Jill: A Flower Girl

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.

Chapter Seventeen

When Silas returned to the cottage late that evening, he found Jonathan waiting for him with an expectant expression on his face.

“I ha’ redd up the whole place, master,” he said, “and brushed the path from the wicket up to the porch and I ha’ watered the flowers, and I think there ain’t nothink more to be done. Everythink is quite ready. I thought as you’d like me to put the place in order, seeing as you was late in comin’ home, master.”

“It’s all right, Jonathan,” said Silas in a gentle voice.

“Maybe as you’d like to look round, and see how I ha’ done it for yourself, master?”

“No, no, Jonathan, it’s safe to be all right; you can go home now, you’re a good lad, and yere’s half-a-crown for yer.” Jonathan pulled his forelock in acknowledgment of this bounty and turned to leave the little flower farm. As he was walking down the path Lynn called after him. “I s’pose,” he said, “that Henry Best wor round to see arter the packing of the waggon.”

“Yes, master, it’s all ready, and Best’ll start the horses to market at one o’clock in the morning.”

“You call at his cottage,” said Lynn, “and tell him as I’ll be taking a seat into town with him.”

“You, master.” Jonathan opened his wide mouth in amazement. “Why, I thought– ”

“Never mind what yer thought,” thundered Lynn after him, “do as yer’re told, and make yerself scarce.” Jonathan quickened his steps, and Lynn very slowly entered the little cottage. A great many changes had taken place in the dingy room which acted both as kitchen and parlour. There was plenty of daylight still, and Lynn looked round at all his preparations. The two small lattice windows had been subjected to such an ordeal of soap and water, that each tiny pane shone in the evening light like a jewel. There was a clean new dimity curtain hung up before each window. The walls of the room had received a fresh coat of colour wash, the floor was nearly covered by the large gaily-striped rug which had called forth Aunt Hannah’s indignation, the new mahogany table gave a solid and handsome appearance to the centre of the room, the new cane chair, with a striped grey and red tidy thrown over its back, had an inviting appearance. The little china cupboard, too, had been put up on the wall, and the gold and white china with the blue convolvulus pattern had been so arranged within it as to show to the best possible advantage. The old arm-chair in which Lynn’s mother had lived and died still kept its solemn position by the hearth. It was a high-backed chair with a shallow seat; it had a hard Puritanical look about it, and seemed to Lynn’s excited imagination now to frown at the gay new things which were brought for the bonny girl-bride who was to take possession of the little home to-morrow.

“Ah! it’s a blow,” murmured Lynn, seating himself on the edge of a plain deal chair, and looking round the room. “I ha’ got to make the best of it, but it’s an awful blow. Jill’ll marry me of course ef I’ll have her, but the question is this, shall I have her? I has got to settle that pint atween myself and the Lord God Almighty to-night.” Some bread and cheese was ready in the cupboard for Lynn’s supper, the cupboard door stood partly open, and he could see the brown loaf and the cheese from where he sat. He had eaten nothing since the morning, but the sight of food in his present state turned the strong man sick; he rose, and going to little cupboard shut the door and turned the key in the lock. “I thought as the Lord had given over a-chastening o’ me,” he said, “I wor mistook. Oh, this yere’s an awful blow. I can take that young gel to wife to-morrow, but her ’eart won’t be mine, her ’eart’ll be another’s. Oh, this yere is a blow. Lord God, it seems kind o’ cruel that I should jest have had such a short bit of happiness, and then for it all to go. Now shall I read my Bible to-night or shall I not?”

Lynn paced up and down the tiny cottage while he thought. The sun set in the heavens, and the summer twilight, which could scarcely be called darkness, set in. He did not light his lamp nor draw his curtains; the darkness, which was not quite darkness after all, soothed him; he found it easier to face the great problem which had come to him in the dim uncertain light. Jill was quite ready to marry him – should he marry her and say nothing about what he knew? He loved her so intensely that he felt almost positive of his power to make her happy, he would give up his whole life to her, she should mould him and direct him, she should guide him with her gentle little hands. It would be impossible for her to be unhappy living among the sweet flowers in his garden, and surrounded by his great, mighty love.

“Yes, I love her fit to die for her,” he muttered. As he said these words, a thought swept over him, like a flash; he remembered a certain verse in the old Bible, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”