“I don’t think I ought to tell,” said Jill. “It wor a secret, and you mind, Silas, as it were part of the bargain that I shouldn’t tell yer wot I wanted the money for, and that you shouldn’t ask no questions.”
“I won’t, Jill, ef you’d rayther not tell,” said Silas. “I’d like to know. Afore we stood up in the presence of God, and promised to be true to each other, I’d like well to know anythink as wor troubling yer. For look yere, little Jill, it ain’t you as has done wrong – it ain’t you as has a secret to hide – but maybe there are some belonging to yer as yer wants to shield. Well, Jill, you can’t shield ’em no better way than by telling me, wot is to be yer husband, the whole truth.”
While Silas was speaking, Jill’s face underwent a queer change. It was as if a heavy and very dark mantle of care had dropped from it. She looked up at Silas with a sort of solemn reverence.
“I b’lieve as you’re a good man,” she said. “I b’lieve as you’re the best man I ever met.”
“And yer’ll trust me, Jill?”
“I will, Silas, I’ll trust yer.” She sat down as she spoke, and crossed her hands in her lap. “I’ll tell yer about the money,” she continued. “I know as yer’ll never bring it up to me nor to mine, and, besides, I need name no names. It were this way. A few days afore I come to ask yer to lend me some flowers, a friend – one I thought a sight on, one I – I loved, Silas – give me five pounds to keep faithful, werry faithful, for a mate of his. I put the money into an old stocking with some savings of my own. I was quite light in my heart then, and werry happy. I hadn’t known no trouble then. One morning I got up with the glad heart of a bird inside o’ me. I went into the kitchen jest where you and me is now, and I prepared to go to the market. As I were leaving the house, I ’membered I had no money in my pocket. I went to the bureau. There I found that the old stocking had been opened by some one, and all the money – all my savings, and the five pounds wot my friend had give me to take care for for his pal were gone. There was a letter on the top of the bureau telling me who had took the money. The money – all the money – was took away by some one else wot I loved werry dear. You may s’pose, Silas, as I felt near mad. I wouldn’t and I couldn’t betray the friend wot took the money to the friend wot trusted me with it. That night the one who gave me the money to keep came and asked for it back. I put a test to him, and I saw he could never bear the shock o’ knowing the truth, so – ”
Jill paused, there was a break in her voice, she threw her apron over her head.
“So?” continued Silas.
“I let him go,” she added.
“And you come to me, little Jill?”
“I did, Silas; I come to you.”
“And I give yer the money, and asked no questions?”
“You did, you did.”
“And to-morrow we’ll be made man and wife afore God?”
“Yes, Silas, that’s so.”
“You b’lieve as I loves yer, Jill? You b’lieves in the strength of my love?”
“I do, Silas.”
“Well, that’s all. You has told me wot were in your heart, and you’ll never be sorry. Now I must be gwine home. I’ll send the waggon up for you to-morrow, and Aunt Hannah in it. And you’ll come down to me, faithful and true?”
“In course I will, Silas.”
“Well, kiss me now. Give me a kiss of your own free will. Jest say over to yourself – ‘By this time to-morrow Silas Lynn will be my husband, and I his wife. And Silas loves me.’ Say them winds over, werry solemn-like, to yourself, Jill, and then kiss me. There ain’t nothin’ in all the world I wouldn’t do for you, my little gel.”
Jill raised her face. She lifted her velvety, rose-bud lips to the man’s rough cheek. He ought her to him with frantic eagerness and pressed one kiss in return on her forehead, and left her, stumbling awkwardly out of the room, as though he were blind.
Chapter Seventeen
When Silas returned to the cottage late that evening, he found Jonathan waiting for him with an expectant expression on his face.
“I ha’ redd up the whole place, master,” he said, “and brushed the path from the wicket up to the porch and I ha’ watered the flowers, and I think there ain’t nothink more to be done. Everythink is quite ready. I thought as you’d like me to put the place in order, seeing as you was late in comin’ home, master.”
“It’s all right, Jonathan,” said Silas in a gentle voice.
“Maybe as you’d like to look round, and see how I ha’ done it for yourself, master?”
“No, no, Jonathan, it’s safe to be all right; you can go home now, you’re a good lad, and yere’s half-a-crown for yer.” Jonathan pulled his forelock in acknowledgment of this bounty and turned to leave the little flower farm. As he was walking down the path Lynn called after him. “I s’pose,” he said, “that Henry Best wor round to see arter the packing of the waggon.”
“Yes, master, it’s all ready, and Best’ll start the horses to market at one o’clock in the morning.”
“You call at his cottage,” said Lynn, “and tell him as I’ll be taking a seat into town with him.”
