Jill: A Flower Girl

A little mob of people blocked up the pavement. They were standing in front of a chemist’s shop, and were looking eagerly into the shop through the brilliantly lighted windows.

“What is it?” said Poll, her attention arrested by the eager, excited looks of the crowd.

A woman came up and touched her on the arm.

“It’s me, Poll,” said Betsy Peters. “I has sold all the poppies. I had a power of luck with ’em. Yere’s your shilling back agen, and may the good Lord above reward you.”

“I don’t want the shilling. Keep it, neighbour,” said Poll. “Ef you had luck, it’s more nor I had; but you keep your luck, I don’t want it off yer.”

“There it is again,” said Betsy Peters. “Worn’t I prayin’ for money to buy some of the medicine for little Jeanie? And there, you has gone and give it to me.”

“Wot medicine?” asked Poll.

“Stuff they sells in yere. There’s a sort of a doctor keeps this shop, and he has made pints of some powerful stuff, and he sells it off in bottles. It’s warranted to cure colds and brownchitis and pains in the ’ead, and bad legs, and pains of all sorts whatever. Little Jeanie has turned that pettish after the brownchitis that I thought I’d get a bottle to brisk her up a bit. It’s powerful ’ot, strong stuff, and they say, folks as tried it, that it seems to go straight to the vitals, and lifts you up so as you don’t know yourself.”

“And stops pain? Do they say that?” asked Poll.

“Sartin sure. It’s a kind of an ease-all, that’s the right name for it.”

Poll looked into the palm of her hand, which contained the solitary twopence.

“How much do the stuff cost?” she asked.

“You get a big bottle for sixpence. It’s dirt cheap, dirt cheap.”

“You’re sure as it ain’t pizen?”

“Rayther. Didn’t Mary Ann Jones in the court take it, and Peter Samson, and a score more? It’s fine stuff, strengthening and good. What is it, neighbour? You look white. Ain’t you well?”

“I has a bit of a pain, Betsy. A bit of a grip just under my left breast. Oh, it ain’t nothing; but I has a mind to try the medicine as dulls pain. It don’t seem to take you off yer ’ead, like sperits, for instance?”

“No, no. You get a bit drowsy, and that’s about all.”

“Well, I have a mind to try it. I’m sorry, neighbour, but I must ask you to give me fourpence back out of that shilling; I’ll pay yer back to-morrow in the market.”

“Oh, neighbour, it’s all yourn,” said poor Betsy.

“No, it ain’t, not a bit on it. Come into the shop with me, and we’ll get a bottle each of the stuff.”

The two women pushed their way to the front, and soon entered the shop through the swinging glass doors. It was very hot inside, for the place was brilliantly lit with gas, and there was no proper ventilation. A mass of people were standing four deep round the counter, all waiting their turn to be supplied with the wonderful medicine.

The chemist, a pale man, with bright, wonderful keen eyes, was handing bottle after bottle of the comforting stuff across the counter. Many sixpences were passed across to him in return; he dropped them into the open till by his side.

The sudden heat and closeness of the shop, after the outside air, proved too much for Poll. She was weak after her day of suffering, and it suddenly seemed to her that the shop reeled, that the gas came down and blinded her, that the floor rose up to smite her in the face. Her black eyes looked vaguely across the world of confusion in which she found herself, then all consciousness left her.

Chapter Six

It seemed but a moment later that Poll opened her eyes, to find herself lying on a hard horse-hair sofa close to an open window. The chemist was bending over her, holding her wrist between his finger and thumb, and looking into her face with professional interest.

“Ah, that’s nice,” he said, “you are better now; you’ll do fine, if you’ll just lie still for a minute or two. Take a sip of this water. It was the close air of the shop. You are much too ill to be going about in this fashion, you know.”

Poll put her hand to her forehead, gave the chemist a dazed glance, saw Mrs Peters winding in the background, and struggled to her feet.

“Stay still, you are not fit to move yet,” repeated the chemist. “This woman – she is your friend, I suppose? – will look after you, while I go back to attend to my customers. I’m going to shut up shop in a moment, and then I shall return to you. I want to speak to you before you go.”

He left the little room, and Betsy Peters, who had been crying, came up to Poll. “My poor dear,” she said.

“I’m weak yet,” said Poll. “I suppose I fainted. I never did that sort of thing before.” Then she glanced down at the front of her dress, which was open and disarranged. “What did he do that for?” she asked in white anger.

“To let in the air. You was werry bad, Poll.”

“Then he found out – ”

“He found out, my poor dear.”

