Chapter Nine.
Jill had a very successful morning with her flowers; they were the envy and admiration of all the other flower women. Even Molly Maloney felt as if she must indulge in a fit of crossness when she saw those water-lilies, carnations and rose-buds. But there was something in Jill’s face which soon made the other women cease to feel unkindly towards her. Trouble was new to Jill, and the frightened, half-pathetic, half-despairing expression of her fall, velvety brows eyes gave the flower girls who came to talk to her and to admire her basket a queer sensation. They were curious, but their curiosity was not likely to be gratified by Jill. Even to Molly Maloney she scarcely vouchsafed a word of explanation.
“I’m in a bit of worry about mother,” she said once, in a low whisper; “Don’t speak on it, Molly; it’ll pass, no doubt. You ain’t seen mother this morning, ha’ you? She han’t chanced to call round to ask arter Kathleen?”
“No,” replied Molly; “and, ef she did, I wouldn’t dare to let her in. Kathleen’s down with faver, and no mistake. I’m at my best to keep it from the neighbours, for, ef they knew, one o’ them ’spectors would come round and carry the por chile off to the hospital. Oh! worra me, worra me! it’s a weary world, and no mistake.”
Jill said some words of sympathy. She was fond of pretty little Irish Kathleen, and, taking a choice rose-bud and carnation out of her basket, she gave them to Molly to take home to the child.
“Tell her they’re from Jill,” she said, “and I’ll look round to-morrow, may be, or may be Sunday.”
“You ain’t ’feared o’ the faver, then, honey?”
“No. Why should I be? It isn’t sickness as frights me.”
“You have a throuble, then, honey?”
“I’m fretted about mother, Mrs Maloney. She ain’t well, and it frets me. She’s more than anybody to me, mother is. I’ve sold most of my flowers now, so I’ll go. Good afternoon to yer, Molly.”
Jill took up her basket and walked away. She spent all the rest of the day going from one low haunt to another, looking in vain for Mrs Robinson. It did not occur to her to seek for her mother at Betsy Peters’s, but, on her way back to their own little flat, she ran up against Betsy, who stopped her at once to ask about Poll.
“She wor werry bad last night,” explained Betsy, and then she told of the incident which had occurred at the chemist’s shop.
“I thought I’d call round and ask arter her to-day,” said Betsy. “Her looks frightened me, and she’s real bad—real bad, Jill Robinson. The chemist knows, and so do I, what ails her.”
“It’s more nor I do,” said Jill, drawing herself up. For a brief instant she feared that Mrs Peters was referring to Poll’s unfortunate habit of taking more than was good for her. Jill’s black eyes flashed, and poor, meek, pale-faced Betsy started back a step in alarm.
“I don’t mean nothink bad, dearie,” she said. “It’s the heavy hand of the Lord that’s laid on your mother. She ought to go to a hospital. I don’t hold by ’em in most cases, but your mother ought to go.”
Jill felt herself turning very pale. “What do yer mean?” she said.
The woman stepped forward and whispered a word in her ear. The ugly sound caused her to reel for a moment, a faint dizziness came over her; she clutched Mrs Peters by the shoulder to keep herself from falling.
“Don’t take on, lovey,” said the woman. “It’s the will o’ the Lord. There’s no goin’ agen’ Him, Jill.”
”‘His purposes will ripen last,
Unfolding every hour:
The bud will have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.’”
“Don’t talk cant,” said Jill. “Mother’s bad, ef what you say is true. She has got something orful the matter, and you tell me it’s the will of God, and you folks wot b’lieve in God talk o’ Him as good and kind. Ef God is good and kind, then it ain’t His will as mother should suffer orful things sech as you tell on. I b’lieve there’s a devil somewhere, and he does the bad things. It ain’t God. I’d scorn to think it o’ any one so beautiful as He.”
The girl’s indignant words rang out on the evening air. Mrs Peters thought them blasphemy, and clasped her thin hands in horror. Jill turned to leave her. She went back to the empty flat, and sat down in the old arm-chair where her mother had so often tried to rest.
It seemed to Jill that at last she had got at the meaning of her mother’s sudden departure. Poll had gone away because Jill must not see her pains. Jill must not see them—Jill, who loved her with that passion which comes now and then to a daughter for a mother, which now and then is almost the strongest passion of life!
In that moment of agony Jill thought far more of her mother than she did of Nat. She loved Nat intensely, but just then the aching emptiness within her was caused entirely by Poll’s absence.
She had never been angry with her mother for taking, as she supposed, all the savings out of the old stocking. Her one desire now was to shelter her mother. Jill had always stood between Poll and the censorious world. Jill had always understood why Poll must drink now and then; now it seemed to her that she also understood why the savings must go.
“I must find mother again,” she said to herself, after a pause. “I must, and I will; but, first of all, I ha’ got to give Nat back the five sovereigns as he gave me to take care on for his pal. There can be no marrying a’tween us until mother’s found, and the money given back to Nat.”
Jill spread her day’s earnings on her lap. She found that she had fifteen shillings, and had still a sufficient number of unsold flowers in her basket to give her, with a very few additions, sufficient material for to-morrow’s work. She had spent the greater part of an hour in the empty kitchen when there came a brisk knock at the door. She started at the sound, and went with some slight hesitation to open it. Nat might possibly be waiting outside. She longed to throw herself into his arms, and yet she dreaded seeing him. The knock was repeated. She opened the door, to see Susy Carter standing outside.
“It’s me,” she said, in her brisk way. “May I come in? My word, ain’t it hot!”
She entered the kitchen at once, and, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her heated face.
“I thought maybe you’d be having tea,” she said. “I’d be glad of a cup. Ain’t your mother in yet?”
“No, Susy.” Jill filled the kettle as she spoke, and, turning on the gas, set it on the little stove to boil. “You shall have a cup of tea as soon as ever I can get it ready, Susy.”
“You don’t look spry,” said Susy. “Wot’s up with yer? Has you and Nat had a quarrel?”
“No. How dare you say it?” Jill’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Oh, highty-tighty! What a fly-away young madam it is!” said Susy, with her shrill laugh. “Well, Jill, I meant no offence. You look downhearted, somehow; and, of course, a gel don’t expect to see that on the face of another gel wot’s jest gone and engaged herself to her brother. It’s but natrel to see smiles on yer face, Jill, and to hear you joking and laughing. I joke orful when I’m happy, there’s nothing like a good joke for making time pass.”
“Well, I’m happy enough,” said Jill. “Who said I wasn’t? It ain’t my way to take my happiness all sparklin’ and fizzin’. I likes it quiet best.”