“You, master.” Jonathan opened his wide mouth in amazement. “Why, I thought– ”
“Never mind what yer thought,” thundered Lynn after him, “do as yer’re told, and make yerself scarce.” Jonathan quickened his steps, and Lynn very slowly entered the little cottage. A great many changes had taken place in the dingy room which acted both as kitchen and parlour. There was plenty of daylight still, and Lynn looked round at all his preparations. The two small lattice windows had been subjected to such an ordeal of soap and water, that each tiny pane shone in the evening light like a jewel. There was a clean new dimity curtain hung up before each window. The walls of the room had received a fresh coat of colour wash, the floor was nearly covered by the large gaily-striped rug which had called forth Aunt Hannah’s indignation, the new mahogany table gave a solid and handsome appearance to the centre of the room, the new cane chair, with a striped grey and red tidy thrown over its back, had an inviting appearance. The little china cupboard, too, had been put up on the wall, and the gold and white china with the blue convolvulus pattern had been so arranged within it as to show to the best possible advantage. The old arm-chair in which Lynn’s mother had lived and died still kept its solemn position by the hearth. It was a high-backed chair with a shallow seat; it had a hard Puritanical look about it, and seemed to Lynn’s excited imagination now to frown at the gay new things which were brought for the bonny girl-bride who was to take possession of the little home to-morrow.
“Ah! it’s a blow,” murmured Lynn, seating himself on the edge of a plain deal chair, and looking round the room. “I ha’ got to make the best of it, but it’s an awful blow. Jill’ll marry me of course ef I’ll have her, but the question is this, shall I have her? I has got to settle that pint atween myself and the Lord God Almighty to-night.” Some bread and cheese was ready in the cupboard for Lynn’s supper, the cupboard door stood partly open, and he could see the brown loaf and the cheese from where he sat. He had eaten nothing since the morning, but the sight of food in his present state turned the strong man sick; he rose, and going to little cupboard shut the door and turned the key in the lock. “I thought as the Lord had given over a-chastening o’ me,” he said, “I wor mistook. Oh, this yere’s an awful blow. I can take that young gel to wife to-morrow, but her ’eart won’t be mine, her ’eart’ll be another’s. Oh, this yere is a blow. Lord God, it seems kind o’ cruel that I should jest have had such a short bit of happiness, and then for it all to go. Now shall I read my Bible to-night or shall I not?”
Lynn paced up and down the tiny cottage while he thought. The sun set in the heavens, and the summer twilight, which could scarcely be called darkness, set in. He did not light his lamp nor draw his curtains; the darkness, which was not quite darkness after all, soothed him; he found it easier to face the great problem which had come to him in the dim uncertain light. Jill was quite ready to marry him – should he marry her and say nothing about what he knew? He loved her so intensely that he felt almost positive of his power to make her happy, he would give up his whole life to her, she should mould him and direct him, she should guide him with her gentle little hands. It would be impossible for her to be unhappy living among the sweet flowers in his garden, and surrounded by his great, mighty love.
“Yes, I love her fit to die for her,” he muttered. As he said these words, a thought swept over him, like a flash; he remembered a certain verse in the old Bible, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
“My God,” he exclaimed aloud, “it’s easy to say as I’d die fur Jill, but it’s hard, hard to do it. I can take her to-morrow for better for worse, and live for her, but that ain’t the pint. Seems to me as the Lord wants to prove my love for that little Jill by a sort of being crucified for her. I’m to give up myself and give her to another. Is that what I has got to do, Lord? To kill my pleasure and my ’appiness, is that the way I’m to show my love for little Jill?”
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” The words seemed to echo through the silent room, as if they fell from the skies. Silas staggered to the window, pulled the lattice pane open, flung himself on his knees, and looked up at the summer sky. “It’s bitter, bitter hard, Lord,” he muttered.
He was not comforted by any thought of the nobleness of the sacrifice. He grovelled on the ground, and clenched his hands and tore his hair. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I won’t do it,” he muttered, but these words of defiance came at longer and longer intervals. The quiet, persistent voice kept on sounding in his ears, “Greater love – greater love hath no man.” He could not bear the sound at last, he pressed his hands to his ears and ran out of the cottage.
Chapter Eighteen
“Well, I am surprised to see you at the market this morning, Silas Lynn,” said Molly Maloney, who had come to stock her basket with fresh flowers, and who came across Lynn standing moodily by one of the stalls. “Why, ain’t this yer wedding-day? – but glory be to heaven, man, how blue you looks! Where’s Jill? Is anything wrong with the bit of a colleen?”
