Little Pollie Part 3

CHAPTER IV.

MRS FLANAGAN.

As Pollie reached her mother's door at last, after all this amount of shopping had been accomplished, she heard a well-known voice inside, and knew that Mrs. Flanagan had returned from work, and was now having her usual little chat with Mrs. Turner.

Good Mrs. Flanagan, who had been so kind to the widow and her child from the first moment they came to lodge in the room opposite to hers--good old woman, with a heart as n.o.ble and true as the finest lady's in the land--a gentlewoman in every sense, though not of the form or manner in which we are accustomed to a.s.sociate that word. Years ago she had been a servant in a farmhouse, where she was valued and esteemed by all as a sincere though humble friend; but Mike Flanagan won her heart, and she joined her fate to his, leaving the sweet, fresh country in which she had always lived, and cheerfully giving up all the old familiar ties of home and kindred for his dear sake.

Mike had constant work in London, with good wages too, as a carpenter, so though at first London and London ways sadly puzzled her, yet she soon became used to the change, and they were so happy--he in his clean, tidy wife, she in her honest, sober husband.

But one day, through the carelessness of a drunken fellow-workman, some heavy timber fell upon poor Mike, crushing him beneath its weight, and when next Martha Flanagan looked on her husband's face, she know he was past all suffering, and that she was dest.i.tute, and her sweet baby Nora fatherless.

But time soothed her anguish; she must be up and doing, and for many years she struggled on, working to keep a home for herself and child; and proud she was of her darling, her beautiful Nora, who grew up a sweet flower of loveliness from a rugged parent stem, with all the beauty of her father's nation and something of the sweetness of English grace.

Well might the poor mother be proud of her only treasure. What delight it was to see this rare beauty brightening the lowly home! But the mother's idol was of clay; in worshipping the creature with such fond idolatry, she almost forgot the merciful Creator.

One sad night, on returning home from Covent Garden, where she was constantly employed by a fruiterer and florist, she found the place empty, no one to greet her now. Nora was gone, lost in that turbid stream which flows through our city.

Oftentimes, as the lonely mother wended her way at night through the streets on her return from work, would she look with a shudder into the faces of those poor wretches who flaunted by fearing yet hoping to see her lost child. But the name of Nora never pa.s.sed her lips. No one who knew Mrs. Flanagan imagined of this canker at her heart; that page of her life was folded down, and closed to prying eyes; it was only when alone with G.o.d that on bended knees she prayed Him to bring the poor wanderer home.

"Ah, my bird!" she cried, as Pollie came joyfully dancing into the room.

"Here you are, then; I thought from what your mother said that such a lot of money had turned you a bit crazed."

Pollie did not reply, but pursed up her lips with a look of supreme importance as she placed her basket on the table, and proceeded to take out its contents.

"There, mother dearie," she exclaimed with delight as she displayed the meat; "that's for you. You must eat every tiny bit of it, so let us try some directly. See, dear Mrs Flanagan, I bought these water-cresses for you. Shall I fetch your tea-pot? For let us all have tea together to-day, like on Sundays; this is such a happy day."

And she ran across the landing without waiting for a reply, to bring the little brown tea-pot, which on the Sabbath always found a place on Mrs.

Turner's table; for that day was hailed as a peaceful festival by these two lonely widows, who kept G.o.d's day in sincerity and truth.

When the busy child came back, she set to work to carefully wash the cresses, arranging them afterwards in a pretty plate of her own, and then, placing them and the violets she had saved in front of the kind old woman, lifted up her bright face for a kiss.

But Mrs Flanagan was unable even to say "Thank you, my bird."

Her face was buried in her blue checked ap.r.o.n. She muttered something about her eyes being weak, and when after a little while she looked up, and lovingly kissed the child, Pollie feared they must be very bad indeed, they were so red, just as though she had been crying.

"Ah, my little one," she said in a husky voice "may G.o.d ever keep you pure and simple in heart; yea, even as a little child!"

By this time the meat was fried, the tea made, and everything in readiness for this wonderful banquet--at least so Pollie deemed it. How happy they were! Mrs Flanagan had recovered her usual spirits, and indulged in many a hearty laugh at the child's plans of what she should now do for mother, and the widow looked on with her quiet smile, happy in her child's happiness, glad because she was listening to her merry prattle; and though the meal was but scanty, no dainty dishes to tempt the appet.i.te, yet the wisest man has said,--

"Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith."

CHAPTER V.

THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.

Well, the days pa.s.sed on, and little Pollie pursued her work of selling violets; for those sweet flowers are a long time in season, bearing bravely the March winds and April showers, as though desirous of gladdening the earth as long as possible. All honour, then, to these hardy little blossoms.

