The tea-drinking having turned out such a success, Silas went down to
the village to spend the night with old Peters in a state of rare
exultation.
"I wor right, yer see," he said. "I know'd what I were about when I
asked that yere little cutting to come and strike root in my garden."
"She's a werry purty creter," said old Peters. "I don't go for to deny
it, Silas, she's rare and purty. But what ails her, man? Do yer think
as she has given yer her young affection; you ain't so young, Silas, and
you ain't to say 'ansome; do yer think that gracious, purty girl gives
back love for your love, Silas?"
Silas felt as if a dash of ice-cold water had been thrown over his warm,
glowing, happy heart.
"What can a gel do more nor say `yes?'" he remarked after a pause.
"I'm not so sure on that," replied Peters. "Gels say `yes' for lots o'
motives--the wish for a home, maybe; oh, lots o' motives. I'd have said
that a young thing like Jill 'ud choose for her mate a lad with good
looks hisself, and youth; that's what I'd have said from my experience
of the faymale 'eart; but there, Silas, don't take on, man, I wor wrong
about beauty and goodness goin' together, so maybe I'm wrong 'bout the
t'other also. I can see that the gel has a great kindness for yer,
Silas; but love, that's quite another matter. What ails her eyes for
instance? what's back o' them looking out at us all so gloomy-like? My
word, them eyes haunts me; seems as ef a sperit was looking through 'em,
werry patient, werry sad. I could cry when I thinks on 'em. What's the
matter, Silas? What ails yer, man?"
"You don't s'pose as talk like yourn is pleasant to listen to," replied
Silas; "and you're all wrong 'bout Jill not wanting to have me. Why,
I'll prove it to yer now as yer wrong. I asked her to be my wife one
morning at the market, and I suppose she felt skir't like, for she
looked at me with her face as rosy as the day, and her eyes like great,
deep wells, with the wonder that filled 'em, and she said, `No, no, Mr
Lynn, it can't be'; and she up with her basket and away she runned.
Well, of course I said to myself, there's an end o' this; but, what do
yer think, neighbour? The next morning early, soon arter daybreak, who
should come down all the way from Lunnon to see me but this same little
gel; she knocked at my door and called out to me to open to her; and
when I come it wor, `Yes, yes, Mr Lynn, I will marry yer ef you'll have
me.' Worn't that pretty good proof of her loving me, eh, Peters?"
"I don't deny as it wor," said Peters.
Silas and Peters entered the small cottage of the latter, and, as Silas
had to go to town in a couple of hours, they immediately parted for the
night, Silas declining to go to bed, but declaring he could take a good
sleep in Peters's deep arm-chair.
Just before they said good-night the old man made a request.
"Ef yer has time, Silas," he said, "I'd be much obleeged to yer if yer
could call round to Saint Bartholomy's Hospital and leave this little
parcel for my sister, Rachel Riggs. It's a wool shawl of hers, as she
allers sets store on, and I had a card from her to say as she wor
better, and wanted her shawl. You'd obleege me greatly, Silas, ef you
could leave it."
"Put it on the table there," said Silas, "and I won't forget."
The old man went off to his own room, and Silas sat in the deep
arm-chair and looked out at the summer night. There was nothing really
to trouble him in the words that Peters had said, nevertheless they kept
coming back in a teasing and irritating fashion.
It was Peters's opinion that Jill did not love him. What folly! If
ever a girl had gone out of her way to show that she loved a man, it was
Jill. As to her face being somewhat pale, and as to the fact that her
dark eyes were sad in their expression, was not that always the case?
Had not Silas, who knew her so much better than Peters, always noticed
that latent sadness in her charming face. He loved her all the better
for it.
"It's jest her kind heart," he murmured; "it's jest as there is trouble
in the world, and she can't help noticin' of it. Why, see her to-night,
when Mary Ann Hatton dropped the chaney saucer. Even that were too much
for my Jill. Oh, yes, Peters is quite mistook. Jill loves me, for
sure, and I'm jest the werry happiest feller in the wide world."
Silas, however, notwithstanding these soothing reflections, felt too
excited to sleep. He was glad when the first faint brightness in the
east told him that the time had come for him to rise and begin his long
day's work.
