Part 8 (1/2)
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”----