Jill: A Flower Girl

“My God,” he exclaimed aloud, “it’s easy to say as I’d die fur Jill, but it’s hard, hard to do it. I can take her to-morrow for better for worse, and live for her, but that ain’t the pint. Seems to me as the Lord wants to prove my love for that little Jill by a sort of being crucified for her. I’m to give up myself and give her to another. Is that what I has got to do, Lord? To kill my pleasure and my ’appiness, is that the way I’m to show my love for little Jill?”

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” The words seemed to echo through the silent room, as if they fell from the skies. Silas staggered to the window, pulled the lattice pane open, flung himself on his knees, and looked up at the summer sky. “It’s bitter, bitter hard, Lord,” he muttered.

He was not comforted by any thought of the nobleness of the sacrifice. He grovelled on the ground, and clenched his hands and tore his hair. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I won’t do it,” he muttered, but these words of defiance came at longer and longer intervals. The quiet, persistent voice kept on sounding in his ears, “Greater love – greater love hath no man.” He could not bear the sound at last, he pressed his hands to his ears and ran out of the cottage.

Chapter Eighteen

“Well, I am surprised to see you at the market this morning, Silas Lynn,” said Molly Maloney, who had come to stock her basket with fresh flowers, and who came across Lynn standing moodily by one of the stalls. “Why, ain’t this yer wedding-day? – but glory be to heaven, man, how blue you looks! Where’s Jill? Is anything wrong with the bit of a colleen?”

“No,” said Lynn, “there’s nothing wrong with Jill; she’s comin’ down to me presently, and there’ll be a weddin’ sure enough, don’t you make no mistake on that pint, Mrs Maloney; but I’m standing here a-looking out for a young chap o’ the name o’ Carter. Do you happen to know, ma’am, ef he’s come to the market yet?”

“Him as used to keep company with Jill?” exclaimed Mother Maloney; “yes, I seen him ’arf an hour ago a-buying young peas and other vegetables for his barrer; he were round by the south door and – ” But Lynn had left her.

He strode rapidly in the direction the Irishwoman had pointed out. His hands were stuck deep in his pockets; his great sullen shoulders were raised almost to his ears; the old ferocious look was once more observable on his brow and round his mouth.

Nat Carter had nearly concluded his purchases when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder; he looked swiftly round and came face to face with Lynn.

Nat coloured high when he perceived the person who had touched him. A swift wave of crimson dyed his cheeks and broad, white brow, then it receded, leaving the young fellow pale as death. His blue eyes flashed angrily at Lynn, his lips were firmly shut, he clenched his fist, and waited for the other to begin.

“You ha’ heard,” said Lynn, who noticed these quick changes in the young costermonger’s face with a sort of grim satisfaction; “you ha’ heard, in course, that I’m a-gwine to wed that pretty little flower gel, Jill Robinson, this arternoon.”

“It’s true, I ha’ heard,” replied Nat; “I don’t want to speak on it, Silas Lynn. I’m werry busy just now a-packing my barrer, and as you and me can’t have naught in common, I’ll be wishing yer a good morning.”

“But we can have a deal in common, lad,” exclaimed Silas; “why, what a chicken ’eart you has, turning faint when a gel’s name is spoke!”

“Ef you say that again I’ll knock yer down,” said Nat.

“Oh, tut, tut, ain’t I twice yer age nearly, and a good bit more than twice yer strength? Look yere, Nat Carter, I want to talk this matter over with you. I ha’ heard something ’bout you and Jill what must be cleared up afore I take her afore the parson. I want to do wot’s right and jest by that yere gel. Your ’appiness ain’t nothing to me, Nat Carter; and my own ’appiness! well, the Lord knows as that ain’t worth considerin’ either. But Jill’s ’appiness, that’s everything. You and me ’as got to argufy that pint out werry clear, young man.”

Nat did not reply for a moment or two, then he said in a slow voice:

“I had made a vow in my heart that I’d never speak the name o’ that young gel, Jill Robinson, again,” he murmured. “I heard as she were about to be spliced up with you, Mr Lynn, and I said to myself I ’opes as I’ll never meet that old man, Silas Lynn, or maybe I’ll be doin’ him a mischief. I don’t want to meet yer, or to speak with yer, nor to hear anything more ’bout Jill. It’s quite true as I dreamt a dream that there wor a gel o’ that name, what could be all the world to me. I woke one arternoon and there worn’t no sech Jill nowhere on God’s wide earth. I don’t want to speak to you about the gel you’re gwine to marry, Mr Lynn.”