He softly left the cottage, and, going across the fields to his own
small homestead, put the horses to the already carefully-packed waggon.
Then going round to the cottage-door, he tapped with his knuckles at the
window of the little bedroom where Aunt Hannah and Jill were sleeping.
Jill was to accompany Silas back to town. She was dressed, and came out
to him at once. Her face looked almost bright this morning; she had a
faint colour in her cheeks, which was further deepened by the bright
shawl which she wore round her head. When she came up to Silas and
slipped her little brown hand into his, he instantly felt through his
whole being that a glorious sun had arisen over the earth, and that old
Timothy Peters must be fast approaching idiotcy.
"Come, Jill," he exclaimed, "we'll have a jolly ride into town. Why,
yer ain't cold, be yer my dear?"
"No, Silas."
"Only I thought I see'd yer shiver. It'll be werry hot by-and-by, but
ef yer finds this hour of the morning chill, I'll fetch out my
sheep's-skin rug to wrap yer up in."
"No, no, Silas, I ain't really cold. Let's start at once, and maybe
when we gets to the brow of the hill we'll see the sun rise. I has been
up early enough most days o' my life, but I never seed the sun rise for
all that."
"It's a sight to remember," said Lynn. "Come along then, my choice
little cuttin', and we'll get under weigh."
As a rule, Silas was a very taciturn man; but on this particular morning
it was he who did most of the talking.
"Eh, Jill," he said once, as they approached London, "to think as you
and me 'ull be husband and wife to-morrow. The delight o' it is a'most
past belief. When I thinks on you as keeping the cottage, bright, and
cooking my meals for me, and watching as nobody comes and picks off the
best blooms when I'm away at the market, I can scarce contain myself, I
don't believe in all the wide world there'll be a happier pair nor you
and me, Jill, for all that I am eight-and-thirty and you not seventeen
yet."
"I hope as I'll make yer a good wife, Silas," replied Jill.
"Oh, there ain't no doubt on that, my little cuttin'. There's that in
you, Jill, that can't help being good to folk. Lor', I could shout with
larfin' when I think how you twisted all them crabbed folk round yer
little finger last night. Jest a glint o' your eyes and a soft word or
two and 'twor done. Even Mary Ann Hatton couldn't stan' out agen yer.
But, Jill, I'm a-thinking that yer mother and yer two brothers ought to
be asked proper to our wedding. Yer mother is as fine a figure of a
woman as I know; and, though I don't know what yer brothers are like,
and I make no doubt they're mischeevous little varmints as is to be
found in the world, yet still wot's yours is mine, Jill, and I'll make
them all free and welcome to come to the wedding to-morrow. Wot's the
matter, my dear? Why don't yer speak?"
"There ain't nothing the matter, Silas. Seems to me lately as ef I had
very few words of any sort to say. I'm obleeged to yer, Silas, for your
kind thought about my folk, and I'd be right glad to have them with me
when I'm wed; but I han't seen the boys for nearly three weeks. I'm
thinking maybe they has run off to sea. Tom were always minded that
way."
"Well," said Silas, "they might do worse. The sea is not so bad a life
ef a lad is strong, and ef he don't take up with bad ways. But 'bout
yer mother, Jill? It's werry odd as I han't laid eyes on her sence you
and me made up our minds to get spliced."
"Mother ain't werry well," said Jill, "and--" but here her voice failed
her; she covered her face with her trembling hand, and burst into an
agony of tears.
Silas, in his absolute amazement, pulled up the horses, and, looking
round at the weeping girl, surveyed her from head to foot with a sudden
shy terror, which gave a ludicrous expression to his plain face.
"Wot is it, Jill? Wot is it?" at last he gasped.
"Nothing, Silas, nothing," she replied, checking her tears with a
violent effort. "It were real wrong of me to give way, and you so good.
But I'm troubled 'bout mother, orful, bitter troubled. She ain't well,
and I'm troubled 'bout her. Seems as ef I couldn't speak on her lately.
She won't come to the weddin', Silas, and you mustn't ask me no
questions 'bout the why and the wherefore. Maybe, arter we're wed I'll
tell yer, but not now, dear Silas."
