look yere; I don't want you to leave her. I'm doin' well wid my
barrer, and you and me, we might take the flat alongside of Mrs
Stanley's, just under where you now live. Surely your mother and the
boys could manage for one another, and you'd be always close to see to
'em, ef they was in any fix. The rooms is to be let, I know, and ef you
say the word, Jill, I'll speak to the landlord this very night."
"But that flat costs a heap o' money; it don't seem right nohow," said
Jill.
"Yes, it's as right as anything, darlin'. I'm 'arning good money now,
it's all perfectly square. You leave it to me. You say yes, Jill;
that's all you ha' got to do."
"I'll think it over, lad, and let you know to-night. Here we are at my
stand now. Good-bye, Nat dear--oh, and here's your posy."
The young man took it with a smile.
"Pin it in for luck," he said. "Now I'm off I'll be sure and come round
this evening."
He blew a kiss to Jill, turned a corner, and disappeared.
Her stand was outside a large railway station. Six or seven other girls
also sold flowers there, but not one of them could vie with Jill for
picturesque arrangement.
She sat down now, and taking up her basket began hastily to divide her
flowers into penny and twopenny bunches. This piece of work she
generally did at home, but to-day she was late, and had to arrange her
wares as quickly as she could while waiting for her customers.
The sun shone all over her as she worked. She made a gay bit of colour,
and more than one person turned to look at her. Her black rippling hair
was coiled round and round her shapely head. Her turban, too hot for
this sultry day, was flung on the ground by her side. Her black dress
fitted her slim figure to perfection, and her gay many-coloured apron
gave a bizarre effect to her costume, which exactly suited the somewhat
foreign type of her face.
The flower girl who eat next her, in her untidiness, her dirt, and
almost rags, acted as a foil to Jill. She had bedizened her person in a
cheap dress of faded crimson. Her hat, nearly a foot high, was perched
on the back of her uncombed hair. It was trimmed with rusty crape and
rendered gay with one or two ostrich feathers, and some bunches of
artificial poppies.
This woman, between forty and fifty years of age, was, in her way, a
favourite. She indulged in a brogue which declared her Irish origin,
and whatever the weather, whatever the prospect of the flower-sellers,
she always managed to keep the laugh and the ready jest going.
"Did you ask me what me name was, honey?" she would say to a customer
attracted by the gleam of mischief in her eye. "Oh, then, glory be to
heaven, it's Molly Maloney, at your service, and where would you find a
better or a swater? Do take a bunch of flowers, lady, do now, and I'll
pray for a good husband for you every time as I goes down on my bended
knees."
Sallies of this sort provoked smiles even from the refined people who
wished to buy flowers, and secured roars of laughter from the other
flower girls, who delighted in egging Molly on to "give sauce," as they
termed it, to the fine folks.
On this particular morning, however, Molly's pleasantries were not so
frequent as usual. She whispered to Jill that little Kathleen, that
jewel of a girl, was down with a cowld, and she was moighty bothered
with her, and didn't know whether to send for the doctor or not.
"You might come and see her, Jill," said Molly Maloney. "Kathleen she
worships the very ground you treads on, and she's down with a cowld or a
faver, or something. I'll have no doctor to see her, no that I won't,
for he'd be after ordhering her off to the hospital, and that 'ud kill
her entirely. Oh, glory to heaven, what fine flowers you have this
morning, Jill! I'm shamed to sit near you, that I am. Look at mine.
They were under Kathie's bed all night, and they seem to smell of the
faver. Oh, I'll get 'em off ef I sell 'em chape. You lend me a coil of
wire, honey, and you'll see how I'll smarten 'em up."
Jill handed the wire to her neighbour with scarcely a remark. Her
thoughts were far away with Nat, and the home they might soon have
together. She wondered if they might really dare to take that flat next
to Mrs Stanley's--if by any possible means they could justify for
themselves the extravagance of paying seven shillings a week for their
rooms. Then how would her mother do without her? Who would help her
mother when she got those queer attacks of pain, those unsupportable
hours of agony which had hitherto found relief only in the one way?
Jill knew that it was very wrong of her mother to drink. The girl's own
nature was so upright, so sweet, so high, that it was absolutely
repulsive to her to see any one in the state in which she often now
discovered her poor mother. The aim and object of her life was to hide
the disgrace of her mother's intemperate fits from the rest of the
world; she called them by any name but the true one. She was ready to
cover them with any amount of lies if necessary; she would have knocked
down any one who accused her mother of getting drunk; even Mrs Robinson
herself, in her repentant moments, did not dare to call a spade a
spade--did not dare to speak of what she had done by its true name.
