Chapter Seven
The boys came in presently, and Jill and her mother went to bed. The young girl’s head scarcely touched her pillow when she was in the land of dreams, but the older woman stayed awake.
She held tightly clasped in her hand the little bottle which the chemist had given her, and which was to give relief to her suffering. It was in her power to take the cork out of the bottle, and drink off the contents at any moment, but she refrained from doing so.
Cruel as her pain had been all day she did not want to drown it in oblivion now; she wished to stay awake, she did not want the short hours of the summer night to slip away in forgetfulness.
Poll stretched out one hot hand, and laid it softly, with a mother’s tenderness, on the shoulder of the girl who slept so peacefully at her side. It was pleasant to touch that young form; it was such ease to her tortured mind that it was almost as good as ease of body would have been.
Poll had always loved Jill with a curious, passionate, wayward affection. She had married a man whom she had not greatly cared for. He had been cruel to her in his time, and she had looked upon his death as a deliverance. She was the mother of three children, but two of them seemed to Poll to belong to her husband, and one to her. The boys were rough and commonplace; they were just like their father; Jill was beautiful both in mind and body, and Jill with her sweetness and love, her sympathy and tenderness, was Poll’s very own. She was built on her model – the same features, the same dark eyes, the same thick coils of raven-black hair; a trifle more of refinement in the girl than in the mother; a shade or two of greater beauty; added to this the glamour of early youth, but otherwise Jill was Poll over again.
Heart to heart these two had always understood each other; heart to heart their love was returned. Now Jill was giving herself to another. It was all in the course of nature, and Poll would not have wished it otherwise.
Had things been different, had that ache in her breast never been, and in consequence had that craving for strong drink never seized her, she might have been happy with Jill’s children on her knees.
Had everything been different she might have taken Nat into her heart, and loved him for her daughter’s sake.
But as things were, Poll felt that she could never love Nat; for although he little guessed it, he was the means of separating her from Jill.
Poll lay awake all night close to the girl; she could not possibly waste the precious hours in sleep, because she meant to go away from her for ever in the morning. Poll felt that it would be utterly impossible for her to keep sober always, and it was part of Nat’s creed that sobriety was godliness.
She had made up her mind what to do with the quick, fierce tenacity which was peculiar to her, when she heard the young man speak.
The chemist had told her only too plainly that she must go into a hospital or die. Poll preferred death to the hospital; but Jill should not witness her dying tortures, and Jill’s husband should never know that her mother had been one of those base, low women who get rid of their miseries in drink.
Jill did not want Poll any longer now, and because she loved her, the poor soul determined to go away and leave her.
“I’ll drink the stuff in the little bottle to-morrow night,” murmured Poll. “I’ll want it then, but I like to lie wide-awake and close to the child to-night. When the light comes in I’ll look well at all her features. I know ’em, of course – none better; but I’ll take a good filling look at ’em when the light comes in.”
She lay still herself, great pulses throbbing all over her body, the pain without becoming gradually less in intensity, by reason of the greater pain which surged and surged within.
There was one creature whom she loved with the fierce, hungry intensity of an untutored, a wild and yet in some ways a noble nature. The bond between her and her daughter was about to be severed. She herself, through her own deed, would cut the cord which bound them.
The light stole in at the window, at first faintly, then with more and more glad beams of sunshine and joy. Poll heard a neighbouring clock strike three. She said to herself:
“I’ll lie and look at the child until the half-hour sounds, then I’ll get up.”
The minutes dragged themselves away, too slowly in one sense, too quickly in another. The solemn boom of the half-hour rang out into the sleeping morning. Poll rose very softly, and dressed herself.
“I must have some money,” she murmured. “I’ll take a sovereign or two out of Jill’s stocking. She’d be glad to give it me, bless her! and I’ll write on a scrap of paper that I took it, and that I’m gone, and that she’ll never be troubled by me no more. Oh, poor Jill, it ’ud be cruel to write like that, for I never did trouble her. With all my sins, I never troubled my gel. We was knit too close, heart to heart, for either of us to trouble t’other.”
Poll stooped down as she spoke, drew away the bed-clothes, and putting her hand lightly and softly against Jill’s warm throat, revealed a narrow blue ribbon, to which a key was attached. Taking a pair of scissors out of her pocket, she cut the ribbon, and with the key in her hand went into the kitchen.
