Jill: A Flower Girl. Meade L. T.

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СКАЧАТЬ her two hands, and kissed her on each blooming cheek. Then she sat down with a profound sigh of relief.

      “Ain’t you a good ’un?” she said. “Any mother ’ud be proud of yer. You hurry and buy the flowers, dawtie dear, and then we’ll be off.”

      Breakfast was speedily finished, the breakfast things put away, and then Jill, drawing a ribbon from inside her dress, produced a small key. With this key she opened a small drawer, took some money out of an old stocking, locked the drawer again, slipped the key into its hiding-place, and went out.

      After she was gone Poll sat very still. The bright colour which always flamed in her cheeks had somewhat faded; her big, dark eyes looked weary. After a time she gave utterance to a low moan.

      “This pain’s orful,” she murmured. “I’d give the world for a nip of brandy. Coffee! What’s coffee when you ache as I ache? A sip or two of hot gin, or brandy and water, ’ud make me feel fine. Jill’s the best gel, but she don’t know what it is to have the thirst on her like me.”

      Poll went into the little sleeping-room and flung herself across the bed. When Jill returned with the flowers she found her lying there, her face white and drawn, her eyes closed.

      At the sound of the brisk step, Poll made a vigorous effort to sit up, but Jill’s young glance could not be deceived.

      “You shall not stir to sell a flower to-day,” she exclaimed. “You lie where you are, and take a good rest. I ha’ got some beauties in the way of flowers, and I’ll sell ’em all, and we’ll have a jolly supper to-night. I met Nat when I were out, and he said he’d come in to supper. You stay where you are, mother, and I’ll ask Mrs Stanley to come and see arter you. I know she will, ef I ask her.”

      “The pain’s werry bad this morning, Jill.”

      “Mrs Stanley shall go and fetch a bottle of that soothing stuff from the chemist round the corner. That’ll put you to sleep, and then you’ll be a sight better. Now I must go.”

      Jill kissed her mother, took up her flower-basket, stopped at the next landing to speak to Mrs Stanley, and finally tripped down-stairs with her basket of blooming flowers on her arm.

      Outside the house she was met by a tall fair-haired young costermonger who took her basket from her, and turned to walk by her side.

      “You shouldn’t do it, Nat,” she said. “It’s a sin to be wasting your time, and the morning’s late enough as it is.”

      “Late?” echoed the young giant with a gay laugh. “Why, it ain’t nine yet, Jill, and anyhow I stole the time from my breakfast. I can just walk as far as your stand with you. And you’ll give me a posy for my pains, won’t you?”

      “You choose it, Nat,” said Jill.

      “No, no, you must do that. Ain’t you got a rose under all ’em flaring poppies, and a bit o’ mignonette? Them’s my style. You make ’em up for me, Jill, in a posy, and I’ll wear ’em in my button-hole all day, no matter who chaffs me.”

      Jill replied by a gay little laugh. The summer in the day got more and more into her face. She gave Nat many shy and lovely glances.

      “Look yere,” he said suddenly; “you ain’t answered my question.”

      “What is it, lad?”

      “When are we to be married, Jill? I’ll ha’ a holiday in three weeks, and I thought we might go before the registrar just then, and afterwards go away for a week into the country. What do you say?”

      “Oh, I can’t say nothing. There’s mother, you know.”

      “But your mother won’t keep us apart, Jill. That ’ud be cruel.”

      “No, but I can’t leave her. You know that.”

      “Well, look yere; I don’t want you to leave her. I’m doin’ well wid my barrer, and you and me, we might take the flat alongside of Mrs Stanley’s, just under where you now live. Surely your mother and the boys could manage for one another, and you’d be always close to see to ’em, ef they was in any fix. The rooms is to be let, I know, and ef you say the word, Jill, I’ll speak to the landlord this very night.”

      “But that flat costs a heap o’ money; it don’t seem right nohow,” said Jill.

      “Yes, it’s as right as anything, darlin’. I’m ’arning good money now, it’s all perfectly square. You leave it to me. You say yes, Jill; that’s all you ha’ got to do.”

      “I’ll think it over, lad, and let you know to-night. Here we are at my stand now. Good-bye, Nat dear – oh, and here’s your posy.”

      The young man took it with a smile.

      “Pin it in for luck,” he said. “Now I’m off I’ll be sure and come round this evening.”

      He blew a kiss to Jill, turned a corner, and disappeared.

      Her stand was outside a large railway station. Six or seven other girls also sold flowers there, but not one of them could vie with Jill for picturesque arrangement.

      She sat down now, and taking up her basket began hastily to divide her flowers into penny and twopenny bunches. This piece of work she generally did at home, but to-day she was late, and had to arrange her wares as quickly as she could while waiting for her customers.

      The sun shone all over her as she worked. She made a gay bit of colour, and more than one person turned to look at her. Her black rippling hair was coiled round and round her shapely head. Her turban, too hot for this sultry day, was flung on the ground by her side. Her black dress fitted her slim figure to perfection, and her gay many-coloured apron gave a bizarre effect to her costume, which exactly suited the somewhat foreign type of her face.

      The flower girl who eat next her, in her untidiness, her dirt, and almost rags, acted as a foil to Jill. She had bedizened her person in a cheap dress of faded crimson. Her hat, nearly a foot high, was perched on the back of her uncombed hair. It was trimmed with rusty crape and rendered gay with one or two ostrich feathers, and some bunches of artificial poppies.

      This woman, between forty and fifty years of age, was, in her way, a favourite. She indulged in a brogue which declared her Irish origin, and whatever the weather, whatever the prospect of the flower-sellers, she always managed to keep the laugh and the ready jest going.

      “Did you ask me what me name was, honey?” she would say to a customer attracted by the gleam of mischief in her eye. “Oh, then, glory be to heaven, it’s Molly Maloney, at your service, and where would you find a better or a swater? Do take a bunch of flowers, lady, do now, and I’ll pray for a good husband for you every time as I goes down on my bended knees.”

      Sallies of this sort provoked smiles even from the refined people who wished to buy flowers, and secured roars of laughter from the other flower girls, who delighted in egging Molly on to “give sauce,” as they termed it, to the fine folks.

      On this particular morning, however, Molly’s pleasantries were not so frequent as usual. She whispered to Jill that little Kathleen, that jewel of a girl, was down with a cowld, and she was moighty bothered with her, and didn’t know whether to send for the doctor or not.

      “You might come and see her, Jill,” said Molly Maloney. “Kathleen she worships the very ground you treads on, and she’s down with a cowld СКАЧАТЬ