Jill: A Flower Girl. Meade L. T.
Ripe.” The crowd jostled one another, and applauded her loudly. When Jill burst like a young Fury into their midst, one or two of the men, and some of the women, were joining with hearty abandon in the chorus:
“Cherry ripe, cherry ripe,
Ripe, I cry —
Full and fair ones,
Come and buy!”
“Go it, Poll, go it!” they shouted again. “That’s better! that’s prime! Wish I could buy ’em, makes my mouth water to hear on ’em. Oh! you are in fine voice to-night, Poll Robinson.”
“You let her be,” said Jill. “Oh! for shame ain’t you cowards? Don’t you see as she don’t know rightly what she’s doing? Oh! I ’ate you – I ’ate you all. Don’t you see for yourselves she’s took mor’n she ought? Do you think she would sing to you like that ef she knew the reason why? No one ever tried harder to be good than poor mother. She never takes a drop except when the pain’s too bad to be borne. Oh! ain’t you cowards, every single one on yer? Here, mother, come home with me at once. You make way, you bad, cowardly men and women. Go home to your own beds, and let mother and me go to ours. Come along, mother, it’s Jill! Come home with me at once. No, you ain’t to sing any more. I’ll pay you all out for this, neighbours, see ef I don’t.”
She took the woman under her wing, and, going quickly through the astonished, half-cowed, half-amused people, entered the house.
Chapter Two
Jill pulled her mother’s hand fiercely inside her arm. The presence of the angry, upright girl had a sobering effect on the older women. A dim sense of shame and distress was stealing over her. She made violent efforts to keep from tottering, and, raising one powerful but shaking hand, tried to straighten her bonnet.
Jill walked past Mrs Stanley’s flat, without stopping to fetch her basket of flowers. When she reached the top landing of the house she slipped her hand into her mother’s pocket, took out the key which by then, and opened the door which led into the little flat. The flat consisted of two rooms and a narrow passage.
Still holding her mother by the arm, Jill went into the outer room. She found a box of matches, and, striking one, lit a candle which was placed on the round table.
“Now, mother, sit down,” she said, in a tender voice. “Here’s your own chair. Sit right down and rest a bit. I’ll be no time boiling the kettle, and then we’ll have a cup o’ tea both on us together; you’ll feel a sight better when you have had your tea, mother.”
The woman sat on the edge of the chair which Jill had pulled forward, she loosened her bonnet-strings, and let her untidy, disorderly bonnet fall off her head of thick black hair.
“I’ll never go and do it any more, Jill,” she said, after a pause. “The pain’s better now, and next time it comes I’ll bear it. I know I’m tipsy now, but, sure as my name’s Poll Robinson, you’ll see, Jill, as I’ll never go and do it again.”
“To be sure you won’t, mother. Don’t you fret. Forget all about it – forget as you were tipsy jest now in the street. You’ll soon be as right as ever you wor. I’ll fetch some cold water to bathe your face and hands, then you’ll feel prime. You cheer up, mother, darlin’, and forget what you ’as done.”
“But you won’t forget it, Jill. I’ve shamed you before the folk in the street, you can’t go and forget it, it’s contrary to nature.”
“Why I’se forgot it, mother, already; you sit quiet, and let me tend you.”
While Jill spoke she bustled about, placed the kettle of water on the little gas-stove to boil, and, going out into the passage, filled a basin fall of cold water from a tap. Bringing it back, she tenderly washed her mother’s hot face and hands, combed back her disordered hair, coiled it deftly round her comely head, and then, bending down, kissed the broad, low forehead.
“Now you’re like yourself, so sweet; why you look beautiful; you’re as handsome as a picter. We’ll forget all about that time in the street. See! the kettle’s boiling, we’ll both be real glad of our tea.” The woman began to cheer up under the girl’s bright influence; her head ceased to reel, her hand to shake; she felt instinctively, however, that she had better keep silence, for her brain was still too confused for her to talk sensibly.
The tea was made strong and fragrant. Jill stood by the little mantelpiece while she sipped hers. Her eager eyes watched her mother with an affectionate and sad solicitude.
“Now, mother, you must go to bed at once, and have a good sleep,” she said, when the meal was over.
“I didn’t mean to go and done it,” said the woman again.
“Course you didn’t, mother, and you’ll never do it no more. Go and lie down now.”
“Where are the lads, Jill?”
“They’ll be in presently. It’s all right. You lie down; you look awful spent and worn.”
“But the pain’s better, my gal.”
“That’s right. You sleep while you’re easy.”
“Jill, don’t you ’ate your poor wicked old mother?”
“No, mother. I love you better than all the rest of the world put together. Now lie down, and don’t fret yourself. I has a sight of fine things to tell you in the morning; but go to sleep now, do!”
The exhausted woman was only too glad to obey. The moment her head touched the pillow, her tired eyes closed and she went off into dreamless slumber.
Jill stole softly from the room, closing the door behind her.
She had scarcely done so before a shuffling, lumbering sound was heard on the landing; the outer door was banged vigorously from without, and rough boys’ voices called to Jill to open and let them in.
She flung the door open without a minute’s delay.
“Come in,” she said, “and take off your boots, and be quiet ef you can, for mother’s not well, and I won’t have her woke to please anybody. You’re both shameful late, and I’ve half a mind to let you sleep in the passage all night. There’s your supper; and now do try to be quiet.”
The elder boy, called Bob, pulled off his heavy boots and stole across the room. The younger followed his example.
“There’s your supper,” said Jill. She pointed to two plates, on which some lumps of cold suet pudding were placed. “Do be quick,” she said, speaking petulantly for the first time, “for I’m so tired myself I’m fit to drop.”
“Is it true that mother’s bad, Jill?” asked the youngest boy, peering up at his sister half anxiously, half wickedly.
“Yes, of course it’s true. Mother’s often bad. Why do you ask?”
“But old Hastie down in the street, he said that she had gone and – why, what’s the matter, Jill? You look so fierce that you quite take the heart out of a fellow.”
“You shut up,” said Jill. “You whisper in this room one word of what Hastie said, and you’ll feel my fist, I can tell you.”
“Only it’s true, Jill, and you know it,” said Bob, putting down his plate, and coming up and standing by his younger brother’s side. “You needn’t beat the life out of poor Tom for telling the truth. You know that Hastie only spoke the solemn truth, Jill, and you has no call to round on Tom.”
“Hastie told a lie,” said Jill; “and when Tom quotes his words to me, he tells lies.”
“Then mother hasn’t been out this evening.”
“No; she’s been in her bed since two o’clock, orful bad with pain. You’re dreadful cruel boys even to doubt her. She’s the best mother on this earth. Oh, let me see Hastie, and I’ll give him a spice of my mind. Now go and lie down, the pair on yer. I’m shamed of yer bringing up them lies.”
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