Little Pollie Part 8

Then ensued a scene too terrible to describe. The wretched woman was taken away from the place, shrieking and swearing, leaving her dead child to be tended by strangers, kinder far than she had ever been.

CHAPTER X.

NORA.

A drizzling rain kept falling the day on which little Jimmy was to be laid in his narrow home. They had found beneath his ragged jacket a little packet, carefully tied with a piece of thread, and on opening it, something dried and shrivelled fell to the ground. It was the bunch of violets, now withered, Pollie's first gift to him--the only gift he had ever received, and which came fraught with such peace to him. With tender pity Mrs. Turner refolded the tiny packet, and placed the faded flowers again where they had been so carefully treasured.

His unhappy mother was in prison, which place she only quitted to be confined for life in a criminal lunatic asylum, driven mad by that fearful curse of England--drink! drink! so that there would have been no one to follow him to his last resting-place had not good Mrs. Turner offered to go. She could not bear to think of the poor child being laid to rest so friendlessly, and little Pollie pleaded to be taken. Then Lizzie Stevens begged to be allowed to accompany the widow in her pious task, and just as the humble parish funeral was leaving the house, which had been but a miserable home for the dead child, Sally Grimes came up, and, taking Lizzie's hand silently, joined the three mourners. A large black cloak covered her patched but clean frock, and she wore an old black bonnet of her mother's, which had outlived many fas.h.i.+ons. It was the only outward semblance of mourning she could get, but her heart sorrowed sincerely for the crippled boy whom she had seen for many years, desolate and uncared for, crouching in the dingy doorway--desolate until little Pollie found him there, and shed some brightness around his. .h.i.therto lonely life; and another thing, he was a sort of link between her and Pollie.

The London streets looked dismal and dirty on this autumn afternoon with the pitiless rain and murky sky; but when the little party reached the quiet suburban cemetery, the clouds had somewhat dispersed, though the late flowers which yet remained to gladden the earth drooped with the heavy moisture; and when the last words were spoken, and all that remained of Crippled Jimmy had been laid in his narrow bed, the four kindly mourners turned tearfully from the spot, leaving him alone in his poor humble grave.

At that moment a robin perched himself on a bush close by, and warbled forth such a hymn, so full of gladness, it seemed as though the bird sang the echo of those joyful words--

"I am the Resurrection and the Life."

And so they left little Jimmy. Nothing could harm him now. Twas but his frail mortality they mourned; his blest spirit, freed from earthly stains, was now with his Saviour and G.o.d.

On their return home they found that Mrs. Flanagan had prepared a comfortable tea for them all in Mrs. Turner's room; and it looked so cosy and home-like, humble though it was, with Mrs. Flanagan's kindly face to greet them.

Poor Mrs. Flanagan--she was greatly changed; no longer the same cheerful person, but calm and subdued, as if she dwelt beneath some dark shadow that clouded her existence.

She did not now, when her day's work was ended, come into Mrs. Turner's room to have a friendly chat, or interest herself in Pollie's fortune-making, as she used to do. It is true, she still brought the flowers for the child, but her whole mind seemed too absorbed to dwell on these trivial matters which formerly possessed such an interest for her. Her entire thoughts were centred on Nora.

No one, save good Mrs. Turner, had seen the poor girl since the evening Pollie had brought the lost one home. The poor mother hid, as it were, her recovered treasure, fearful that even the mere pa.s.sing glance of scorn should for a moment rest on her blighted child. So up in that little room, away from prying eyes, lived the mother and daughter. Nora was not idle. Not for worlds would she have rested dependent on that dear forgiving mother's hard earnings for her daily food; therefore, whilst Mrs. Flanagan toiled in Covent Garden Market, her daughter's slender fingers diligently laboured at bookbinding, the trade she had pursued years ago, in the time when her heart was innocent and happy.

On the evening of which we write, when Sally Grimes and Lizzie Stevens had gone to their own homes after the peaceful hours spent with Mrs.

Turner, the old woman sat for some time silent and sad, with elbows resting on the table, and her face buried in her hands.

At length she looked up.

"My Nora's very sadly," she observed.

The widow paused in her needlework, and gazed at the troubled countenance of her old friend.

"She is not ill, is she?" was the question: "I saw her this morning, and then she seemed pretty much the same."

"No, not ill in body, at least not much," replied the poor mother; "but oh! Mrs. Turner, my Nora is not like my Nora of days gone by."

