Little Pollie
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Gertrude P. Dyer >> Little Pollie
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 noble 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 associate 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 destitute, 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 passed 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 God 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 God'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 apron. 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 God 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 appetite, 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 passed 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
passers-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 sturdy 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
stitched 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 nobody 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 passing 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.
"God 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; nobody 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--"nobody wants me here"--but her heart was full of
sympathy for his loneliness.
"Shall I teach you a prayer to say to Jesus, Jimmy?" she asked after a
pause of some length, during which her companion had been silently
gazing up at the only piece of sky that was visible in that narrow
court, as though trying to imagine where heaven really was, the child
having pointed upwards whilst speaking of the home beyond the grave.
"What is prayer?" he asked.
Pollie could not explain it correctly, but she did her best to make it
easy to his benighted mind. She gave him _her_ idea of what prayer is.
"It is speaking to God," she said with reverence.
"And will He listen to the likes of me?" was the question.
"Oh yes, if you pray to Him with your whole heart," was her reply.
The boy paused awhile, as though musing upon what she had said.
"Pollie," he presently entreated in hushed tones, "please teach me to
pray."
And then at the foot of the stairs knelt those two children--children of
the same heavenly Father, lambs of the dear Saviour's fold--alike and
yet so unlike; and the poor outcast cripple, following the actions of
the little girl, meekly folded his hands as she clasped hers, and with
eyes raised heavenward to where a few stars were now softly shining, he
repeated after her--
"Consider and hear me, O Lord my God! lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep
the sleep of death; for Jesus' sake!"
He murmured the blessed words over two or three times after she had
ceased to speak; then in silence they sat down upon the stair again, to
wait for mother.
The daylight faded quite away, only the stars were shining. The court at
this time of the evening was always very quiet, and the peace of God was
resting on those little ones. By degrees a calm had fallen upon the poor
boy's soul. Never, never so happy before, he laid his weary head upon
the little girl's lap with a feeling of perfect rest, murmuring to
himself--
"For Jesus' sake."
And so Pollie's mother found them fast asleep, with the star-light
shining on their upturned faces.
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven."
CHAPTER VI.
ON WATERLOO BRIDGE.
"I say, why don't yer come with me on Saturdays, Pollie?" asked Sally
Grimes one Thursday evening as they wended their way homewards.
It was opera night, and the sale of their flowers had been very good, so
that Sally, who had "cleared out," as she termed it, was elated with
success. Even Pollie had only a small bunch left. Truth to tell, she
always liked to keep a few buds to take home with her--just a few to
brighten up their room, or those of their two dear friends.
She was tying up her blossoms, which had become unfastened, so that for
the moment she did not reply to her companion's question, who asked
again--
"Why don't yer come on Saturdays, eh? I allers does a good trade then."
"Mother likes to get ready for the Sabbath on that day. So we clean our
room right out, so as to make it nice and tidy. Then I learn my hymns
and texts for the Sunday-school, and then mother hears me say them over,
so as to be sure I know them well; and oh, it's so happy!"
"Sunday-school!" repeated Sally; "is that where yer goes on Sundays? I
see yer sometimes with books, eh? Lord do yer go there?"
"Yes; would you like to go with me?" Pollie suddenly asked, looking up
at her friend with delight at the mere idea.
But Sally rubbed her nose thoughtfully with a corner of her apron,
uncertain what to say on the subject.
"Don't they whop yer at school?" she asked, after deliberating.
To her astonishment, quiet little Pollie burst into such a merry laugh.
"No, indeed!" she exclaimed, when her mirth had subsided. "The teachers
are far too kind for that. Oh, I know you would like it, so do come."
"Well, I'll see about it," was the rejoinder. "My gown ain't special,
but I've got such a hat! I bought it in Clare Market, with red, blue,
and yaller flowers in it--so smart!"
"Oh, never mind your clothes," said Pollie, somewhat doubtful as to the
effect such a hat would have on the teachers and pupils; "come as you
are, only clean and tidy--that is all they want."