“You’re in great luck to have got Nat,” continued Susy. “Ef I was another sort, I’d be in a rage of jealousy, but that ain’t me. Nat’s safe to rise, and get on in the costering line; and he has saved a good little bit of money, too, and put it away in the Savings’ Bank, ef I am not much mistook. Nat’s close, when he likes, and so I tell him. I like him all the better for it. I ’ates people as wears their hearts on their sleeve, and tell all about their money matters, and so forth. I’m close myself, and inclined to be saving, and so will Nat be ef you’ll let him, Jill.”
“Who says I won’t let him?” retorted Jill. She spoke almost pettishly; her voice had completely lost its usual sweetness. Susy was never a congenial companion to Jill, and to-night she rubbed her the wrong way with each word she uttered.
“I’m not saying nothing,” replied Susy, nodding her pretty, fair head. “But deeds speak a sight louder nor words, and wot I want to know is this—why you and Nat has made up yer mind to take all them heaps of rooms down-stairs? It’s the height of folly, and that you know, Jill.”
“No, I don’t; but I know something else,” replied Jill.
“Wot? My word! you’ll spill that boiling water on the tablecloth ef you don’t look out. Wot do you know, Jill?”
“That Nat and me can manage our own affairs, ef we are let,” answered Jill.
“Oh, dearie me! now you’re turning sulky. I must let Nat know as the pretty little dear has got a temper of her own. But, speakin’ serious, Jill, hadn’t we better strike that bargain while we are about it?”
“Wot bargain?”
“Me to have the best bedroom, and the run of the kitchen, for ’arf-a-crown a week. Come now, it’s only common prudence to say yes.”
Jill sat down wearily, and dropped her hands to her sides. She had supplied Susy with tea, and bread and butter, and a substantial slice of cold pork-pie, but she could not touch any food herself.
“Nat must decide,” she said. “It’s Nat’s affair, it ain’t mine. It’s for him to decide.”
“He says t’other way,” said Susy, with a pout. “I bothered him this morning for a good while, and he said it was for you to say. Fact is, Jill, you can turn Nat round your little finger. He’ll do nothing agen you, ef it was ever so little.”
“Well, well, I’ll let you know presently,” said Jill. “I has a headache to-night, and I am tired.”
“But it won’t tire you any worse jest to say yes. I’m in a choky, nasty room now, and I want to give notice to quit. Ef you say ‘Yes’ to-night, I can give a week’s notice on Monday, and then I can move in yere Monday week. Nat’ll keep my bits of things in his room, and you’d give me a shake-down till you was married, wouldn’t you, Jill? Say yes, now do, dearie.”
“I can’t say nothing for certain, Susy. Nat and me we ain’t married yet. Ef we marry, I suppose you’re welcome to the room. I can’t say no more.”
“And you ’as said ’eaps, and I’m much obleeged,” said Susy, springing from her chair, running up to Jill and giving her a hearty embrace. “I’ll jest snap my fingers in my landlady’s face, come Monday. You’re a good sort, Jill, and a real out-and-out beauty. I don’t wonder Nat’s took with you. Now, I suppose, I had better go. Poor Nat! he were in a bit of trouble this morning for all he’s in such delight at your promising to wed him.”
“Nat in trouble!” said Jill, starting up, and speaking in a voice all animation and pain. “Wot do you mean, Susy? and why didn’t you tell me that afore?”
“I forgot it. My sakes, what a jumpy sort of wife you’ll make! I doubt if you and Nat will suit. He’s accustomed to me all his days and I never let my feelings get the upper hand in that style.”
“But wot is he in trouble about, Susy?”
“Oh, it’s that pal o’ his, Joe Williams.”
“Yes. Wot o’ he?” said Jill. She felt her heart beating quickly, for it was Williams’s money which Nat had placed in her keeping.
“He’s dead,” said Susy. “He died sudden this morning. Nat’s orful cut up, for the poor lad has left a wife and two or three children. By the way, Nat says that he has given you some money of Joe’s to keep safe for him.”
“So he has,” replied Jill.
“You look orful white, Jill. Are you going to faint?”
“I han’t the least notion of sech a thing.”
“Well, you do look queer! You’re all narves, I expect. I wish Nat luck on you, with yer starty ways, and yer changes of colour.”
“I’m very sorry about Williams,” said Jill, her eyes filling with tears. “I expect it has took Nat all on a heap. He set a deal of store on Williams.”
“He did. But, my sakes, you never knew him, Jill; it ain’t for you to be fretting. It’s a good thing you has got the money safe, for ’twill be wanted now for the funeral. Nat said as ’twere a load on his mind a-keeping of it, for our rooms ain’t safe. We was very onlucky in ’em, and I daren’t leave so much as a shilling behind me in the morning. I wish our Guild would provide rooms for us to sleep in, as well as a place for the flowers. Well, I must go now, Jill. I’m obleeged for the tea, and the promise of the rooms—the best bedroom, mind, when you and Nat is wed. How late yer mother is comin’ ’ome. Good-night, Jill.”
Susy took herself off at last, and Jill breathed a sigh of relief. She sat up for some little time longer, waiting for her brothers; but presently, finding they did not come home, locked the door of the little flat and went to bed. She slept scarcely at all that night, and awoke in the morning quite determined with regard to one thing—that she must either find her mother before the evening, or get the five pounds from some one else to return to Nat Carter.
As she was dressing she thought, for the first time almost since she had left him, of Silas Lynn. She remembered his generosity with regard to the flowers. That basket of flowers was really a splendid gift, and, although Jill meant to give him back at least ten shillings this morning, she could not but own that he had been more than kind to her. As to his outspoken words of admiration, she gave them very small consideration. She was accustomed to broad compliments from men of all sorts, and mere words made little or no impression on her. She thought now, however, with a certain little warm comforting thrill of hope, that perhaps Silas would be induced to lend her the princely sum of five pounds, to be paid back day by day in small instalments, until the whole debt was discharged.
Silas had been kind to Jill for a long time now, and several of the flower girls had joked her about the great, coarse, ugly-looking fellow. If she could induce Silas to help her in her present awful dilemma, she felt no service would be too great for her to render him. If Silas lent her five pounds, she might conceal the knowledge of what her mother had done from Nat, and they might be married some day, if not at once.
Jill hastened her toilet when this thought came to comfort her. She snatched up a piece of dry bread to eat, instead of breakfast, and, munching it as she went, hurried down-stairs. She reached the market quite an hour earlier than she had done on the previous day, and was rewarded at once by a broad stare from Silas. His stare was presently illuminated by a smile, which ended in a wink, and, stretching out one big hand, he beckoned to Jill to approach.
