Chapter 9 Jill: A Flower Girl by L. T. Meade
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.”
”‘His purposes will ripen last,
Unfolding every hour:
The bud will have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.’”
“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!
In that moment of agony Jill thought far more of her mother than she did of Nat. She loved Nat intensely, but just then the aching emptiness within her was caused entirely by Poll’s absence.
She had never been angry with her mother for taking, as she supposed, all the savings out of the old stocking. Her one desire now was to shelter her mother. Jill had always stood between Poll and the censorious world. Jill had always understood why Poll must drink now and then; now it seemed to her that she also understood why the savings must go.
“I must find mother again,” she said to herself, after a pause. “I must, and I will; but, first of all, I ha’ got to give Nat back the five sovereigns as he gave me to take care on for his pal. There can be no marrying a’tween us until mother’s found, and the money given back to Nat.”
Jill spread her day’s earnings on her lap. She found that she had fifteen shillings, and had still a sufficient number of unsold flowers in her basket to give her, with a very few additions, sufficient material for to-morrow’s work. She had spent the greater part of an hour in the empty kitchen when there came a brisk knock at the door. She started at the sound, and went with some slight hesitation to open it. Nat might possibly be waiting outside. She longed to throw herself into his arms, and yet she dreaded seeing him. The knock was repeated. She opened the door, to see Susy Carter standing outside.
“It’s me,” she said, in her brisk way. “May I come in? My word, ain’t it hot!”
She entered the kitchen at once, and, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her heated face.
“I thought maybe you’d be having tea,” she said. “I’d be glad of a cup. Ain’t your mother in yet?”
“No, Susy.” Jill filled the kettle as she spoke, and, turning on the gas, set it on the little stove to boil. “You shall have a cup of tea as soon as ever I can get it ready, Susy.”
“You don’t look spry,” said Susy. “Wot’s up with yer? Has you and Nat had a quarrel?”
“No. How dare you say it?” Jill’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Oh, highty-tighty! What a fly-away young madam it is!” said Susy, with her shrill laugh. “Well, Jill, I meant no offence. You look downhearted, somehow; and, of course, a gel don’t expect to see that on the face of another gel wot’s jest gone and engaged herself to her brother. It’s but natrel to see smiles on yer face, Jill, and to hear you joking and laughing. I joke orful when I’m happy, there’s nothing like a good joke for making time pass.”
“Well, I’m happy enough,” said Jill. “Who said I wasn’t? It ain’t my way to take my happiness all sparklin’ and fizzin’. I likes it quiet best.”
“You’re in great luck to have got Nat,” continued Susy. “Ef I was another sort, I’d be in a rage of jealousy, but that ain’t me. Nat’s safe to rise, and get on in the costering line; and he has saved a good little bit of money, too, and put it away in the Savings’ Bank, ef I am not much mistook. Nat’s close, when he likes, and so I tell him. I like him all the better for it. I ’ates people as wears their hearts on their sleeve, and tell all about their money matters, and so forth. I’m close myself, and inclined to be saving, and so will Nat be ef you’ll let him, Jill.”
“Who says I won’t let him?” retorted Jill. She spoke almost pettishly; her voice had completely lost its usual sweetness. Susy was never a congenial companion to Jill, and to-night she rubbed her the wrong way with each word she uttered.
“I’m not saying nothing,” replied Susy, nodding her pretty, fair head. “But deeds speak a sight louder nor words, and wot I want to know is this – why you and Nat has made up yer mind to take all them heaps of rooms down-stairs? It’s the height of folly, and that you know, Jill.”
“No, I don’t; but I know something else,” replied Jill.
“Wot? My word! you’ll spill that boiling water on the tablecloth ef you don’t look out. Wot do you know, Jill?”
“That Nat and me can manage our own affairs, ef we are let,” answered Jill.
“Oh, dearie me! now you’re turning sulky. I must let Nat know as the pretty little dear has got a temper of her own. But, speakin’ serious, Jill, hadn’t we better strike that bargain while we are about it?”
“Wot bargain?”
“Me to have the best bedroom, and the run of the kitchen, for ’arf-a-crown a week. Come now, it’s only common prudence to say yes.”
Jill sat down wearily, and dropped her hands to her sides. She had supplied Susy with tea, and bread and butter, and a substantial slice of cold pork-pie, but she could not touch any food herself.
