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."