“I’m going to order breakfast for two,” he said, “and there’s a cosy seat here, under this rose-tree. I’ll fill yer basket, my gel, so you needn’t go no further. You set there, and take the world easy. My word! you mind me o’ my mother more nor ever this mornin’. There’s a waiter over there, I’ll call him. Hi, Sam! You come here this minute. Now then, I want a rare feed for me and this young ’ooman.—Wot have you got?”
“Kidneys, rashers and heggs, sorsiges, homlettes,” called the waiter off on his fingers.
“Wot’s yer mind?” asked Silas, turning to Jill. “Have a hegg done to a turn, and a little juicy slice of curled-up bacon on the top o’ it? And see yere, waiter, I’ll have a chump chop, and two heggs, and make the coffee strong, wotever you do. Now be quick, there’s a good chap.”
The waiter nodded, grinned, and disappeared. When Silas had given orders about his breakfast, he turned and looked at Jill with that slow, grave smile, which, nevertheless, was sweet enough to transform his rough face.
“I’m puzzled to know what flower to liken yer to,” he said. “Seems to me maybe as you most takes arter one o’ they dainty toolips afore they comes out into full bloom. Of all flowers under the sun, there seems to me to be more in a toolip than in any other. For one thing, it comes arter the dead, cold winter; then it’s so prim and yet so gay—so proper all round, and yet there’s sech a frolicsome look ’bout the little tips o’ the flowers jest where they half opens to let in the sunlight and the sunshine. Yes, you mind me o’ one o’ them dark red, rich-looking toolip-buds as comes in the spring.”
Jill scarcely replied to these words from Silas. She was thinking of the request she was about to make him, and wondering in what language she could best make known her sore want. She sat very still under the large rose-tree where he had placed her, her rich, dark head was slightly bent forward, her brown, yet shapely hands were folded over her many-coloured apron, her olive-tinted face was paler than its wont, the thick, heavy fringe of eyelashes caused a shadow on her cheek.
Silas gave her another quick, admiring glance.
“She’s a toolip, and a carnation, and a bit of a rose-bud all in one,” he murmured under his breath. “Never seen her like afore. See how quiet she sets, and how little she minds all I says to her. She’s hard to win, like one of them skittish colts at home. But why compare her to a colt? she’s a flower out and out. One o’ they cuttings werry precious and hard to strike in strange soil. I like her all the better for it. There’s breeding in every bit o’ her.”
“What shall I put in the basket to-day?” he continued. “How did the lilies go? and did the ladies wonder how you come by they choice rose-buds?”
These words roused Jill.
“You don’t know what that basket wor,” she said; “I sold off the flowers as fast as ever I could. They were lovely; there worn’t sech a basket to be seen with any other flower girl.”
Silas laughed. “Ha, ha.” He said, “We’ll do better’n that to-day; I ha’ thought the subjec’ of that basket o’ yourn out and out. I ha’ planned one most cunning for to-day. You leave it to me, Jill, I’ll fill it for yer. What do you say to a border all round o’ these delicate green ferns, and then a row o’ deep crimson carnations, and agen ’em something white, and then a mass o’ blue forget-me-nots, and the centre all roses—every sort, cream, white, pink, blush, crimson? Wot do yer say to that sort o’ basket, Jill Robinson?”
“It’d be more beautiful than a picter,” said Jill, her eyes smiling. “Oh, Mr Lynn, what lovely thoughts you has! I can most fancy I see that ere basket.”
“You leave it to me, and you’ll see it in real ’arnest,” said Silas. “Ah, here comes breakfast. Now then, Jill, you shall pour out the coffee.”
Jill stood up at once to perform her office. She did it without a scrap of self-consciousness. She was quite impervious to the glances of amusement which came from many pairs of eyes at the rough-looking flower merchant and the handsome girl. Her mind was too absorbed with something else to notice any of these outside matters; but Silas felt his heart swell within him as he took the large cup of coffee from Jill’s little hands. He noticed fast enough how the folks looked at them both. These glances, these significant nods gave him intense pride and pleasure.
“Seems to me,” he said under his breath, “as ef the little cuttin’ was a-beginning to strike.”
The meal was nearly over when Jill spoke again. “Yere’s ten shillin’s for the flowers you give me yesterday, Silas Lynn,” she said. “Ten shillin’s, and my werry best thanks; and ef you will fill my basket with five shillin’s worth more flowers of the common sort, I’ll be much obleeged.”
While she was speaking, Silas’s face, which had resembled a great beaming sun a moment ago, grew black.
“You keep that ten shillin’s, or you’ll anger me,” he growled. “Ef you must give it back, give it back another day, but not now. Tell yer what, ef yer give it to me now, I’ll put it in my mouth and swaller it; so there.”
There was something so ferocious in the man’s change of tone and change of face that Jill felt sick. She knew that she must humour him if there was the least chance of his acceding to her request.
“Mr Lynn,” she said suddenly, “I’ll keep that money, and give you ten shillin’s worth o’ thanks instead. I don’t mind saying as I come here to-day hoping as you’d do me a kindness.”
Silas’s brow cleared as if by magic.
“The little cuttin’s a-strikin’, not a doubt on it,” he muttered.
“Do you a kindness, Jill Robinson?” he said aloud. “Well, that’s quite arter my style. Let’s hear wot you wants, lass. Say the words as low as you like, my pretty, I’m all a-listenin’.” Silas bent down towards Jill as he spoke. “There,” he said, “speak up, don’t be afeared.”
“I’m in a good bit o’ trouble,” she said, her lips trembling. “I told yer yesterday that I had lost some money. It worn’t stole—don’t yer think that, but it wor lost. I want to pay that money back again to-night. Will yer lend it to me, Mr Lynn? Oh, there’s nought under the sun I wouldn’t do for yer ef you’d lend me that money what got lost.”
“There’s nought you wouldn’t do for me,” said Silas. “Them words is pleasant to hear—werry, werry pleasant. I has took a fancy to yer, and I like to hear yer say ‘there’s nought you wouldn’t do for me’; sech, for instance, as pouring out my coffee for me, eh? There, you’re blushin’, my gel; never mind never mind. How much is the money you want?”
“Maybe I ought not to ask,” said Jill, starting from her seat and speaking nervously; “it’s an orful lot—it’s five pounds.”