"Well, it's you I'm goin' to wed," said Silas, "and ef you're there, no
matter about t'other folks, say I. Only I'm sorry you're in trouble
'bout anything, my own little gel, and I only wish I could, comfort
you."
"You do, Silas, you do."
"Well, them's good words to hear. We're at the market now, Jill; but as
you ain't going to sell flowers to-day, maybe you'd like to be gwine
home. Next time we meets it'll be till death us do part."
When Silas said these words Jill felt a sick agony creeping over her.
They were the words she had longed to hear said over her and Nat. She
turned her white face away, and, quickly leaving the market, ran home to
Howard's Buildings as fast as her feet could carry her. Silas, in
excellent spirits, began to attend to his plants, flowers, and fruit.
Any slight remaining uneasiness which might have lingered in his mind
after old Peters's words was now removed. Of course Jill loved him, but
her pallor and the sad expression in her eyes were both accounted for by
some secret sorrow in connection with her mother. Silas determined to
get at this grief, and if possible to remove it after he and Jill were
married. He was too busy to-day, however, to give it any further
thought; he had not only to attend to his many customers, but he had to
make arrangements for the two or three days' holiday he meant to give
himself after his wedding. He had to attend to a list of orders which
Aunt Hannah had provided him with for the wedding-feast; and last, but
not least, he must manage to call at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital with
the little shawl for old Peters's sister, Rachel Riggs. Silas knew Mrs
Riggs, and with all those new qualities which the sunshine of prosperity
had awakened into being, it occurred to him that it would give her
pleasure if a bunch of flowers accompanied the shawl. Silas would never
have thought of giving Mrs Riggs flowers in the old days, but he did
many things now which astonished himself.
When his business at Covent Garden was ended, he selected a large bunch
of some of his commoner flowers, and started off to walk to the
hospital. He had gone nearly half-way when it suddenly entered into his
head that it would largely add to Peters's happiness, if he, Silas,
could contrive to see Mrs Riggs for a moment or two. He knew enough
about hospitals to be aware that he would not be admitted until the
afternoon, so, leaving his flowers at the shop of a friend, he got
through his other work, and finally arrived at Saint Bartholomew's on
the stroke of two o'clock, the earliest hour when visitors are admitted.
Silas was taken at once to the women's ward, where Mrs Riggs was
sitting up in her clean bed with a "nightingale" round her shoulders.
Her wizened old face was lit up with a curious mixture of surprise,
pleasure, and alarm when she saw Silas coming gingerly on tiptoe down
the long ward to see her. Her remembrance of Silas in the past was not
a pleasant one--he was morose, intensely rough and disagreeable--a very
upright man, of course, but the last to put himself out of the way to do
a neighbour a kindness. It was astonishing, therefore, to see him with
a little brown-paper parcel in one hand and an enormous bouquet of
flowers in the other advancing to meet her. Silas's rough face, too,
was all aglow, his coarse mouth was wreathed in smiles, his little
ferrity, deep-set eyes were the windows through which a happy soul
looked.
Mrs Riggs said, "My sakes alive! wot's come to the man?" under her
breath. She stretched out her thin, old hand, which Silas clasped, and
then, sitting down by her, he began to chat about the small doings of
Newbridge and its inhabitants.
Peters's cough was certainly better, the Hibberty Joneses were in good
case, Mary Ann Hatton looked quite fine for her. In short, the village
was enjoying a heyday of prosperity, and Silas felt sure that they would
all give Mrs Riggs a hearty welcome when she returned. He knew that
the old woman was regarding him with a sharp stare of curiosity; he was
well aware that she was amazed at the change in him, but he did not feel
inclined to betray his happy secret. There was a new sweet shyness
about him when he thought of Jill and the great, tender love he bore
her.
He had bid Mrs Riggs good-bye and was leaving the ward, when a full
voice, rich in tone although somewhat weakened by recent illness, was
heard pronouncing his name.
A woman who was lying stretched out flat in a bed at the far end of the
ward was calling to him. Her voice had a piteous ring in it; her black
eyes were fixed on him with a world of entreaty in their glance.
