Chapter Nineteen
Even the humblest abode can look gay and bright when it is decked all over with flowers, and when the windows look out on gay gardens and blooming plants, and lake in also distant peeps of lovely country. Kent has been well called the garden of England, and that part where Silas Lynn lived, and where his little flower farm was, was as brilliant and as rich in all kinds of vegetation as any spot in the whole of the county.
Aunt Hannah Royal was, as she expressed it, in every event “all one thing or t’other.” She either went with all her heart and soul for a person, or she determined to oppose them with equal vigour. There was nothing half-hearted about her, she could never have been called in any sense of the word lukewarm. She had come to Silas’s cottage with the full intention of opposing his marriage with Jill, and, if possible, preventing it. She had left the cottage on the first night of her interview considerably softened in her views with regard to things in general. She had made up her mind to see Jill before she took any more steps against her. She had also made up her mind that the tea-drinking out of that delicate “chaney” should prove a success.
When Jill arrived, and when shortly afterwards she echoed Aunt Hannah’s sentiments with regard to the lovely cups and saucers, the old woman’s heart was completely won. She ceased to oppose Silas’s marriage. She kissed him when she next saw him, and told him that the “gel wor a sweet-looking gel, and she made no doubt as she’d be humble and teachable, and willing to learn, not only of her husband, but of her Aunt Hannah.”
“Then, Aunt Hannah,” said Silas, “you’ll ondertake the wedding-feast, won’t you?”
Aunt Hannah decided that she would, and the next morning she came to live at the cottage, and spent every instant of her time preparing the eatables, without which no wedding in her opinion could be properly solemnised.
A few of the village folks had been asked to meet the bride at Silas’s little cottage. The whole party were then to walk to church together, and afterwards, late in the evening, Silas and his wife were to go away by train to the nearest sea-side place.
This was the little programme which Aunt Hannah Royal devoutly believed was to be carried out.
Mary Ann Hatton, Mrs Hibberty Jones, another neighbour of the name of Ann Spires, and two or three men, were all waiting in the little parlour when Silas appeared leading Jill by the hand.
The little bride wore a new print dress with a tiny spray of rose-buds all over it. Her beautiful hair was bound tightly round her head, but in spite of all her careful brushing, some tendrils would get loose. She wore no ornament of any kind, not even a flower from Silas’s garden. As he took her hand and led her into the midst of his friends, she looked at him as if expecting the gay bouquet which he had promised her. He took no notice of her questioning gaze, however, but, leading her forward, stood before the expectant company.
“Neighbours and friends,” he said, “I ha’ to thank you for coming here to-day. You have known me, most of you, for many years, and I’m sure you are all willing and proud to look on at the great ’appiness which it seems to you I’m ’bout to have.”
When Silas said these words, old Peters made a profound bow to the bride.
“There ain’t no doubt on the pint of your ’appiness, Silas,” he said.
“I don’t think there is any doubt,” answered Silas, with a queer look on his face. “Ef I wor to take this young gel to my ’eart it’d be all the same as ef I wor back again in the spring-time of life. The gladness and the lightness of youth would come back to me. Summer’s all very well,” continued Silas, looking round at his friends, “but for gaiety there’s no time like spring. Now this young gel is in the early spring, and I, neighbours, I’m a man as is enjoying of his late summer. I’m full-blown, and this yere young gel is a bud. Now which, neighbours, would you say wor the most waluable from the market-gardener’s pint of view, the bud or the flower wot’s come to its maturity?”
“I allers set store by buds,” said Mary Ann Hatton, in her tart voice. “There’s a sight o’ promise ’bout ’em, and we know as the full-blown flower have had its day; but I’m meaning no disrespect to you, Silas.”
