by L. T. Meade
all the same it's well I'm rid on her. I'll haveforgotten her by Monday. There's the new colt to be broken in, and thatbed of dahlias wants thinnin'; I'll say anything too that Jonathan'scoorting that wench Hepsibah, 'stead of looking arter the youngsparrer-grass. Oh, my hand's full, and I'm well quit of a bit o' a girllike that 'un."
Having reached home, Silas put up his tired horses, watered and groomedthem, saw to their comforts in every particular, and then went into thelittle cottage which he had offered to share with Jill.
Silas was a very prosperous market-gardener. He had what might becalled a certain knack with flowers and vegetables. Under his touchthey throve. His blossoms were larger than those of any othermarket-gardener round. He did not go in so extensively for fruit, buteven his fruit was better and more abundant than his neighbours'.
It was generally known that Silas was a man of substance. Every Mondayhe might have been seen trudging on foot to the nearest market town,entering the Bank, and going home again with a satisfied expression onhis strong, rough face.
Everyone knew what Silas did in the Bank. He was storing his moneythere, putting away every week his hard-earned savings.
Notwithstanding his success, however, he was a very morose and churlishman. He never exchanged friendly words with his fellow creatures. Henever invited his neighbours to partake of his hospitality. He was verygood to his flowers, and scrupulously kind to his animals. But that hehad any duties to perform to humanity at large, never entered into hiscalculations.
Although his small farm was so prosperous, and his horses so comfortablyhoused, the little cottage where he lived himself was of the most meagredescription. It was very old, and in its best days was but a poorresidence.
Silas said, however, that the two-roomed dwelling was good enough forhim, and he would have been a brave man, and she a remarkable pluckywoman, who had dared to suggest to Silas Lynn that he might withadvantage enlarge his dwelling.
He entered his house now, put a match to some bits of sticks and somesmall 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 ageand service, glanced complacently around him.
When the fire blazed he would put the kettle on to boil, and makehimself a dish of tea--he called it a dish because that had been his oldmother's way of expressing it. He would drink his tea strong andbitter, without the luxuries of milk and sugar, and take with it a slicefrom a quartern loaf which stood in the cupboard, and a thick cut fromthe cold bacon which he always kept in the house.
After this frugal meal he would be sufficiently rested to go out to thinthe dahlias.
Silas had quite made up his mind to forget Jill; nevertheless, he foundhis thoughts running back to her in a way which both perplexed andirritated 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 comparingof her to the flowers made by the Lord God Almighty. It's a good thingshe wouldn't have me; yes, it's a right good thing. Praise the Lord forall His mercies, Silas Lynn. Drink yer tea and munch yer bacon, andforget the hussy."
Lynn put the kettle on to boil as he spoke. Then he looked round thetiny kitchen.
"My certy, what a mess I wor near making of myself," he muttered. "Asef she'd have been content with mother's old room!"
The kitchen was very small; Lynn knew every inch and corner of it, buthe found himself examining it now with new and critical eyes.
"A more comfortable room there can't be," he said to himself. "But itain't the place for a London gel. What 'ud she do with the oldeight-day clock, and the bit of the dresser where mother kept thedishes? She'd come in with her fallals and her fashions, and afore aweek wor out I wouldn't know my own place. Mother's arm-chair 'ud mostlike be moved from its corner, and the bunch of lavender that she sewedup herself in the muslin bag, and pinned over the mantelshelf, would beput behind the fire; and mother's big Bible changed for a yeller-backednovel. Oh, lor, what an escape I has had! God be thanked again for allhis mercies."
The kettle boiled; Silas made his tea, ate his bread and bacon, and wentout. He worked hard amongst his dahlias for two or three hours, scoldedhis servant Jonathan in round full terms, saw to the breaking in of thecolt, and the comfort of his two patient waggon horses, and filiallyretired to his cottage when the stars were out and the moon shining. Itwas the very same moon that was looking down at this moment on Jill inher passion and anguish. But Silas knew nothing of this. He called themoon "My lady," and bobbed his head to it after a fashion taught him byhis mother. Then he went into his cottage, locked the door, lit a smallparaffin lamp, and set himself to read his accustomed chapter out of thebig 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 villageclose by, and on more than one occasion had himself been induced todeliver a prayer at the revival meetings.
Silas had a stentorian pair of lungs, and he could sing theold-fashioned Methodist hymns to the old tunes with immense effect. Hewas fond of giving way to his fancy on these occasions, and wouldsupplement the tune with many additional twists and turns. He scornedto sing anything but a high and harsh treble, considering that the oneand only quality necessary for rendering hearty praise to the Creatorwas noise.
Silas liked singing in the chapel, he liked praying aloud, he would nothave at all objected to addressing his "fellow-worms," as he calledthem, Sunday after Sunday. Above all things, he liked laboriouslyspelling 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 artto the extent of that one chapter nightly. He liked to ponder over thewords, and to move his big thumb slowly from word to word as he came toit. 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 shrewdcomments as he read.
"Ha, ha," he said to himself, "don't never tell me as there's a manliving now wot beats the great King Solomon for wisdom. Take him on anysubjec', and he's up on it, with all the newest lights too. Natrelhistory, for instance! hark to him on the conies and ants. Listen tohim '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 himthat he knew the names of all the flowers, and could he do that if heworn'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? Folkstell of King Solomon in all his glory, but I seem to see him most oftenout among the flowers, a-petting and a-tending of 'em, and learning allthose store of names by heart. But take Solomon all round, and hisknowledge of the ways of women beats everything. Hark to the verse inthis chapter: `Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman thatfeareth the Lord, she shall be praised.' That were my mother's sort--nobeauty in her, and no favour--a downright woman, plain in her way, and abit primity in her notions; but, oh, the goodness of her, and the fearo' God that shone round about her, making a sort of savour all round herlike 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 KingSolomon. But for all that there was a sweetness in her that seemed tome 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 bethankin' the Lord on my knees for having saved me from the enticingwiles of that poor gel."
As a rule, Silas spent his short night without a dream, but the eventsof the past day had disturbed his somewhat slow nature. His brain hadreceived an impression of a girl's grace, freshness and beauty, whichhad penetrated straight from the brain to the heart.
Silas fully believed that by Monday morning he should have forgottenJill; that her image would fade from his mental sight, her voice ceaseto sound on his mental ears. He did not kno
w that he was never toforget her--that from henceforth to his dying day he would carry herimage tenderly, sacredly in the inner shrine of his heart.
The little rosy god of love had come and touched Silas, and he could nomore resist his influence than the flowers in his own garden couldrefrain from growing and expanding in the sunshine. So, quite contraryto his wont, Silas Lynn spent his night in dreams. Jill figured in eachof these visions. Sometimes she was angry with him, sometimesappealing, sometimes indifferent. She was in danger, and he was the oneto save her. She was surrounded by prosperity, and he was thebenefactor who brought these good things to her feet.
All the time, however, through all the happenings of these queerdistorted
