Little Pollie
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Gertrude P. Dyer >> Little Pollie
Then she turned for counsel to Sally.
"I have but this one bed," she said hesitatingly, "and--and--I should
not like her to sleep with Pollie; what shall I do?"
"Let us make her a nice bed on the floor," suggested the child.
"That's the thing!" assented Sally, and the widow agreeing to the plan,
they soon had a comfortable bed ready for the stranger. The poor
creature suffered them to remove her hat and dress, then they laid her
down, and she rested, thankful for the shelter so cheerfully given,
humble though it was.
She was still very beautiful. Her golden brown hair, released from its
massive braids, fell in rippling waves around her; the long black
lashes, now that the eyes were closed, lay like a silken fringe upon the
pale and wasted cheeks. Yes, she was very beautiful; and as the good
Samaritans stood looking at her (the children with wondering pity), the
widow thought of the time when this lost girl was tenderly loved by
parents, who perhaps were even now sorrowing for their erring child.
It was getting late, and as it was Pollie's bedtime the mother and child
prepared to read their evening chapter. Sally, too, sat down by the fire
to listen, wondering in her own mind what they were about. It was all so
strange to this poor London waif, this cleanly, peaceful home, this
simple worship.
The appointed chapter for this evening was the parable of the Good
Shepherd, and the girl's attention was riveted by those words of Divine
love and mercy.
"And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must
bring, and they shall hear My voice; and there shall be one fold, and
one shepherd."
Would _she_ be gathered into that fold also? could there be room for
_her_? Yes; the seed was sown on that hitherto rugged soil; it would
take root and bring forth fruit for the Lord of the harvest.
* * * * *
Just as Sally had put on her time-worn shawl, and was bidding her kind
friends "good-night" before going home, heavy steps were heard ascending
the stairs, and soon the portly form of Mrs. Flanagan entered the room.
"Well, here I am again," she exclaimed, "and right-down tired, I can
tell you; why don't cooks know what they want, and order things in the
morning? Dear, dear! what a walk I've had, to be sure--all the way to
Grosvenor Square, and with such a load too!"
"Hush, please," whispered Mrs. Turner, pointing to the sleeper.
"Who have you got there?" she asked in surprise.
In a few words, spoken in a subdued voice, the widow told the sad tale,
and also of the two children's brave conduct.
"What be she like?" was the natural question; "is it right to have her
here, think ye?" she added.
Then, as if to satisfy herself on the first point, she stole softly to
where the poor wanderer lay sleeping. The light on the table was but
dim, not sufficient to enable her to see distinctly, so that she was
compelled to kneel down to scan the face of the sleeping girl.
At that moment a bright flame shot up from the flickering fire, and
lighted the corner where the bed had been made for the stranger.
There was a quick convulsive gasp.
"My God! oh, can it be?" the old woman cried in a hushed voice. "No,
no, I've been deceived too often. Quick! quick! a light!"
Mrs. Turner hurried with it to her side. She almost snatched it from her
in her eagerness; she gazed long and earnestly upon those wasted
features, her breath coming thick and fast, almost as though her very
heart was bursting. In silence she gave the light back into the hands of
her wondering friend, then laying her head down on the pillow beside the
fallen girl, and folding her arms around her, she sobbed out--
"My darling, my Nora! you've come back at last to your poor old mother!
Nothing but death shall part us now!"
CHAPTER VIII.
SALLY'S FIRST SUNDAY AT CHURCH.
A feeling of Sabbath peace stole over little Pollie as she issued forth
from her humble home on her way to Sunday-school. All was still, so
quiet; the very court, usually noisy, seemed hushed. None of its
uproarious inhabitants were about, only poor crippled Jimmy was sitting
on the door-step warming himself in the feeble sunlight that flickered
down from among the crowded chimneys.
The little girl paused to speak a few kind words to him.
"I wish you could come with me," she said; "it is so nice."
"What! be school nice?" repeated the boy, who seemed to have the same
horror of learning as the more enlightened Sally Grimes.
"Yes," she replied; "indeed it is. They are all so kind to us there, and
teach us such beautiful verses and texts about God and our Saviour."
"Be that Him you told me on?" he asked. "I ain't forgot what you told me
afore--'Consider, and hear me, O Lord my God! lighten mine eyes, lest I
sleep the sleep of death.'"