When Jill named the sum which she required, Silas could not help giving a start of astonishment. Flower girls like Jill had seldom anything to do with so large a sum of money. Silas was naturally a close man, and, much as he was taken with the pretty flower girl, he was obliged to think twice before deciding to lend her so much money. When she raised her dark eyes full of pleading to his face, however, and when their brilliance was veiled and softened behind tears, Silas could not help clapping his hand on his thigh and exclaiming, in a sudden burst of admiration:—
“’Tain’t a toolip you are, lass; it’s a bit of a moss-rose-bud. Jiminy! if you ain’t the very purtiest bit of a thing I ever clapped my eyes on—bar none.”
“You will lend me the money, will you not?” said Jill.
“Wait a while; it’s a big sum. There’s a power of work in getting a lot of money like that together, and ef I give it away jest for a gel’s whim—”
“No, no; not for a girl’s whim,” said Jill, “but for her sore need—for her werry sore need. Oh, Silas Lynn, I know as you has got a really kind heart.”
“Maybe I has, and maybe I han’t. I won’t lend the money unless you keep to your word. You said as you’d do anything for me. That means a deal. Do you abide by them words?”
“As far as I can, Mr Lynn.”
“You can abide by ’em ef you will. Now, for instance, ef I were to say there’s a nice little cottage in the country awaiting for a missis, and I wor to say: ‘Come, Jill, and be my own true love’—why, I declare I’m getting quite into the poetry vein. And ain’t the pretty dear turned red? Shall it be a bargain, Jill Robinson?—I give you the five pounds, and you give me your nice little purty bit of a self.”
“No, Mr Lynn. No,” said Jill. Little by little the colour had left her face; even her lips were white. “I didn’t understand it in that way,” she said. “It can’t be.”
She took up her empty basket and went away.
Chapter Ten.
Jill never remembered afterwards how she spent that long day. She had no flowers to sell, for she had taken her basket empty from the market, leaving those that were over from the day before in a pail of water at home.
She was too restless, miserable, and anxious to sit doing nothing in Howard’s Buildings. So she wandered the streets quite indifferent to the gaze of the many flower girls who knew her, and quite oblivious to the feet that her picturesque dress and beautiful face called for loud admiration from more than one passer-by.
Tired out at last, she went home. She was glad that the long day had come to an end. Nat would soon be with her now, and the worst would be over. She sat down in the empty kitchen and waited; then was nothing whatever else for her to do. She had thought about the lost money, and about what she should say to Nat so often, that at last her tired brain refused to think any more about it. She held on now only to one instinct. She must shield her mother at any cost. If necessary, she must even go to the length of telling Nat that she had given her mother the money.
She had come to this resolve when a quick step was heard on the stairs outside. A gay whistle accompanied the step, and then a hand knocked with gentle insistence on one of the panels of the door.
Jill went at once to open it. Nat was standing outside. He had dressed himself with some care, and when Jill threw open the door and looked at him, he presented as fine a picture of a young English lad of the people as heart could desire. His curly hair was damp with exercise, his face was tanned with much exposure to the weather; his honest, well-opened eyes were as blue as the sky. He was a tall young fellow, too, with broad shoulders and a well-knit frame.
“Eh, Jill!” he exclaimed, “I thought you’d be in, and awaiting for me. I had no time to send yer word; but I guessed somehow as a little bird might whisper to yer as I’d be looking round.”
“Shall we go for a walk, Nat?” said Jill in a hasty voice. “I ain’t quite well. Shall we go and take a walk on the Embankment? It’s a fine evenin’, ain’t it?”
“Why in course; it’s a beautiful evenin’, sweet-heart. We’ll go out, ef you wish. But you has never given me a kiss, Jill. Don’t you want to?”
“Yes, Nat,” replied the poor girl. She took a sudden step forward, flung her arms round his neck, and placed her soft cheek against his. “I’d like to go out with yer,” she said then. “We can talk about kissin’ presently. I’m craving for the air.”
She wrapped a bright shawl round her head. Nat took her hand and they went down-stairs.
“Ef there’s anything as I must tell, it ’ud be easier out in the air,” she murmured to herself.
For some time, however, Nat avoided all painful subjects. The two wandered down to the Embankment, and, going into the gardens, sat on one of the benches. They sat close together, and Nat’s brown hand held Jill’s under the gay apron which she still wore. A good many people passed them, and looked at them, and murmured to one another that this silly young pair were in a fool’s paradise, and that they’d wish themselves out of it fast enough one day. It seemed to Jill afterwards, however, that they were all alone that evening, that no one looked at them as they sat on the bench together, that they had the gardens to themselves.
The sunset passed, and the stars shone in the dark blue of the sky, and Jill looked up at them and thought that, after all, it must be very easy to be good. She had forgotten her pain and anxiety for the present; the influence of the summer night was surrounding her, and the still more potent influence of young love was sending all fears to sleep.
“Nat,” she said suddenly, “it seems as if the folks must be right.”
“Wot folks, Jill?”
“Them folks as says there’s a God, Nat, and that He lives up there. Seems to me that there must be a God, and that He’s beautiful. I don’t believe we could love each other as we do, but for God.”
“Maybe,” said Nat. “I han’t thought much about it. I were allers too busy. Ef He made you love me, Jill, I’ll go in for believing in Him; that’s sartin. But, oh! my word, my word, there’s a sight of misery in the world!”
“That’s the devil’s doing,” said Jill in a frightened whisper. “I allers put the misery to the devil. But don’t let us think on it to-night, Nat. Don’t let’s think on one miserable thing this beautiful night. Let’s put all the pain out of sight. It’s there for sure; but let’s put it out of sight. Do, Nat; do, dear, darling Nat!”
“Why, my little love, you’re all of a tremble. Take my ’and, and let’s walk about a bit. We won’t talk of miserable things, Jill—at least not yet awhile. Come out and look at the moon shining on the river. Ain’t it prime? And how the water ripples. Why, you’re shivering still, Jill. Ain’t yer well?”
“Oh, yes, Nat; I’m as well as a gel can be.”
“Let’s walk up and down then. I have everything planned for our wedding. I thought, maybe, we’d take a third-class fare down to Yarmouth or somewhere, and have a look at the real sea. I have an aunt at Yarmouth, a Mrs Potter, and she’d give us a shake-down for nothink, I make sure. Wot does yer say, Jill?”
“I never looked at the sea,” said Jill.
“Nor have I; folks say as there is nought like it. I believe we might give ourselves a week’s holiday. I has put by a few pounds. Wot’s the matter, Jill? You’re shivering again.”
“I wor thinking,” said Jill, “that maybe I were wrong about God. Maybe He ain’t up there.”
“Why, Jill, what do you mean? And I do declare you have tears in your eyes. What is the matter, my little gel?”