"Come yere, Mr Lynn, for the love o' heaven, come yere," said the
voice.
Lynn looked up the ward and immediately recognised Poll Robinson. His
heart gave a heavy thump; he was conscious of a sudden weight of
apprehension on him, and then, still walking on tiptoe, he marched up
the ward and stood by the sick woman's side.
"Well, I'm blessed," he exclaimed, looking down at her. "So you're
here, and that's the secret wot's troubling Jill."
"Oh, Mr Lynn, ha' you seen my gel?" exclaimed Poll. "Oh, you don't
know the awful 'eart hunger as is over me, never to see her or to hear
of her. Oh, Mr Lynn, when I seed you a-coming in, I thought as you
wor, may be, an angel fro' heaven. I said to myself, maybe Jill has
been a-buying flowers from Silas Lynn. Oh, my gel, my sweet, sweet gel.
Ha' you seen her, Mr Lynn?"
"Yes, yes, Mrs Robinson," said Silas. "Make your mind heasy. Jill's
all right. Why I seen her this werry morning."
"Oh, and is she well; do she look happy?"
"She ought to look well, and she ought to be happy. It'll be her
wedding-day to-morrow. Ef a gel don't look happy on the eve of her
wedding-day, why she never will, accordin' to my thinkin'."
"Oh, praise the Lord," said Poll, "then I ain't done the mischief I
thought. I wor mortal feared as she had broke off with Nat Carter, but
ef they're to be married to-morrow why it's all right, and I ain't done
the mischief I thought."
"_Who_ did yer say as she were to marry?" asked Silas in a queer, thick,
husky voice. "Wot name did yer say, Nat--Nat Carter?"
"Yes, yes; you must know him for sure--that 'ansome young costermonger
as allers goes in good time to the market. You must mind him, Mr Lynn,
a tall, well-set-up lad, with blue eyes and as fair as Jill's dark. Why
they has loved each other, them two, ever since my Jill were a little
dot at school. Never seen anything like the way they took on one for
t'other. Wot's the matter, Mr Lynn? You must know o' this, surely."
"Yes, of course," said Lynn; he made a supreme effort to control himself
and sat down on the chair by Poll's bedside.
"You must know Nat Carter," she continued, fixing her anxious eyes on
him.
"Yes, yes, for sure."
"It is an awful load off my mind, Silas Lynn, that they'll be married
to-morrow. Mayhap you'll be at the weddin'."
"Not likely," growled Silas.
"Well, well; you look pinched somehow in the face, neighbour. I
wouldn't be surprised if Jill wor glad to see yer when she gives herself
to Nat. She allers thought a sight on yer; she used to say to me,
`Mother, his bark is worse nor his bite.' Oh, Silas, you don't know
what a load you has lifted from my 'eart."
"Look yere, missis," said Silas, "I won't go fer to deny that yer news
has come to me sudden. Course, I know'd as Jill were to be married, but
I never know'd as there were any hitch, so to speak. You might as well
tell me what yer means, missis, for I takes a--a hinterest in the gel."