She opened the drawer of the bureau, and pulling out the old stocking, opened it, and spread the contents of a small gingham bag on the top of the dresser.
Jill, by care and management, had collected between four and five pounds. There were three sovereigns, a half-sovereign, some silver, and some coppers in the bag. Besides this there was a little parcel wrapped up carefully in tissue paper, and brown-paper over it. Poll opened this, and saw that it contained five bright-looking sovereigns.
“I didn’t know Jill was so rich,” she murmured. “It’s a good thing: she’ll have somewhat to furnish her house with. Now, how little can I do with? A sovereign and ten shillings’ worth of silver. That will be ’eaps. Oh, my gel, I wouldn’t rob you of a penny ef I could help it, but you are the last to grudge it to me.”
She returned the rest of the money to the old stocking, and shut the drawer. Then she considered what sort of note she should write to Jill. It must be brief, for time was passing. It must also be brief because poor Poll was a very bad scribe.
She found a sheet of thin paper, and dipping a rusty pen into a penny bottle of ink, scribbled a few words.
“Dear Jill,
“This is to say as I’ll come back again when I’m cured. I’ll ha’ no pain when I come back, my gel, so you make yourself ’appy. I ’as took one pound in gold, and ten shillings in silver out of the old stocking.
“Your Mother.
“Tell Nat as I ’as my eye on ’im, and according as he deals with you, according will I think on him.”
Poll left the letter open on the top of the bureau; then she went back for a moment into the inner room.
Jill was lying fast asleep. Poll bent over her with a long, hungry gaze. She stooped her head, and lightly, very lightly, kissed the young girl on her forehead.
“Mother,” murmured Jill in her sleep; “oh, poor mother! oh, poor mother!”
A look of pain came over her face; she turned away with a profound and even careworn sigh.
“My gel!” responded Poll. “Oh, yes, it’s best and right for me to go.”
Instead of dressing herself in her usual picturesque fashion, with a coloured apron and gay turban, Poll put on a grey shawl, and a dowdy, old-fashioned bonnet of rusty black lace. She tied up her other clothes in a big handkerchief, and without again glancing at her daughter left the room.
A moment later she was in the street. She had not troubled herself to give the boys a farewell look. In the intense pain of the other parting she had forgotten their very existence.
A few moments after she had left the house, the clock from the neighbouring church struck four. Jill often awoke at four o’clock, but this morning she slept on, quite oblivious of the passing of time.
Not so, however, one of the occupants of the press bed in the kitchen. This small person opened his ferrety blue eyes, wriggled his freckled face above the bed-clothes, and darted a quick, sly glance round the apartment.
“Oh, jiminy!” he murmured, “I ’ope as Bob won’t wake till I ’as done it. Oh, my eyes and stars! what a chance is here.”
He crept quietly out of bed, and with the light agile movements of a little cat went across the kitchen. He reached the bureau, and bending down pulled the drawer open, which contained Jill’s hard-earned savings.
Tom was a little person who possessed neither conscience nor fear. He soon emptied the contents of the stocking into his eager little palm. The brown-paper parcel which contained Nat’s five sovereigns was clutched in his other hand. He then ran across the room, slipped the coins into his trousers pockets, put his trousers on and returned to the bureau.
His mother’s letter, wide-open and exposed to the view of all who cared to read, attracted his attention. Thanks to the board-school which he attended, Tom could both read and write. He soon acquainted himself with the contents of the letter, and murmuring “jiminy!” once again under his breath, went up to the bed where Bob still slept.
Tom stood on one leg, and contemplated Bob’s sleeping face with its upturned nose, and its thick crop of freckles, for half a minute. Then taking up an old shoe, he flung it at the sleeper and awaited the result.
Bob started up with a howl.
“Hold your noise this minute,” said Tom, falling upon Bob, and half throttling him. “Hold your noise, and I’ll tell yer some’at. See here, Bob, I ha’ got some swag, and ef you make a row Jill ’ull hear us.”
The word “swag” had a magical effect on Bob. He stopped crying, wiped his dirty face, and looked at his brother with a world of wonder and desire lighting up each insignificant feature.
“Oh, my word, Tom!” he said, “is it gingerbread?”
“Gingerbread!” echoed Tom, in a voice of scorn. “You see yere. If you split I’ll split you. Yere, ain’t this prime?”