“Ef God was there,” said Jill, “ef the beautiful God I picter were there, He’d give us one perfect happy evening—oh, I know He would, I know He would!”
“And ain’t this evening perfect and happy, Jill?”
“I can’t keep the pain out,” said Jill in a low voice. “I ha’ tried, but it won’t stay away. I’m thinking of mother, for one thing; she ain’t very well.”
“But we’ll both take care on her when I’m your mate: and ef pain do come, we’ll bear it together. There ain’t a doubt as there’s a heap of suffering in the world, and it seems to me as if it worn’t right for us, however happy we wor, to shut our eyes to it. Why, look at me, I wor fit to burst my heart wid misery this morning, and yet when I were running up them stairs at Howard’s Buildings and thought that with each step I were getting nearer to you, it seemed as ef I could have shouted for joy. I take it that I wor in one sense selfish—in another, no.” Nat looked at Jill as he spoke. For a moment she was silent, then she said in a husky voice—
“Why were you miserable this morning, Nat?”
“It wor about my mate, Joe Williams. You know I telled you about him. Him and me we shared the same barrer, and the same cart of flowers. Joe was as good a feller as breathed; but he worn’t lucky. He had a sickly wife, for one thing, and four little bits of kids. He turned over a tidy bit of money; but he couldn’t save, not ef he was to try ever so. It seemed as ef saving and prudence worn’t in him. Do you think he’d pay a shilling a week to a buryin’ club or a sick club, or aught of them clubs as is the stay of working men? No, no, that worn’t Joe. It wor all spend, spend with him. To be sure his wife was sickly, and he couldn’t deny her nothink, and she wor more to blame than he. That woman had a perfect crank for smelling out money. Ef Joe brought ’ome as much as ’arf-a-crown, meaning to save it for a rainy day, she’d unearth it. It were no use his trying to save, for Clara were more for spending even than hisself.
“Well, one day an uncle of his died, and left him five sovereigns in an old teapot. Joe gave the teapot to Clara, and said nothing about the windfall inside. But he gave them five sovereigns to me jest a week ago, wrapped up in the identical brown-paper as I handed to you two nights back, Jill. And he says, says poor Joe, with a sort of a wink of a tear in his eye, ‘Ef the worst comes, Nat, that’ll bury me,’ says he, ‘and I won’t be on the parish,’ says he. I can tell you, Jill, that money wor like a millstone round me, I were so feart of losing it. And I were fine and glad when I handed it on to you, lass.
“Well, poor Joe, he dropped down dead yesterday morning, jest when he was coming to help me fill up the barrer. It were orful sudden, and poor Clara’s nearly off her head.”
Nat spoke huskily; the sorrowful feelings of the morning were moving him again.
“He’s dead,” he continued; “the best feller living, the kindest heart as breathed. I’ll never meet his like, he wor that trusting and that companionable. We wor mates for close on three year, and never was there a word atween us. I can’t get over his dying off so sharp; but it is a good thing as you has the money safe, Jill.”
“Yes; that’s a werry good thing,” replied Jill. She paused again.
The moon was now riding in majesty across the dark blue heavens; the lovers had turned their steps towards Howard’s Buildings. Jill was trembling no longer; every nerve was on tension, each beat of her heart was warning her to be careful, to betray nothing. She wondered at her own sudden calm, at the power of brain with which she seemed endowed. She felt so still now, so capable of acting prudently in this terrible emergency, that she was even inclined to test Nat, to see for herself what he would do and how he would look if he really knew that his dead pal’s money was gone.
“It is a good thing as I has them five sovereigns,” she continued; “but s’pose as they wor lost?”
“What do yer mean, Jill?” Nat’s honest, open face clouded over, his blue eyes flashed a steely light of anger. “You oughtn’t even to say sech a thing in jest,” he continued.
“No, no, in course I oughtn’t; but it is a way with me to look at every side o’ a picter. You giv’d the money two nights ago to a gel as could be trusted. You loved that gel, you thought a sight on her; she had a mother the soberest o’ women, and she herself were honest as the day. You’re a lucky feller, Nat Carter, to have found a gel that lives up to yer creed. You’re rare and lucky, though I say it as shouldn’t, to marry a gel with sober, quiet, and honest relations. You wouldn’t like it no other sort, would you?”
“I should think not,” said Nat, quickening his steps. “But why do you talk in that queer fashion, Jill?”
“It seems to ease my heart like; it’s so nice to know as I’m jest what you want. Now, s’pose, jest s’pose for two minutes, dear Nat, that things worn’t the way they are. S’pose I wor Jill still, with a heart all trembling with love to you, and my face the same as it is, and everything looking jest as it do now, but the inside, Nat, the inside o’ your Jill quite different. S’pose, jest for the sake o’ the thing, that my mother worn’t a sober woman, that she’d take a drop too much sometimes, and sometimes go the length o’ singing songs in the street, with a mob round her, and s’pose your Jill had to go and fetch her home and cossit her up and make purtense as she wor a very sober, ’spectable sort o’ woman, and s’pose, still more, that when you giv’d me yer mate’s money I didn’t keep it safe, but I giv’d it to my por mother what worn’t sober. You trusted Jill, and Jill worn’t worthy, and your dead pal’s money wor all gone, every stiver of it. You look at that picter, Nat, and say what you’d do with sech a Jill as I ha’ drawed out. Would you take her to your heart and say, ‘Never mind, poor Jill, you loves me, and that makes up for all. Your mother ain’t sober and you ain’t true; but your love is true, and I’ll take you to be my wife.’ That wouldn’t be your way, would it, Nat?”
“How wildly you talk, Jill. I think you must be a-going to have fever.”
“No; I ain’t goin’ to have any fever, and I ain’t talking wildly. Answer me. Would you take the Jill as I have pictured to be your wife?”
“Take the child of a drunken mother,” said Nat; “take a false gel, what wor the werry worst kind of a thief, to be my wife! No, thank yer. Don’t talk on it, Jill; it pains me; it seems sort o’ cruel to yourself even to speak on such matters.”
“But,” said Jill, “one moment, Nat. You wouldn’t have her—you’re sartin sure, even ef she had my face; the face you loves, the face you think werry lovely.” Jill threw off her many-coloured shawl as she spoke; her dark eyes gloomy in their great depths, were raised to Nat’s; her little brown well-shaped hands were placed on his shoulders, her lips were parted in a faint smile, the gleam of her pearly teeth just showed. There was a passion of love and longing in her gaze which stirred the young man to the very depths of his being. Nevertheless, what a horrible picture she had drawn! A false Jill, a thief, the daughter of a drunkard!
