Jill awoke presently, rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. A sensation of
gladness was all over her, but she could not at first understand what it
meant. Her sleep had been so strong and dreamless that the remembrance
of her engagement to Nat Carter did not in the first moment of waking
return to her.
Then she remembered it. She gave a leap of pure joy and sprang lightly
out of bed. Having dressed herself neatly she stood for a moment by the
window of her little room. Thankfulness was filling her whole nature.
She felt so young, so joyous, that it was a delight to her even to be
alive. She looked up into the cloudless summer sky and said aloud:
"I don't know nothink 'bout the ways o' good folks, but they say that
they b'lieve in Someone up there. They call Him God. Ef there is a God
I thank Him with my whole heart this morning. God up in the sky, ef
you're there, do you hear me? Jill thanks yer with her whole heart
to-day."
A faint dimness came over the girl's bright eyes; she put up her hand to
wipe it away, and then went into the kitchen.
Poll, of course, had gone to buy some flowers in the early market. She
might be back at any moment.
Jill bustled about to prepare breakfast. She did not go near the
dresser, which stood in one corner of the little room and was never used
to hold cups and saucers or any implements of cookery. Jill's mind was
so preoccupied that she did not even observe the boys' absence.
At last, however, the breakfast was ready. The coarse cups and saucers
were placed on the little table, the coffee stood on the hob of the
bright little stove. The bread and a plate of dripping were placed also
on the table.
It was almost time for Poll to have returned. Jill expected each moment
to hear her footstep in the passage. She sat down to wait for her, and
at last remembering her brothers, turned to the press bedstead to tell
them to get up. The bedstead was empty. The bed was tossed and
tumbled; no boys were to be seen there. Jill felt a passing wonder at
their having gone away, without breakfast, but they were always erratic
in their movements, and her mind was too preoccupied with other thoughts
for her to trouble herself long about them.
After waiting a moment or so longer she ate her own breakfast, for she
reflected that if for any reason her mother was detained in the market
she would have to go out to buy flowers to replenish her basket herself.
Having eaten, she went into her bedroom to put on her apron and turban,
and now neatly dressed she came back into the kitchen, and taking up her
flower-basket, was preparing to leave the room, when she suddenly
remembered that her pockets were destitute of money. She had really
earned nothing the day before; she must therefore draw upon her little
savings to replenish her basket this morning.
The thought gave her a faint passing annoyance, for she did not like to
deduct even a penny from the money which would be so useful to Nat and
herself when they started housekeeping.
There was no help for it, however, and she put her hand inside her dress
to feel for the blue ribbon which held the precious little key of the
bureau. The ribbon came out easily enough, but Jill started and felt
herself turning pale when she saw that there was no key attached to it.
Her eyes grew big with a sudden fear.
What had become of the key? The ribbon looked as if it had been cut.
Who could possibly have done this? No one. The ribbon must have got
thin and worn without Jill knowing it. The key must have dropped off.
Where had she lost it? How very unpleasant if she was forced to burst
open the drawer of the bureau!
Then she remembered that she had the key last night when she opened the
drawer to put the five sovereigns Nat had given her to take care of for
his pal into the old stocking. She certainly had the key then--it must
therefore be somewhere in the house.
She went back into her bedroom and searched on the floor and in the bed;
she could not find it and returned to the kitchen with a puzzled,
anxious expression on her face.
Then she gave a cry of delight and made a leap forward--the key was in
the lock of the drawer. How careless of her to have left it there! and
yet she was glad now, for no harm could possibly have happened, as no
one but herself and her mother knew that she kept money in the drawer.
She went on her knees, pulled it open, and taking up the old stocking,
unrolled it. Her own savings, amounting to nearly five pounds, were
kept in a tiny gingham bag--the money Nat had given her was in a neat
paper roll. The bag was there flat and empty--the roll had also
disappeared.
Jill felt herself turning queer, sick and faint; she could not possibly
believe that the money was gone; she felt certain at first that in some
way these carefully hoarded savings must have slipped out of the bag,
that the roll of paper must be hiding in another part of the drawer.
It was a game of "Hide and Seek"--a cruel game between this money and a
girl's troubled, anxious heart. She searched the drawer from end to
end; it contained some neatly-made aprons, some stockings, and a few
other garments. The contents were quickly searched through, Jill rose
to her feet--she was white and tottering, but she had not as yet reached
the stage of believing that the money was gone.
