CRIPPLED JIMMY.
Many days and weeks had passed away, much as life does with us all. We
heed not its passing, and forget in the turmoil of worldly cares to
scatter seed for the great Husbandman, to reap when He cometh.
And little Pollie?
She had been busy as usual selling her flowers, and as usual scattering,
in her simple way, the golden grain. Gently had she led Sally Grimes to
seek for higher things, and every Sabbath they were now to be seen
sitting side by side, learning of the life that is to come.
And at home? Affairs there had become much brighter, for Mrs. Turner's
work had greatly increased, her quiet, unpretending manner having won
for her many kind friends, who kept her fully employed--indeed so much
that Lizzie Stevens had given up her hard labour of working for the
slopshops, and now helped the widow in her lighter and more remunerative
toil. It is true they had to work early and late to keep the house (such
as it was) above them--the wolf from the door; but they were not so
lonely as heretofore. The widow found comfort in the companionship of
the hitherto friendless girl, and it was such a happiness for Lizzie to
have one so motherly in whom to confide, and of whom she could ask
counsel and advice.
Then when Pollie came in from her daily toil, cheering them both like a
very sunbeam, how they would pause in their work to watch her as she
merrily counted over her money, and brushed out her empty basket in
readiness for the morrow, chatting gaily the while.
And then to see that active little figure so noiselessly busy getting
the tea-dinner, which she always insisted on doing to save "mother" the
trouble; indeed, I think the tea would have lost its flavour for that
dear mother had Pollie's hands not prepared it.
Sometimes, during the hot July days, the child would persuade them to
take a rest; and when it became too dark to see their work without the
help of a candle, they would walk out of Drury Lane for a while, and go
down one of the streets leading to the Thames, where the air felt purer
and fresher, and sitting down would watch the boats on the river. Sally
usually joined them, and these little rests from toil constituted their
simple pleasures. How deliciously cool the breezes felt, so different to
the heated atmosphere of their own neighbourhood! Both Mrs. Turner and
Lizzie used to feel revived by the change. No wonder then that the two
children should decide on living near the river when they grew rich, for
with the hopefulness of youth they planned great things for the future.
So the summer passed by, and autumn came, and now, instead of roses or
pinks, Pollie's basket was filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. She
often wondered what she should do when winter came and there were no
sweet flowers to sell. It grieved her to think she should not then be
able to help her dear mother, and as usual she opened her heart to that
loving parent.
"Ah, my Pollie!" said the mother, as she smoothed back the curls from
the anxious little face, "have you forgotten? 'The Lord will provide.'"
Then the child was comforted, for she remembered that "There is no want
to them that fear Him."
One October evening she turned up Russell Court, tired and anxious to
get home, for it had been a dull, dark day in the City, and she had not
succeeded in disposing of her flowers there. The old bankers and
merchants seemed not disposed for purchasing bouquets that day. Even
Sally's basket still remained filled, and she was always a more
successful seller than timid little Pollie; so the elder girl had
proposed trying westward for better luck. Better luck they certainly
had, for their baskets became empty at last, but they walked many a mile
during the day, and Pollie's tiny feet were very, very weary, as bidding
her friend a loving "good-night" she turned her steps towards home,
eagerly longing for its rest and shelter.
The gas was flaring in Drury Lane, so that Russell Court looked dark by
comparison; but as she approached the house in which they lived, she was
surprised to see a dense crowd gathered around the door. Men were there
speaking in hoarse whispers, women talking with bated breath as though
afraid to speak aloud, and the bewildered child could hardly fancy it
was the same place, there was such a hushed commotion as it were; the
crowd swaying to and fro, to give place to others who came to swell the
excited throng.
Little Pollie stood amidst the people who were hustling each other to
get as near the door as possible. What was to be done? how was she to
get into the house? and oh, how anxious her mother would be at her long
absence! The poor child became frightened, almost to tears, totally
unable to force her way through the mob, which was increasing every
moment, when looking round for some friendly aid, she saw to her delight
Mrs. Smith, the greengrocer's wife, standing close by, with a shawl
thrown over her head, talking to a policeman, and pointing excitedly
towards the house.
Pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm.
"Please, Mrs. Smith," she began.
"Lor' bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd
too?" was her exclamation.
"I can't get in," Pollie sobbed; "oh, what is the matter?"