“Not ef I tell yer somethink that’ll prove to yer as the Jill you dreamt on is still living on this earth, sweeter and brighter nor the best and the purtiest sweet spring flower; ef I proves that to yer, will yer come along and talk with me, Nat Carter?” A queer, convulsive change came over Nat’s face when Silas said these words. He hesitated for a moment.

“I – I’ll come,” he said then. “I didn’t think as I could be such a weak fool, but somehow I don’t know myself lately.”

He called to a tall, slight lad who stood near, gave him some directions with regard to the vegetables and fruit he had just bought, and turned with Lynn to leave the market.

The two men turned down a side street and entered a small restaurant, which was nearly empty at this early hour. Lynn called to the girl who stood behind the counter to bring coffee for two, and then walked with Carter into the back room, which they had absolutely to themselves.

“There can’t be no smooth words between you and me to-day, Nat Carter,” said Lynn, turning suddenly and facing the younger and slighter man. “The facts of the case are these. This yere is my wedding-day. I’m about to contract marriage with a young gel not seventeen year old, and I – you’re pleased to call me an old man, Nat Carter, and I don’t deny as I’ll see forty years come two more summers. But a man of my age is in his prime. You young ’uns think to laugh at us, but there ain’t no laughing in these muscles,” here Lynn doubled his brawny arm, “nor in this yere chest, nor in these legs, nor in this fist. I feel pretty sartin’ as this yere fist o’ mine ’ud knock a slim, straight young feller like you into kingdom come, Nat Carter. There’s nothing o’ decay ’bout me, although you think fine to call me old. My strength is in its prime – and my passions, my love, and my hate, why they’re in their prime too. I tell yer, Carter, that the love of a young feller like you ain’t nothing to the love o’ a man like me – but that ain’t the pint – wot am I talking on? Come and set down here, Carter, and let me speak quietly to yer.”

“I don’t know why you have dragged me in yere,” said Carter; “I wor busy with my work; I don’t want yer to flaunt yer ’appiness in my face.”

“Will you have anything to eat with the coffee, gentlemen?” said the girl who brought it in.

“Nothing – go,” thundered Lynn; she disappeared quickly, and Silas turned to Carter.

“Poor lad,” he said in an almost pitying tone, “you talk o’ me flaunting my ’appiness in yer face – I must be awful full o’ malice to do a thing o’ that sort. You wait awhile, Carter, and see how the tables ’ull turn presently. As I wor saying, this yere is my weddin’-day – I and that little gel with the dark eyes and the sweet look, and the scent of the wild flowers ’bout her, wor to be spliced up afore the pa’son to-day. Oh, I wor ’appy – the Lord God Almighty knows as I wor a’most too ’appy to live. Yesterday it seemed to me as ef I trod on air – oh, what wouldn’t I ha’ done for my little gel! But, yesterday, Carter, ’appiness and me said good-bye to one another. Now you listen, young man, your turn is a-comin’. I went yesterday to Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital to take a parcel to a sick neighbour. As I wor leaving the ward a woman screeched out to me; I turned, and who should I see but Jill’s mother, Poll. Ah, you may well start, young man, but you wait awhile, there’s more to come. I went up to that woman, and she spoke to me and arsked had I seen Jill. I said, ‘Yes.’ She arsked, ‘Is Jill ’appy?’ I said ‘yes’ again to that. Then I added, looking ’ard at her, ‘It ’ud be queer ef Jill worn’t ’appy seeing as she’s to be wed to-morrow.’

”‘Oh, thank the good Lord,’ said Poll; ‘I’m real glad to hear that. I was frightened as she and Nat Carter wouldn’t wed one another.’ You may suppose, young man, as I turned a bit sick and queer when I hear’d words o’ that sort. I jest knew you as a likely chap what bought wegetables in the market. I had never hear’d you and Jill spoke on as keeping company. I had to steady myself a bit; but I spoke quite quiet, and got Poll to tell me all that wor in her ’eart. Seems to me, young man, that you’re a person with mighty little o’ the quality what pious folks call faith; seems to me as you’re but chicken-hearted in your love. However, to my tale. Poll said as you and Jill had allers loved each other ever since you was kids, and that when she saw Jill last, you and she had made up yer’ minds to get spliced to one another as soon as pa’son could be found to tie yer up. Well, poor Poll she had an ugly secret, and she was mortal feared o’ your finding it out. Jill knowed o’ it, but Poll didn’t want you ever to know. She said you wor good, but a bit ’ard, and you wouldn’t have naught in the world to do with any gel what worn’t honest and sober and true. Jill wor honest and sober and true; but Poll herself, poor soul, suffered awful pain fro’ a bad sort of tumour in her breast, and she tuk gin on the quiet to ease it. She made no bones o’ it to me that she often got drunk to ease the pain, and Jill know’d it, although she wouldn’t let on. Well, when you and Jill said as you’d become man and wife, Poll thought as she’d run away, so as you’d never hear of her and never find out as Jill wor the daughter of a woman as drank. She was in an awful takin’ as you’d heard of the news, for yer sister met her and said some cruel words, and it wor a real load off her mind when I told her as Jill wor to be married to-day; she made sure, in course, as the bridegroom wor to be you.