“And you know it, Betsy Peters?”

“Oh, Poll, Poll, it’s the will of the Lord.”

“Don’t come over me with your cant. I’m goin’ out now. I’d like a drop of the medicine ef what you tells me about it is true, but I’ll not wait. Good-night, neighbour; I must be goin’ home to Jill.”

“The chemist said as he’d speak to you, neighbour, and he seems a kind sort o’ a man. You oughtn’t to go away without seeing him.”

“I don’t want to see him; let me pass.”

Poll approached the door of the little room. It was opened from behind, and the chemist came back.

“I am glad you are better,” he said.

Poll dropped a curtsey.

“Yes, sir, and I’m obleeged to you. I’ll be goin’ home now.”

“I should like to speak to you, first. Perhaps this woman would wait in the shop.”

“No, she needn’t do that,” said Poll. “Jeanie will want you, Betsy. You’d best be goin’ back to her. Good-night.”

Mrs Peters turned away with the meek expression habitual to her. Poll and the chemist found themselves alone.

“Now, sir,” she said, “I know you has found out what’s up with me, but I don’t want it talked over. Words won’t mend it. Ef that stuff you sell is good for pain like mine I’ll pay yer for a bottle o’ it, and there’s an end of the matter.”

“The medicine I sell is good for a great many things, but it won’t reach your pain. There is only one thing for you to do, my poor woman.”

“Thank you, sir, I know that.”

“Then you are going – ”

“To the public-house round the corner? Yes, sir.”

“Good heavens! how dreadful! The ease you get from drink only aggravates your suffering afterwards. It promotes fever, and undermines your strength.”

“I’d give a deal this minute for three or four hours’ ease,” said Poll. “I’d drink a power of gin to get the ease, whether it were right or wrong.”

“Look here,” said the chemist. “I’ll give you something to give you relief for the night. You can take it away with you, and when you drink it you will sleep sound, and your pain will go. To-morrow you must go into a hospital; you can be cured there – cured, I say.”

Poll laughed discordantly.

“I believe a deal o’ that sort of talk,” she said. “No, they cuts you up to bits in the ’ospital, that’s what they does.”

“You show your ignorance when you speak in that way. I tell you plainly that the only chance you have is to get into a hospital as fast as ever you can, and to stop drinking gin. If you go on as you are doing, at present you will not live many months, and your death will be accompanied by fearful suffering. Now do be sensible; believe that doctors only mean your best good. Here, take this little bottle, of medicine with you. It will give you a good-night.”

Poll thanked the chemist and walked out of the shop. Should she go a little farther to the public-house just at the corner, whose brilliant lights she could see from where she stood? No. For once she would be prudent; she would obey the chemist’s directions, and trust to the medicine which she had put into her pocket giving her a night’s relief.

She quickly retraced her steps in the direction of her home. She was anxious to be back before Jill and young Carter returned.

She had just time to accomplish this purpose. Her bonnet and shawl were off, and a little paraffin lamp was burning brightly in the neat sitting-room when the two young people came in.

Jill went straight up to her mother and kissed her; then taking Nat’s hand, she said, in a low, sweet voice which thrilled right into the heart of the older woman.

“We has it all settled, mother. He’ll be my mate, and I’ll be his. We’re to be husband and wife in less than three weeks now, till death us do part; that’s what the Bible says, ain’t it, Nat?”

“I was wed in a church, long, long years ago,” answered Poll, “and they said words o’ that sort. You ain’t going to take my gel afore the registrar, be you, Nat?”

“I’ll do as Jill pleases,” replied Nat. “I ain’t one for churches. I never did ’old by what you call religious folk. To be honest and upright and sober, that wor religion enough for me. To be sober and honest, and to speak the truth allers, that’s my creed. But ef Jill wants the church and the parson, why she may have ’em; I’m agreeable.”

“I want the words, ‘Till death us do part,’” said Jill. “Do they say them words at a Registry Office, Nat?”

“Not as I know on, my gel.”

“Well, mother looks as ef she’d drop. We can settle that matter another time. Perhaps you’d best be goin’ home now, Nat. I see as Susy has left already.”

“Yes,” said Poll, “I sent her home. I said it wor weary work waiting for lovers. Well, good-night, Nat Carter. You’ll be good to Jill.”

“I hope I will, Mrs Robinson. Ef love can make me good to her, then she’s safe enough.”

“She’s the sweetest gel man ever took to wife,” continued Poll. “She’s sound as a nut through and through, both mind and body. See you treat her well, or I’ll give you my curse.”