“No more you are, Mary Ann, and I’m obleeged for a plain answer. Now that pint’s clear. The bud’s more waluable nor the full-blown flower. Neighbours, I’m glad to see yer, for I ha’ got a case for you all to decide. I didn’t think as there wor sech a decision to be made when I asked yer to my wedding, but circumstances has arose sence I last saw any of yer, wot makes it but fair that this young gel should get your mature opinion.”
“Wot is it, Silas?” asked Jill, suddenly turning round and looking at him. “I ha’ come down yere to wed yer; it ain’t no affair of anyone’s but yours and mine. Maybe we ought to be going to the church, Silas; maybe it’s ’bout time.”
“Hark to the little cuttin’” said Silas, with a harsh, troubled laugh; “you can’t none of yer say, neighbours, as she ain’t willin’. Now, my little dearie, you let Silas speak. I ha’ thought it all out, and I means to put the case to my good friends here. I think they has already answered me, but I’ll put the question once more. Neighbours all, ef one of us two could only be made ’appy by this yere wedding, which is to be most considered, the bud or the full-blown flower?”
“It’s a wery queer question,” said Peters, “but, in course, we must give it for the bud, Silas.”
“No, I don’t see nothink of the sort,” exclaimed Aunt Hannah. “Silas Lynn is a man of family; he comes of a pious stock, what tuk great care of their chaney, and mended their carpets, and polished up their furniture. Silas’s mother, what died of the asthmey, were as God-fearing and ’spectable a woman as wore shoe leather. Silas comes of a good stock, and that, in a case of weddin’, is much to be considered. I’m not saying anythink agen that young gel; she has right opinions, and she can be trained; but when all’s said and done, she’s a London gel, and she’s in rare luck to get Silas.”
“That’s wot I think, Aunt Hannah,” said Jill; she went up to Silas as she spoke and linked her hand in his arm. “I’m not ashamed to say, Silas,” she continued, looking him full in the face with a great tenderness filling her eyes, “that I love yer better each day. I’m abundantly willing to marry yer, Silas.”
“Thank you, my little gel,” said Silas. “Thank you, too, Aunt Hannah, but in a case like the present a man must judge for himself. I’ll ask yer now one plain question, Jill. Look solemn into yer ’eart, my gel, and tell me true as you wor standing afore the angels, is there no man on this ’arth what you love better nor me? You answer me that pint werry plain. Do you love me, Silas Lynn, better nor anyone else on God’s wide ’arth?”
Silas’s words, his attitude, the piercing way he looked at Jill had a great effect on all the visitors. Even Aunt Hannah began to feel that there was more in all this talk than appeared on the surface. As for Jill herself, she turned first pale, then rosy red. After a very short pause she said in a queer tone:
“I couldn’t tell yer a lie to-day, Silas. I can only say, let by-gones be by-gones, and I can faithfully promise afore God Almighty to make yer a good wife.”
“But I won’t have yer for a wife ef you don’t love me best of all,” said Silas. “Wait one moment, Jill. There’s someone else to have a say in this yere.” He walked across the room and flung the door open. “Come in, Nat Carter, and speak for yerself,” he called out. “Ef Jill can say as she loves me more than you, why I’ll take her to church and wed her. Ef not – now, Nat, come in and speak, man.”
There was a little buzz amongst the guests. Mary Ann Hatton was heard to say afterwards that she never felt nearer fainting in her life. She uttered a little gasp which no one heard; Aunt Hannah gave a snort which no one listened to. All the pairs of eyes were fixed on the handsome straight-looking young man who came into the room, who blushed as deeply as Jill did, and walked at once to her side.
“Jill,” he exclaimed, “there never wor such a noble fellow as this yere Silas Lynn. He ha’ put a deal o’ things straight ’tween you and me this morning, and if you still loves me best, why, sweet-heart.”
“Oh, Nat, I do, I do, I can’t help it,” exclaimed poor Jill. She flung herself into her lover’s arms, who kissed her passionately on her brow and lips.
“Take her out for a bit into the garden,” whispered Silas in a hoarse voice to the young man; “go away, both on yer, for a little, while I ’splain things to the neighbours.”