"I don't mind telling yer," said Poll. "May be it's best for yer to
know. You see, it wor this way. I had an awful bad pain; I wor
suffering from a sort of a tumour in my breast, and I can't tell yer,
Silas, what the suffering were like; it seemed to shrink me all up, and
the only way I could get ease, day or night, was by taking a drop o'
gin. Sometimes I took perhaps mor'n I ought, and once or twice I know I
forgot myself, and the sperits seemed to go into my 'ead; and what with
the ease from pain, and the light, cheery sort of feeling in my 'ead, I
used to sing songs in the street, and even dance, and folks collected
round me, and I brought shame to my pretty, sweet gel. Oh, the goodness
of her, and the tenderness of her, and the way she'd shield me and not
let anybody point a finger at me; and the way she'd make s'cuses for me,
and try to hush it up, and never let me even say to her as I had took a
drop too much. Well, she engaged herself to Nat; it's about a month ago
now; and they two did look so 'appy; and Jill she says to me, `I'm his
till death us do part;' and oh, the look in her beautiful eyes, and the
strength on her true, sweet face, and the way he looked at her, and he
says, says he, `the only thing I want in a woman is to be honest, and
sober, and true.' He said the words bitter 'ard, and I said to myself,
`I can't keep sober, but I won't bring disgrace on Jill; Nat Carter
shan't have it to say as he married the best gel in life only she had a
drunkard for a mother.' So I slipped away unbeknown to Jill, and I have
never seen her since the day as she give herself to Nat. But three days
arterwards I met Susy, Nat's sister, and she said words to me what made
me fear as Nat had found out 'bout me, and that he were taking it bitter
'ard, and that, maybe, he had broke off with Jill. Oh, you don't know
what I felt, Silas Lynn. To give the gel up, and yet not to save her
arter all! Oh, I thought as my 'ead 'ud turn crazy. I tried to go back
to her, and I s'pose I fainted in the street, for I don't remember
nothink more until I found myself yere. I had an awful dread of
hospitals, but my word, Silas, I made a big mistake. Why, they has took
that awful, fearful tumour right away, and I han't a bit of pain now,
and they say as I'll get well again. There's news for Jill on her
wedding morning."
"Yes, that's good news," replied Lynn, still speaking in that quiet,
absent sort of voice. "Shall I tell her as you'll soon be quite well
and back with her again, neighbour?"
"Oh, ef you would," said Poll; "and there'll be no need for Nat to fear
me now, for I won't be tempted to take the awful drink. I wor a sober
enough woman afore the pain troubled me, and now that the pain's gone
I'll be sober enough again, never fear. Ef Jill has kept the secret
'bout me fro' Nat Carter, she can always keep it fro' him in the future.
Wot's the matter, Silas Lynn? Yer face has gone grey-like, and I
thought how well you looked when you wor coming across the ward to see
me."
"So I am well," retorted Silas; "I'm as right as rain. Now, good-bye,
neighbour, I must be goin'. Ef I see Jill I'll take her your message.
Good-bye, neighbour, good-bye."
He left the ward, still treading on tiptoe, but with a certain heaviness
in his gait which was not observe able when he came in.
He went down-stairs, and out into the brilliant sunshine. The hospital
ward was cool and fresh. Outside there was a glare over everything.
For the first time in his life Silas felt as if he might have sunstroke,
or as if the fierce heat might mount to his brain and give him fever.
He had not yet realised in all its intensity the blow which had fallen
on him; he was only dimly aware that the happiness which had come so
late in life to take up its abode in his heart had found that dull room
within him not large enough nor bright enough, and so had gone away. He
was aware of this, still he went on making his preparations for
to-morrow's wedding. He ordered the necessary foods to be sent down to
Kent for the wedding-feast; he bought a bonnet for old Aunt Hannah, and
some cheap gimcracks to present to Mary Ann Hatton and Mrs Hibberty
Jones.
At last he had finished his list of commissions, and he stood still for
a minute to consider what he should do. He was not going to market
to-morrow, so it was not necessary for him to return home early. It had
been his intention to go back to the little cottage at Newbridge, in
order to get it more completely ready for the sweet bride who was to
enter it on the morrow. His flowers wanted extra watering and extra
care in order to greet that one brilliant living blossom who was going
to take root and settle down in their midst. Silas thought of
encircling the porch of the cottage with a wreath of roses, of decking
the table with which the wedding-feast would be spread with flowers in
many strange and lovely devices; but the wish to do any of these things
had now suddenly left him. He determined not to go home at present. He
had a dim sort of consciousness that his pain would be much greater at
home even than it was here.
Standing at the shady side of the street, leaning up against the door of
a restaurant, he tried to bring his brain to think connectedly of Mrs
Robinson's words. He recalled them with an effort, and found that they
amounted to the fact that Jill loved another man; that she had engaged
herself to him before she engaged herself to Silas; that whereas Silas
was old and ugly, Jill's other lover was young, and comely to behold.
There was no doubt whatever that something was troubling Jill. The
facts were but too patent--she had some secret motive in consenting to
wed Silas, but her heart was still with Nat.