“Mother!” said Jill, in a voice of pain.

Poll pushed Jill aside with a fierce gesture.

“Let me be, gel,” she said. “I must have my say out. Don’t you suppose as it gives me pain to hand you over to another, even though it is Nat Carter, who I think well on? And I don’t mind saying to his face that ef he treats you bad my curse’ll foller him wherever he is. It ain’t a light thing to have the curse of a mother on you, young man, so you’d best be careful.”

Poll’s words came out with such sudden force and venom that Jill turned pale, and going up to her lover, hid her face against his shoulder.

Nat was silent for a moment in his astonishment; then, throwing his strong arm round Jill, he said with a faint, sweet smile.

“And ef I treat her well, even half as well as she deserves, you’ll bless me, won’t you, Mrs Robinson?”

“Ay, lad, that’s true enough. I’ll give you my blessing for what it’s worth. I don’t fear but you’ll be upright, Nat; but yours is a hard creed, and may be it’ll turn you a bit ’ard, by-and-bye.”

“I don’t know what you mean by my having a ’ard creed. A feller wouldn’t be worth his salt what wasn’t sober, honest, and truthful.”

“Right you are, lad.” Poll laughed bitterly. “Well, good-night to you, and think on my words.” Jill accompanied Nat into the passage.

“Mother’s werry tired,” she said, “and she ain’t as well as I’d like to see her. She suffers a good bit of pain now and then, and she feels me giving myself to you. You mustn’t take agen her words, Nat.”

“You may be sure I won’t do that, sweet-heart, seein’ as she’s your mother. But ef she’s not well, Jill, oughtn’t she to go to a ’orspital?”

“No, no, she’ll never do that. Good-night, Nat, good-night.”

“Be sure you keep that bit of money I give you to take care on safe, Jill. It’s for my mate, Joe Williams, and I’ll have to give it up to him on Saturday night. It’s a load off my mind you having it, for I don’t like the lodgings I’m in now a bit. I don’t think the folks are straight, and five pounds is a goodish lump of money.”

“I’ll put it into the stocking with my own savings,” said Jill. “Good-night, Nat.”

Chapter Seven

The boys came in presently, and Jill and her mother went to bed. The young girl’s head scarcely touched her pillow when she was in the land of dreams, but the older woman stayed awake.

She held tightly clasped in her hand the little bottle which the chemist had given her, and which was to give relief to her suffering. It was in her power to take the cork out of the bottle, and drink off the contents at any moment, but she refrained from doing so.

Cruel as her pain had been all day she did not want to drown it in oblivion now; she wished to stay awake, she did not want the short hours of the summer night to slip away in forgetfulness.

Poll stretched out one hot hand, and laid it softly, with a mother’s tenderness, on the shoulder of the girl who slept so peacefully at her side. It was pleasant to touch that young form; it was such ease to her tortured mind that it was almost as good as ease of body would have been.

Poll had always loved Jill with a curious, passionate, wayward affection. She had married a man whom she had not greatly cared for. He had been cruel to her in his time, and she had looked upon his death as a deliverance. She was the mother of three children, but two of them seemed to Poll to belong to her husband, and one to her. The boys were rough and commonplace; they were just like their father; Jill was beautiful both in mind and body, and Jill with her sweetness and love, her sympathy and tenderness, was Poll’s very own. She was built on her model – the same features, the same dark eyes, the same thick coils of raven-black hair; a trifle more of refinement in the girl than in the mother; a shade or two of greater beauty; added to this the glamour of early youth, but otherwise Jill was Poll over again.

Heart to heart these two had always understood each other; heart to heart their love was returned. Now Jill was giving herself to another. It was all in the course of nature, and Poll would not have wished it otherwise.

Had things been different, had that ache in her breast never been, and in consequence had that craving for strong drink never seized her, she might have been happy with Jill’s children on her knees.

Had everything been different she might have taken Nat into her heart, and loved him for her daughter’s sake.

But as things were, Poll felt that she could never love Nat; for although he little guessed it, he was the means of separating her from Jill.

Poll lay awake all night close to the girl; she could not possibly waste the precious hours in sleep, because she meant to go away from her for ever in the morning. Poll felt that it would be utterly impossible for her to keep sober always, and it was part of Nat’s creed that sobriety was godliness.

She had made up her mind what to do with the quick, fierce tenacity which was peculiar to her, when she heard the young man speak.