“No, no,” he said, almost pushing her clinging hands away; “sech a Jill ’ud be nought, and worse than nought to me. Ef she had ten times your beauty I’d spurn her. I’d push her from me. Don’t talk on her no more—don’t think on her. Put your hand inside my arm, my little love, and let’s walk fast, for you’re beginning to shiver again. Why did you talk so strangely, Jill?”
“A fancy I had,” said Jill in a light tone. “It’s over now; let’s talk o’ pleasant things again. When’ll you want your mate’s money, Nat? Shall I give it to yer to-night?”
“No, not to-night; I’ll come round and fetch it to-morrow some time.”
“About what time, Nat?”
“Let me see; I ha’ a deal to do for poor Clara Williams in the morning. I’ll come in the arternoon, as early as I can.”
“Well, we’re back at Howard’s Buildings now,” said Jill, with a little sigh, “and I must go up home. Kiss me, Nat; put your arms tight round me and kiss me.”
“My little love!” said Nat Carter.
“Hold me a bit tighter, Nat, dear. I want to kiss yer werry, werry hard for a minute. Good-night, Nat.”
“Good-night, Jill, my own little love.”
Jill kissed her hand twice to her lover, who stood and watched her as she vanished up the steep stone stairs of Howard’s Buildings.
Chapter Eleven.
Silas Lynn left Covent Garden at an early hour, and went home. He had a very neat little waggon for conveying his goods to town, and he sat in it now, in the pleasant sunshine and gave himself up to reverie.
He was very much startled and amazed at his own action that morning. He had not only made love to a very young and very pretty girl, but he had asked her to come down to the country god share his bit of a cottage with him.
He had asked her to take him for better, for worse. He had asked her to belong to him for ever and ever; it was really a tremendous thing to do, a rash, overwhelming sort of thing. Here was Silas, a grim, sour, gnarled old bachelor (he was not very far from forty years of age), asking a bit of a lass whom he knew little or nothing about to be his wife, Silas was known amongst the neighbours as a woman-hater—as a gruff, disagreeable, churlish sort of man, and yet now he was in love; absolutely in love with a pretty girl who possessed a pair of dark eyes for her dower, who was nothing whatever but a London flower girl, possessed of all the knowledge, and probably all the wickedness, that that name implied, and who owed somebody or other the large, the enormous sum of five pounds.
“It’s a good thing as she wouldn’t have me,” said Silas, as he sat in the front of the waggon, and “gee-upped” to his horses. “It’s a right good thing for me. She’d have been my undoing, sure as sure; a dainty bit of a thing with a purty way and a proud look; full of breedin’; and yet nothing but a London gel. Oncommon like the flowers all the same; painted up by the Almighty hisself—roses in her cheeks, fire in her eyes, and—my word! her lips, haven’t they a dash of colour in ’em! The Almighty made her very ’ticing—there’s no doubt on that pint. Worn’t she sweet just when she ’anded me that coffee; my word, it tasted like new honey. But all the same it’s well I’m rid on her. I’ll have forgotten her by Monday. There’s the new colt to be broken in, and that bed of dahlias wants thinnin’; I’ll say anything too that Jonathan’s coorting that wench Hepsibah, ’stead of looking arter the young sparrer-grass. Oh, my hand’s full, and I’m well quit of a bit o’ a girl like that ’un.”
Having reached home, Silas put up his tired horses, watered and groomed them, saw to their comforts in every particular, and then went into the little cottage which he had offered to share with Jill.
Silas was a very prosperous market-gardener. He had what might be called a certain knack with flowers and vegetables. Under his touch they throve. His blossoms were larger than those of any other market-gardener round. He did not go in so extensively for fruit, but even his fruit was better and more abundant than his neighbours’.
It was generally known that Silas was a man of substance. Every Monday he might have been seen trudging on foot to the nearest market town, entering the Bank, and going home again with a satisfied expression on his strong, rough face.
Everyone knew what Silas did in the Bank. He was storing his money there, putting away every week his hard-earned savings.
Notwithstanding his success, however, he was a very morose and churlish man. He never exchanged friendly words with his fellow creatures. He never invited his neighbours to partake of his hospitality. He was very good to his flowers, and scrupulously kind to his animals. But that he had any duties to perform to humanity at large, never entered into his calculations.
Although his small farm was so prosperous, and his horses so comfortably housed, the little cottage where he lived himself was of the most meagre description. It was very old, and in its best days was but a poor residence.
Silas said, however, that the two-roomed dwelling was good enough for him, and he would have been a brave man, and she a remarkable plucky woman, who had dared to suggest to Silas Lynn that he might with advantage enlarge his dwelling.
He entered his house now, put a match to some bits of sticks and some small lumps of coal, which had been left ready laid in the grate, and, sitting down on a hard wooden chair, which was much polished with age and service, glanced complacently around him.
When the fire blazed he would put the kettle on to boil, and make himself a dish of tea—he called it a dish because that had been his old mother’s way of expressing it. He would drink his tea strong and bitter, without the luxuries of milk and sugar, and take with it a slice from a quartern loaf which stood in the cupboard, and a thick cut from the cold bacon which he always kept in the house.
After this frugal meal he would be sufficiently rested to go out to thin the dahlias.
Silas had quite made up his mind to forget Jill; nevertheless, he found his thoughts running back to her in a way which both perplexed and irritated him. He said to himself:
“I has took too much notice of the gel. She’s nought but a common gel, when all’s said and done; and I has maybe turned my own head a comparing of her to the flowers made by the Lord God Almighty. It’s a good thing she wouldn’t have me; yes, it’s a right good thing. Praise the Lord for all His mercies, Silas Lynn. Drink yer tea and munch yer bacon, and forget the hussy.”
Lynn put the kettle on to boil as he spoke. Then he looked round the tiny kitchen.
“My certy, what a mess I wor near making of myself,” he muttered. “As ef she’d have been content with mother’s old room!”
The kitchen was very small; Lynn knew every inch and corner of it, but he found himself examining it now with new and critical eyes.
“A more comfortable room there can’t be,” he said to himself. “But it ain’t the place for a London gel. What ’ud she do with the old eight-day clock, and the bit of the dresser where mother kept the dishes? She’d come in with her fallals and her fashions, and afore a week wor out I wouldn’t know my own place. Mother’s arm-chair ’ud most like be moved from its corner, and the bunch of lavender that she sewed up herself in the muslin bag, and pinned over the mantelshelf, would be put behind the fire; and mother’s big Bible changed for a yeller-backed novel. Oh, lor, what an escape I has had! God be thanked again for all his mercies.”
