Part 8 (2/2)
”Oh, but she's not the same; no longer gay, or even cheerful, as she used to be,” was sobbed forth; ”sits for hours looking far-away like, as if she saw me not; yet once I was all to her. Ah, woe is me that I should be sorry she was not laid to rest years ago, when a sinless child, like little Jimmy was to-day!”
Whilst the unhappy mother was thus pouring out her heart sorrow, Pollie had crept up, and in loving pity had slidden her small hand into her aged friend's in token of sympathy with her grief. For some time Mrs.
Flanagan was too absorbed with her great woe to heed that gentle caress, but when alluding to the dead boy she raised her head, and saw the little girl's tearful eyes lifted to hers.
”Please, don't cry, dear Mrs. Flanagan,” she said timidly. ”Nora will soon be like she once was; won't she, mother?”
”Bless you, my precious,” cried the poor old woman, laying her hand lovingly on the child's curly head, ”you're a real comfort to me.”
”O mother,” murmured a soft voice, ”have patience with me, dearest; I am still your own Nora; only--oh, so worn and sin-stained!”
They started in surprise. Unseen she had entered the room, and had overheard her poor mother mourning for her child.
Meekly she knelt at her parent's feet, with tearless eyes upraised, but clasping the hard rough hand that had so toiled for her in the years gone by, and was willing still to toil, could it but bring back some few gleams of former brightness to her child.
”I am not changed in heart to you, dear mother,” she continued, ”but when I sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of the past; and I know what I am, and what I might have been.”
All trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an infant she nestled there.
”Yes, yes, dear mother,” pursued the poor girl; ”let me lay my weary head where I can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, I know, is full of love for me. I will pray to forget the sad, sad past, and be to you once more your Nora of the long ago. We were so happy then!”
”Yes, we were happy in those days,” murmured the mother, to herself as it were; ”though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. You, my poor child, pa.s.sed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old mother.”
Then Mrs. Flanagan fairly broke down. But the icy barrier which had divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they were--all in all--to each other once again.
CHAPTER XI.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
Christmas Eve! What memories revive at those two almost hallowed words!
We think upon the _first_ Christmas Eve,--of the manger at Bethlehem, the Redeemer's humble cradle-bed; the star, guiding His first wors.h.i.+ppers to His poor abode,--and we recall in imagination that glorious anthem sung by the heavenly host to those simple awe-struck shepherds whilst guarding their flocks by night! Yes; those words, ”Christmas Eve,” carry our thoughts, for a time at least, far from the cares of this transient world; and strangely cold must be the heart that does not echo the glad tidings, ”On earth, peace, goodwill toward men.”
But on the Christmas Eve of which we speak the holy stars were s.h.i.+ning above a far different scene than those peaceful plains of Bethlehem--on London, that wilderness to the poor and sad, that golden city for the rich and gay, and in a district of which (Drury Lane) little star-light could be discerned through the murky air of its crowded streets.
Drury Lane was now at the height of its business: flaring gas-jets flamed at the open shop-fronts, whilst tradesmen and costermongers seemed to vie with each other as to which could shout the loudest to attract customers. There were butchers urging pa.s.sers-by to purchase joints of animals hanging up in the shops, decked with rosettes and bows of coloured ribbon in honour of Christmas; greengrocers, gay with holly and mistletoe, interspersed with mottoes wis.h.i.+ng every one the ”Compliments of the season.” Bakers, too, were doing a thriving trade in cakes of all sizes; whilst down the centre of the street, lining each side of the roadway, were vendors of all sorts of things, whose stalls were brightened either by oil-lamps or else the more humble candle stuck in a paper lantern.
I care not to speak of gin-palaces, filled by poor wretches buying poison for soul and body. Would to G.o.d our loved country could be free from its curse of drunkenness!
And yet the poor denizens of this pent-up neighbourhood appeared more cheerful and better-tempered than they usually seem to be. Jokes were bandied freely between tradesmen and customers, and kindly greetings exchanged in honour of Christmas. Occasionally, it is true, a s.h.i.+vering creature would be seen shuffling along through the busy crowd, glancing with furtive hungry eyes at the food exposed for sale, but unable to buy even a loaf of bread. The generality, however, had antic.i.p.ated the coming festive season, and had saved the wherewith to keep Christmas.
It was a relief to turn from the noisy din of Drury Lane up Russell Court, and thence to the quiet of Mrs. Turner's room. Yes; there they were all to be seen, a happy family party, preparing, too, to keep Christmas.
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