Jill: A Flower Girl. Meade L. T.

They lay down side by side in an old press bed at one end of the kitchen, and Jill, opening the door, slipped softly down to fetch her flowers from Mrs Stanley. The old woman was still up. She looked at the girl anxiously.

      “You found her then, honey?”

      “Oh, yes; quite easy. She was out for a little bit of exercise. She’s in bed and asleep a long time back.”

      “Where you ought to be, Jill. You look fit to drop.”

      “I ain’t then; I’m quite fresh. Where are my flowers?”

      “There, dearie. Good-night to you, Jill Robinson.”

      “Good-night, Mrs Stanley. Thank yer for keeping the flowers.”

      Jill took up her basket and departed. In the passage which belonged to her mother’s flat she spent some little time watering her flowers, removing the withered ones, and making her basket look trim and fresh for the morrow.

      The clock which belonged to a neighbouring church had struck one long before she laid her head on her pillow.

      Chapter Three

      About four o’clock on the following morning Mrs Robinson stirred, opened her eyes and looked around her.

      The light was streaming full into the little bedroom. It was clean and fresh, for Jill would permit nothing else. There were no cobwebs to be seen on the walls, and the floor was white with constant scrubbing. The glass in the one small window was washed until it shone, and the little blind, which was neatly pinned across was fresh, and in perfect order.

      Poll Robinson lay in bed and gazed around her. The scene of the night before bed passed completely from her memory and her mind now was altogether absorbed in wondering how she could outstrip Jill and smuggle some stale flowers, which she had hidden the night before under her bed, into her basket Jill never held with these doings, but Poll thought them perfectly justifiable. The way to do a thriving business was to mix the stale goods discriminately with the fresh, and to sell one with the other. Jill would not hear of it, and Poll had to own that Jill by her honesty and method, and by her own bright and spruce appearance, had gained a very tidy connection.

      But though Poll liked the money which now flowed in regularly, she sighed more than once for the good old days when she need not scrub her sitting-room nor polish her windows, nor worry herself about her unsold flowers.

      The flowers did very well thrust under the bed in the old times, and they sold very well, too, mixed up with fresh bunches the next day.

      The neighbouring clock struck a quarter past four, and Mrs Robinson, with a profound sigh, raised herself on her elbow, and looked at her sleeping daughter.

      There was a good deal of resemblance between the mother and child. Both were dark, and had big, brilliant eyes, and masses of raven hair.

      The face of the older woman looked young enough this morning. The lines of care, pain, and dissipation had vanished with her last night’s sleep. A high colour, partly caused by an inward fever and ache, which scarcely ever left her, gave a false beauty to Poll Robinson’s face.

      She stooped, kissed Jill on her forehead, and getting out of bed began to dress. She saw that the girl looked tired, and she determined to go to Covent Garden for the fresh flowers herself.

      She hastily put on her clothes, and slipping her flowers from under the bed, went out into the kitchen. The boys were snoring loudly in their press bedstead. Poll went across the room, and shook Tom vigorously.

      “Look yere,” she said, “you tell Jill that I’m fetching the flowers this morning. Tell her to lie easy, and take her sleep out. Do you hear me, you good-for-naught? Do you hear what I’m saying? or are ye too sleepy to take it all in?”

      “I hear right enough, mother,” replied Tom, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Are you better this morning, mother?”

      “Yes, to be sure; why shouldn’t I be?”

      Tom looked down at Bob, who was asleep. Then he glanced towards the open door of the bedroom. He was not at all afraid of his mother; but he had a wholesome dread of Jill.

      “Look yere,” he said: “is it true what Hastie says?”

      “What did Hastie say?”

      Mrs Robinson placed her arms akimbo.

      “He said as you were real bad last night, – real bad – and out in the street, you mind.”

      “Well, and what ef I wor?”

      “Only, Jill says it’s a lie. She said she’ll smack Hastie for saying it.”

      Mrs Robinson’s face underwent a quick, queer change.

      “Bless Jill,” she said. “You lie down and go to sleep, Tom, and don’t bother me.”

      The boy slipped at once under the bed-clothes. He pretended to sleep, but he watched his mother furtively. Seen now in her fresh trim morning dress she was a presentable, and even handsome woman. She put on a coloured apron of the same pattern and design as Jill’s, twisted a turban round her head, and taking up her basket prepared to go out.

      First of all, however, she went to an old bureau, and pulled open one of the small top drawers. In this drawer she and Jill kept their loose pence and silver. She was looking now for the money to buy the flowers with which she must stock her basket.

      She knew that this time yesterday there were three shillings in pence and silver in the drawer. Now when she opened it, nothing whatever in the shape of money was to be seen. A piece of gay print, with which she intended to make an apron for herself, had also vanished.

      Poll stood before the empty drawer with astonishment and confusion. Where had the money gone?

      She thrust her hand into her pocket. Had she by any chance put it there when she went out to buy drink? If so, it was gone. Her pocket was quite destitute of the smallest coin. Could she have left the door open when she went out? No, she was quite confident on that point. She had a vivid recollection of locking the door, and taking the key with her.

      The money was gone, and she could in no way account for its disappearance. What was she to do? She had not a halfpenny in the world to buy flowers with. Should she wake Jill, and tell her of her loss? No, she did not want to do that. The girl was looking sadly tired, and Poll did not want to confess that through her weakness and want of self-control some of their valuable little earnings had vanished.

      She stood for a moment considering. Then she determined to go to the market, and trust to one of the flower merchants giving her sufficient flowers to stock her basket and Jill’s on credit. She must start at once, for the morning was passing, and the best and cheapest flowers would be sold.

      She opened the door, and closed it softly behind her. Then she ran with a quick, light step down-stairs. No one would have recognised this trim and active woman for the disreputable-looking creature whom Jill had rescued the night before.

      She quickly passed the buildings where their little flat was, and entered the low neighbourhood of Drury Lane. Drury Lane was a great haunt for flower girls. Poll had lived there herself for years. A memory of the old free life came back to her as she walked, and she could not help breathing a hearty sigh. The old life seemed attractive to her this morning; she forgot the blows her cruel husband had given her; she forgot the dirt, and the sickness, and the misery. She only remembered the absolute freedom from restraint, the jolly, never-may-care sort of existence. Everything was altered now; for Jill had taken the reins into her own hands. She and her mother belonged to the respectable class of flower girls. They bought good flowers straight from the market, and sold them to regular customers, and had their own acknowledged corner where they could show their wares in tempting and picturesque array. They were clean, decent sort of people now. Poll knew this, but she could not take pride in the fact this morning.

      She walked quickly along, with her usual swinging, free sort of motion. Some of her old cronies nodded and smiled to her. Poll was so good-tempered and good-natured that the flower girls who were still low down, very low down in the world, could not look on her with envy. She would have shared her last crust with the worst of