The chemist had told her only too plainly that she must go into a hospital or die. Poll preferred death to the hospital; but Jill should not witness her dying tortures, and Jill’s husband should never know that her mother had been one of those base, low women who get rid of their miseries in drink.

Jill did not want Poll any longer now, and because she loved her, the poor soul determined to go away and leave her.

“I’ll drink the stuff in the little bottle to-morrow night,” murmured Poll. “I’ll want it then, but I like to lie wide-awake and close to the child to-night. When the light comes in I’ll look well at all her features. I know ’em, of course – none better; but I’ll take a good filling look at ’em when the light comes in.”

She lay still herself, great pulses throbbing all over her body, the pain without becoming gradually less in intensity, by reason of the greater pain which surged and surged within.

There was one creature whom she loved with the fierce, hungry intensity of an untutored, a wild and yet in some ways a noble nature. The bond between her and her daughter was about to be severed. She herself, through her own deed, would cut the cord which bound them.

The light stole in at the window, at first faintly, then with more and more glad beams of sunshine and joy. Poll heard a neighbouring clock strike three. She said to herself:

“I’ll lie and look at the child until the half-hour sounds, then I’ll get up.”

The minutes dragged themselves away, too slowly in one sense, too quickly in another. The solemn boom of the half-hour rang out into the sleeping morning. Poll rose very softly, and dressed herself.

“I must have some money,” she murmured. “I’ll take a sovereign or two out of Jill’s stocking. She’d be glad to give it me, bless her! and I’ll write on a scrap of paper that I took it, and that I’m gone, and that she’ll never be troubled by me no more. Oh, poor Jill, it ’ud be cruel to write like that, for I never did trouble her. With all my sins, I never troubled my gel. We was knit too close, heart to heart, for either of us to trouble t’other.”

Poll stooped down as she spoke, drew away the bed-clothes, and putting her hand lightly and softly against Jill’s warm throat, revealed a narrow blue ribbon, to which a key was attached. Taking a pair of scissors out of her pocket, she cut the ribbon, and with the key in her hand went into the kitchen.

She opened the drawer of the bureau, and pulling out the old stocking, opened it, and spread the contents of a small gingham bag on the top of the dresser.

Jill, by care and management, had collected between four and five pounds. There were three sovereigns, a half-sovereign, some silver, and some coppers in the bag. Besides this there was a little parcel wrapped up carefully in tissue paper, and brown-paper over it. Poll opened this, and saw that it contained five bright-looking sovereigns.

“I didn’t know Jill was so rich,” she murmured. “It’s a good thing: she’ll have somewhat to furnish her house with. Now, how little can I do with? A sovereign and ten shillings’ worth of silver. That will be ’eaps. Oh, my gel, I wouldn’t rob you of a penny ef I could help it, but you are the last to grudge it to me.”

She returned the rest of the money to the old stocking, and shut the drawer. Then she considered what sort of note she should write to Jill. It must be brief, for time was passing. It must also be brief because poor Poll was a very bad scribe.

She found a sheet of thin paper, and dipping a rusty pen into a penny bottle of ink, scribbled a few words.

“Dear Jill,

“This is to say as I’ll come back again when I’m cured. I’ll ha’ no pain when I come back, my gel, so you make yourself ’appy. I ’as took one pound in gold, and ten shillings in silver out of the old stocking.

“Your Mother.

“Tell Nat as I ’as my eye on ’im, and according as he deals with you, according will I think on him.”

Poll left the letter open on the top of the bureau; then she went back for a moment into the inner room.

Jill was lying fast asleep. Poll bent over her with a long, hungry gaze. She stooped her head, and lightly, very lightly, kissed the young girl on her forehead.

“Mother,” murmured Jill in her sleep; “oh, poor mother! oh, poor mother!”

A look of pain came over her face; she turned away with a profound and even careworn sigh.

“My gel!” responded Poll. “Oh, yes, it’s best and right for me to go.”

Instead of dressing herself in her usual picturesque fashion, with a coloured apron and gay turban, Poll put on a grey shawl, and a dowdy, old-fashioned bonnet of rusty black lace. She tied up her other clothes in a big handkerchief, and without again glancing at her daughter left the room.

A moment later she was in the street. She had not troubled herself to give the boys a farewell look. In the intense pain of the other parting she had forgotten their very existence.

A few moments after she had left the house, the clock from the neighbouring church struck four. Jill often awoke at four o’clock, but this morning she slept on, quite oblivious of the passing of time.

Not so, however, one of the occupants of the press bed in the kitchen. This small person opened his ferrety blue eyes, wriggled his freckled face above the bed-clothes, and darted a quick, sly glance round the apartment.

