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.