“No,” said Lynn, “there’s nothing wrong with Jill; she’s comin’ down to me presently, and there’ll be a weddin’ sure enough, don’t you make no mistake on that pint, Mrs Maloney; but I’m standing here a-looking out for a young chap o’ the name o’ Carter. Do you happen to know, ma’am, ef he’s come to the market yet?”
“Him as used to keep company with Jill?” exclaimed Mother Maloney; “yes, I seen him ’arf an hour ago a-buying young peas and other vegetables for his barrer; he were round by the south door and – ” But Lynn had left her.
He strode rapidly in the direction the Irishwoman had pointed out. His hands were stuck deep in his pockets; his great sullen shoulders were raised almost to his ears; the old ferocious look was once more observable on his brow and round his mouth.
Nat Carter had nearly concluded his purchases when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder; he looked swiftly round and came face to face with Lynn.
Nat coloured high when he perceived the person who had touched him. A swift wave of crimson dyed his cheeks and broad, white brow, then it receded, leaving the young fellow pale as death. His blue eyes flashed angrily at Lynn, his lips were firmly shut, he clenched his fist, and waited for the other to begin.
“You ha’ heard,” said Lynn, who noticed these quick changes in the young costermonger’s face with a sort of grim satisfaction; “you ha’ heard, in course, that I’m a-gwine to wed that pretty little flower gel, Jill Robinson, this arternoon.”
“It’s true, I ha’ heard,” replied Nat; “I don’t want to speak on it, Silas Lynn. I’m werry busy just now a-packing my barrer, and as you and me can’t have naught in common, I’ll be wishing yer a good morning.”
“But we can have a deal in common, lad,” exclaimed Silas; “why, what a chicken ’eart you has, turning faint when a gel’s name is spoke!”
“Ef you say that again I’ll knock yer down,” said Nat.
“Oh, tut, tut, ain’t I twice yer age nearly, and a good bit more than twice yer strength? Look yere, Nat Carter, I want to talk this matter over with you. I ha’ heard something ’bout you and Jill what must be cleared up afore I take her afore the parson. I want to do wot’s right and jest by that yere gel. Your ’appiness ain’t nothing to me, Nat Carter; and my own ’appiness! well, the Lord knows as that ain’t worth considerin’ either. But Jill’s ’appiness, that’s everything. You and me ’as got to argufy that pint out werry clear, young man.”
Nat did not reply for a moment or two, then he said in a slow voice:
“I had made a vow in my heart that I’d never speak the name o’ that young gel, Jill Robinson, again,” he murmured. “I heard as she were about to be spliced up with you, Mr Lynn, and I said to myself I ’opes as I’ll never meet that old man, Silas Lynn, or maybe I’ll be doin’ him a mischief. I don’t want to meet yer, or to speak with yer, nor to hear anything more ’bout Jill. It’s quite true as I dreamt a dream that there wor a gel o’ that name, what could be all the world to me. I woke one arternoon and there worn’t no sech Jill nowhere on God’s wide earth. I don’t want to speak to you about the gel you’re gwine to marry, Mr Lynn.”
“Not ef I tell yer somethink that’ll prove to yer as the Jill you dreamt on is still living on this earth, sweeter and brighter nor the best and the purtiest sweet spring flower; ef I proves that to yer, will yer come along and talk with me, Nat Carter?” A queer, convulsive change came over Nat’s face when Silas said these words. He hesitated for a moment.
“I – I’ll come,” he said then. “I didn’t think as I could be such a weak fool, but somehow I don’t know myself lately.”
He called to a tall, slight lad who stood near, gave him some directions with regard to the vegetables and fruit he had just bought, and turned with Lynn to leave the market.
The two men turned down a side street and entered a small restaurant, which was nearly empty at this early hour. Lynn called to the girl who stood behind the counter to bring coffee for two, and then walked with Carter into the back room, which they had absolutely to themselves.
“There can’t be no smooth words between you and me to-day, Nat Carter,” said Lynn, turning suddenly and facing the younger and slighter man. “The facts of the case are these. This yere is my wedding-day. I’m about to contract marriage with a young gel not seventeen year old, and I – you’re pleased to call me an old man, Nat Carter, and I don’t deny as I’ll see forty years come two more summers. But a man of my age is in his prime. You young ’uns think to laugh at us, but there ain’t no laughing in these muscles,” here Lynn doubled his brawny arm, “nor in this yere chest, nor in these legs, nor in this fist. I feel pretty sartin’ as this yere fist o’ mine ’ud knock a slim, straight young feller like you into kingdom come, Nat Carter. There’s nothing o’ decay ’bout me, although you think fine to call me old. My strength is in its prime – and my passions, my love, and my hate, why they’re in their prime too. I tell yer, Carter, that the love of a young feller like you ain’t nothing to the love o’ a man like me – but that ain’t the pint – wot am I talking on? Come and set down here, Carter, and let me speak quietly to yer.”