She still thought that it was playing that hideous game of "Hide and
Seek." She placed her hand against her heart and leant against the
bureau. There was nothing for her but to go on seeking for the treasure
so securely hidden; but where now should she look?
She stood still, trying her best to think. Suddenly her eyes rested on
the open sheet of thin poor letter-paper which contained her mother's
badly written words.
Jill started violently at the sight. She bent forward and tried to read
the hand-writing. Her sight was excellent, but just for a moment she
could not see the words in the letter; then she read them:
"_Dear Jill,--This is to say as I'll come back again when I'm cured_."
"What did that mean,"--Jill rubbed her eyes until they smarted--"Mother
will come back again when she's cured"? She read the next sentence;
"_I'll ha' no pain when I come back, my gel, so you make yerself
'appy_."
"Oh, poor mother, poor mother!" exclaimed Jill.
She looked again at the letter and read the last sentence:
"_I 'as took all the money you has hoarded away in the old stocking. I
know you won't grudge it_."
Jill clasped her hands to her head; it reeled; she thought she should
have fallen, but making a great effort, she tottered to a chair which
stood near and sat down.
For several minutes she could not realise what had happened. Then the
simple facts of the case came slowly home to her. The old stocking was
empty. The money which Jill had taken nearly eighteen months to save--
penny by penny and sixpence by sixpence--had vanished. But that was not
the worst--that fact was bad, very bad, but it dwindled into
insignificance beside the much more appalling fact that the five pounds
which belonged to Nat's pal had also disappeared. Nat, her lover, had
trusted her with this money--he had feared to keep it himself--he had
believed it possible that some one might steal it, and he had given it
to Jill for absolute security. She remembered, as she sat numbed and
still on that chair, into which she had thrown herself, the look in
Nat's eyes when he had spoken about giving her the money to keep safely
for his pal.
The expression of trust, of confidence, of relief could not have been
greater on Nat's open, honest face had he taken that money to the Bank
of England. Jill represented the Bank of England for trustworthiness,
for security, to Nat.
"He trusted me," she moaned; "he trusted me. Oh, mother, mother! what
shall I do? Oh, mother, what have you done to the Jill whom you love?"
The poor girl felt that she could not keep still any longer.
By what possible means was she to get the money back? She must recover
it--she must rescue it before her mother had spent it all. She rose and
went hurriedly out. Her head was in a whirl, her usual dear judgment
had, for the time, forsaken her. She, the upright, the respectable
Jill, was penniless; but that was not the worst--she felt herself, in a
measure, a thief, for through her Nat's money had vanished.
Going down-stairs she met old Mrs Stanley, who stopped her to utter a
pleasant "Good morning."
"What is it, Jill?" said the old woman, startled by the queer, strange
look on the girl's face. "What's the matter, dearie? You don't look
yourself."
"I'm a bit anxious," said Jill. "Mother's not quite well, and I--I'm
going out. Ef any one calls and arsks arter me, you say as I'll may
be--be out all day, Mrs Stanley."
"Yes, my love, I'll say." The old woman looked at her longingly; words
came to her lips which she felt a strange desire to utter. While she
hesitated, however, Jill had run quickly down-stairs, and was lost to
view.
Her empty basket hung on her arm. As she walked through the streets in
the early summer morning a neighbouring clock struck six. She was still
in very good time to get a supply of flowers for her basket. This was
the height of the flower season. Flowers of all sorts were abundant and
cheap. Jill was a regular customer too, and she knew more than one
flower merchant who would give her a good selection of flowers even if
she were a little late in going to buy them.
She passed through the ugly neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and taking a
short cut for the Strand, found herself in Bedford Street.
She was close now to the market, and here she paused to consider what
she should really do.
She had no money in her pocket, but this fact did not greatly trouble
her, for she could easily go on tick for some flowers until the
following morning. There was more than one flower merchant who would
gladly fill the pretty girl's basket for the sake of a smile, a shy
"thank you," and a look of gratitude in those lovely dark eyes. The
fact that she was absolutely penniless was not, therefore, Jill's
trouble.
No! she had something far more important to think over.
Should she waste time at all to-day trying to sell flowers? Would it
not be better for her to spend the long hours of this summer day looking
for her mother? If she found her mother she could easily induce her to
give back Nat's five sovereigns. As for her own savings, they were of
small consequence.