Jill never blamed her, she put it all down to the pain and misery. It
seemed to her there was no remedy left to her mother but to drown her
sufferings in drink, and yet the fact cast a shadow over her own life,
and caused her to sigh heavily, even though Nat was coming in the
evening, and they could talk about their wedding-day, which was so soon
to arrive.
As she arranged her flowers with deft fingers this morning she made up
her mind that she would say yes to Nat. She would be in the same house
with her mother, and could still look after her. As to the boys, they
were both of them doing for themselves. Jill scarcely gave them a
thought at all in making her arrangements.
Yes, she would marry Nat, and trust to his never discovering that ugly
secret about her mother.
She had just finished the arrangement of her basket, picturesquely
heaping her masses of pink, white, and yellow poppies at one side, and
her roses and forget-me-nots at another, when a tall girl, dressed in
the costume of the Flower Girls' Guild, came up with a basket of flowers
on her arm and spoke to her.
She was a handsome girl, and looked striking in her neat grey dress and
scarlet apron. Her hair was of a pale gold, her eyes large and blue;
the expression of her somewhat pale face a little austere. Her basket
was full of lovely fresh flowers, but although they were superior to
Jill's in quality, they did not make nearly so fine a show.
"Is that you, Jill?" she called out. "Nat told me you were here. Why
ain't your mother with you? Ain't she well?"
"No, she has a fit of that old pain over her," responded Jill. "I left
her lying down. The pain takes a deal out of her, and I thought she had
best be quiet."
"Don't she see no doctor? We has a splendid one belonging to the Guild;
ef you and your mother would only join, you'd get a heap o' good out of
it, Jill. But you're that obstinate, and when the best thing in the
world is offered to you, you won't so much as open your eyes to see it.
I wonder Nat holds on to you, that I do."
Jill smiled, reddened, and was about to reply, when the Irishwoman
called out in her brilliant tones:
"What I say of Nat Carter is this, that he's the luckiest gossoon in all
London to have got the purtiest bit of a colleen to say she'll wed him.
Why, you ain't got looks lit to hold a candle to her, Susy Carter, even
though you are Nat's sister."
"Well, well," said Susan, in a slightly patronising manner, "we must
each of us go our own gait. If Jill and her mother won't join the
Guild, I can't force 'em. Maybe you'll do it later on, if Nat wishes
it, Jill. And, oh, what do you think, here's a bit o' luck; I has just
got that stand I was waiting for so long near the Marble Arch. The girl
wot had it died yesterday, and I've stepped into her shoes, and a right
good think I'll make of it. I must be off now, or I'll lose customers.
Good-bye, Jill. Oh, by-the-way, you might as well mass these colours
for me. I can't make my basket look like yourn, however hard I try."
Susy Carter put her basket on the ground as she spoke. Jill bent over
it, re-arranged the flowers without a word, and returned it to her.
"Thank you--thank you," she cried delightedly. "Why, Jill, what fingers
you has! Who but yourself would have thought of putting these pink
peonies close to all them crimson poppies, and then throwing up the
colour with this bunch of green. Oh, it's daring, but it's lovely;
it'll fetch like anything. Now I'm off You get your mother to see a
doctor, Jill."
"No, I won't," said Jill, shortly, "I don't believe in 'em, neither does
mother."
"Right you are, honey," exclaimed Molly Maloney, "I don't hold by
docthors, nayther. If my little Kathleen dies of the faver--bless her,
the darlint!--why, I know as it's the will of the Almighty. But ef the
docthor came and gave her his pizens--what is it, miss--what now?"
"Do you say you have a child down in fever?" said Susy Carter, speaking
in a quick, passionate voice.
The Irishwoman was lounging with her back against the wall. She now
started upright, and spoke defiantly.
"And why mayn't I have my darlint child down with the faver?" she
demanded, her eyes darkening with anger.
"Did you keep those flowers in the room with the sick child all night?"
"Yes, my purty, I did. Would you like a bunch? you shall have it chape.
A ha'p'ny for this rose; it'll look iligant pinned on the front of your
dress. Now, then, only a ha'p'ny. Why, there ain't no chaper flowers
in the whole of London."
"It's very wicked of you to sell those flowers," said Susy. "You may
give the fever to a lot of other people by doing so. That's the good of
belonging to our Guild. We have a beautiful cool room to keep our
flowers in at night, so that no one can be poisoned by them. They keep
fresh, and they last, and they don't carry horrid diseases about with
them. It's very wicked of you to sell those flowers. You ought to
throw them away."
She picked up her basket as she spoke and marched off.
Molly sat down, muttering angry words under her breath.
"I wonder you takes up with the likes of her, Jill," she said, when she
had cooled down sufficiently to address a few words to her companion.
Jill, who was in a day-dream, looked round with a start.
"Take up with whom?" she said.