“Nat must decide,” she said. “It’s Nat’s affair, it ain’t mine. It’s for him to decide.”
“He says t’other way,” said Susy, with a pout. “I bothered him this morning for a good while, and he said it was for you to say. Fact is, Jill, you can turn Nat round your little finger. He’ll do nothing agen you, ef it was ever so little.”
“Well, well, I’ll let you know presently,” said Jill. “I has a headache to-night, and I am tired.”
“But it won’t tire you any worse jest to say yes. I’m in a choky, nasty room now, and I want to give notice to quit. Ef you say ‘Yes’ to-night, I can give a week’s notice on Monday, and then I can move in yere Monday week. Nat’ll keep my bits of things in his room, and you’d give me a shake-down till you was married, wouldn’t you, Jill? Say yes, now do, dearie.”
“I can’t say nothing for certain, Susy. Nat and me we ain’t married yet. Ef we marry, I suppose you’re welcome to the room. I can’t say no more.”
“And you ’as said ’eaps, and I’m much obleeged,” said Susy, springing from her chair, running up to Jill and giving her a hearty embrace. “I’ll jest snap my fingers in my landlady’s face, come Monday. You’re a good sort, Jill, and a real out-and-out beauty. I don’t wonder Nat’s took with you. Now, I suppose, I had better go. Poor Nat! he were in a bit of trouble this morning for all he’s in such delight at your promising to wed him.”
“Nat in trouble!” said Jill, starting up, and speaking in a voice all animation and pain. “Wot do you mean, Susy? and why didn’t you tell me that afore?”
“I forgot it. My sakes, what a jumpy sort of wife you’ll make! I doubt if you and Nat will suit. He’s accustomed to me all his days and I never let my feelings get the upper hand in that style.”
“But wot is he in trouble about, Susy?”
“Oh, it’s that pal o’ his, Joe Williams.”
“Yes. Wot o’ he?” said Jill. She felt her heart beating quickly, for it was Williams’s money which Nat had placed in her keeping.
“He’s dead,” said Susy. “He died sudden this morning. Nat’s orful cut up, for the poor lad has left a wife and two or three children. By the way, Nat says that he has given you some money of Joe’s to keep safe for him.”
“So he has,” replied Jill.
“You look orful white, Jill. Are you going to faint?”
“I han’t the least notion of sech a thing.”
“Well, you do look queer! You’re all narves, I expect. I wish Nat luck on you, with yer starty ways, and yer changes of colour.”
“I’m very sorry about Williams,” said Jill, her eyes filling with tears. “I expect it has took Nat all on a heap. He set a deal of store on Williams.”
“He did. But, my sakes, you never knew him, Jill; it ain’t for you to be fretting. It’s a good thing you has got the money safe, for ’twill be wanted now for the funeral. Nat said as ’twere a load on his mind a-keeping of it, for our rooms ain’t safe. We was very onlucky in ’em, and I daren’t leave so much as a shilling behind me in the morning. I wish our Guild would provide rooms for us to sleep in, as well as a place for the flowers. Well, I must go now, Jill. I’m obleeged for the tea, and the promise of the rooms – the best bedroom, mind, when you and Nat is wed. How late yer mother is comin’ ’ome. Good-night, Jill.”
Susy took herself off at last, and Jill breathed a sigh of relief. She sat up for some little time longer, waiting for her brothers; but presently, finding they did not come home, locked the door of the little flat and went to bed. She slept scarcely at all that night, and awoke in the morning quite determined with regard to one thing – that she must either find her mother before the evening, or get the five pounds from some one else to return to Nat Carter.
As she was dressing she thought, for the first time almost since she had left him, of Silas Lynn. She remembered his generosity with regard to the flowers. That basket of flowers was really a splendid gift, and, although Jill meant to give him back at least ten shillings this morning, she could not but own that he had been more than kind to her. As to his outspoken words of admiration, she gave them very small consideration. She was accustomed to broad compliments from men of all sorts, and mere words made little or no impression on her. She thought now, however, with a certain little warm comforting thrill of hope, that perhaps Silas would be induced to lend her the princely sum of five pounds, to be paid back day by day in small instalments, until the whole debt was discharged.
Silas had been kind to Jill for a long time now, and several of the flower girls had joked her about the great, coarse, ugly-looking fellow. If she could induce Silas to help her in her present awful dilemma, she felt no service would be too great for her to render him. If Silas lent her five pounds, she might conceal the knowledge of what her mother had done from Nat, and they might be married some day, if not at once.