“I left the hospital without having let out one single thing ’bout myself. It don’t matter to you, young man, how I felt. I thought over everythink, and I went to see Jill. Afore I spoke to her mother I made sure as the pretty bit of a cuttin’ wor a-taking real root in my ’eart; but arter I heard Poll’s story, I made jest as sure as she never cared for me; she only married me to save herself. To make a long story short, it seems that you give her five pounds to take care on for a pal o’ yourn. Well, she lost the money – I make no doubt, from what I draw’d out of her, that her mother stole it. She come to me to ask me to lend her five pounds. I said I’d give it to her ef she’d wed me. She said no at first; but the next morning early she come all the way down to my bit of a cottage in Kent and said yes as she would wed me ef I’d give her the five pounds and arsk no questions. You may well look queer, Nat Carter. You ask your own ’eart what you did to make a gel like Jill give yer up, and be too frighted to tell yer the truth. Look at me —I’m rough enough, ’eaven knows – but do yer think she’d be frightened to arsk me anythink? No, no; that ain’t Jill. And now the pint to be decided on is, What’s best for her ’appiness?”

Chapter Nineteen

Even the humblest abode can look gay and bright when it is decked all over with flowers, and when the windows look out on gay gardens and blooming plants, and lake in also distant peeps of lovely country. Kent has been well called the garden of England, and that part where Silas Lynn lived, and where his little flower farm was, was as brilliant and as rich in all kinds of vegetation as any spot in the whole of the county.

Aunt Hannah Royal was, as she expressed it, in every event “all one thing or t’other.” She either went with all her heart and soul for a person, or she determined to oppose them with equal vigour. There was nothing half-hearted about her, she could never have been called in any sense of the word lukewarm. She had come to Silas’s cottage with the full intention of opposing his marriage with Jill, and, if possible, preventing it. She had left the cottage on the first night of her interview considerably softened in her views with regard to things in general. She had made up her mind to see Jill before she took any more steps against her. She had also made up her mind that the tea-drinking out of that delicate “chaney” should prove a success.

When Jill arrived, and when shortly afterwards she echoed Aunt Hannah’s sentiments with regard to the lovely cups and saucers, the old woman’s heart was completely won. She ceased to oppose Silas’s marriage. She kissed him when she next saw him, and told him that the “gel wor a sweet-looking gel, and she made no doubt as she’d be humble and teachable, and willing to learn, not only of her husband, but of her Aunt Hannah.”

“Then, Aunt Hannah,” said Silas, “you’ll ondertake the wedding-feast, won’t you?”

Aunt Hannah decided that she would, and the next morning she came to live at the cottage, and spent every instant of her time preparing the eatables, without which no wedding in her opinion could be properly solemnised.

A few of the village folks had been asked to meet the bride at Silas’s little cottage. The whole party were then to walk to church together, and afterwards, late in the evening, Silas and his wife were to go away by train to the nearest sea-side place.

This was the little programme which Aunt Hannah Royal devoutly believed was to be carried out.

Mary Ann Hatton, Mrs Hibberty Jones, another neighbour of the name of Ann Spires, and two or three men, were all waiting in the little parlour when Silas appeared leading Jill by the hand.

The little bride wore a new print dress with a tiny spray of rose-buds all over it. Her beautiful hair was bound tightly round her head, but in spite of all her careful brushing, some tendrils would get loose. She wore no ornament of any kind, not even a flower from Silas’s garden. As he took her hand and led her into the midst of his friends, she looked at him as if expecting the gay bouquet which he had promised her. He took no notice of her questioning gaze, however, but, leading her forward, stood before the expectant company.

“Neighbours and friends,” he said, “I ha’ to thank you for coming here to-day. You have known me, most of you, for many years, and I’m sure you are all willing and proud to look on at the great ’appiness which it seems to you I’m ’bout to have.”

