L. Meade - Jill - A Flower Girl

She was a handsome girl, and looked striking in her neat grey dress and scarlet apron. Her hair was of a pale gold, her eyes large and blue; the expression of her somewhat pale face a little austere. Her basket was full of lovely fresh flowers, but although they were superior to Jill’s in quality, they did not make nearly so fine a show.

“Is that you, Jill?” she called out. “Nat told me you were here. Why ain’t your mother with you? Ain’t she well?”

“No, she has a fit of that old pain over her,” responded Jill. “I left her lying down. The pain takes a deal out of her, and I thought she had best be quiet.”

“Don’t she see no doctor? We has a splendid one belonging to the Guild; ef you and your mother would only join, you’d get a heap o’ good out of it, Jill. But you’re that obstinate, and when the best thing in the world is offered to you, you won’t so much as open your eyes to see it. I wonder Nat holds on to you, that I do.”

Jill smiled, reddened, and was about to reply, when the Irishwoman called out in her brilliant tones:

“What I say of Nat Carter is this, that he’s the luckiest gossoon in all London to have got the purtiest bit of a colleen to say she’ll wed him. Why, you ain’t got looks lit to hold a candle to her, Susy Carter, even though you are Nat’s sister.”

“Well, well,” said Susan, in a slightly patronising manner, “we must each of us go our own gait. If Jill and her mother won’t join the Guild, I can’t force ’em. Maybe you’ll do it later on, if Nat wishes it, Jill. And, oh, what do you think, here’s a bit o’ luck; I has just got that stand I was waiting for so long near the Marble Arch. The girl wot had it died yesterday, and I’ve stepped into her shoes, and a right good think I’ll make of it. I must be off now, or I’ll lose customers. Good-bye, Jill. Oh, by-the-way, you might as well mass these colours for me. I can’t make my basket look like yourn, however hard I try.”

Susy Carter put her basket on the ground as she spoke. Jill bent over it, re-arranged the flowers without a word, and returned it to her.

“Thank you – thank you,” she cried delightedly. “Why, Jill, what fingers you has! Who but yourself would have thought of putting these pink peonies close to all them crimson poppies, and then throwing up the colour with this bunch of green. Oh, it’s daring, but it’s lovely; it’ll fetch like anything. Now I’m off You get your mother to see a doctor, Jill.”

“No, I won’t,” said Jill, shortly, “I don’t believe in ’em, neither does mother.”

“Right you are, honey,” exclaimed Molly Maloney, “I don’t hold by docthors, nayther. If my little Kathleen dies of the faver – bless her, the darlint! – why, I know as it’s the will of the Almighty. But ef the docthor came and gave her his pizens – what is it, miss – what now?”

“Do you say you have a child down in fever?” said Susy Carter, speaking in a quick, passionate voice.

The Irishwoman was lounging with her back against the wall. She now started upright, and spoke defiantly.

“And why mayn’t I have my darlint child down with the faver?” she demanded, her eyes darkening with anger.

“Did you keep those flowers in the room with the sick child all night?”

“Yes, my purty, I did. Would you like a bunch? you shall have it chape. A ha’p’ny for this rose; it’ll look iligant pinned on the front of your dress. Now, then, only a ha’p’ny. Why, there ain’t no chaper flowers in the whole of London.”

“It’s very wicked of you to sell those flowers,” said Susy. “You may give the fever to a lot of other people by doing so. That’s the good of belonging to our Guild. We have a beautiful cool room to keep our flowers in at night, so that no one can be poisoned by them. They keep fresh, and they last, and they don’t carry horrid diseases about with them. It’s very wicked of you to sell those flowers. You ought to throw them away.”

She picked up her basket as she spoke and marched off.

Molly sat down, muttering angry words under her breath.

“I wonder you takes up with the likes of her, Jill,” she said, when she had cooled down sufficiently to address a few words to her companion.

Jill, who was in a day-dream, looked round with a start.

“Take up with whom?” she said.

“That consated bit of a colleen, Susy Carter. You’re goin’ to marry her brother. Seems to me you’re throwing yourself away. Why, honey, you’re illigant enough and handsome enough to be any man’s chice.”

“Yes, but I love Nat,” interrupted Jill. “I’m not marrying Susy – I don’t much care for Susy. Yes, ma’am? These bunches are twopence each, these a penny. I’ll give you this bunch of poppies for sixpence, ma’am, and put some green with it.”

A lady who had just come up from the Underground Railway had stopped, arrested by the beauty of Jill’s flowers. She was holding a prettily dressed little girl of about six years old by the hand.

The child was all in white. She had cloudy golden hair falling over her shoulders, her round pink and white face resembled a daisy in its freshness.

The lady was in deep mourning; the expression of her slightly worn face was sad.

“Shall I put the poppies up for you, ma’am?” repeated Jill.

“Yes. I will give you sixpence for that bunch, but be sure you let me have some green with it.”

“I want to spend my penny on flowers, mother,” said the child.

“Well, darling, choose. This nice flower girl will give you a pretty posy for a penny.”

“I want two posies,” said the child. “One for Dick, and one for Dolly. It’s Dick’s birthday, but if I give him a posy, and don’t give Dolly one, Dolly will cry.”

The pretty child’s little voice was full of anxious confidence. In making her statement she felt sure of sympathy, and she addressed not only her mother, but Jill and Molly Maloney.

Molly, who was squatting down on her knees, began to murmur an eager torrent of Irish blessings.

“Eh, glory! What a darlint it is!” she said. “For all the world like my little Kathleen! And so you want some flowers, my beauty? You let me sarve her, Jill. I has got rose-buds and mignonette all made up most enticing only a ha’p’ny a bunch.”

“I want two bunches,” repeated the child in her clear, precise voice, “one for Dick, because it’s his birthday, and one for Dolly. Dolly’s free years old, and she’ll cry if I don’t take her a flower. I’ve only got one penny.”

She opened the palm of her little hot hand, and showed Molly the coin.

“Now then, you shall choose, my pet,” said the Irishwoman. “These bee-u-tiful flowers was growin’ on the trees half-an-hour ago; why the jew is scarcely dried on ’em yet. You choose, my pretty, you choose. Oh, the smell of ’em, why they’ll nearly knock you down with the swateness. Thank you, lovey, thank you. May the Vargint bless you, me darlint, and that’s the prayer of poor old Molly Maloney.”

The child received the rather stale rose-buds and mignonette with silent rapture. Having received her prizes she scarcely gave another glance at Molly, but began chattering eagerly to her mother about the bliss which Dick and Dolly would feel when she presented the posies to them.

The lady having paid Jill for the flowers, took the child’s hand and walked away. Molly gave a laugh of satisfaction as they did so.

“I told you so,” she said, turning to Jill, “I said if I sold ’em chape I’d get rid of ’em, and they was under Kathleen’s bed all night. I called ’em fresh to the child, bless her. She is a beauty, but – why, what’s the matter, Jill?”

“Nothing,” said Jill, suddenly. “Look after my flowers, Molly, I’ll be back in a jiffey.”