And the grey head bent low upon the table, and the worn wrinkled face was hidden, to hide the bitter tears which fell.

Her sympathising listener put down her work, and rising softly, laid her hand gently upon her neighbour's sorrow-bent head.

"Take heart, Mrs. Flanagan," she soothed; "it will all come right at last, in G.o.d's own time. Just think how once you feared you should never see your daughter again, and then"----

"Oh, but she's not the same; no longer gay, or even cheerful, as she used to be," was sobbed forth; "sits for hours looking far-away like, as if she saw me not; yet once I was all to her. Ah, woe is me that I should be sorry she was not laid to rest years ago, when a sinless child, like little Jimmy was to-day!"

Whilst the unhappy mother was thus pouring out her heart sorrow, Pollie had crept up, and in loving pity had slidden her small hand into her aged friend's in token of sympathy with her grief. For some time Mrs.

Flanagan was too absorbed with her great woe to heed that gentle caress, but when alluding to the dead boy she raised her head, and saw the little girl's tearful eyes lifted to hers.

"Please, don't cry, dear Mrs. Flanagan," she said timidly. "Nora will soon be like she once was; won't she, mother?"

"Bless you, my precious," cried the poor old woman, laying her hand lovingly on the child's curly head, "you're a real comfort to me."

"O mother," murmured a soft voice, "have patience with me, dearest; I am still your own Nora; only--oh, so worn and sin-stained!"

They started in surprise. Unseen she had entered the room, and had overheard her poor mother mourning for her child.

Meekly she knelt at her parent's feet, with tearless eyes upraised, but clasping the hard rough hand that had so toiled for her in the years gone by, and was willing still to toil, could it but bring back some few gleams of former brightness to her child.

"I am not changed in heart to you, dear mother," she continued, "but when I sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of the past; and I know what I am, and what I might have been."

All trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an infant she nestled there.

"Yes, yes, dear mother," pursued the poor girl; "let me lay my weary head where I can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, I know, is full of love for me. I will pray to forget the sad, sad past, and be to you once more your Nora of the long ago. We were so happy then!"

"Yes, we were happy in those days," murmured the mother, to herself as it were; "though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. You, my poor child, pa.s.sed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old mother."

Then Mrs. Flanagan fairly broke down. But the icy barrier which had divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they were--all in all--to each other once again.

CHAPTER XI.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Eve! What memories revive at those two almost hallowed words!

We think upon the _first_ Christmas Eve,--of the manger at Bethlehem, the Redeemer's humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding His first wors.h.i.+ppers to His poor abode,--and we recall in imagination that glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! Yes; those words, "Christmas Eve," carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that does not echo the glad tidings, "On earth, peace, goodwill toward men."

But on the Christmas Eve of which we speak the holy stars were s.h.i.+ning above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of Bethlehem--on London, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the rich and gay, and in a district of which (Drury Lane) little star-light could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets.

Drury Lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets flamed at the open shop-fronts, whilst tradesmen and costermongers seemed to vie with each other as to which could shout the loudest to attract customers. There were butchers urging pa.s.sers-by to purchase joints of animals hanging up in the shops, decked with rosettes and bows of coloured ribbon in honour of Christmas; greengrocers, gay with holly and mistletoe, interspersed with mottoes wis.h.i.+ng every one the "Compliments of the season." Bakers, too, were doing a thriving trade in cakes of all sizes; whilst down the centre of the street, lining each side of the roadway, were vendors of all sorts of things, whose stalls were brightened either by oil-lamps or else the more humble candle stuck in a paper lantern.

I care not to speak of gin-palaces, filled by poor wretches buying poison for soul and body. Would to G.o.d our loved country could be free from its curse of drunkenness!

And yet the poor denizens of this pent-up neighbourhood appeared more cheerful and better-tempered than they usually seem to be. Jokes were bandied freely between tradesmen and customers, and kindly greetings exchanged in honour of Christmas. Occasionally, it is true, a s.h.i.+vering creature would be seen shuffling along through the busy crowd, glancing with furtive hungry eyes at the food exposed for sale, but unable to buy even a loaf of bread. The generality, however, had antic.i.p.ated the coming festive season, and had saved the wherewith to keep Christmas.

It was a relief to turn from the noisy din of Drury Lane up Russell Court, and thence to the quiet of Mrs. Turner's room. Yes; there they were all to be seen, a happy family party, preparing, too, to keep Christmas.