When Silas said these words, old Peters made a profound bow to the bride.

“There ain’t no doubt on the pint of your ’appiness, Silas,” he said.

“I don’t think there is any doubt,” answered Silas, with a queer look on his face. “Ef I wor to take this young gel to my ’eart it’d be all the same as ef I wor back again in the spring-time of life. The gladness and the lightness of youth would come back to me. Summer’s all very well,” continued Silas, looking round at his friends, “but for gaiety there’s no time like spring. Now this young gel is in the early spring, and I, neighbours, I’m a man as is enjoying of his late summer. I’m full-blown, and this yere young gel is a bud. Now which, neighbours, would you say wor the most waluable from the market-gardener’s pint of view, the bud or the flower wot’s come to its maturity?”

“I allers set store by buds,” said Mary Ann Hatton, in her tart voice. “There’s a sight o’ promise ’bout ’em, and we know as the full-blown flower have had its day; but I’m meaning no disrespect to you, Silas.”

“No more you are, Mary Ann, and I’m obleeged for a plain answer. Now that pint’s clear. The bud’s more waluable nor the full-blown flower. Neighbours, I’m glad to see yer, for I ha’ got a case for you all to decide. I didn’t think as there wor sech a decision to be made when I asked yer to my wedding, but circumstances has arose sence I last saw any of yer, wot makes it but fair that this young gel should get your mature opinion.”

“Wot is it, Silas?” asked Jill, suddenly turning round and looking at him. “I ha’ come down yere to wed yer; it ain’t no affair of anyone’s but yours and mine. Maybe we ought to be going to the church, Silas; maybe it’s ’bout time.”

“Hark to the little cuttin’” said Silas, with a harsh, troubled laugh; “you can’t none of yer say, neighbours, as she ain’t willin’. Now, my little dearie, you let Silas speak. I ha’ thought it all out, and I means to put the case to my good friends here. I think they has already answered me, but I’ll put the question once more. Neighbours all, ef one of us two could only be made ’appy by this yere wedding, which is to be most considered, the bud or the full-blown flower?”

“It’s a wery queer question,” said Peters, “but, in course, we must give it for the bud, Silas.”

“No, I don’t see nothink of the sort,” exclaimed Aunt Hannah. “Silas Lynn is a man of family; he comes of a pious stock, what tuk great care of their chaney, and mended their carpets, and polished up their furniture. Silas’s mother, what died of the asthmey, were as God-fearing and ’spectable a woman as wore shoe leather. Silas comes of a good stock, and that, in a case of weddin’, is much to be considered. I’m not saying anythink agen that young gel; she has right opinions, and she can be trained; but when all’s said and done, she’s a London gel, and she’s in rare luck to get Silas.”

“That’s wot I think, Aunt Hannah,” said Jill; she went up to Silas as she spoke and linked her hand in his arm. “I’m not ashamed to say, Silas,” she continued, looking him full in the face with a great tenderness filling her eyes, “that I love yer better each day. I’m abundantly willing to marry yer, Silas.”

“Thank you, my little gel,” said Silas. “Thank you, too, Aunt Hannah, but in a case like the present a man must judge for himself. I’ll ask yer now one plain question, Jill. Look solemn into yer ’eart, my gel, and tell me true as you wor standing afore the angels, is there no man on this ’arth what you love better nor me? You answer me that pint werry plain. Do you love me, Silas Lynn, better nor anyone else on God’s wide ’arth?”

Silas’s words, his attitude, the piercing way he looked at Jill had a great effect on all the visitors. Even Aunt Hannah began to feel that there was more in all this talk than appeared on the surface. As for Jill herself, she turned first pale, then rosy red. After a very short pause she said in a queer tone:

“I couldn’t tell yer a lie to-day, Silas. I can only say, let by-gones be by-gones, and I can faithfully promise afore God Almighty to make yer a good wife.”

“But I won’t have yer for a wife ef you don’t love me best of all,” said Silas. “Wait one moment, Jill. There’s someone else to have a say in this yere.” He walked across the room and flung the door open. “Come in, Nat Carter, and speak for yerself,” he called out. “Ef Jill can say as she loves me more than you, why I’ll take her to church and wed her. Ef not – now, Nat, come in and speak, man.”

There was a little buzz amongst the guests. Mary Ann Hatton was heard to say afterwards that she never felt nearer fainting in her life. She uttered a little gasp which no one heard; Aunt Hannah gave a snort which no one listened to. All the pairs of eyes were fixed on the handsome straight-looking young man who came into the room, who blushed as deeply as Jill did, and walked at once to her side.