Jill hastened her toilet when this thought came to comfort her. She snatched up a piece of dry bread to eat, instead of breakfast, and, munching it as she went, hurried down-stairs. She reached the market quite an hour earlier than she had done on the previous day, and was rewarded at once by a broad stare from Silas. His stare was presently illuminated by a smile, which ended in a wink, and, stretching out one big hand, he beckoned to Jill to approach.
“I’m going to order breakfast for two,” he said, “and there’s a cosy seat here, under this rose-tree. I’ll fill yer basket, my gel, so you needn’t go no further. You set there, and take the world easy. My word! you mind me o’ my mother more nor ever this mornin’. There’s a waiter over there, I’ll call him. Hi, Sam! You come here this minute. Now then, I want a rare feed for me and this young ’ooman. – Wot have you got?”
“Kidneys, rashers and heggs, sorsiges, homlettes,” called the waiter off on his fingers.
“Wot’s yer mind?” asked Silas, turning to Jill. “Have a hegg done to a turn, and a little juicy slice of curled-up bacon on the top o’ it? And see yere, waiter, I’ll have a chump chop, and two heggs, and make the coffee strong, wotever you do. Now be quick, there’s a good chap.”
The waiter nodded, grinned, and disappeared. When Silas had given orders about his breakfast, he turned and looked at Jill with that slow, grave smile, which, nevertheless, was sweet enough to transform his rough face.
“I’m puzzled to know what flower to liken yer to,” he said. “Seems to me maybe as you most takes arter one o’ they dainty toolips afore they comes out into full bloom. Of all flowers under the sun, there seems to me to be more in a toolip than in any other. For one thing, it comes arter the dead, cold winter; then it’s so prim and yet so gay – so proper all round, and yet there’s sech a frolicsome look ’bout the little tips o’ the flowers jest where they half opens to let in the sunlight and the sunshine. Yes, you mind me o’ one o’ them dark red, rich-looking toolip-buds as comes in the spring.”
Jill scarcely replied to these words from Silas. She was thinking of the request she was about to make him, and wondering in what language she could best make known her sore want. She sat very still under the large rose-tree where he had placed her, her rich, dark head was slightly bent forward, her brown, yet shapely hands were folded over her many-coloured apron, her olive-tinted face was paler than its wont, the thick, heavy fringe of eyelashes caused a shadow on her cheek.
Silas gave her another quick, admiring glance.
“She’s a toolip, and a carnation, and a bit of a rose-bud all in one,” he murmured under his breath. “Never seen her like afore. See how quiet she sets, and how little she minds all I says to her. She’s hard to win, like one of them skittish colts at home. But why compare her to a colt? she’s a flower out and out. One o’ they cuttings werry precious and hard to strike in strange soil. I like her all the better for it. There’s breeding in every bit o’ her.”
“What shall I put in the basket to-day?” he continued. “How did the lilies go? and did the ladies wonder how you come by they choice rose-buds?”
These words roused Jill.
“You don’t know what that basket wor,” she said; “I sold off the flowers as fast as ever I could. They were lovely; there worn’t sech a basket to be seen with any other flower girl.”
Silas laughed. “Ha, ha.” He said, “We’ll do better’n that to-day; I ha’ thought the subjec’ of that basket o’ yourn out and out. I ha’ planned one most cunning for to-day. You leave it to me, Jill, I’ll fill it for yer. What do you say to a border all round o’ these delicate green ferns, and then a row o’ deep crimson carnations, and agen ’em something white, and then a mass o’ blue forget-me-nots, and the centre all roses – every sort, cream, white, pink, blush, crimson? Wot do yer say to that sort o’ basket, Jill Robinson?”
“It’d be more beautiful than a picter,” said Jill, her eyes smiling. “Oh, Mr Lynn, what lovely thoughts you has! I can most fancy I see that ere basket.”
“You leave it to me, and you’ll see it in real ’arnest,” said Silas. “Ah, here comes breakfast. Now then, Jill, you shall pour out the coffee.”
