ABOUT POOR JOE TILLET'S YOUNG WIFE.
George went back to the Seven Stars, where Mr. Jeffson was waiting with
the horses. He went back, after watching the open vehicle drive away; he
went back with his happiness which was so new and strange, he thought a
fresh life was to begin for him from this day, and would have almost
expected to find the diseases of his patients miraculously cured, and a
new phase of existence opening for them as well as for himself.
He was going to be married; he was going to have this beautiful young
creature for his wife. He thought of her; and the image of this
pale-faced girl, sitting in the little parlour at Graybridge, waiting to
receive him when he came home from his patients, was such an
overpowering vision, that his brain reeled as he contemplated it. Was it
true--could it be true--that all this inexpressible happiness was to be
his?
By-and-by, when he was riding Brown Molly slowly along the shadowy lanes
that lie between Hurstonleigh and Waverly, his silent bliss overflowed
his heart and sought to utter itself in words. William Jeffson had
always been George's confidant; why should he not be so now, when the
young man had such need of some friendly ear to which to impart his
happiness?
Somehow or other, the Yorkshireman did not seem so eager as usual to
take his part in his master's pleasure; he had seemed to hang back a
little; for, under ordinary circumstances, George would have had no
occasion to break the ice. But to-night Mr. Jeffson seemed bent on
keeping silence, and George was obliged to hazard a preliminary
question.
"What do you think of her, Jeff?" he asked.
"What do I think to who, Master Jarge?" demanded the Yorkshireman, in
his simple vernacular.
"Why, Isa--Miss Sleaford, of course," answered George, rather
indignantly: was there any other woman in the world whom he could
possibly think of or speak of to-night?
Mr. Jeffson was silent for some moments, as if the question related to
so profound a subject that he had to descend into the farthest depths of
his mind before he could answer it. He was silent; and the slow
trampling of the horses' hoofs along the lane, and the twittering of
some dissipated bird far away in the dim woodland, were the only sounds
that broke the evening stillness.
"She's rare an' pretty, Master Jarge," the philosopher said at last, in
a very thoughtful tone; "I a'most think I never see any one so pretty;
though it isn't that high-coloured sort of prettiness they think so much
to in Graybridge. She's still and white, somehow, like the images in
York Minster; and her eyes seem far away as you look at her. Yes, she is
rare an' pretty."
"I've told her how I love her; and--and you like her, Jeff, don't you?"
asked George, in a rapture of happiness that was stronger than his
native shyness. "You like her, and she likes you, Jeff, and will like
you better as she comes to know you more. And she's going to be my wife,
old Jeff!"
The young man's voice grew tremulous as he made this grand announcement.
Whatever enthusiasm there was in his nature seemed concentrated in the
emotions of this one day.
He had loved for the first time, and declared his love. His true and
constant heart, that wondrous aloe which was to bear a single flower,
had burst into sudden blossom, and all the vigour of the root was in
that one bright bloom. The aloe-flower might bloom steadily on for ever,
or might fade and die; but it could never know a second blossoming.
"She's going to be my wife, Jeff," he repeated, as if to say these words
was in itself to taste an overpowering happiness.
But William Jeffson seemed very stupid to-night. His conversational
powers appeared to have undergone a kind of paralysis. He spoke slowly,
and made long pauses every now and then.
"You're going to marry her, Master Jarge?" he said.
"Yes, Jeff. I love her better than any living creature in this
world--better than the world itself, or my own life; for I think, if she
had answered me differently to-day, I should have died. Why, you're not
surprised, are you, Jeff? I thought you guessed at the very
first--before I knew it myself even--that I was in love with Isabel.
Isabel! Isabel! what a pretty name! It sounds like a flower, doesn't
it?"
"No; I'm not surprised, Master Jarge," the Yorkshireman said,
thoughtfully. "I knew you was in love with Miss Sleaford, regular fond
about her, you know; but I didn't think--I didn't think--as you'd ask
her to marry you so soon."
"But why not, Jeff?" cried the young man. "What should I wait for? I
couldn't love her better than I do if I knew her for years and years,
and every year were to make her brighter and lovelier than she is now.
I've got a home to bring her to, and I'll work for her--I'll work for
her as no man ever worked before to make a happy home for his wife."
He struck out his arm, with his fist clenched, as if he thought that the
highest round on the ladder of fortune was to be reached by any young
surgeon who had the desire to climb.
"Why shouldn't I marry at once, Jeff?" he demanded, with some touch of
indignation. "I can give my wife as good a home as that from which I
shall take her."
"It isn't that as I was thinkin' of, Master Jarge," William Jeffson
answered, growing slower of speech and graver of tone with every word he
spoke; "it isn't that. But, you see, you know so little of Miss
Sleaford; you know naught but that she's different, somehow, to all the
other lasses you've seen, and that she seems to take your fancy like,
because of that. You know naught about her, Master Jarge; and what's
still worse--ever so much worse than that--you don't know that she loves
you. You don't know that, Master Jarge. If you was only sure of _that_,
the rest wouldn't matter so much; for there's scarcely anything in this
world as true love can't do; and a woman that loves truly can't be aught
but a good woman at heart. I see Miss Sleaford when you was standin'
talkin' by the Seven Stars, Master Jarge, and there wasn't any look in
her face as if she knew what you was sayin', or thought about it; but
her eyes looked ever so far away like: and though there was a kind of
light in her face, it didn't seem as if it had anything to do with you.