Tom thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and pulling out his store of gold and silver, spread his treasures on the bed. Bob’s eyes began to glitter, and his face turned white.
“Oh, Tom,” he gasped, “you’re a thief.”
“I ain’t,” said Tom. “It’s Jill’s, and what’s Jill’s is mine. Ain’t I her brother? Think on her saving it all up, and us being pinched and ’arf starved. Mean, I calls it, despert mean. Well, she can save some more. She ain’t never goin’ to see this swag agin.” Bob began slowly and cautiously to wriggle himself out of bed. He slipped on his trousers and his little jacket with trembling haste.
“Are we to be pals in it?” he said, looking at Tom. “Ef I don’t split, are we to go pals?”
“I don’t mind givin’ yer some on it,” said Tom. “But pals – that means ’arf and ’arf – no thank yer, young un.”
Bob edged himself between Tom and the door of the room.
“Look yere,” he said, “ef yer don’t go arf, I’ll screech out, and Jill ’ull come. I’m atween you and the door, and I’ll screech orful loud, and Jill ’ull come afore you gits down-stairs, so now you knows. It’s ’arf the swag with me, or its none.”
Tom’s eyes shot forth little rays of wrath, but he knew that Bob had a queer obstinate tenacity of his own, and he thought it best to humour him.
“All right,” he said, “don’t screech. We’ll go pals. ’Spose as we runs away.”
“I ’ates that book-shop,” said Bob.
“And I’m run to death by the Boy Messenger Company,” said Tom in a gloomy voice. “’Spose we goes to sea, Bob.”
“’Spose we does,” said Bob, with a little yelp. ”‘A life on the rolling wave’ – oh, my stars, won’t it be fine?”
“Mother has run away too,” said Tom. “There’s her letter on the top of the dresser. It was seeing her helping herself out of the stocking as put me up to it. She took some of the money, and she left the key in the drawer, that’s how I come by this jolly find. You read her letter, Bob.”
Bob did so, with his eyes glittering.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “yere is a jolly go. I ha’ got a stuff in my pocket, a kind of new sort of Indy-rubber wot rubs out writing. I say, Tom, let’s put the whole of it on mother.”
“The whole of wot? Wot do yer mean?”
“She says she has took thirty shillings. Let’s rub out them words, and put as she took all that wor in the stocking. Then the perlice won’t be a’ter us, and we can go off to sea without no one a-finding of us out.” Tom reflected over Bob’s words of wisdom, and finally decided that his plan was worth adopting. While Jill still slept, the wicked, clever little fingers erased a portion of Poll’s letter, and added the words instead, “I ’as took all the money you has hoarded away in the old stocking. I know you won’t grudge it.”
Chapter Eight
Jill awoke presently, rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. A sensation of gladness was all over her, but she could not at first understand what it meant. Her sleep had been so strong and dreamless that the remembrance of her engagement to Nat Carter did not in the first moment of waking return to her.
Then she remembered it. She gave a leap of pure joy and sprang lightly out of bed. Having dressed herself neatly she stood for a moment by the window of her little room. Thankfulness was filling her whole nature. She felt so young, so joyous, that it was a delight to her even to be alive. She looked up into the cloudless summer sky and said aloud:
“I don’t know nothink ’bout the ways o’ good folks, but they say that they b’lieve in Someone up there. They call Him God. Ef there is a God I thank Him with my whole heart this morning. God up in the sky, ef you’re there, do you hear me? Jill thanks yer with her whole heart to-day.”
A faint dimness came over the girl’s bright eyes; she put up her hand to wipe it away, and then went into the kitchen.
Poll, of course, had gone to buy some flowers in the early market. She might be back at any moment.
Jill bustled about to prepare breakfast. She did not go near the dresser, which stood in one corner of the little room and was never used to hold cups and saucers or any implements of cookery. Jill’s mind was so preoccupied that she did not even observe the boys’ absence.
At last, however, the breakfast was ready. The coarse cups and saucers were placed on the little table, the coffee stood on the hob of the bright little stove. The bread and a plate of dripping were placed also on the table.