Jill stood up at once to perform her office. She did it without a scrap of self-consciousness. She was quite impervious to the glances of amusement which came from many pairs of eyes at the rough-looking flower merchant and the handsome girl. Her mind was too absorbed with something else to notice any of these outside matters; but Silas felt his heart swell within him as he took the large cup of coffee from Jill’s little hands. He noticed fast enough how the folks looked at them both. These glances, these significant nods gave him intense pride and pleasure.
“Seems to me,” he said under his breath, “as ef the little cuttin’ was a-beginning to strike.”
The meal was nearly over when Jill spoke again. “Yere’s ten shillin’s for the flowers you give me yesterday, Silas Lynn,” she said. “Ten shillin’s, and my werry best thanks; and ef you will fill my basket with five shillin’s worth more flowers of the common sort, I’ll be much obleeged.”
While she was speaking, Silas’s face, which had resembled a great beaming sun a moment ago, grew black.
“You keep that ten shillin’s, or you’ll anger me,” he growled. “Ef you must give it back, give it back another day, but not now. Tell yer what, ef yer give it to me now, I’ll put it in my mouth and swaller it; so there.”
There was something so ferocious in the man’s change of tone and change of face that Jill felt sick. She knew that she must humour him if there was the least chance of his acceding to her request.
“Mr Lynn,” she said suddenly, “I’ll keep that money, and give you ten shillin’s worth o’ thanks instead. I don’t mind saying as I come here to-day hoping as you’d do me a kindness.”
Silas’s brow cleared as if by magic.
“The little cuttin’s a-strikin’, not a doubt on it,” he muttered.
“Do you a kindness, Jill Robinson?” he said aloud. “Well, that’s quite arter my style. Let’s hear wot you wants, lass. Say the words as low as you like, my pretty, I’m all a-listenin’.” Silas bent down towards Jill as he spoke. “There,” he said, “speak up, don’t be afeared.”
“I’m in a good bit o’ trouble,” she said, her lips trembling. “I told yer yesterday that I had lost some money. It worn’t stole – don’t yer think that, but it wor lost. I want to pay that money back again to-night. Will yer lend it to me, Mr Lynn? Oh, there’s nought under the sun I wouldn’t do for yer ef you’d lend me that money what got lost.”
“There’s nought you wouldn’t do for me,” said Silas. “Them words is pleasant to hear – werry, werry pleasant. I has took a fancy to yer, and I like to hear yer say ‘there’s nought you wouldn’t do for me’; sech, for instance, as pouring out my coffee for me, eh? There, you’re blushin’, my gel; never mind never mind. How much is the money you want?”
“Maybe I ought not to ask,” said Jill, starting from her seat and speaking nervously; “it’s an orful lot – it’s five pounds.”
When Jill named the sum which she required, Silas could not help giving a start of astonishment. Flower girls like Jill had seldom anything to do with so large a sum of money. Silas was naturally a close man, and, much as he was taken with the pretty flower girl, he was obliged to think twice before deciding to lend her so much money. When she raised her dark eyes full of pleading to his face, however, and when their brilliance was veiled and softened behind tears, Silas could not help clapping his hand on his thigh and exclaiming, in a sudden burst of admiration: —
“’Tain’t a toolip you are, lass; it’s a bit of a moss-rose-bud. Jiminy! if you ain’t the very purtiest bit of a thing I ever clapped my eyes on – bar none.”
“You will lend me the money, will you not?” said Jill.
“Wait a while; it’s a big sum. There’s a power of work in getting a lot of money like that together, and ef I give it away jest for a gel’s whim – ”
“No, no; not for a girl’s whim,” said Jill, “but for her sore need – for her werry sore need. Oh, Silas Lynn, I know as you has got a really kind heart.”
“Maybe I has, and maybe I han’t. I won’t lend the money unless you keep to your word. You said as you’d do anything for me. That means a deal. Do you abide by them words?”
“As far as I can, Mr Lynn.”
“You can abide by ’em ef you will. Now, for instance, ef I were to say there’s a nice little cottage in the country awaiting for a missis, and I wor to say: ‘Come, Jill, and be my own true love’ – why, I declare I’m getting quite into the poetry vein. And ain’t the pretty dear turned red? Shall it be a bargain, Jill Robinson? – I give you the five pounds, and you give me your nice little purty bit of a self.”
“No, Mr Lynn. No,” said Jill. Little by little the colour had left her face; even her lips were white. “I didn’t understand it in that way,” she said. “It can’t be.”
She took up her empty basket and went away.