Having brought himself to face this fact, Silas thought carefully over
Jill's possible motives. He remembered her great anxiety to borrow five
pounds from him. He recalled, with a hot flush of misery, the startled
look on her face when he first told her of the conditions on which he
would give her the money. He remembered then her journey into Kent, her
readiness to comply with his request, and her painful anxiety to have
the money to take away with her, and to have no questions asked.
"I yielded at the time," thought Silas, "but I'm blessed ef I won't get
at the bottom o' this thing afore the day's out. I'll go and see Jill,
and question her. We ain't wedded yet, and I'll know the truth afore
we're made man and wife."
Having made up his mind, Silas acted with promptitude. He was not long
in reaching Howard's Buildings. He ran swiftly up the stairs, and
knocked at Jill's door. She was not expecting to see him again until
they met the next day in Kent. There was a possibility that she might
be out, but he must take his chance of that. He knocked with his
knuckles on the panel of the door and waited. Partly to his relief,
partly to add to his torture, he heard a light step within, and Jill
came and opened the door. She started, and flushed slightly, when she
saw him. There was a certain amount of pleasure in her face. She had
evidently learned to lean upon Silas, to appreciate much that was in
him.
"I'd ha' thought a few hours back as that look meant the tender dawning
o' love," thought the man, "but I know better now."
"Come in, Silas," said Jill, speaking in that gentle tone which she
always used when addressing him. "I wor packing my few bits o' duds,
and I'm sorry the place is in a mess; but come in and set down, do."
Silas entered, and closed the door behind him. He did not intend to say
anything about Mrs Robinson. He had no notion of betraying the secret
which had come to him at present. Still, the heaviness of his heart was
shown by his absence of compliment, by his indifference to the
disordered condition of the room. He sat heavily down on the first
chair he came to, and laid a big hand on each knee.
"I ha' come to have a little talk with yer, Jill," he said.
"Yes, Silas, of course. Is anything the matter, dear Silas?"
"No, my gel, there's nought the matter. Only somehow, when a man takes
the sort of step I'm about to take--when a man takes a young gel to his
'eart, and swears afore the Lord God Almighty to love her and cherish
her, and cling only to her--why, ef he's a man whose word is worth any
think, he feels kind o' solemn, Jill."
"Oh, yes," said Jill; "but when a man's like you, Silas Lynn, he's quite
sure to keep his word; he needn't be fretted 'bout what's quite sure."
Silas gazed straight up at Jill while she was speaking, and a queer,
very mournful smile lingered round his lips.
"Yer think, then, Jill," he said, "as I'd make a real good mate to yer?"
"I do, Silas."
"Yer know as I loves you, my gel."
"Yes, Silas, yes." Her own lips began to tremble. She turned away.
"Jill," continued Silas, "there's a weight on my mind, and I must speak,
or I'll die. It's a weight o' love, little gel. I'm a rough man, and I
has had a rough life. 'Cept the flowers, I never has had to do with
anything soft or dainty. I cared for my mother, in course, and she wor
good as good could be; but she worn't like you, Jill, with the skin o' a
peach, and the look of all the loveliest flowers made by God Almighty
put together. You came to me, Jill, and when you put your little 'ands
into mine, then I knowed what love were. It's a mighty thing, Jill, for
any girl to get all the love of a strong man like me--the love that has
been gathering up in me for close on forty year. Some folks, they love
dozens o' people; they'll give a little love to this one, and t'other
one--they, so to speak, splits up their love. But that ain't me. In
all the wide wide world I love no one but you, little Jill, so you can
guess as you has got something strong--when you has won the love o' a
man like me."
Silas's words came out with slow pauses, they seemed to be wrung from
him. His eyes were fixed upon the girl he was addressing. She turned
paler and paler as he spoke. When he stopped, she burst into tears.
"Silas," she said, "I wish as you wouldn't love me in that sort of awful
way--"
"I can't help it, my dear; it's all with me, or it's nought."
"Silas, you frighten me."