The kettle boiled; Silas made his tea, ate his bread and bacon, and went out. He worked hard amongst his dahlias for two or three hours, scolded his servant Jonathan in round full terms, saw to the breaking in of the colt, and the comfort of his two patient waggon horses, and filially retired to his cottage when the stars were out and the moon shining. It was the very same moon that was looking down at this moment on Jill in her passion and anguish. But Silas knew nothing of this. He called the moon “My lady,” and bobbed his head to it after a fashion taught him by his mother. Then he went into his cottage, locked the door, lit a small paraffin lamp, and set himself to read his accustomed chapter out of the big Bible before going to bed.
Silas was a Wesleyan, and a very devout adherent of that religious body. He went twice every Sunday to the little Wesleyan chapel in the village close by, and on more than one occasion had himself been induced to deliver a prayer at the revival meetings.
Silas had a stentorian pair of lungs, and he could sing the old-fashioned Methodist hymns to the old tunes with immense effect. He was fond of giving way to his fancy on these occasions, and would supplement the tune with many additional twists and turns. He scorned to sing anything but a high and harsh treble, considering that the one and only quality necessary for rendering hearty praise to the Creator was noise.
Silas liked singing in the chapel, he liked praying aloud, he would not have at all objected to addressing his “fellow-worms,” as he called them, Sunday after Sunday. Above all things, he liked laboriously spelling out verse by verse a chapter of his mother’s Bible at night. He was not a fluent reader; perhaps because he only practised this art to the extent of that one chapter nightly. He liked to ponder over the words, and to move his big thumb slowly from word to word as he came to it. He never skipped a verse or a chapter, but read straight on, beginning the next night exactly where he had left off the night before. He was going through the Book of the Proverbs now, and he made shrewd comments as he read.
“Ha, ha,” he said to himself, “don’t never tell me as there’s a man living now wot beats the great King Solomon for wisdom. Take him on any subjec’, and he’s up on it, with all the newest lights too. Natrel history, for instance! hark to him on the conies and ants. Listen to him ’bout bees—why it’s quite wonderful. Then, again, take gardening—seems to me Solomon was a born gardener. Don’t Holy Writ say of him that he knew the names of all the flowers, and could he do that if he worn’t about among ’em—a-tying of ’em up, and digging at their roots, and watering ’em, and taking cuttin’s from the choicest of ’em? Folks tell of King Solomon in all his glory, but I seem to see him most often out among the flowers, a-petting and a-tending of ’em, and learning all those store of names by heart. But take Solomon all round, and his knowledge of the ways of women beats everything. Hark to the verse in this chapter: ‘Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.’ That were my mother’s sort—no beauty in her, and no favour—a downright woman, plain in her way, and a bit primity in her notions; but, oh, the goodness of her, and the fear o’ God that shone round about her, making a sort of savour all round her like a sweet-smelling flower! Jill minded me o’ her, but not in looks, for the poor gel has them things spoken so strongly agin by King Solomon. But for all that there was a sweetness in her that seemed to me this morning when I looked into her eyes to be more’n skin-deep. Most like I’m wrong. I’ve the Bible agin me, anyhow, and I ought to be thankin’ the Lord on my knees for having saved me from the enticing wiles of that poor gel.”
As a rule, Silas spent his short night without a dream, but the events of the past day had disturbed his somewhat slow nature. His brain had received an impression of a girl’s grace, freshness and beauty, which had penetrated straight from the brain to the heart.
Silas fully believed that by Monday morning he should have forgotten Jill; that her image would fade from his mental sight, her voice cease to sound on his mental ears. He did not know that he was never to forget her—that from henceforth to his dying day he would carry her image tenderly, sacredly in the inner shrine of his heart.
The little rosy god of love had come and touched Silas, and he could no more resist his influence than the flowers in his own garden could refrain from growing and expanding in the sunshine. So, quite contrary to his wont, Silas Lynn spent his night in dreams. Jill figured in each of these visions. Sometimes she was angry with him, sometimes appealing, sometimes indifferent. She was in danger, and he was the one to save her. She was surrounded by prosperity, and he was the benefactor who brought these good things to her feet.
All the time, however, through all the happenings of these queer distorted dreams, he and Jill were together. It did not surprise Silas, therefore, when early on that Sunday morning he awoke, to hear some one knocking at his door.
“Yes, I’m coming,” he said, still believing that he was in a dream.
“I want you very badly, Silas Lynn,” called Jill from the other side of the door.
Then he knew that he was awake, and that she had come to him. All the prudent thoughts of yesterday had flown to the winds. He found himself absolutely trembling with eagerness, joy, ecstasy.
“Yes, I’m a-coming; I’ll be with yer in a minute, Jill,” he called out. “For,” he said to himself as he tumbled into his clothes, “it’s too wonderful for anything. Who’d ha’ thought—who would have thought that a dainty bit of a cuttin’ like that ’ud go and take root in a rough soil like this here? It’s a fact nevertheless. Nothing less ’ud bring her here at this time o’ the morning. ‘Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain’—not a bit on it—you’re wrong for once, King Solomon.”
Having dressed himself, Silas quickly unlocked the cottage-door.
Jill was standing outside, leaning wearily against the post of the door. Her neat black dress was covered with dust, her apron was unpinned, her gay-coloured shawl had fallen back from her shapely head, and her black hair, in some disorder, was tumbled about her face. Jill’s face was very white. Silas felt himself absolutely colouring crimson as he came out to her, but not a tinge of shyness or embarrassment were in the wide-open eyes she raised to his.
“I ha’ come,” she said, speaking in a choking, husky voice, “for the loan of the money. I know wot it means, Silas, but I ha’ come all the same.”
“You know what it means?” said Silas Lynn, clasping both her small, cold hands in one enormous palm. “Do you mean to tell me that we are to wed each other, Jill Robinson? Are we to go afore the pa’son, and take each other for better and for worse?”
“Ef you like,” said Jill wearily. “I ha’ come for the money first. That’s the first thing. We can talk of t’other later on. The money’s the first thing.”
“Yes, yes. Why, you are all in a tremble! You must want that ere money bitter bad, Jill Robinson. Look me in the eyes, gel, and say as you’ll play me no tricks arter I have gived it to yer.”
“I’ll be quite true to you, Mr Lynn.”
“Now, don’t you speak in them stiff tones. Say ‘Silas,’ my pretty. Say ‘I’ll be quite true to you, Silas.’”
“I’ll be quite true to you, Silas,” repeated Jill.