“I don’t know why you have dragged me in yere,” said Carter; “I wor busy with my work; I don’t want yer to flaunt yer ’appiness in my face.”
“Will you have anything to eat with the coffee, gentlemen?” said the girl who brought it in.
“Nothing – go,” thundered Lynn; she disappeared quickly, and Silas turned to Carter.
“Poor lad,” he said in an almost pitying tone, “you talk o’ me flaunting my ’appiness in yer face – I must be awful full o’ malice to do a thing o’ that sort. You wait awhile, Carter, and see how the tables ’ull turn presently. As I wor saying, this yere is my weddin’-day – I and that little gel with the dark eyes and the sweet look, and the scent of the wild flowers ’bout her, wor to be spliced up afore the pa’son to-day. Oh, I wor ’appy – the Lord God Almighty knows as I wor a’most too ’appy to live. Yesterday it seemed to me as ef I trod on air – oh, what wouldn’t I ha’ done for my little gel! But, yesterday, Carter, ’appiness and me said good-bye to one another. Now you listen, young man, your turn is a-comin’. I went yesterday to Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital to take a parcel to a sick neighbour. As I wor leaving the ward a woman screeched out to me; I turned, and who should I see but Jill’s mother, Poll. Ah, you may well start, young man, but you wait awhile, there’s more to come. I went up to that woman, and she spoke to me and arsked had I seen Jill. I said, ‘Yes.’ She arsked, ‘Is Jill ’appy?’ I said ‘yes’ again to that. Then I added, looking ’ard at her, ‘It ’ud be queer ef Jill worn’t ’appy seeing as she’s to be wed to-morrow.’
”‘Oh, thank the good Lord,’ said Poll; ‘I’m real glad to hear that. I was frightened as she and Nat Carter wouldn’t wed one another.’ You may suppose, young man, as I turned a bit sick and queer when I hear’d words o’ that sort. I jest knew you as a likely chap what bought wegetables in the market. I had never hear’d you and Jill spoke on as keeping company. I had to steady myself a bit; but I spoke quite quiet, and got Poll to tell me all that wor in her ’eart. Seems to me, young man, that you’re a person with mighty little o’ the quality what pious folks call faith; seems to me as you’re but chicken-hearted in your love. However, to my tale. Poll said as you and Jill had allers loved each other ever since you was kids, and that when she saw Jill last, you and she had made up yer’ minds to get spliced to one another as soon as pa’son could be found to tie yer up. Well, poor Poll she had an ugly secret, and she was mortal feared o’ your finding it out. Jill knowed o’ it, but Poll didn’t want you ever to know. She said you wor good, but a bit ’ard, and you wouldn’t have naught in the world to do with any gel what worn’t honest and sober and true. Jill wor honest and sober and true; but Poll herself, poor soul, suffered awful pain fro’ a bad sort of tumour in her breast, and she tuk gin on the quiet to ease it. She made no bones o’ it to me that she often got drunk to ease the pain, and Jill know’d it, although she wouldn’t let on. Well, when you and Jill said as you’d become man and wife, Poll thought as she’d run away, so as you’d never hear of her and never find out as Jill wor the daughter of a woman as drank. She was in an awful takin’ as you’d heard of the news, for yer sister met her and said some cruel words, and it wor a real load off her mind when I told her as Jill wor to be married to-day; she made sure, in course, as the bridegroom wor to be you.
“I left the hospital without having let out one single thing ’bout myself. It don’t matter to you, young man, how I felt. I thought over everythink, and I went to see Jill. Afore I spoke to her mother I made sure as the pretty bit of a cuttin’ wor a-taking real root in my ’eart; but arter I heard Poll’s story, I made jest as sure as she never cared for me; she only married me to save herself. To make a long story short, it seems that you give her five pounds to take care on for a pal o’ yourn. Well, she lost the money – I make no doubt, from what I draw’d out of her, that her mother stole it. She come to me to ask me to lend her five pounds. I said I’d give it to her ef she’d wed me. She said no at first; but the next morning early she come all the way down to my bit of a cottage in Kent and said yes as she would wed me ef I’d give her the five pounds and arsk no questions. You may well look queer, Nat Carter. You ask your own ’eart what you did to make a gel like Jill give yer up, and be too frighted to tell yer the truth. Look at me —I’m rough enough, ’eaven knows – but do yer think she’d be frightened to arsk me anythink? No, no; that ain’t Jill. And now the pint to be decided on is, What’s best for her ’appiness?”