A Little World. George Manville Fenn
She took them from him with almost childish joy, smelt them, kissed them, and then for a moment held them to her breast, but only to dart into the back room for a little common vase, to fill it with water, and then carefully place the flowers within it.
“I thought as you’d like ’em,” said the man, as he watched her with glittering eye; “but they’re getting werry skeerce, Miss; and what with the building and ’closing commons, and shutting up of Epping Foresses, there soon won’t be no more flowers for poor people, only in shop winders and grand ladies’ bonnets, and of course they won’t smell. You mark my words, Miss; afore long, London’ll get to be so big that it’ll fill up all England, and swaller up all the country, so that they’ll have to build right out all round into the sea, and get their grunsel and chickweed for singin’ birds from furrin parts.”
“It was very kind of you, though, Dick, to think of us,” said Patty; and she held out her hand with a coin or two half-hidden therein; but the rough gipsy fellow shook his head, as he struggled against the temptation, for it was hard work to refuse money; then stooping, he occupied his hands with the straps of his basket.
“I don’t want no payin’ for ’em, Miss. I ain’t forgot the many a good turn she done my poor missus. I aint half outer debt yet. Besides, I’m flush just now; got a good two bobs’ worth o’ stuff, if I’m lucky, and here goes to sell it. Miss Janet all right?”
As the answer came in the affirmative, the man guided his basket out, and commenced singing in a sonorous minor key—
“Chickweed and grunsel for your singin’ birds!” as he turned to go down the street, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of one hand. “Might ha’ been like her, if she’d on’y ha’ lived,” he muttered; and then, giving his eyes another rub, the dirty knuckles of his hand glistened as if with moisture, as he gave his strap and basket another hitch before going any farther.
Chickweed Dick was gone; but he only gave place to one Chucky, who drew a donkey-cart to the door, and brought in a basket of red sand. Then came boys to ask the price of guinea-pigs and white mice; boys to offer squirrels or hedgehogs for sale—miry and dusty boys, with the marks of the shires upon their shabby garb, to indicate long tramps, as bits of hay and straw whispered of nights passed beneath some friendly stack; but the proprietor of this Noah’s ark was already overstocked, and, in spite of references made by Patty, there was no dealing.
Patty meanwhile sang on as she fed the rest of the stock; and as if in emulation, the birds whistled loudly, darting eagerly at their cage bars, as she distributed the green food brought by Dick; but her song suddenly ceased, as did that of the birds, when a heavy-looking gaol-typical young fellow, in a sleeved vest, entered the shop, breathed hard, and then, staring offensively at Patty the while, asked to look at some finches.
Patty, glancing at the room door to see if any one was coming, lifted down a cage containing perhaps a score; but the gentleman seemed hard to please, pointing out failings here and there in the various birds, till he seemed to fix the poor girl with his stare, though she kept striving to master her trepidation, and to hide from her unpleasant visitor the fact that his presence caused her dread.
“I say,” he whispered, suddenly; “I say,” and he leaned across the counter.
The movement seemed to break the spell, for Patty now made an effort to retreat to the back room; but, in a moment, the fellow had stretched out one long, gorilla-like arm, effectually barring her way, when hawk and dove seemed to stand in the naturalist’s shop, eye to eye, the weak quailing before the strong.
A loud rustle of a newspaper within ended the scene, for, starting at the sound, the rough visitor turned his attention to the birds once more, and re-commenced his fault-finding, giving Patty time to recover herself, and to redden with anger at what she was ready to call her cowardice when there was some one in the next room.
“You see it ain’t for myself,” said the fellow, once more fixing his gaze on Patty, but turning the cage round the while; “it wouldn’t matter if I wanted it; but he’ll have to come and pick one for hisself. I don’t think I’ll take one to-day.”
Patty was about to take back the cage, but with a grin and a repetition of the hard breathing, the fellow drew it farther away.
There was again the rustling of the newspaper. A moment after, the proprietor was heard to rise, and then he jerked himself into the shop, to attend to the customer.
Patty, glad to get away, hurried into the back room, when a sharp piece of bargaining ensued between customer and dealer, ending, as might have been foreseen, in the former finding all possible fault, and then declining to purchase, as he went outside to stand staring heavily through the window, ostensibly at its contents, but really to see if Patty returned.
Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.
Janet.
Mr. D. Wragg rented the whole of the house in Brownjohn Street, and his lodgers were confined to Mrs. Winks and the little Frenchman, the attics being used for store purposes—old cages, birdseed, bundles of herbs, bags of feathers, cobwebs, and dust.
These attics formed a part of the house rigidly tabooed by the dealer, who only gave a comical twitch to his countenance, and jerked his body from head to heel when Mrs. Winks complained that she had not had a bit of sleep for the howlings of some dreadful dog there confined.
Patty did not return into the shop, but began slowly to ascend the stairs, pausing at the first landing to fall into an attitude of attention, holding the balustrade and listening eagerly, as from below came the twittering of birds, and from above—in long-drawn, nerve-thrilling tones—sounds that seemed to have a strange effect upon the girl, as she stood in the full light of the landing-window, her eyes half-closed, her face upturned, and her lips parted, as though to give passage to a sigh.
But there was no sigh, no utterance, no motion; only the same strained aspect of attention, as still, from above stairs, came the sounds—now low, almost to fading away, now powerful and loud—but always with the same effect, that of chaining Patty to where she stood.
She might well listen as if entranced, for from above, with every note given with a feeling that seemed to find its echo in the listener’s ears, came floating softly down, the melody of “Ah, non giunge!” evidently played upon a violin of fine and sonorous tone, every bar sweet, pure, and clear, and softened by the distance into a strain which seemed to have floated into the dingy house from some brighter region.
Then, after a pause of a few moments, there was a change, the player turning off into a wild and eccentric variation upon the theme, now loud and sparkling in the major key—now plaintive and thrilling in the minor.
But this lasted only a short time, for as Patty once more began to ascend the stairs, the violinist dashed off into a French mazurka, with such spirit and brilliancy, that the notes seemed to be trilling out in joyous laughter, setting Patty’s head nodding to the gay refrain.
The next minute she had opened a door and stood in the presence of the player, who put down her instrument upon the table, and moved slowly across the room to catch the young girl’s extended hands, and apologise for not coming down again.
Canau’s room was bare and cheerless; a table, a few chairs, a couple of roughly-made music-stands, and a pile of torn, stained, yellow-leaved, printed, and manuscript music, were the principal objects that met the gaze; but Patty—whose presence lent a brightness to the blank place—seemed to have no eye for aught but the swarthy, deformed girl, whom she kissed affectionately.
Perhaps no greater contrast could have been seen than the sweet happy face of Patty, with her bright brown hair and peachy complexion—peachy with its soft down, and contrasts of creamy white and delicate pink; and that of Janet—she was known by no other name—the