“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.”