For some time they walked on in silence, but their thoughts must have
been on the same subject, for suddenly Sally asked--
"What do you do at Sunday-school?"
"We read the Bible, repeat our texts and hymns. Shall I say the one I am
learning for next Sunday to you?"
"Well, I should like to hear it," was the reply. "Suppose we go and sit
on Waterloo Bridge--it's nice and quiet there--I'll pay the toll."
Pollie, however, would not consent to her friend's extravagance on her
behalf, so the two children paid each their halfpenny and passed on to
the Bridge.
It was a lovely evening, and though April, yet it was not too cold, so
they seated themselves in one of the recesses, and for a time were
amused by watching the boats on the river, chatting merrily, as only
children can.
"Now, then, tell me yer pretty hymn," said Sally, when at last they had
exhausted their stock of fun, and putting her arm around her little
friend's neck, they cuddled up lovingly together--the gentle little
Pollie, and sturdy, rugged Sally. Then the child repeated to her
listening companion--
"Abide with me! fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens;
Lord, with me abide," &c.
She went on unto the end, the bigger girl listening the while with
almost breathless eagerness, and when it was finished they both remained
silent. Evidently those beautiful verses had struck a chord hitherto
mute in the heart of the poor untaught London waif.
"Oh, but that's fine!" she murmured at last in hushed tones. "Tell me
something else, Pollie."
However, just at that moment the attention of the children was arrested
by a young woman who came and sat down in the recess opposite them. They
had both noticed her pass and repass several times, but as they were
almost hidden by the stone coping of the bridge, she had not observed
them.
With wild gestures she threw herself upon the stone seat, and imagining
she was alone, burst into piteous moans, alternately clasping her hands
tightly together, as though in pain, then hiding her pale but lovely
face, which showed traces of agony; swaying backwards and forwards, but
with ever the same ceaseless moaning cry.
"Oh, poor lady!" whispered Pollie to her friend.
"She ain't no lady, though she be so smart in a silk gown and rings on
her fingers," replied her companion in the same low tone.
"What is she then?" asked the child.
Poor Sally Grimes! her education had hitherto been confined to the
London streets, and that training had made her but too well acquainted
with life in its worst phases; so she replied--
"She's only some poor creature---- I say!" was her exclamation, as
suddenly she started up, "what be yer going to do?"
The latter part of this sentence was addressed to the stranger, who had
sprung upon the stone parapet, and was about to throw herself into the
deep waters beneath.
"Let me die! let me die!" she cried, wildly struggling to free herself
from sturdy Sally's strong grasp.
"No, I won't!" was the reply. "Here, Pollie, you hold hard too."
"Oh, in mercy, in pity, let me die!" sobbed the unhappy creature in her
agony. "Oh, if you only knew how I want to be at rest for ever!" and
again she struggled franticly to escape from the saving hands that held
her.
"Now, if yer don't get down and sit quiet on this seat, I'll call that
there peeler, and then he'll take yer to Bow Street," exclaimed the
undaunted Sally. "Ain't yer 'shamed to talk like that? Now, come, I'll
call him if yer don't do what I say."
Frightened by this threat, or perhaps seeing how fruitless were her
feeble struggles against the strong grasp of her preserver, the unhappy
girl--she was but a girl--shrank down submissively on to the seat, still
trembling and moaning, whilst brave-hearted Sally stood over her to
prevent any further attempt at self-destruction. Pollie looked on in
bewildered surprise at this sad scene, not knowing what to make of it;
but she still kept her hold on the woman's dress, as if her small
strength could be of any service; but Sally had told her to "hold on,"
and so she obeyed.
The woman was now sobbing bitterly. It was more than the child could
bear to see any one in tears, so laying her little hand tenderly upon
the sorrow-bowed head, she said very gently--
"Please don't cry, ma'am; it makes Sally and me so sad."
At that soft touch and soothing voice the woman looked up, and then the
two children saw that she was very beautiful even now,--mere wreck as
she seemed to be of all that is pure and lovely.
