Quite early in the afternoon Jill returned to the humble little flat in
Howard's Buildings. She had felt nervous and excited until she got
there. Nat might be waiting for her. Nat might have come and
discovered her not there and gone away again, and the first suspicion of
cold doubt might already have reached him. But when Jill discovered
that Nat Carter had not yet arrived; when she questioned Mr Stanley,
who assured her emphatically that that handsome young man, her
sweet-heart, had not put in an appearance, she suddenly felt a strange
quiet and almost apathy stealing over her.
She sat quietly in her mother's chair and folded her hands on her lap.
She had got a task to perform, but the pain, the agony, which such work
ought to cause her was not present at this moment. Nat should have his
mate's money back again, but Jill must tell him that she could never be
his wife.
"There's no help for it," she muttered. "I must tell Nat as I can't
never wed him. I must make myself seem bad in his eyes. There ain't
nothing else for me to do. He'll never know now, never to his dying
day, that poor mother stole that ere money. The money part 'ull seem
all right to him, but Jill--he'll allers think o' Jill as fickle and
false. I must make him think that--there's no help for me. I'll wed
Silas, and I'll try to be good to him, and I must forget Nat wot I
loves."
Thoughts like these passed swiftly through the tired girl's brain. She
knew that she must soon speak cruel words. She must say good-bye to
Nat.
"And I love him mor'n aught else in all the wide world," she groaned.
"I love mother--oh, I do love mother--but Nat--Nat comes first. If it
were a case o' choosing, perhaps I'd be mean enough to cling on to Nat,
and let poor mother go, but it ain't a case of choosing. Nat's young
and strong; he ha' got a true, true heart, and an honest face, and he's
'spectable--oh, he's _bitter_ 'spectable. There are lots of nice girls
in the world, and Nat 'ull get his pick, and it's best for him to have
nothing to say to a girl what have a mother what drinks. Nat's all
right; he'll comfort hisself soon; it'll be easy for Nat to get another
wife; but poor mother, she has no one but me, for the boys they don't
count. Mother suffers bad pain, and she's nearly distraught with one
sorrow and another. It ain't a case o' choice. I must cling to poor
mother."
When Jill came to this point in her reflections she rose and went into
the inner room. Seeing her dishevelled and untidy appearance in the
little square of looking-glass, her first instinct was to brush her
black hair smooth, and wash her face, and bring her whole little person
back to the absolute order and fresh neatness which was part of her
beauty; but on second thoughts she refrained from doing this. Her
object now was to put Nat against her.
"It'll cut him much less to the 'art ef he sees for his own self that I
ain't the Jill he thought I were," she murmured.
She threw off her shawl, therefore, and, with a sigh of physical
discomfort, came back again to the kitchen.
She had scarcely done so before Nat's knock was heard at the door. She
went at once and opened it for him.
"Is that you?" she said. "You might ha' come sooner. I were getting
tired o' waiting; it's dull settin' indoors on a fine Sunday. Come in
ef you want to, though."
Her tone was almost flippant. Nat opened his blue eyes in astonishment.
He himself was in the most irreproachable Sunday go-to-meeting dress.
He wore a button-hole of carnations. The sweet scent of that special
flower gave Jill a sick, faint feeling for many a day afterwards. His
hair was brushed from his broad white forehead. There was a fresh
colour in his cheeks, and his happy eyes looked like a bit of the sky.
Jill's untidy, almost slovenly, appearance distressed him nearly as much
as her change of voice, but he determined to take no notice. He came in
and sat down, therefore, and said after a very brief pause in a gentle
voice:
"It wor Clara Williams wot kep' me. The poor thing is nearly distraught
with misery. It's quite piteous to see her. And as to those four
little orphans, wot is to come o' them? I'm sorry I were late, Jill,
but we can go out now and have a real jolly time. I can give you the
rest of the day, sweet-heart. Ain't yer mother home, Jill? Wor yer
alone all the morning, my little love?"
"Indeed, no," said Jill, "I had company, and fine company too, but it
worn't mother. Mother's out. She ain't very well, and she wants lots
o' air and exercise, but I hadn't a dull time, so don't you think it,
Nat."
"Well, I'm glad on it. You may be quite sure I were thinking on yer
when I were doing things for Clara Williams. I'm right glad you worn't
dull. Shall we go out now, Jill?"
"No, thank yer, I'm dead beat. I have been out already for hours. I
s'pose you has come for the money, Nat. Here it is back. You count it
and see ef I ain't stole none."
Nat raised his eyes in astonishment. Jill, who was standing with her
back slightly turned to him, held out the money in the identical
brown-paper wrapper which he had given her the five sovereigns in.
"Here, take it, I'm well rid on it," she said impatiently.
Nat held out his hand and took the little parcel.
"Open it," she said; "count the sovereigns. You 'member as you give me
five sovereigns. See for yerself that they are all there."
"Why, what is come to you, Jill?" said Nat. "You speak queer. I don't
seem to know you to-day."
Jill gave a short little laugh.
"I has many sides," she said. "Sometimes I'm all honey, sometimes I'm
all winegar. It's best as the man what mates me should know me all
round."