When she was about half-way up Bedford Street, Jill stood still to
carefully consider her plans.
A heavy blow had been dealt at her, dealt at her, too, when the radiant
sun of happiness was shining through all her being. She had been
stunned for a little, but now her vigorous young brain was capable once
more of taking in the whole situation.
She decided after a very brief pause that she would go to the market and
buy enough flowers to stock her basket with; she would then go to her
usual stand outside the Metropolitan Railway Station and sell the
flowers as quickly as possible. Thus she would provide herself with a
little ready money. She could pay back her debt for the flowers with
part of this money, and spend the rest of it in looking for her mother.
To-day was Friday, and Nat had told her that he was scarcely likely to
see her again before Saturday evening. She had, therefore, this much
breathing time, either to recover the money, or to make up her mind what
to say to Nat.
When this definite plan of action made itself plain to her, her brow
cleared and she quickened her steps to reach the market. She soon found
herself under the great glass dome where the flowers were sold, and in a
moment was standing by a stall waiting for her turn to be served.
The extreme bustle and movement of the market was almost at its height
when she arrived. An eager hum of busy voices pervaded the place. The
merchants were busy, not only selling their flowers, but eating
excellent breakfasts of coffee, poached eggs, bacon, and other
delicacies, which were supplied to them by waiters from neighbouring
restaurants.
The strong perfume of the flowers, and the heat, which, early as it was,
was beginning to be felt through the glass roof, would have made the
place almost intolerable to any one less acclimatised to this sort of
thing than Jill.
Some of the flower girls looked already spent and tired. They were, for
the most part, an unkempt-looking lot, their hair untidy, their dress
exhibiting the extreme of dowdiness; the shabbiest hats adorned their
rough heads; old shawls, greasy with wear, and dull from long exposure
to weather, protected their ample shoulders. Their dresses were almost
ragged, their feet slipshod and untidy.
Youth was a misnomer for most of them, and beauty was not to be found in
their ranks. They knew good flowers, however, and chaffered eagerly,
and conducted their marketing on the most approved business principles.
Jill was such a contrast to the other flower girls--her beauty was so
remarkable, her dress so picturesque as she stood under one of the big
palm-trees, that she resembled a tropical flower herself. She was
looked at with envy by one or two of the girls, and with marked
admiration by several young costermongers, who would have given a good
deal for a nod or smile from so lovely a girl.
As a rule she had a pleasant, friendly way with her, never allowing
familiarities, but taking good-natured badinage and jest in the spirit
in which they were meant.
To-day, however, she saw none of the faces, heard none of the comments,
returned none of the murmured greetings.
She waited for her turn to be served, as motionless almost as a statue,
and it was not until a rather rough voice sounded in her ears that she
awoke to the full difficulties of her present position.
"Can I sarve you, miss?" said a flower merchant. "I 'as got some
beautiful rose-buds this morning, and a great supply of water-lilies.
You come and see 'em, they're just your style."
This flower merchant's name was Silas Lynn. He was a heavy-built man,
with a powerful face, a rough shock of hair, and small, deeply set eyes.
His mouth was coarse, his hands and feet enormous. He owned a cottage
and a couple of acres of ground in Kent, and brought his flowers and
fruit daily to the market, transacting all his business himself, and
allowing no middleman to interfere with him.
Silas had a voice which exactly matched his appearance. It was so rough
and harsh that it absolutely militated against his business; the more
timid of the flower girls preferring to carry their pence and shillings
to quarters where they would be sure of civil treatment.
One or two people who knew him very well indeed, made the queer remark,
however, that Silas when bending over his favourite flowers had been
heard to speak softly; that when he lifted the young leaves, and looked
into the lovely blossoms, a mild sort of tender sunshine would suffuse
his rough face.
These reports of him had been whispered by a few, but they were not
generally believed. He was strictly honest, sober, industrious, but
hard as a nail; a man who looked for no quarter, and gave none.
This he fully believed to be his own character, and his neighbours and
friends supported him in the belief. It was from this man, however,
that Jill had resolved to ask a favour.
When he desired her to come and look at his lilies, she went quietly
with him to a back part of his stall, where the great, white waxy lilies
were lying in a tank which he had provided for the purpose.