"Oh, you are a good boy!" exclaimed the child encouragingly. "Now I will
tell you my text for to-day, and when I come back you shall hear what my
teacher says about 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'"
"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,'" repeated the crippled boy
with reverence. "I'll not forget it, Pollie," he added, as the little
girl prepared to start again, fearing to be late for school.
As she turned into Drury Lane, to her great surprise there stood Sally
Grimes, looking strangely shy, but tidily and, above all, neatly
dressed. The well-worn cotton gown was perfectly clean; indeed, for the
last two days Sally had been wearing a jacket over a petticoat whilst
the dress was being washed and dried. Her hair, usually rough, was now
smoothly brushed behind her ears, and her face and hands were as clean
as soap-and-water could make them. Evidently she had given up the idea
of the gaudy hat, for a neat bonnet covered her head. Altogether she
looked quite neat and respectable.
"Good morning," cried Pollie, joyously glad to see her kind friend.
"Where are you going?"
Sally hesitated
"May I come with you?" she stammered bashfully.
For the moment little Pollie could not reply; she felt too happy to
speak.
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said at last, and taking her friend's hand in
hers, she proceeded onwards, the happiest little girl in the world.
What a contrast they were!--the sturdy, self-reliant London arab,
willing, ay, and able, to battle through the world unaided; the timid,
fragile Pollie, strong only in her efforts after good, firm only in her
love of truth.
You may imagine with what delight and pride she introduced Sally to her
kind teacher; what happiness it was to have her sitting by her side, to
see her rapt attention as the text was explained in simple words
suitable to the comprehension of the listening children; and when was
read the parable of the Good Shepherd, which had been the lesson on that
memorable evening when Sally first felt the eager longing to be gathered
into the Saviour's fold, Pollie instinctively grasped her friend's hand,
as once again the blessed message was repeated.
Happy indeed are they who gather His children in, shielding His little
ones from future harm, feeding His lambs with the bread of life.
For Sally Grimes this was all so new: the quiet Sabbath school, those
happy children; a light was dawming upon her hitherto clouded mind as
she heard of Jesus, who came on earth as a little child, endured a life
of poverty and sorrow, then died a cruel death to save us from eternal
misery. Never before had she heard the glad tidings of great joy, and
her heart was filled with unexpressed thankfulness and peace.
When class was over, the little scholars went their way to church, happy
Pollie with her friend's hand still clasped in hers; and the bells rang
out their peaceful chime, "It is the Sabbath! it is the Sabbath!" Even
the usual noisy bustle of the Strand was hushed in deference to God's
holy day. The busy world was calmed to celebrate the day of rest; the
peace of God seemed resting upon the earth.
How beautiful the church appeared to Sally, who had never until this day
entered a house of prayer (dear old St. Clement's Danes, hallowed to us
by many memories), and when the organ pealed forth, and the voices sang
"I will arise," she thought, "This must be God's house, and those the
angels singing."
There was some one else in the church that Sabbath-day who also thought
it must be heaven of which little Pollie had-spoken, and that was poor
crippled Jimmy.
Mrs. Turner on coming downstairs to go to church had found the
neglected boy as usual lonely and desolate. His drunken mother had gone
in a pleasure-van with a party of friends like herself to Hampton Court,
leaving her child to amuse himself as he could; and kindly Mrs. Turner
had carried him up to her own room, washed and dressed him in one of
Pollie's clean frocks, given him some wholesome bread-and-butter, then
brought him with her to church.
He sat so still and quiet by the widow's side, his eyes intently fixed
upon the clergyman, listening eagerly to every word that was spoken,
every hymn that was sung, realising in his untutored mind a foretaste of
that heaven of which his earliest friend had told, where hunger was
unknown, and where sorrow and sighing should flee away.
Once only, when the rector gave forth his text, "Consider the lilies of
the field," the boy grasped the widow's hand, and whispered--
"Be they the flowers Pollie give me?"
Heaven and Pollie's violets filled his heart.
* * * * *
Many were the happy children who issued forth from St. Clement's on that
Sabbath noon; some hand-in-hand with loving parents, wending their way
to homes of plenty, where kindly faces would be waiting to greet them;
but of the many, none were or could be happier than those three little
ones who gathered round Mrs. Turner when service was over, and, walking
side by side, went home to squalid Drury Lane. No well-filled table
awaited _their_ coming, only the plain and scanty fare the poor widow
could offer to her child's young friends; but One hath said--
"Whosoever giveth a cup of water to one of these little ones in My name,
verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward."