"Yes," said poor Nat, "and I thought I did know yer all round, Jill: I
made sure on it. I allers said as I'd never marry in haste. It's an
orful thing, marriage. Once done it can't be undone; and I said as the
gel what I took for wife should be my friend for many and many a day
first. You 'member when we wor at school together, Jill. How I took
yer part, and how yer sat near me, and how straight you always wor,
never skulking away from yer lessons and never shirking the truth. You
wor a bit o' tomboy, no doubt, but you wor true and sweet all round.
You has growed up true and sweet, and more beautiful nor any picter.
There's no winegar in you, my own Jill, but there's a cloud over yer.
Come and tell me about it. Put yer head here on my breast and tell me
all 'bout, it."
"No, no, Nat," said Jill; "I don't say as there ain't a cloud. I don't
want, even on this bitter day, to say words what ain't true, but there's
no goin' to you for comfort any more, for we must part."
"Part!" said Nat, "part!" His lips fell apart, his blue eyes flashed an
angry fire. Then he closed his mouth firmly, and a hard look settled
down on his handsome face. "Do yer mean as you're tired on me?" he
said. "You ha' spoke werry strange since I come in, and you ha' looked
werry strange. Do you repent o' our bargain? Do you want not to be my
mate? Why do you keep your back turned to me, Jill? Look into my
face--look up into my face and tell me the truth."
"It's quite true as I can't mate you, Nat."
Jill turned swiftly as she spoke; out of her big beautiful eyes looked
for a second an agonised soul; but Nat could not catch a glimpse of this
frightened, steadfast, loving soul, in the cruel agony which her words
gave him.
"You're tired of our bargain?" he repeated.
"Yes, that's it; I'm tired o' it."
"And you don't want to wed me?"
"No."
"Then I'd best be goin'," said Nat.
He took up his hat and walked as far as the door. "Ha' you counted the
money--are you sure as it's all right?" called Jill after him.
"'Course it's all right; what matters the money? You go and break a
chap's 'eart, and you talk to him o' money. You send a chap right away
to the devil, and you talk to him o' money. What's money to me to-day!
I say, curse all women, curse goodness. I say--oh, Jill, Jill, you
don't mean it. It's a trick you're playing on me. Jill, my little
love, my little sweet-heart, come back to me--come back."
Nat's voice was broken. He flung his hat on the floor, and, rushing up
to the young girl, clasped her tightly in a passionate embrace.
For just a quarter of a minute she yielded to it. She felt the strength
of the arms she loved. She said to herself:
"I can't go on. Even for mother's sake, I can't go on with this."
But then the remembrance of Nat's words of the night before, the
remembrance of that cruel creed of his, which only believed in honesty,
sobriety, and truth, came back like a cold wave to turn aside the warm
impulses of nature.
"No, Nat," she said, detaching herself from him, "you must believe wot I
say. We ha' got to part. I did think as I loved yer, and it did seem
nice and beautiful to me, the thought of living with yer--but you're too
high--too high for the likes o' Jill. Ef you wedded me, you'd turn
bitter agen me, for I ain't what you think; I must ha' my fling. May be
I don't think them things wrong that you hold by. Wot's a lie now and
then, if it serves a good purpose, and wot's jest not being too
perticler 'bout change, and returning all the pennies you get, and
selling withered flowers for fresh! There's a lot of fuss made by some
folks about that sort of thing--I know what you thinks; but I call that
sort of thing soft. Poor folks has got to live, and they can't be over
perticler. And then, Nat--you holds a deal on to sobriety--mother, she
has a horror even o' a drop o' beer; but me, when I'm _werry_ tired,
it's comfortin'. I don't go for to deny that it's werry comfortin'.
Wot's the matter, Nat? How white you ha' got. I'm up to the average
gel, ain't I, Nat? I'm not all white like an angel; but I ain't black
neither, am I, Nat?"
"I has got a blow," said Nat Carter. "You're right, Jill. I don't know
yer all round. I has promised to wed yer, and I'll stick to it, if
you're o' that mind. God forgive you, Jill, you're not what I thought,
but I'll be a good husband to yer, if yer wishes it."
"Do I wish it?" said Jill with sudden scorn and passion. "Let the
righteous wed with the righteous, and the sinner with the sinner. I'm
as God made me; I'm full of passion, and I'm full of weakness. You're
white, and I'm black; but, Nat, where I loves I don't see the sin. Ef
you were as black as a coal, Nat, and loved me, I'd love you back again.
Oh me, me, my heart's broke, but I can't never, never be yer mate now,
Nat Carter."
"And yet it seemed all right last night," said the young man.
"No. I had my doubts last night, and now they're certainties. I
doubted then as you was too high, and me too low for us to come
together, now my doubts is turned to certainties. Good-bye, Nat,
good-bye; choose a gel that never telled a lie, what would scorn to
steal, and what wouldn't touch a drop o' beer to save her life;
good-bye, Nat."
"Good-bye," said Nat. He took up his hat in earnest this time. Jill's
words had frozen him. There was a numbness all over him, which
prevented his feeling the real agony of the parting; he turned the
handle of the room door and went out. Jill listened to his footsteps
going down the stairs, till they died away in the distance.