It was almost time for Poll to have returned. Jill expected each moment to hear her footstep in the passage. She sat down to wait for her, and at last remembering her brothers, turned to the press bedstead to tell them to get up. The bedstead was empty. The bed was tossed and tumbled; no boys were to be seen there. Jill felt a passing wonder at their having gone away, without breakfast, but they were always erratic in their movements, and her mind was too preoccupied with other thoughts for her to trouble herself long about them.
After waiting a moment or so longer she ate her own breakfast, for she reflected that if for any reason her mother was detained in the market she would have to go out to buy flowers to replenish her basket herself.
Having eaten, she went into her bedroom to put on her apron and turban, and now neatly dressed she came back into the kitchen, and taking up her flower-basket, was preparing to leave the room, when she suddenly remembered that her pockets were destitute of money. She had really earned nothing the day before; she must therefore draw upon her little savings to replenish her basket this morning.
The thought gave her a faint passing annoyance, for she did not like to deduct even a penny from the money which would be so useful to Nat and herself when they started housekeeping.
There was no help for it, however, and she put her hand inside her dress to feel for the blue ribbon which held the precious little key of the bureau. The ribbon came out easily enough, but Jill started and felt herself turning pale when she saw that there was no key attached to it. Her eyes grew big with a sudden fear.
What had become of the key? The ribbon looked as if it had been cut. Who could possibly have done this? No one. The ribbon must have got thin and worn without Jill knowing it. The key must have dropped off. Where had she lost it? How very unpleasant if she was forced to burst open the drawer of the bureau!
Then she remembered that she had the key last night when she opened the drawer to put the five sovereigns Nat had given her to take care of for his pal into the old stocking. She certainly had the key then – it must therefore be somewhere in the house.
She went back into her bedroom and searched on the floor and in the bed; she could not find it and returned to the kitchen with a puzzled, anxious expression on her face.
Then she gave a cry of delight and made a leap forward – the key was in the lock of the drawer. How careless of her to have left it there! and yet she was glad now, for no harm could possibly have happened, as no one but herself and her mother knew that she kept money in the drawer.
She went on her knees, pulled it open, and taking up the old stocking, unrolled it. Her own savings, amounting to nearly five pounds, were kept in a tiny gingham bag – the money Nat had given her was in a neat paper roll. The bag was there flat and empty – the roll had also disappeared.
Jill felt herself turning queer, sick and faint; she could not possibly believe that the money was gone; she felt certain at first that in some way these carefully hoarded savings must have slipped out of the bag, that the roll of paper must be hiding in another part of the drawer.
It was a game of “Hide and Seek” – a cruel game between this money and a girl’s troubled, anxious heart. She searched the drawer from end to end; it contained some neatly-made aprons, some stockings, and a few other garments. The contents were quickly searched through, Jill rose to her feet – she was white and tottering, but she had not as yet reached the stage of believing that the money was gone.
She still thought that it was playing that hideous game of “Hide and Seek.” She placed her hand against her heart and leant against the bureau. There was nothing for her but to go on seeking for the treasure so securely hidden; but where now should she look?
She stood still, trying her best to think. Suddenly her eyes rested on the open sheet of thin poor letter-paper which contained her mother’s badly written words.
Jill started violently at the sight. She bent forward and tried to read the hand-writing. Her sight was excellent, but just for a moment she could not see the words in the letter; then she read them:
“Dear Jill, – This is to say as I’ll come back again when I’m cured.”
“What did that mean,” – Jill rubbed her eyes until they smarted – “Mother will come back again when she’s cured”? She read the next sentence; “I’ll ha’ no pain when I come back, my gel, so you make yerself ’appy.”
“Oh, poor mother, poor mother!” exclaimed Jill.
She looked again at the letter and read the last sentence:
“I ’as took all the money you has hoarded away in the old stocking. I know you won’t grudge it.”
Jill clasped her hands to her head; it reeled; she thought she should have fallen, but making a great effort, she tottered to a chair which stood near and sat down.
For several minutes she could not realise what had happened. Then the simple facts of the case came slowly home to her. The old stocking was empty. The money which Jill had taken nearly eighteen months to save – penny by penny and sixpence by sixpence – had vanished. But that was not the worst – that fact was bad, very bad, but it dwindled into insignificance beside the much more appalling fact that the five pounds which belonged to Nat’s pal had also disappeared. Nat, her lover, had trusted her with this money – he had feared to keep it himself – he had believed it possible that some one might steal it, and he had given it to Jill for absolute security. She remembered, as she sat numbed and still on that chair, into which she had thrown herself, the look in Nat’s eyes when he had spoken about giving her the money to keep safely for his pal.