And this was Sally's first Sunday at church.
CHAPTER IX.
CRIPPLED JIMMY.
Many days and weeks had passed away, much as life does with us all. We
heed not its passing, and forget in the turmoil of worldly cares to
scatter seed for the great Husbandman, to reap when He cometh.
And little Pollie?
She had been busy as usual selling her flowers, and as usual scattering,
in her simple way, the golden grain. Gently had she led Sally Grimes to
seek for higher things, and every Sabbath they were now to be seen
sitting side by side, learning of the life that is to come.
And at home? Affairs there had become much brighter, for Mrs. Turner's
work had greatly increased, her quiet, unpretending manner having won
for her many kind friends, who kept her fully employed--indeed so much
that Lizzie Stevens had given up her hard labour of working for the
slopshops, and now helped the widow in her lighter and more remunerative
toil. It is true they had to work early and late to keep the house (such
as it was) above them--the wolf from the door; but they were not so
lonely as heretofore. The widow found comfort in the companionship of
the hitherto friendless girl, and it was such a happiness for Lizzie to
have one so motherly in whom to confide, and of whom she could ask
counsel and advice.
Then when Pollie came in from her daily toil, cheering them both like a
very sunbeam, how they would pause in their work to watch her as she
merrily counted over her money, and brushed out her empty basket in
readiness for the morrow, chatting gaily the while.
And then to see that active little figure so noiselessly busy getting
the tea-dinner, which she always insisted on doing to save "mother" the
trouble; indeed, I think the tea would have lost its flavour for that
dear mother had Pollie's hands not prepared it.
Sometimes, during the hot July days, the child would persuade them to
take a rest; and when it became too dark to see their work without the
help of a candle, they would walk out of Drury Lane for a while, and go
down one of the streets leading to the Thames, where the air felt purer
and fresher, and sitting down would watch the boats on the river. Sally
usually joined them, and these little rests from toil constituted their
simple pleasures. How deliciously cool the breezes felt, so different to
the heated atmosphere of their own neighbourhood! Both Mrs. Turner and
Lizzie used to feel revived by the change. No wonder then that the two
children should decide on living near the river when they grew rich, for
with the hopefulness of youth they planned great things for the future.
So the summer passed by, and autumn came, and now, instead of roses or
pinks, Pollie's basket was filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias. She
often wondered what she should do when winter came and there were no
sweet flowers to sell. It grieved her to think she should not then be
able to help her dear mother, and as usual she opened her heart to that
loving parent.
"Ah, my Pollie!" said the mother, as she smoothed back the curls from
the anxious little face, "have you forgotten? 'The Lord will provide.'"
Then the child was comforted, for she remembered that "There is no want
to them that fear Him."
One October evening she turned up Russell Court, tired and anxious to
get home, for it had been a dull, dark day in the City, and she had not
succeeded in disposing of her flowers there. The old bankers and
merchants seemed not disposed for purchasing bouquets that day. Even
Sally's basket still remained filled, and she was always a more
successful seller than timid little Pollie; so the elder girl had
proposed trying westward for better luck. Better luck they certainly
had, for their baskets became empty at last, but they walked many a mile
during the day, and Pollie's tiny feet were very, very weary, as bidding
her friend a loving "good-night" she turned her steps towards home,
eagerly longing for its rest and shelter.
The gas was flaring in Drury Lane, so that Russell Court looked dark by
comparison; but as she approached the house in which they lived, she was
surprised to see a dense crowd gathered around the door. Men were there
speaking in hoarse whispers, women talking with bated breath as though
afraid to speak aloud, and the bewildered child could hardly fancy it
was the same place, there was such a hushed commotion as it were; the
crowd swaying to and fro, to give place to others who came to swell the
excited throng.
Little Pollie stood amidst the people who were hustling each other to
get as near the door as possible. What was to be done? how was she to
get into the house? and oh, how anxious her mother would be at her long
absence! The poor child became frightened, almost to tears, totally
unable to force her way through the mob, which was increasing every
moment, when looking round for some friendly aid, she saw to her delight
Mrs. Smith, the greengrocer's wife, standing close by, with a shawl
thrown over her head, talking to a policeman, and pointing excitedly
towards the house.
Pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm.