"Child!" she cried, "do you know what you touch?--a wretch not fit to
crawl the earth much less be touched by innocent hands like yours."
Pollie shrank back in terror at these words, and the tone in which they
were uttered, but Sally was equal to any emergency.
"Come, come," she exclaimed, "don't yer talk like that, frightening this
little gal in that way; you just quiet yourself, and then we'll see yer
safe home."
"Home!" was the response. "I have none, only the streets or the river."
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried practical Sally. "No home!" repeated little
Pollie; "how sad!"
"Now what's to be done?" debated the elder girl, somewhat puzzled as to
the course to be pursued; "here's night coming on, and we can't leave
you here, yer know."
"Let us take her home to my mother," exclaimed the child; "mother will
know what to do."
But Sally hesitated.
"Perhaps she might not like it," she observed.
"Oh, I am sure mother won't mind, she is so good and so kind."
All the time the children were discussing what was to be done, the
unhappy creature sat there, never heeding what was said, but still
sobbing and moaning, and apparently utterly exhausted.
"Well, then, there's nothing else to be done that I see, so come along,
young woman;" and so saying, Sally Grimes grasped her firmly by the arm,
thus forcing her to rise.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, gazing wildly around.
"To Pollie's mother," was the reply.
But the woman hung back and strove to free herself.
"I will not go!" she cried; "let me stay here, leave me to myself."
However, there is much to be said in favour of strength of will. Sally
Grimes, young as she was, possessed it in a wonderful degree;
therefore, without wasting another word, she compelled the forlorn
creature to go with her, little Pollie still keeping hold of the poor
thing's dress.
CHAPTER VII.
THE LOST ONE FOUND.
Mrs. Turner sat alone, busily sewing, but she heard her darling's
well-known step come pattering up the stairs; so she put on the
tea-kettle directly, for she knew the little one would be tired and
hungry; and forthwith it began to sing cheerily, filling the room with
its homely melody, as though it would say "Pollie is coming," "Pollie is
coming;" and somehow the mother felt cheered. It may be the kettle's
fancied greeting was but the echo of her own loving heart.
Time was too precious to be wasted, so the widow continued her work, and
the light from the one candle being centred to the spot where she sat,
the entry was consequently dark; but on looking up with a smile of
greeting, expecting only to see Pollie, she was surprised to see her
hesitate on the threshold, apparently clutching some one tightly by the
dress: but directly she saw her mother, she seemed to feel she might let
go her hold, her charge was safe; so running in, she threw her arms
around her neck and whispered--
"O mother, darling, this poor lady has no home; let her stay here
to-night."
The widow rose from her seat in some surprise, but before she could say
a word, trusty Sally Grimes led in the woman, and then in a moment Mrs.
Turner comprehended it all. She saw a poor lost girl, and she thought of
her own innocent little one; then came into her heart those merciful
words--
"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more."
With womanly tenderness she took the poor shivering creature by the
hand, seated her close to the fire, saying gently--
"God help you, my poor child, you are welcome here."
Then the flood-gates of the unhappy girl's heart were opened, and
leaning her head on the widow's shoulder she sobbed aloud.
Meanwhile Pollie, assisted by her faithful friend, was busy getting the
tea ready, thinking it would refresh their strange visitor; and whilst
Sally cut some bread-and-butter the child arranged her violets in a cup,
to make, as she said, "the table look pretty." But the stranger was
unable to partake of the simple meal; she seemed utterly worn and weary,
for, leaning her head upon the arm of the chair, she lapsed into an
apathetic sleep, as though completely exhausted.
Whilst she thus slept, Sally Grimes (who had been invited to remain)
told Mrs. Turner in a whisper all that had taken place that evening.
"May God bless you, my dear," said the widow fervently; "you are indeed
a good girl."
"But Pollie helped me," exclaimed the warm-hearted girl.
The mother looked at her delicate little child, and smiled to think of
those tiny hands doing their part in saving this woman.