For several minutes she could not realise what had happened. Then the simple facts of the case came slowly home to her. The old stocking was empty. The money which Jill had taken nearly eighteen months to save—penny by penny and sixpence by sixpence—had vanished. But that was not the worst—that fact was bad, very bad, but it dwindled into insignificance beside the much more appalling fact that the five pounds which belonged to Nat’s pal had also disappeared. Nat, her lover, had trusted her with this money—he had feared to keep it himself—he had believed it possible that some one might steal it, and he had given it to Jill for absolute security. She remembered, as she sat numbed and still on that chair, into which she had thrown herself, the look in Nat’s eyes when he had spoken about giving her the money to keep safely for his pal.
The expression of trust, of confidence, of relief could not have been greater on Nat’s open, honest face had he taken that money to the Bank of England. Jill represented the Bank of England for trustworthiness, for security, to Nat.
“He trusted me,” she moaned; “he trusted me. Oh, mother, mother! what shall I do? Oh, mother, what have you done to the Jill whom you love?”
The poor girl felt that she could not keep still any longer.
By what possible means was she to get the money back? She must recover it—she must rescue it before her mother had spent it all. She rose and went hurriedly out. Her head was in a whirl, her usual dear judgment had, for the time, forsaken her. She, the upright, the respectable Jill, was penniless; but that was not the worst—she felt herself, in a measure, a thief, for through her Nat’s money had vanished.
Going down-stairs she met old Mrs Stanley, who stopped her to utter a pleasant “Good morning.”
“What is it, Jill?” said the old woman, startled by the queer, strange look on the girl’s face. “What’s the matter, dearie? You don’t look yourself.”
“I’m a bit anxious,” said Jill. “Mother’s not quite well, and I—I’m going out. Ef any one calls and arsks arter me, you say as I’ll may be—be out all day, Mrs Stanley.”
“Yes, my love, I’ll say.” The old woman looked at her longingly; words came to her lips which she felt a strange desire to utter. While she hesitated, however, Jill had run quickly down-stairs, and was lost to view.
Her empty basket hung on her arm. As she walked through the streets in the early summer morning a neighbouring clock struck six. She was still in very good time to get a supply of flowers for her basket. This was the height of the flower season. Flowers of all sorts were abundant and cheap. Jill was a regular customer too, and she knew more than one flower merchant who would give her a good selection of flowers even if she were a little late in going to buy them.