The expression of trust, of confidence, of relief could not have been greater on Nat’s open, honest face had he taken that money to the Bank of England. Jill represented the Bank of England for trustworthiness, for security, to Nat.
“He trusted me,” she moaned; “he trusted me. Oh, mother, mother! what shall I do? Oh, mother, what have you done to the Jill whom you love?”
The poor girl felt that she could not keep still any longer.
By what possible means was she to get the money back? She must recover it – she must rescue it before her mother had spent it all. She rose and went hurriedly out. Her head was in a whirl, her usual dear judgment had, for the time, forsaken her. She, the upright, the respectable Jill, was penniless; but that was not the worst – she felt herself, in a measure, a thief, for through her Nat’s money had vanished.
Going down-stairs she met old Mrs Stanley, who stopped her to utter a pleasant “Good morning.”
“What is it, Jill?” said the old woman, startled by the queer, strange look on the girl’s face. “What’s the matter, dearie? You don’t look yourself.”
“I’m a bit anxious,” said Jill. “Mother’s not quite well, and I – I’m going out. Ef any one calls and arsks arter me, you say as I’ll may be – be out all day, Mrs Stanley.”
“Yes, my love, I’ll say.” The old woman looked at her longingly; words came to her lips which she felt a strange desire to utter. While she hesitated, however, Jill had run quickly down-stairs, and was lost to view.
Her empty basket hung on her arm. As she walked through the streets in the early summer morning a neighbouring clock struck six. She was still in very good time to get a supply of flowers for her basket. This was the height of the flower season. Flowers of all sorts were abundant and cheap. Jill was a regular customer too, and she knew more than one flower merchant who would give her a good selection of flowers even if she were a little late in going to buy them.
She passed through the ugly neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and taking a short cut for the Strand, found herself in Bedford Street.
She was close now to the market, and here she paused to consider what she should really do.
She had no money in her pocket, but this fact did not greatly trouble her, for she could easily go on tick for some flowers until the following morning. There was more than one flower merchant who would gladly fill the pretty girl’s basket for the sake of a smile, a shy “thank you,” and a look of gratitude in those lovely dark eyes. The fact that she was absolutely penniless was not, therefore, Jill’s trouble.
No! she had something far more important to think over.
Should she waste time at all to-day trying to sell flowers? Would it not be better for her to spend the long hours of this summer day looking for her mother? If she found her mother she could easily induce her to give back Nat’s five sovereigns. As for her own savings, they were of small consequence.
When she was about half-way up Bedford Street, Jill stood still to carefully consider her plans.
A heavy blow had been dealt at her, dealt at her, too, when the radiant sun of happiness was shining through all her being. She had been stunned for a little, but now her vigorous young brain was capable once more of taking in the whole situation.
She decided after a very brief pause that she would go to the market and buy enough flowers to stock her basket with; she would then go to her usual stand outside the Metropolitan Railway Station and sell the flowers as quickly as possible. Thus she would provide herself with a little ready money. She could pay back her debt for the flowers with part of this money, and spend the rest of it in looking for her mother.
To-day was Friday, and Nat had told her that he was scarcely likely to see her again before Saturday evening. She had, therefore, this much breathing time, either to recover the money, or to make up her mind what to say to Nat.
When this definite plan of action made itself plain to her, her brow cleared and she quickened her steps to reach the market. She soon found herself under the great glass dome where the flowers were sold, and in a moment was standing by a stall waiting for her turn to be served.
The extreme bustle and movement of the market was almost at its height when she arrived. An eager hum of busy voices pervaded the place. The merchants were busy, not only selling their flowers, but eating excellent breakfasts of coffee, poached eggs, bacon, and other delicacies, which were supplied to them by waiters from neighbouring restaurants.
The strong perfume of the flowers, and the heat, which, early as it was, was beginning to be felt through the glass roof, would have made the place almost intolerable to any one less acclimatised to this sort of thing than Jill.
Some of the flower girls looked already spent and tired. They were, for the most part, an unkempt-looking lot, their hair untidy, their dress exhibiting the extreme of dowdiness; the shabbiest hats adorned their rough heads; old shawls, greasy with wear, and dull from long exposure to weather, protected their ample shoulders. Their dresses were almost ragged, their feet slipshod and untidy.
