A Little World

by George Manville Fenn

But Tim had forestalled her, as he triumphantly showed, for there was flannel in various forms, neatly stitched and adapted. The little jacket the child wore was built by Tim, and in various ways he displayed how thoroughly he loved his charge.

Sundays were glorious days for Tim and little Pine, since Mrs Ruggles would spend so much of her time at St Runwald’s. Sometimes Tim would take the child to church, and sit as close to the organ as possible, that Pine might catch a glimpse of Jared through the curtains, and listen to the strains he made the grand old instrument pour forth; for Jared kept to the old fashion of playing a symphony between each verse of psalm or hymn, at times, too, forgetting himself and lengthening out his extempore scraps to a strange extent. But vicar and congregation murmured not; Mr Timson was the only objector, and when he found fault, Jared always apologised so pleasantly, that the most rigid of churchwardens ought to have been satisfied, though Mr Timson was not, for he would say to the vicar, “Why, he’ll forget all about it by next Sunday;” and Mr Timson was quite right.

But little Pine used to say it made her think, and would lay her head against the boards, and close her eyes as though in rapt attention.

“It makes me think about her,” she would whisper to Tim, if he rose to go before Jared had finished his voluntary; and then Tim would look mournful, as he reseated himself, and took hold of the little wasted hand raised to make him stay.

And then what walks they would have—those two—now to Regent’s, now to St James’s Park—walks of toil for Tim, whose heart would sink as he found the child less and less able to bear the exertion; stopping occasionally to rest, or looking pitifully up in his face to say—“Don’t walk so fast, please.” I wonder how many miles Tim would carry that child upon a fine Sunday? Day of rest! It was a day of hard labour for Tim; but it was a labour of love. If the day were cold, he would trudge along merrily; while, if it were warm, he would still go on, his face shining with pleasure, and the perspiration standing in beads amongst the wrinkles. “If we could only manage a kerridge,” he had said once; but little Pine flinched from the idea.

“It would look so childish for me to ride in one,” she said, wearily, and Tim gazed wonderingly at the strange old look upon the child’s face, as she passed a finger across her forehead and temples to smooth back the stray hairs, now on this side, now on the other, where they lay lightly on the broad blue-veined expanse.

One of Tim’s favourite spots was the lodge in Hyde Park, where curds and whey were sold; but the little invalid did not seem to care much for the treat, as Tim called it, but she used to sit, spoon in hand, and sip and sip, looking longingly the while at the flowers.

It must have been on account of this love that little Pine showed for flowers that Tim braved Mrs Ruggles’s displeasure by becoming terribly enamoured of them himself, buying pots of musk and geraniums, and little rose trees, which all brought a light into the child’s eye, though in that close room in Carnaby Street the plants soon lost their bloom, fading day by day, now dropping a blossom, now a leaf, in spite of such fresh air as could be obtained, watering, and placing them in the sun so long as it shone on the back-room windows.

“They wants more fresher air,” Tim would say; and then, as he threaded his needle, he would look across the room at little Pine, and sigh softly to himself as he thought of how she too seemed to want fresher air, such as he could only give her once a week, while, if it happened to be a wet Sunday, though he would willingly have staggered along, carrying the child, with an umbrella held over her, he dared not take her into the damp air, but sat at home to tell her wondrous stories of the good old times, or read her what he considered to be entertaining and instructive scraps from The Weekly Despatch. Some people might have considered his selections unsuitable; but they proved beneficial to the child, for they invariably sent her to sleep.

Poor Tim anxiously watched and trimmed that little lamp of life, whose flame wavered so whenever the cold easterly winds blew down the streets or drove the choking smoke back into the room. Oil, oil, oil, and more oil, and more oil, and then for a while the flame would brighten, and so would Tim, and chuckle and rub his hands, and stitch on night and day as if trying to do without sleep. No mornings were too dark or too cold for Tim, who could wake to five minutes, at three, four, or five o’clock in the dark; and there he would be with open waistcoat, cross-legged upon his board, glasses mounted and lamp shaded, stitch—stitch—stitch, hour after hour, to make up for the time lost with little Pine.