So day after day found Pollie in the same spot where we first saw her, until at last the little brown-eyed girl became well known to the pa.s.sers-by. Kind old gentlemen, fathers, or it may be grandfathers some of them, thought of their own more fortunate children, whose lives were so much easier, and so thinking, stopped and bought of the shy little maiden, speaking kindly to her the while; girls on their way to the city workrooms gladly spent a hard-earned penny for violets, and worked more cheerfully afterwards, gladdened by the mere remembrance of Pollie's grateful thanks. A st.u.r.dy policeman, too, whose beat was at that place, and where he seemed to hold stern sway over all the omnibus and cab drivers, took her, as it were, under his lordly care (perhaps he had a little girl of his own), and would shield her many times from the jostling crowd, or take her safely over the crossings. Indeed, he was so kind, that one day, when she was going home, she summoned up courage enough to overcome her shyness, and offer him some of the violets she had not sold. To her great delight he accepted them, saying kindly,--

"Thank you, my little woman."

And all through that day he kept them in his pocket, sometimes, however, taking them out to smell their fragrance, and then, somehow, the remembrance of Pollie's wee face as she looked when timidly offering the flowers, carried him back to the days of "auld lang syne," those happy days when he and his little sister (long since dead) had rambled through the green lanes of his native village, searching for sweet violets, and this memory cheered the poor tired policeman, made him forget the ceaseless din around and the never-ending wilderness of bricks. Even the London sparrows looked less dingy, and the sunbeams falling across the dusty pavement recalled to his mind how fresh the green was where he used to play when a boy, and how the shadows seemed to chase the sunshine over the uplands on such an April day as this. Yes, Pollie's violets were not useless, they were speaking with their mute voices----speaking of the past with its brightest memories to this poor man.

Not that Sally Grimes had deserted her little friend, far from that, for somehow she "took to her," as she herself expressed it, and was always hovering about the child in case she needed protection. But Sally's movements were inclined to be erratic; she dashed in and out among all sorts of vehicles in search of customers so recklessly, any one less experienced would have trembled for her safety; but she knew no fear, and dared the dangers of the streets most bravely.

Sometimes Lizzie Stevens would walk with Pollie as far as the Bank, then leaving the child to sell her flowers, would proceed to the East End with her own work; but on her return, the little girl was always ready to join her, and they would all three go home together. A great friendship existed between the hitherto lonely seamstress and Pollie's mother, whose kind heart was touched by the account the child gave of their friendless young neighbour; so she sought her out, and finding how good she was, and how bravely she struggled to earn her daily bread honestjly, gradually won her confidence; so that now Lizzie felt she was not _quite_ alone in this wide wide world. There _was_ a kind motherly love in which she could rest, and life was made brighter for her; even the days were less dreary than before, for as Mrs. Turner's room was nicer than hers, she invited her to bring her work over, and they st.i.tched hour after hour at their ceaseless work, yet still they did not feel their loneliness so much, and were a comfort and help to one another.

All this was a happiness to Pollie, as she felt her mother would not be sad during her absence (as she very often was), for the child's "business" had become more extensive, her ally, Sally, having persuaded her to sell flowers in the evening also; and as her mother and Mrs.

Flanagan had offered no objection to this plan, Pollie was only too glad to earn more; indeed the little girl's gains, small though they were, helped to get many simple comforts for the humble home.

One evening about six o'clock she came home, swinging her empty basket in her hand and singing softly a merry song from sheer gladness thinking also of the dear face upstairs that would brighten up to welcome her, as it ever did, when, as she entered the doorway, she stumbled over poor little Jimmy, crouching as usual just inside the entrance.

"There ain't n.o.body at home, Pollie," he said; "yer mother has gone to help Lizzie Stevens carry to the shop a real heap of work."

"I daresay Mrs. Flanagan is in her room," said the child.

"No, she ain't neither," replied Jimmy, "for I see'd her go out to the market; I know, 'cos she took her great basket with her."

"Oh then!" exclaimed Pollie, laughing, "I must just let myself in, and wait for mother; I know where she puts our key. Good-night, Jimmy dear."

And she was going up the stairs when she felt the little cripple boy gently pull her frock to detain her.

"I say, Pollie," he said hesitatingly, "I be so lonesome here, will yer mind biding with me and telling me about the kingdom of heaven, and that good man what took such as you and me in his arms--like you told me t'other day?"

"Oh yes, Jimmy, that I will," cried the little girl; "here, let us sit on this lowest stair; I don't think many people will be pa.s.sing up now, and then I shall see mother when she comes in."

The poor ragged outcast crept near to his tiny friend as she requested, and then sat looking up into her bright face, whilst in simple words such as a child would use she told him that sweet story of old--of our Saviour, a babe in the manger of Bethlehem--His loving tenderness to us--of His death upon the Cross for our redemption--of His glorious resurrection and ascension to heaven, whither He has gone to prepare a place for those who love and believe Him.

"And does He want me in that beautiful land?" asked the awe-struck boy, almost in a whisper.

"Yes, Jimmy, even you," was the reply.

"But I be so dirty and ugly," he said.

"G.o.d made you, dear, and He makes nothing ugly," replied the little girl soothingly.

"And you say we shall never hunger or thirst in heaven, and never feel pain any more. O Pollie, I wish I was there; n.o.body wants me here."

His little friend took his claw-like hand tenderly in hers and stroked it gently. She knew what a wretched life was his, and could not wonder at what he said--"n.o.body wants me here"--but her heart was full of sympathy for his loneliness.