"I don't want to, my pretty little dove. I won't talk o' it too much
arter we is wedded, but I jest had to speak up to-day. Jill, the sort
o' love I can give 'ud go down into hell itself for the sake of sarving
the one it loves. I've been thinking, my little darlin', of you, and
wondering ef maybe you hadn't some things as yer'd like to tell me afore
we were wed. Love makes us see deep down, and I can guess as you've a
trouble, little Jill; maybe it's 'bout your mother, or maybe it's 'bout
that five pounds as I giv'd yer. I know I ha' no right to ask 'bout the
five pounds, but, ef you felt yerself free to tell me, why, I'd like to
say that ef you had the blackest secret that ever come to a gel to keep,
why it 'ud be all the same to me, I'd love yer jest all the same."
"I don't think I ought to tell," said Jill. "It wor a secret, and you
mind, Silas, as it were part of the bargain that I shouldn't tell yer
wot I wanted the money for, and that you shouldn't ask no questions."
"I won't, Jill, ef you'd rayther not tell," said Silas. "I'd like to
know. Afore we stood up in the presence of God, and promised to be true
to each other, I'd like well to know anythink as wor troubling yer. For
look yere, little Jill, it ain't you as has done wrong--it ain't you as
has a secret to hide--but maybe there are some belonging to yer as yer
wants to shield. Well, Jill, you _can't_ shield 'em no better way than
by telling me, wot is to be yer husband, the whole truth."
While Silas was speaking, Jill's face underwent a queer change. It was
as if a heavy and very dark mantle of care had dropped from it. She
looked up at Silas with a sort of solemn reverence.
"I b'lieve as you're a good man," she said. "I b'lieve as you're the
best man I ever met."
"And yer'll trust me, Jill?"
"I will, Silas, I'll trust yer." She sat down as she spoke, and crossed
her hands in her lap. "I'll tell yer about the money," she continued.
"I know as yer'll never bring it up to me nor to mine, and, besides, I
need name no names. It were this way. A few days afore I come to ask
yer to lend me some flowers, a friend--one I thought a sight on, one I--
I _loved_, Silas--give me five pounds to keep faithful, werry faithful,
for a mate of his. I put the money into an old stocking with some
savings of my own. I was quite light in my heart then, and werry happy.
I hadn't known no trouble then. One morning I got up with the glad
heart of a bird inside o' me. I went into the kitchen jest where you
and me is now, and I prepared to go to the market. As I were leaving
the house, I 'membered I had no money in my pocket. I went to the
bureau. There I found that the old stocking had been opened by some
one, and all the money--all my savings, and the five pounds wot my
friend had give me to take care for for his pal were gone. There was a
letter on the top of the bureau telling me who had took the money. The
money--all the money--was took away by some one else wot I loved werry
dear. You may s'pose, Silas, as I felt near mad. I wouldn't and I
couldn't betray the friend wot took the money to the friend wot trusted
me with it. That night the one who gave me the money to keep came and
asked for it back. I put a test to him, and I saw he could never bear
the shock o' knowing the truth, so--"
Jill paused, there was a break in her voice, she threw her apron over
her head.
"So?" continued Silas.
"I let him go," she added.
"And you come to me, little Jill?"
"I did, Silas; I come to you."
"And I give yer the money, and asked no questions?"
"You did, you did."
"And to-morrow we'll be made man and wife afore God?"
"Yes, Silas, that's so."
"You b'lieve as I loves yer, Jill? You b'lieves in the strength of my
love?"
"I do, Silas."
"Well, that's all. You has told me wot were in your heart, and you'll
never be sorry. Now I must be gwine home. I'll send the waggon up for
you to-morrow, and Aunt Hannah in it. And you'll come down to me,
faithful and true?"
"In course I will, Silas."
"Well, kiss me now. Give me a kiss of your own free will. Jest say
over to yourself--`By this time to-morrow Silas Lynn will be my husband,
and I his wife. And Silas loves me.' Say them winds over, werry
solemn-like, to yourself, Jill, and then kiss me. There ain't nothin'
in all the world I wouldn't do for you, my little gel."
Jill raised her face. She lifted her velvety, rose-bud lips to the
man's rough cheek. He ought her to him with frantic eagerness and
pressed one kiss in return on her forehead, and left her, stumbling
awkwardly out of the room, as though he were blind.