"I has had a good morning's work," said Silas, rubbing his hands, and
turning aside for a moment to swallow down a great cupful of scalding
coffee.
"Ah, there ain't nothing like doing your business yourself, and trusting
your affairs to no one else. That's my way. I larnt it from my mother.
Wot's the matter, lass? You look peaky."
"I'm a bit tired," said Jill.
"And a bit late, too, I guess. Get out of this, this moment, you
varmint, or I'll break every bone in your body!" These last words were
thundered at a small ragamuffin of ten, who had been loafing round, but
now took to his heels as if pursued by demons. "You're a bit late,"
continued Silas, allowing his small eyes to rest upon Jill, with the
sort of pleased satisfaction with which he regarded what he was fond of
calling a "thorough-bred rose-bud." "I don't see you nor that mother of
yourn often round as late as this; but now, how can I sarve ye?"
"Oh, Mr Silas Lynn," exclaimed Jill, clasping her hands, and speaking
in swift entreaty, "ef you _would_ give me just a few flowers to put in
my basket, and let me pay for 'em to-morrow morning."
Lynn indulged in a loud laugh of astonishment, perplexity, and pleasure.
He was as hard as a nail to be sure, but he did not object to lending
Jill some flowers.
"I'll lend 'em with pleasure," he said; "but you s'prise me, Jill
Robinson; I thought as you had a tidy lot of money put away."
"So I had," answered Jill, her lips beginning to quiver; "I had
yesterday, but not this morning. When I looked for the money this
morning it wor gone."
"_Stolen_, does yer mean?"
"No, no; nothing o' the sort--I can't speak o' it. Will yer lend me a
few flowers, and let me go?"
"Gimme yer basket."
Silas pulled it roughly out of the girl's hand. He laid some wet grass
in one corner, and arranged a pile of lilies on it; rose-buds, white,
pink, cream-coloured followed; geraniums in every shade made up a
brilliant bank in another corner. Masses of poppies filled the
remaining space.
Silas had a knack of arranging flowers which could only be excelled by
Jill herself. His great hands could touch the tiniest blossoms with a
rare taste and a skill which produced surprising results.
"There!" he said suddenly. "I forgot the carnations! We'll pop in a
bunch here; they are wonderful for sweetness; they mind me o' my mother.
She had all their little ways. I'd like to tell you about her some
day. Yere's the baskit, and good luck to you! You're a tidy lass--the
only tidy one as comes to the market, and it's a pleasure to see yer
with the bits of flowers."
"But," said Jill, colouring and trembling, for sore as her heart was it
could not help going out to such a basket of beauty, "I didn't mean to
have flowers like _these_. Why, there's a sight more nor a guinea's
worth yere; and I only meant to have two or three shillings' worth o'
the commoner sorts--poppies, and sich-like. I can make up field poppies
and grasses to look wonderful, and I could sell 'em off quick, for the
ladies like 'em for those new sort of heart drorin'-rooms as is all the
go."
"Heart drorin'-rooms?" queried Silas. "My word, what are they?"
"I don't know, but they are all the rage. Heart drorin'-rooms and heart
dresses. You hears of 'em iverywhere."
"Well, there's a heart baskit," said Silas, with a harsh laugh, which
was partly caused by a sudden embarrassment which came over him. "You
take it, and go."
"But I can't, really. I could never pay it back."
"You're not meant to--it's a gift."
"A gift, Mr Lynn?"
Jill raised her eyes, looked him full in the face, read a meaning in his
awkward glance, and pushed the basket of lovely flowers away.
"I can't take it," she said, "not as a gift; no, that worn't my thought.
Thank yer all the same." She began, with hands that shook, to replace
the masses of flowers on the flower merchant's stall.
In a moment she found her two hands imprisoned. "Don't do it," said
Silas, in a voice of low thunder. "Ef you touch 'em I'll fling 'em on
the refuse heap out there. Pay me, ef you will, but take the basket and
go. And listen first: Jill Robinson! What do you think them flowers
are worth to me? I'd give every flower on this stall for one kiss from
your red lips. So now _you_ know the mind of Silas Lynn. I've a rough
voice, and a rough look, but my _heart's_ leal. Now you know my mind,
so you can go, lass."
The man almost pushed her away, and the next moment his stentorian voice
was heard, shouting savagely at some timid customers who had appeared on
the scene.