“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.