And, Lor' bless your heart, Master Jarge, you should have seen my
Tilly's face when she come up the airey steps in the square where she
was head-housemaid, and see me come up to London on purpose to surprise
her. Why, it was all of a shine like with smiles and brightness, at the
sight o' _me_, Master Jarge; and I'm sure _I'm_ no great shakes to look
at," added Mr. Jeffson, in a deprecating tone.
The reins, lying loose upon Brown Molly's neck, shook with the sudden
trembling of the hand that held them. George Gilbert was seized with a
kind of panic as he listened to his Mentor's discourse. He had not
presumed to solicit any confession of love from Isabel Sleaford; he had
thought himself more than blest, inasmuch as she had promised to become
his wife; yet he was absolutely terror-stricken at Mr. Jeffson's
humiliating suggestion, and was withal very angry at his old playmate's
insolence.
"You mean that she doesn't love me?" he said sharply.
"Oh, Master Jarge, to be right down truthful with you, that's just what
I do mean. She _doan't_ love you; as sure as I've seen true love lookin'
out o' my Tilly's face, I see somethin' that wasn't love lookin' out o'
hearn to-night. I see just such a look in Miss Sleaford's eyes as I see
once in a pretty young creetur that married a mate o' mine down home; a
young man as had got a little bit o' land and cottage, and everything
comfortable, and it wasn't the young creetur herself that was in favour
o' marryin' him; but it was her friends that worried and bothered her
till she said yes. She was a poor foolish young thing, that didn't seem
to have the strength to say no. And I was at Joe Tillet's weddin',--his
name was Joe Tillet,--and I see the pretty young creetur standin', like
as I saw Miss Sleaford to-night, close alongside her husband while he
was talkin', and lookin' prettier nor ever in her straw bonnet and white
ribands; but her eyes seemed to fix themselves on somethin' far away
like; and when her husband turned of a sudden and spoke to her, she
started, like as if she was waked out of a dream. I never forgot that
look o' hearn, Master Jarge; and I saw the same kind o' look to-night."
"What nonsense you're talking, Jeff!" George answered, with considerable
impatience. "I dare say your friend and his wife were very happy?"
"No, Master Jarge, they wasn't. And that's just the very thing that
makes me remember the pretty young creetur's look that summer's day, as
she stood, dresssed out in her wedding-clothes, by her loving husband's
side. He was very fond of her, and for a good two year or so he seemed
very happy, and was allus tellin' his friends he'd got the best wife in
the three Ridin's, and the quietest and most industrious; but she seemed
to pine like; and by-and-by there was a young soldier came home that had
been to the Indies, and that was her first cousin, and had lived
neighbours with her family when she was a bit of a girl. I won't tell
you the story, Master Jarge; for it isn't the pleasantest kind o' thing
to tell, nor yet to hear; but the end of it was, my poor mate Joe was
found one summer's morning--just such a day as that when he was
married--hanging dead behind the door of one of his barns; and as for
the poor wretched young creetur as had caused his death, nobody ever
knew what came of her. And yet," concluded Mr. Jeffson, in a meditative
tone, "I've heard that poor chap Joe tell me so confident that his wife
would get to love him dearly by-and-by, because he loved her so true and
dear."
George Gilbert, made no answer to all this. He rode on slowly, with his
head drooping. The Yorkshireman kept an anxious watch upon his master;
he could not see the expression of the young man's face, but he could
see by his attitude that the story of Joseph Tillet's misadventure had
not been without a depressing influence upon him.
"Si'thee noo. Master Jarge," said William Jeffson, laying his hand upon
the surgeon's wrist, and speaking in a voice that was almost solemn,
"marryin' a pretty girl seems no more than gatherin' a wild rose out of
the hedge to some men, they do it so light and careless-like,--just
because the flower looks pretty where it's growin'. I'd known my Tilly
six year before I asked her to be my wife, Master Jarge; and it was only
because she'd been true and faithful to me all that time, and because
I'd never, look at her when I might, seen anything but love in her face,
that I ventured at last to say to mysen, 'William Jeffson, there's a
lass that'll make thee a true wife.' Doan't be in a hurry, Master Jarge;
doan't! Take the advice of a poor ignorant chap as has one great
advantage over all your learnin', for he's lived double your time in the
world. Doan't be in a hurry. If Miss Sleaford loves ye true to-night,
she'll love ye ten times truer this night twelvemonths, and truer still
this time ten years. If she _doan't_ love you, Master Jarge, keep clear
of her as you would of a venomous serpent; for she'll bring you worse
harm than ever that could do, if it stung you to the heart, and made an
end of you at once. I see Joe Tillet lyin' dead after the inquest that
was held upon him, Master Jarge; and the thought that the poor desperate
creeter had killed hisself warn't so bad to me as the sight of the
suffering on his poor dead face,--the suffering that he'd borne nigh
upon two year, Master Jarge, _and had held his tongue about_."