Chapter Twenty
The moon and the stars have some advantages which mankind in times of perplexity would gladly possess. For instance, they can take a bird’s-eye view of events; from their lofty standpoint they can look down on more than one place at a time in this small world. Doubtless things of immense and overpowering importance to us assume their juster proportions from this immeasurable distance.
On the night which should have been Silas Lynn’s wedding night, there was a clear sky, the moon was at its full, and the stars shone in multitudes in the deep blue firmament. Amongst other things they looked down on a ship returning to its native shores. There were sailors on board of course, and many passengers, and, amongst others, a rather disconsolate, pale-faced, freckled boy, who sat on his bunk in the sailors’ cabin, and rubbed his tear-stained, small eyes with one dirty knuckle, while in his other hand he held a pen, and tried to scribble some words on a sheet of paper.
“Dear sister Jill,” he wrote, “this is to say that Tom and me has had a bad time of it. We are real sorry as we tuk the money, and then put the sin o’ it on mother. We don’t like being sailors, and we gets lots o’ cuffs, and Tom ran away at the last port. I ain’t coming ’ome, although the ship will be in England in twenty-four hours, ef the weather keeps fair; but I write now to say as it was me and Tom tuk the money, all ’cept one pound ten what mother tuk when she ran away. This is to say, too, as I rubbed out mother’s writing on the letter, and put in the words that said she tuk it all. It worn’t mother; it wor Tom and me. I believe the proverb now ’bout ill-gotten gains, for I’m very misribble.
“Your affectionate brother:
“Bob.”
Some tears dropped from Bob’s eyes on the crooked and ill-spelt writing; but the letter got finished somehow, and, what is more, got into an envelope which bore the superscription, “Jill, Howard’s Buildings, Nettle Street, London.” A stamp was fixed on the envelope, and it was dropped into the ship’s letterbox, and in due course did reach Jill’s hands.
Several other characters have been introduced into this story, and the moon and stars looked down on them all – on Poll, lying on her bed in the hospital; on Susy Carter; on Irish Molly Maloney. But perhaps those on whom the brilliant rays of that clear full moon shone with the deepest interest were Jill and Nat, who sat once again in the garden on the Embankment, and talked of their wedding-day. They were together and happy, and they said anew that they owed it all to Silas.
“Who’d ha’ thought it?” said Nat; “and he looks so rough.”
But Jill would not even admit now that Silas was rough.
“You don’t know what a tender ’eart he has, Nat!” she exclaimed. “Ef he has a roughness, it’s only jest on the surface, and what matters that? Oh, Nat, I’m quite positive sure that I’ll allers love Silas next best in the world to mother and you.”
For Silas himself, he stood at that moment by the porch in his little garden; his arms were folded, his head was bare, the flowers lay sleeping at his feet, and the great glory and peace of the summer heavens surrounded him. There had been a tempest in his soul; but even the fiercest storms have their limits, and this storm, though it might rend him again, was for the present succeeded by calm. It is true that his heart felt sadly bruised and sore.
“I’m sort o’ empty,” he said to himself. “I ain’t sorry, in course, as I done it. I might ha’ guessed that the sweet little cuttin’ couldn’t take root yere,” and he struck his breast with his great hand; “but all the same I’m sort o’ empty.”
He went back into the house, and shut the door behind him and sat down in the chair which he had bought for Jill; but the moonbeams still followed him, and shone all over him as he sat near his lattice window.
“I ain’t sorry I ha’ done it,” he repeated. “Lord, I’m willin’; I’m a poor sort o’ critter at best, but I’m willin’ to do Thy will.”
He sighed heavily several times, and at last, worn out from many emotions, fell asleep where he sat in Jill’s chair.
There are compensations for all; and, although Silas did not know it, he had risen out of the commonplace that day and was enrolled in heaven as one of God’s heroes.