Jill: A Flower Girl

Chapter Eight

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.

Chapter Nine

Jill had a very successful morning with her flowers; they were the envy and admiration of all the other flower women. Even Molly Maloney felt as if she must indulge in a fit of crossness when she saw those water-lilies, carnations and rose-buds. But there was something in Jill’s face which soon made the other women cease to feel unkindly towards her. Trouble was new to Jill, and the frightened, half-pathetic, half-despairing expression of her fall, velvety brows eyes gave the flower girls who came to talk to her and to admire her basket a queer sensation. They were curious, but their curiosity was not likely to be gratified by Jill. Even to Molly Maloney she scarcely vouchsafed a word of explanation.

“I’m in a bit of worry about mother,” she said once, in a low whisper; “Don’t speak on it, Molly; it’ll pass, no doubt. You ain’t seen mother this morning, ha’ you? She han’t chanced to call round to ask arter Kathleen?”

“No,” replied Molly; “and, ef she did, I wouldn’t dare to let her in. Kathleen’s down with faver, and no mistake. I’m at my best to keep it from the neighbours, for, ef they knew, one o’ them ’spectors would come round and carry the por chile off to the hospital. Oh! worra me, worra me! it’s a weary world, and no mistake.”

Jill said some words of sympathy. She was fond of pretty little Irish Kathleen, and, taking a choice rose-bud and carnation out of her basket, she gave them to Molly to take home to the child.

“Tell her they’re from Jill,” she said, “and I’ll look round to-morrow, may be, or may be Sunday.”

“You ain’t ’feared o’ the faver, then, honey?”

“No. Why should I be? It isn’t sickness as frights me.”

“You have a throuble, then, honey?”

“I’m fretted about mother, Mrs Maloney. She ain’t well, and it frets me. She’s more than anybody to me, mother is. I’ve sold most of my flowers now, so I’ll go. Good afternoon to yer, Molly.”

Jill took up her basket and walked away. She spent all the rest of the day going from one low haunt to another, looking in vain for Mrs Robinson. It did not occur to her to seek for her mother at Betsy Peters’s, but, on her way back to their own little flat, she ran up against Betsy, who stopped her at once to ask about Poll.

“She wor werry bad last night,” explained Betsy, and then she told of the incident which had occurred at the chemist’s shop.

“I thought I’d call round and ask arter her to-day,” said Betsy. “Her looks frightened me, and she’s real bad – real bad, Jill Robinson. The chemist knows, and so do I, what ails her.”

“It’s more nor I do,” said Jill, drawing herself up. For a brief instant she feared that Mrs Peters was referring to Poll’s unfortunate habit of taking more than was good for her. Jill’s black eyes flashed, and poor, meek, pale-faced Betsy started back a step in alarm.

“I don’t mean nothink bad, dearie,” she said. “It’s the heavy hand of the Lord that’s laid on your mother. She ought to go to a hospital. I don’t hold by ’em in most cases, but your mother ought to go.”

Jill felt herself turning very pale. “What do yer mean?” she said.

The woman stepped forward and whispered a word in her ear. The ugly sound caused her to reel for a moment, a faint dizziness came over her; she clutched Mrs Peters by the shoulder to keep herself from falling.

“Don’t take on, lovey,” said the woman. “It’s the will o’ the Lord. There’s no goin’ agen’ Him, Jill.”

“Don’t talk cant,” said Jill. “Mother’s bad, ef what you say is true. She has got something orful the matter, and you tell me it’s the will of God, and you folks wot b’lieve in God talk o’ Him as good and kind. Ef God is good and kind, then it ain’t His will as mother should suffer orful things sech as you tell on. I b’lieve there’s a devil somewhere, and he does the bad things. It ain’t God. I’d scorn to think it o’ any one so beautiful as He.”

The girl’s indignant words rang out on the evening air. Mrs Peters thought them blasphemy, and clasped her thin hands in horror. Jill turned to leave her. She went back to the empty flat, and sat down in the old arm-chair where her mother had so often tried to rest.

It seemed to Jill that at last she had got at the meaning of her mother’s sudden departure. Poll had gone away because Jill must not see her pains. Jill must not see them – Jill, who loved her with that passion which comes now and then to a daughter for a mother, which now and then is almost the strongest passion of life!