"That consated bit of a colleen, Susy Carter. You're goin' to marry her
brother. Seems to me you're throwing yourself away. Why, honey, you're
illigant enough and handsome enough to be any man's chice."
"Yes, but I love Nat," interrupted Jill. "I'm not marrying Susy--I
don't much care for Susy. Yes, ma'am? These bunches are twopence each,
these a penny. I'll give you this bunch of poppies for sixpence, ma'am,
and put some green with it."
A lady who had just come up from the Underground Railway had stopped,
arrested by the beauty of Jill's flowers. She was holding a prettily
dressed little girl of about six years old by the hand.
The child was all in white. She had cloudy golden hair falling over her
shoulders, her round pink and white face resembled a daisy in its
freshness.
The lady was in deep mourning; the expression of her slightly worn face
was sad.
"Shall I put the poppies up for you, ma'am?" repeated Jill.
"Yes. I will give you sixpence for that bunch, but be sure you let me
have some green with it."
"I want to spend my penny on flowers, mother," said the child.
"Well, darling, choose. This nice flower girl will give you a pretty
posy for a penny."
"I want two posies," said the child. "One for Dick, and one for Dolly.
It's Dick's birthday, but if I give him a posy, and don't give Dolly
one, Dolly will cry."
The pretty child's little voice was full of anxious confidence. In
making her statement she felt sure of sympathy, and she addressed not
only her mother, but Jill and Molly Maloney.
Molly, who was squatting down on her knees, began to murmur an eager
torrent of Irish blessings.
"Eh, glory! What a darlint it is!" she said. "For all the world like
my little Kathleen! And so you want some flowers, my beauty? You let
me sarve her, Jill. I has got rose-buds and mignonette all made up most
enticing only a ha'p'ny a bunch."
"I want two bunches," repeated the child in her clear, precise voice,
"one for Dick, because it's his birthday, and one for Dolly. Dolly's
free years old, and she'll cry if I don't take her a flower. I've only
got _one_ penny."
She opened the palm of her little hot hand, and showed Molly the coin.
"Now then, you shall choose, my pet," said the Irishwoman. "These
bee-u-tiful flowers was growin' on the trees half-an-hour ago; why the
jew is scarcely dried on 'em yet. You choose, my pretty, you choose.
Oh, the smell of 'em, why they'll nearly knock you down with the
swateness. Thank you, lovey, thank you. May the Vargint bless you, me
darlint, and that's the prayer of poor old Molly Maloney."
The child received the rather stale rose-buds and mignonette with silent
rapture. Having received her prizes she scarcely gave another glance at
Molly, but began chattering eagerly to her mother about the bliss which
Dick and Dolly would feel when she presented the posies to them.
The lady having paid Jill for the flowers, took the child's hand and
walked away. Molly gave a laugh of satisfaction as they did so.
"I told you so," she said, turning to Jill, "I said if I sold 'em chape
I'd get rid of 'em, and they was under Kathleen's bed all night. I
called 'em fresh to the child, bless her. She _is_ a beauty, but--why,
what's the matter, Jill?"
"Nothing," said Jill, suddenly. "Look after my flowers, Molly, I'll be
back in a jiffey."
With feverish haste she pulled some of her choicest button-holes out of
a great heap in one corner of her basket, and leaving Molly open-mouthed
with amazement, ran as fast as she could down the street after the lady
and the child.
"Here, little missy," she said, panting out her words, for her breath
had failed her, "you give me them posies and take these. These are a
sight fresher and better. Here, missy, here!"
She pushed some lovely Gloire-de-Dijon, red geranium, and mignonette
into the child's hand. The little one grasped them greedily, but held
fast to her wired moss-rose-buds and forget-me-nots.
"I'll keep them all," she said. "Thank you, girl."
"No, no, make her give 'em up, ma'am," said Jill, turning to the lady.
"I don't think they're wholesome. The woman's child is ill, and them
flowers was in the room all night."
"Throw them away this moment, Ethel," said the mother in alarm. "What a
kind girl you are! How can I thank you? No, Ethel, you must not cry.
These are much more beautiful posies. Thank you, thank you. But how
shameful that one should be exposed to such risks!"
But the lady spoke to empty air, for Jill, having seen the roses and
forget-me-nots flung into the middle of the road, had instantly turned
on her heel. Molly was rather cross when she came back, but as Jill
gave no explanation whatever with regard to her sudden rush down the
road, she soon relapsed into gloomy silence and into many anxious
thoughts with regard to her little sick Kathleen.
The brilliant sunshiny morning did not fulfil its promise. In the
afternoon the wind veered round, the sky became overcast, and between
two and three o'clock a steady downpour of rain began.
Such weather is always fatal to the selling of flowers; at such times
the ladies who are out in their fine summer dresses are little inclined
to stop and make purchases. Gentlemen don't want button-holes when they
are wrapped up in mackintoshes; in short, the wet weather makes the
pleasure-seeking public selfish.
