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?”