“And you love me?”
“I—I’ll try.”
“Look you yere, Jill—” Silas was getting command of the situation now. His heart was opening out under these full beams of love and rapture. “Look you yere,” he said, “ef you’re true to me, Jill Robinson, and ef you love me even a little, and think nothink of no other feller—why, now I swear as there ain’t gel in the land as ’ull have a better husband. There’ll be love all round you, Jill; and what can’t that do? And ef I’m rough to outsiders you’ll never see nothink o’ it, my little gel; your wishes ’ull be mine, and your friends ’ull be mine, and your fancies will be my fancies. Day and night I’ll serve yer; and there ain’t any gel, no, not even if she’s a princess, ’ull have a truer mate. I wor a good son to my mother wots in ’eaven, and I’ll be a good husband to you, you pretty bit of a dainty flower—ef you’ll do your part. Faithful and true, that’s all I arsk. Is it a bargain, Jill? As to the money part, I could give yer ten times five pounds, ef yer wanted it—that’s neither here nor there; but the other part of the bond I must ha’ your promise on. Faithful and true—you’ll be that. D’ye hear me, Jill?”
“Yes,” said Jill, “I’ll do my part. I’ll think o’ none but you; I’ll be true to you in word and deed.”
“Then that’s right. I’ll ask no more questions. There’s a home for yer mother in my ’ouse, Jill, and full and plenty for you from this moment forward; and we’ll get spliced up as soon as may be, gel.”
“But the money,” said Jill. “It’s part of the bond between us, that I should ha’ the money and no questions asked.”
“You shall ha’ the money, and I’ll ask no questions, ef you don’t want to tell me.”
“I can’t tell you, Mr Lynn. The money were give to me in trust, and it got lost, although no one stole it. I must give it back to the one wot’s lent it to me this werry arternoon.”
“You shall have it, my gel. Now come into the house, and I’ll get yer a cup of tea. ’Ow did yer come to me, Jill? And how did you find my bit of a shanty?”
“It were this way,” said Jill. “I found last night, quite late last night, that the lost money must be gived back to—And I thought of you, and I ’membered how real kind you were. It worn’t that I loved you, Silas Lynn. I’ll try to in future, but it wornt with any thought of love that I ’membered you last night. But as I sat all in desolation, I see your face, kind and smiling, and tender-like, a-looking at me, and I said I’ll go to Silas, and he’ll save me fro’ my misery.”
“That wor right—that wor a good thought,” interposed the man.
“I went out then, and I came to a shop just close to the market, where I guessed as they’d know ’bout you. It wor a flower-shop; the man’s name is Thomson. And Thomson said, as good luck ’ud have it, he were just starting an empty waggon back into Kent, to be ready for a load of strawberries for Monday’s market. And ef I liked, he said, I could have a lift in it.
“So I spent the night in the waggon, Silas, and in the morning the waggon set me down nigh upon four miles off, and I walked the rest of the way.
“That’s all,” continued Jill, heaving a sigh, and sinking down into the old straw chair which had remained empty in Silas’s house since his mother’s death.
“There you be,” said Silas, clasping his hands in ecstasy. “You mind me o’ the lavender, as well as t’other and gayer flowers. There’s something wondrous subtle and sweet about yer—mignonette, too, you take arter, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised ef I found cherry-pie flavour in yer before long. Verbeny and sweet-briar you air, and no mistake. But there, I must see and get yer a cup o’ tea, for you’re sore spent, my poor little cuttin’, and you won’t strike into this yere honest breast, ef I don’t see arter the watering.”
The members of the Wesleyan chapel to which Silas belonged would scarcely have known him this morning. The fact that he was expected to lead their choir was absolutely obliterated from his mind. It is very much to be doubted if he even remembered that the day on which Jill came to him was Sunday.
Jonathan, his factotum, and one servant, appeared presently on the scene, and nearly jumped when he saw his rough, fierce-looking master tenderly offering tea, minus milk and sugar, to the prettiest picture of a girl Jonathan’s eyes had ever rested on.
“You there!” shouted the master, “make yerself useful. Go round to Farmer Ladd’s, and bring in a pint o’ cream and a slab o’ butter, and ask ef the missis has a plump spring chicken ready plucked for roasting. And go on to Dawson’s in the village, and get a loaf of white bread. Quick! D’ye hear! Wot are ye staring at?”
“But it’s the Sawbath,” said Jonathan, dropping his jaws.
“Ef it’s fifty Sawbaths, go and do my biddin’. D’ye hear!”
Jonathan flew off, and strange whispers soon after began to circulate in the village with regard to that soberest and soundest of men, Silas Lynn.
But all the time Silas himself was in the Garden of Eden, for surely no Sunday like this had ever dawned before in his austere life.
“Ain’t the flowers purtty?” he said to Jill. “Never did I see anythink like ’em. Seems as if they knowed. Do look at the perky airs o’ them pansies! Sauce is no name for ’em—staring up at us two in that unblushing fashion. Eh, Jill, did you speak, my gel?”
“The flowers are like picters, Silas. I never see flowers like this all a-growin’ before. It’s very soothin’ to look on. They seem to still the ’eart.”
“Well, my ’eart’s a-bobbing and a-banging,” said Silas. “There’s no stilling o’ it to-day, nor for many another day, I guess. My word, wen you speak of yer ’eart being stilled, sounds as ef you were in pain of some sort.”
“No, Silas, I’m werry ’appy. But there’s a deal of pain in the world, you knows; and it’s comfortin’ to think as the flowers is meant for them as suffers. I must be asking yer for the money now, Silas, for I ha’ got to take the next train back to Lunnon.”
“I’ll come with yer, my gel.”
“No, please don’t. It’s a bargain that I am to give the money back to the one what gi’ it to me to keep, and no questions arsked. That’s a bargain, ain’t it, Silas Lynn?”
“To be sure, Jill. You don’t suppose as I doubts yer, my pretty little cuttin’? You come along to the ’ouse, and I’ll get the money out. ’Ow’ll yer take it? In silver or gowld?”
“I’d like five sovereigns best, Silas, ef you had ’em.”
“Well, we’ll see. You set there in the porch, and I’ll go and look.”
Silas presently returned with five new sovereigns, which he placed in Jill’s open palm. It was delightful to him to give. He had no idea that this gold was the price of freedom and of a girl’s first love.
“My word, how still she sets,” he muttered. “Breeding through and through. Wot flower is she most like now? The lavender, I’m thinking—so primily and shut-up like in its ways. She’ll make a wife in a thousand. I’m ’bout the luckiest feller in Christendom.”