"What! don't you know? Lor', it's awful," she replied; "here, policeman,
do get this poor child through that there mob; I guess her mother is in
a way about her."
"All right, Mrs. S----," said the man, and to Pollie's astonishment he
took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way
for him to pass with his light burden.
Tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid,
haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this
unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as
though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity.
When the man put Pollie down she glanced from one to another in
trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector's hand.
"Here she is at last," cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she
recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on
the stairs.
"Is it my mother?" asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor
little heart.
"No, no, come with me; he keeps calling for you."
Then, still holding the policeman's hand closely clasped in hers, she
followed the woman down the dirty dark stairs which led to the cellar
where Jimmy lived.
The door of the squalid room stood wide open; two tallow candles stuck
in empty bottles flared on the broken mantel-shelf above the rusty
fireless grate; a battered old chair and a rickety table constituted the
entire furniture of the room (if such it could be called), for on a heap
of dirty rags lay little Jimmy. By his side, holding him in her arms,
knelt Mrs. Turner, whilst a gentleman, evidently the parish doctor, was
bathing his head, from which the blood was flowing. Lizzie Stevens was
there, steeping linen in a basin for the doctor, and another policeman,
no one else. I forgot. Crouching in the farthest corner, and glaring in
drunken stupor around her, was the poor dying child's wretched mother. A
broken bottle tightly grasped in her hands, fragments of which lay
about the dirt-encrusted floor, told the tale, alas! too plainly. In her
drunken fury she had slain her child!
Pollie felt safe directly she saw her own loved mother.
"O mother, what is it?" she whispered.
The dying boy heard her, softly as she had spoken.
"Little Pollie," he feebly murmured, and turned his dim eyes up to her.
"Dear Jimmy," she said, kneeling down beside him. He smiled as though at
peace, and yet the life-blood was ebbing slowly away.
"Pollie," he said, "shall I go to the kingdom of heaven? Will Jesus put
His hands on me, and bless me also?"
The little girl could not speak for sobbing, but she laid her soft cheek
upon his clay-cold hand.
"You've been very good to me," he rambled on, "you told me of the Good
Shepherd"---- There was silence, broken only by the choking sobs of the
listeners; even the policemen, used as they were to similar scenes, were
deeply moved at the dying boy's love for his little friend. His eyes
were closed, but his disengaged hand wandered feebly over the horse-rug
that covered him, until at last he laid it on Pollie's bowed head. There
it rested; his eyes unclosed, and he gazed wildly round, saying
excitedly--
"Pollie, Pollie, it's so dark. Is it night coming on? Don't go, little
Pollie. Let me say the prayer you taught me." He tried to fold his hands
as _she_ had always done. In vain--they fell upon the coverlet, weak and
nerveless.
"Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death," he murmured
falteringly. The voice ceased!
Crippled Jimmy had passed away safely into the fold of the Good
Shepherd!
Ah! who would wish him back again? Misery exchanged for perfect
bliss--sorrow and sighing for eternal joy.
They all gazed upon the sharp pinched features, now gradually settling
into the calm repose of death. What in life was almost painful to look
upon, with the touch of immortality became lovely; for the dead child's
face bore the impress of an angel's smile, as though he had caught a
glimpse of heaven's happiness whilst passing through the dark valley of
the shadow of death.
Little Pollie clung to her mother, sobbing convulsively and hiding her
face in her dress.
"Hush, my darling," soothed the widow; "poor Jimmy is now with God, free
from all sorrow or pain. Think what his joy must be!"
They were startled by a harsh voice screeching out--
"That ain't my Jimmy! Let me get at him! I say, what be you folks doing
here?"
It was the drunken creature, who, unnoticed by any of them, had
approached the spot where the dead child lay. She darted forward,
crying out, whilst she brandished the bottle--
"I'll wake him, never fear; like I've done many a time before, I warrant
ye!"
Fortunately the policeman saw her in time to prevent her doing further
mischief, or even touching the boy, for, laying his firm grasp upon her
arm, he exclaimed authoritatively--
"Come, none of this, my good woman. I must take you to Bow Street, to
answer the charge of killing that poor little chap."
Then ensued a scene too terrible to describe. The wretched woman was
taken away from the place, shrieking and swearing, leaving her dead
child to be tended by strangers, kinder far than she had ever been.