Jill had been rather late arriving at her stand, and in consequence the
gentlemen who almost always stopped to buy a button-hole from the
handsome young flower girl had carried their custom elsewhere.
With the exception of the lady who had bought a sixpenny bunch of
poppies, Jill had only sold two or three pennyworth of flowers when the
downpour of rain began. As to Molly, even her halfpenny button-holes,
quite an anomaly in the trade, could scarcely attract under such
depressing circumstances.
The volatile creature began to rock herself backwards and forwards, and
bewail her hard lot. What _should_ she do, if she did not sell her
flowers? There was nothing at all in the house for little sick
Kathleen.
"Not even money for the rint," she moaned, "and that cruel baste of a
landlord would think nothing of turning us both into the street."
She poured her full tale of woe into Jill's ears, who listened and made
small attempts to comfort her.
"Look yere," said Jill, suddenly, "I'll tell yer a sort of a fairy tale,
if you'll listen."
"Oh, glory!" exclaimed Molly, "and I loves them stories. But it's
moighty cowld I am. You spake on, honey, and I'll listen. It's
comforting sometimes to picter things, but _I'd_ rayther think of a
right good dinner now than anything under the sun."
"This isn't a dinner," said Jill, "but it's lovely, and it's true."
"Fairy tales ain't true," interrupted Molly.
"Some are. This is--I see'd it with my own eyes last night. I went
with the boys to Grosvenor Square, and I see'd the fine folks going into
a ball. There was the madams in their satins, and laces, and feathers,
and the men like princes every one of them. And the young gels in white
as ef they were sort of angels. You could smell the flowers from the
balconies right down in the street, and once I was pushed forrard, and I
got a good sight right into the house. My word, Molly, it wor enough to
dazzle yer! The soft look of it and the richness of it, and the dazzle
of the white marble walls! Oh, my word, what a story I could make up of
a princess living in a palace like that. What's the matter, Molly."
"Whisht," said Molly, "howld your tongue. There's some corpses coming
down the road. If there's one thing I love more than another it's a
corpse, and there are three of them coming down in hearses. Three
together--glory! There's a sight! 'Tis a damp day they has for their
buryin', poor critters!"
Molly stood up in her excitement, pushing her despised basket of
withered flowers behind her. The wind had blown her tall hat crooked,
and had disarranged her unkempt grey hair, which surrounded her
weather-beaten countenance now in grisly locks.
Putting her arms akimbo, she came out from under the shelter of the
railway portico to see the funeral processions go by. Three hearses,
one following the other--such a sight was worth a wet afternoon to
behold. Molly, in her excitement, rushed back to where Jill was
standing, and caught her roughly by the arm.
"Come on," she said. "They are the purtiest coffins I has seen for many
a day. By the size of them they must howld full-grown men. Ah! what a
wake the critters would have had in ould Ireland! Swate it would have
been, and wouldn't the whiskey have flown around! Ah, worra me, it's a
sorrowful day when they don't wake the dead. There they go! there's the
first--six foot high if he was an inch--a powerful big coffin he takes.
Well, he'll find it damp getting under the earth on a day like this. My
word, Jill! Look at the flowers! Why, they're heaped up on that
coffin, and chice 'uns too--roses and lilies, and them big white
daisies. Oh, shame, they'll all go underground, I expect. Here's the
second! Can you see it, Jill? He's not so big, five foot seven or
eight, I guess. Heaps of flowers, too. Simple waste, I call it, to
give flowers to a corpse. It can nayther smell 'em, or look at 'em.
Ah, and here's the last--poor faller, poor faller!"
The Irishwoman's ready tears sprang to her eyes. She turned and faced
Jill.
"He ain't got one single flower on him!" she said. "Poor faller!
Where's his wife, or his swate-heart? Poor faller, I do call it a
negleckful shame of them."
"But I thought you said--"
"Never mind what I said, I forgits it meself. There's the coffin,
without a scrap of trimmin' on it, and the poor corpse inside a-frettin'
and a-mourning. Oh, it's moighty disrespec'ful. Suppose it was your
Nat, Jill?"
"No, it should never be my Nat," said Jill, with a little cry.
Her quick, eager sympathies were aroused beyond endurance. The plain
deal coffin, lying bare on the shabbiest of hearses, appealed to her
innermost heart.
"He shall have posies, too," said the flower girl, with a cry.
She rushed back to the corner when her basket was placed out of reach of
the rain, swung it up on her powerful young arm, and rushing out
fearlessly into the street, flung the brilliant contents all over the
deal coffin.
"Let him have them to be buried with!" she said, addressing her words to
a few of the passers-by, who could not help cheering her.