Youth was a misnomer for most of them, and beauty was not to be found in their ranks. They knew good flowers, however, and chaffered eagerly, and conducted their marketing on the most approved business principles.
Jill was such a contrast to the other flower girls – her beauty was so remarkable, her dress so picturesque as she stood under one of the big palm-trees, that she resembled a tropical flower herself. She was looked at with envy by one or two of the girls, and with marked admiration by several young costermongers, who would have given a good deal for a nod or smile from so lovely a girl.
As a rule she had a pleasant, friendly way with her, never allowing familiarities, but taking good-natured badinage and jest in the spirit in which they were meant.
To-day, however, she saw none of the faces, heard none of the comments, returned none of the murmured greetings.
She waited for her turn to be served, as motionless almost as a statue, and it was not until a rather rough voice sounded in her ears that she awoke to the full difficulties of her present position.
“Can I sarve you, miss?” said a flower merchant. “I ’as got some beautiful rose-buds this morning, and a great supply of water-lilies. You come and see ’em, they’re just your style.”
This flower merchant’s name was Silas Lynn. He was a heavy-built man, with a powerful face, a rough shock of hair, and small, deeply set eyes. His mouth was coarse, his hands and feet enormous. He owned a cottage and a couple of acres of ground in Kent, and brought his flowers and fruit daily to the market, transacting all his business himself, and allowing no middleman to interfere with him.
Silas had a voice which exactly matched his appearance. It was so rough and harsh that it absolutely militated against his business; the more timid of the flower girls preferring to carry their pence and shillings to quarters where they would be sure of civil treatment.
One or two people who knew him very well indeed, made the queer remark, however, that Silas when bending over his favourite flowers had been heard to speak softly; that when he lifted the young leaves, and looked into the lovely blossoms, a mild sort of tender sunshine would suffuse his rough face.
These reports of him had been whispered by a few, but they were not generally believed. He was strictly honest, sober, industrious, but hard as a nail; a man who looked for no quarter, and gave none.
This he fully believed to be his own character, and his neighbours and friends supported him in the belief. It was from this man, however, that Jill had resolved to ask a favour.
When he desired her to come and look at his lilies, she went quietly with him to a back part of his stall, where the great, white waxy lilies were lying in a tank which he had provided for the purpose.
“I has had a good morning’s work,” said Silas, rubbing his hands, and turning aside for a moment to swallow down a great cupful of scalding coffee.
“Ah, there ain’t nothing like doing your business yourself, and trusting your affairs to no one else. That’s my way. I larnt it from my mother. Wot’s the matter, lass? You look peaky.”
“I’m a bit tired,” said Jill.
“And a bit late, too, I guess. Get out of this, this moment, you varmint, or I’ll break every bone in your body!” These last words were thundered at a small ragamuffin of ten, who had been loafing round, but now took to his heels as if pursued by demons. “You’re a bit late,” continued Silas, allowing his small eyes to rest upon Jill, with the sort of pleased satisfaction with which he regarded what he was fond of calling a “thorough-bred rose-bud.” “I don’t see you nor that mother of yourn often round as late as this; but now, how can I sarve ye?”
“Oh, Mr Silas Lynn,” exclaimed Jill, clasping her hands, and speaking in swift entreaty, “ef you would give me just a few flowers to put in my basket, and let me pay for ’em to-morrow morning.”
Lynn indulged in a loud laugh of astonishment, perplexity, and pleasure. He was as hard as a nail to be sure, but he did not object to lending Jill some flowers.
“I’ll lend ’em with pleasure,” he said; “but you s’prise me, Jill Robinson; I thought as you had a tidy lot of money put away.”
“So I had,” answered Jill, her lips beginning to quiver; “I had yesterday, but not this morning. When I looked for the money this morning it wor gone.”
“Stolen, does yer mean?”
“No, no; nothing o’ the sort – I can’t speak o’ it. Will yer lend me a few flowers, and let me go?”
“Gimme yer basket.”
Silas pulled it roughly out of the girl’s hand. He laid some wet grass in one corner, and arranged a pile of lilies on it; rose-buds, white, pink, cream-coloured followed; geraniums in every shade made up a brilliant bank in another corner. Masses of poppies filled the remaining space.