“Jill,” he exclaimed, “there never wor such a noble fellow as this yere Silas Lynn. He ha’ put a deal o’ things straight ’tween you and me this morning, and if you still loves me best, why, sweet-heart.”

“Oh, Nat, I do, I do, I can’t help it,” exclaimed poor Jill. She flung herself into her lover’s arms, who kissed her passionately on her brow and lips.

“Take her out for a bit into the garden,” whispered Silas in a hoarse voice to the young man; “go away, both on yer, for a little, while I ’splain things to the neighbours.”

Chapter Twenty

The moon and the stars have some advantages which mankind in times of perplexity would gladly possess. For instance, they can take a bird’s-eye view of events; from their lofty standpoint they can look down on more than one place at a time in this small world. Doubtless things of immense and overpowering importance to us assume their juster proportions from this immeasurable distance.

On the night which should have been Silas Lynn’s wedding night, there was a clear sky, the moon was at its full, and the stars shone in multitudes in the deep blue firmament. Amongst other things they looked down on a ship returning to its native shores. There were sailors on board of course, and many passengers, and, amongst others, a rather disconsolate, pale-faced, freckled boy, who sat on his bunk in the sailors’ cabin, and rubbed his tear-stained, small eyes with one dirty knuckle, while in his other hand he held a pen, and tried to scribble some words on a sheet of paper.

“Dear sister Jill,” he wrote, “this is to say that Tom and me has had a bad time of it. We are real sorry as we tuk the money, and then put the sin o’ it on mother. We don’t like being sailors, and we gets lots o’ cuffs, and Tom ran away at the last port. I ain’t coming ’ome, although the ship will be in England in twenty-four hours, ef the weather keeps fair; but I write now to say as it was me and Tom tuk the money, all ’cept one pound ten what mother tuk when she ran away. This is to say, too, as I rubbed out mother’s writing on the letter, and put in the words that said she tuk it all. It worn’t mother; it wor Tom and me. I believe the proverb now ’bout ill-gotten gains, for I’m very misribble.

“Your affectionate brother:

“Bob.”

Some tears dropped from Bob’s eyes on the crooked and ill-spelt writing; but the letter got finished somehow, and, what is more, got into an envelope which bore the superscription, “Jill, Howard’s Buildings, Nettle Street, London.” A stamp was fixed on the envelope, and it was dropped into the ship’s letterbox, and in due course did reach Jill’s hands.

Several other characters have been introduced into this story, and the moon and stars looked down on them all – on Poll, lying on her bed in the hospital; on Susy Carter; on Irish Molly Maloney. But perhaps those on whom the brilliant rays of that clear full moon shone with the deepest interest were Jill and Nat, who sat once again in the garden on the Embankment, and talked of their wedding-day. They were together and happy, and they said anew that they owed it all to Silas.

“Who’d ha’ thought it?” said Nat; “and he looks so rough.”

But Jill would not even admit now that Silas was rough.

“You don’t know what a tender ’eart he has, Nat!” she exclaimed. “Ef he has a roughness, it’s only jest on the surface, and what matters that? Oh, Nat, I’m quite positive sure that I’ll allers love Silas next best in the world to mother and you.”

For Silas himself, he stood at that moment by the porch in his little garden; his arms were folded, his head was bare, the flowers lay sleeping at his feet, and the great glory and peace of the summer heavens surrounded him. There had been a tempest in his soul; but even the fiercest storms have their limits, and this storm, though it might rend him again, was for the present succeeded by calm. It is true that his heart felt sadly bruised and sore.

“I’m sort o’ empty,” he said to himself. “I ain’t sorry, in course, as I done it. I might ha’ guessed that the sweet little cuttin’ couldn’t take root yere,” and he struck his breast with his great hand; “but all the same I’m sort o’ empty.”

He went back into the house, and shut the door behind him and sat down in the chair which he had bought for Jill; but the moonbeams still followed him, and shone all over him as he sat near his lattice window.

“I ain’t sorry I ha’ done it,” he repeated. “Lord, I’m willin’; I’m a poor sort o’ critter at best, but I’m willin’ to do Thy will.”

He sighed heavily several times, and at last, worn out from many emotions, fell asleep where he sat in Jill’s chair.

There are compensations for all; and, although Silas did not know it, he had risen out of the commonplace that day and was enrolled in heaven as one of God’s heroes.