"Please, Mrs. Smith," she began.
"Lor' bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd
too?" was her exclamation.
"I can't get in," Pollie sobbed; "oh, what is the matter?"
"What! don't you know? Lor', it's awful," she replied; "here, policeman,
do get this poor child through that there mob; I guess her mother is in
a way about her."
"All right, Mrs. S----," said the man, and to Pollie's astonishment he
took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way
for him to pass with his light burden.
Tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid,
haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this
unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as
though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity.
When the man put Pollie down she glanced from one to another in
trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector's hand.
"Here she is at last," cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she
recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on
the stairs.
"Is it my mother?" asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor
little heart.
"No, no, come with me; he keeps calling for you."
Then, still holding the policeman's hand closely clasped in hers, she
followed the woman down the dirty dark stairs which led to the cellar
where Jimmy lived.
The door of the squalid room stood wide open; two tallow candles stuck
in empty bottles flared on the broken mantel-shelf above the rusty
fireless grate; a battered old chair and a rickety table constituted the
entire furniture of the room (if such it could be called), for on a heap
of dirty rags lay little Jimmy. By his side, holding him in her arms,
knelt Mrs. Turner, whilst a gentleman, evidently the parish doctor, was
bathing his head, from which the blood was flowing. Lizzie Stevens was
there, steeping linen in a basin for the doctor, and another policeman,
no one else. I forgot. Crouching in the farthest corner, and glaring in
drunken stupor around her, was the poor dying child's wretched mother. A
broken bottle tightly grasped in her hands, fragments of which lay
about the dirt-encrusted floor, told the tale, alas! too plainly. In her
drunken fury she had slain her child!
Pollie felt safe directly she saw her own loved mother.
"O mother, what is it?" she whispered.
The dying boy heard her, softly as she had spoken.
"Little Pollie," he feebly murmured, and turned his dim eyes up to her.
"Dear Jimmy," she said, kneeling down beside him. He smiled as though at
peace, and yet the life-blood was ebbing slowly away.
"Pollie," he said, "shall I go to the kingdom of heaven? Will Jesus put
His hands on me, and bless me also?"
The little girl could not speak for sobbing, but she laid her soft cheek
upon his clay-cold hand.
"You've been very good to me," he rambled on, "you told me of the Good
Shepherd"---- There was silence, broken only by the choking sobs of the
listeners; even the policemen, used as they were to similar scenes, were
deeply moved at the dying boy's love for his little friend. His eyes
were closed, but his disengaged hand wandered feebly over the horse-rug
that covered him, until at last he laid it on Pollie's bowed head. There
it rested; his eyes unclosed, and he gazed wildly round, saying
excitedly--
"Pollie, Pollie, it's so dark. Is it night coming on? Don't go, little
Pollie. Let me say the prayer you taught me." He tried to fold his hands
as _she_ had always done. In vain--they fell upon the coverlet, weak and
nerveless.
"Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death," he murmured
falteringly. The voice ceased!
Crippled Jimmy had passed away safely into the fold of the Good
Shepherd!
Ah! who would wish him back again? Misery exchanged for perfect
bliss--sorrow and sighing for eternal joy.
They all gazed upon the sharp pinched features, now gradually settling
into the calm repose of death. What in life was almost painful to look
upon, with the touch of immortality became lovely; for the dead child's
face bore the impress of an angel's smile, as though he had caught a
glimpse of heaven's happiness whilst passing through the dark valley of
the shadow of death.
Little Pollie clung to her mother, sobbing convulsively and hiding her
face in her dress.
"Hush, my darling," soothed the widow; "poor Jimmy is now with God, free
from all sorrow or pain. Think what his joy must be!"
They were startled by a harsh voice screeching out--
"That ain't my Jimmy! Let me get at him! I say, what be you folks doing
here?"
It was the drunken creature, who, unnoticed by any of them, had
approached the spot where the dead child lay. She darted forward,
crying out, whilst she brandished the bottle--
"I'll wake him, never fear; like I've done many a time before, I warrant
ye!"
Fortunately the policeman saw her in time to prevent her doing further
mischief, or even touching the boy, for, laying his firm grasp upon her
arm, he exclaimed authoritatively--
"Come, none of this, my good woman. I must take you to Bow Street, to
answer the charge of killing that poor little chap."
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 fashions. 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 hitherto 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 God.
* * * * *
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 passing 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.