“Oh, jiminy!” he murmured, “I ’ope as Bob won’t wake till I ’as done it. Oh, my eyes and stars! what a chance is here.”

He crept quietly out of bed, and with the light agile movements of a little cat went across the kitchen. He reached the bureau, and bending down pulled the drawer open, which contained Jill’s hard-earned savings.

Tom was a little person who possessed neither conscience nor fear. He soon emptied the contents of the stocking into his eager little palm. The brown-paper parcel which contained Nat’s five sovereigns was clutched in his other hand. He then ran across the room, slipped the coins into his trousers pockets, put his trousers on and returned to the bureau.

His mother’s letter, wide-open and exposed to the view of all who cared to read, attracted his attention. Thanks to the board-school which he attended, Tom could both read and write. He soon acquainted himself with the contents of the letter, and murmuring “jiminy!” once again under his breath, went up to the bed where Bob still slept.

Tom stood on one leg, and contemplated Bob’s sleeping face with its upturned nose, and its thick crop of freckles, for half a minute. Then taking up an old shoe, he flung it at the sleeper and awaited the result.

Bob started up with a howl.

“Hold your noise this minute,” said Tom, falling upon Bob, and half throttling him. “Hold your noise, and I’ll tell yer some’at. See here, Bob, I ha’ got some swag, and ef you make a row Jill ’ull hear us.”

The word “swag” had a magical effect on Bob. He stopped crying, wiped his dirty face, and looked at his brother with a world of wonder and desire lighting up each insignificant feature.

“Oh, my word, Tom!” he said, “is it gingerbread?”

“Gingerbread!” echoed Tom, in a voice of scorn. “You see yere. If you split I’ll split you. Yere, ain’t this prime?”

Tom thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and pulling out his store of gold and silver, spread his treasures on the bed. Bob’s eyes began to glitter, and his face turned white.

“Oh, Tom,” he gasped, “you’re a thief.”

“I ain’t,” said Tom. “It’s Jill’s, and what’s Jill’s is mine. Ain’t I her brother? Think on her saving it all up, and us being pinched and ’arf starved. Mean, I calls it, despert mean. Well, she can save some more. She ain’t never goin’ to see this swag agin.” Bob began slowly and cautiously to wriggle himself out of bed. He slipped on his trousers and his little jacket with trembling haste.

“Are we to be pals in it?” he said, looking at Tom. “Ef I don’t split, are we to go pals?”

“I don’t mind givin’ yer some on it,” said Tom. “But pals – that means ’arf and ’arf – no thank yer, young un.”

Bob edged himself between Tom and the door of the room.

“Look yere,” he said, “ef yer don’t go arf, I’ll screech out, and Jill ’ull come. I’m atween you and the door, and I’ll screech orful loud, and Jill ’ull come afore you gits down-stairs, so now you knows. It’s ’arf the swag with me, or its none.”

Tom’s eyes shot forth little rays of wrath, but he knew that Bob had a queer obstinate tenacity of his own, and he thought it best to humour him.

“All right,” he said, “don’t screech. We’ll go pals. ’Spose as we runs away.”

“I ’ates that book-shop,” said Bob.

“And I’m run to death by the Boy Messenger Company,” said Tom in a gloomy voice. “’Spose we goes to sea, Bob.”

“’Spose we does,” said Bob, with a little yelp. ”‘A life on the rolling wave’ – oh, my stars, won’t it be fine?”

“Mother has run away too,” said Tom. “There’s her letter on the top of the dresser. It was seeing her helping herself out of the stocking as put me up to it. She took some of the money, and she left the key in the drawer, that’s how I come by this jolly find. You read her letter, Bob.”

Bob did so, with his eyes glittering.

“I say,” he exclaimed, “yere is a jolly go. I ha’ got a stuff in my pocket, a kind of new sort of Indy-rubber wot rubs out writing. I say, Tom, let’s put the whole of it on mother.”

“The whole of wot? Wot do yer mean?”

“She says she has took thirty shillings. Let’s rub out them words, and put as she took all that wor in the stocking. Then the perlice won’t be a’ter us, and we can go off to sea without no one a-finding of us out.” Tom reflected over Bob’s words of wisdom, and finally decided that his plan was worth adopting. While Jill still slept, the wicked, clever little fingers erased a portion of Poll’s letter, and added the words instead, “I ’as took all the money you has hoarded away in the old stocking. I know you won’t grudge it.”