“I should think not,” said Nat, quickening his steps. “But why do you talk in that queer fashion, Jill?”
“It seems to ease my heart like; it’s so nice to know as I’m jest what you want. Now, s’pose, jest s’pose for two minutes, dear Nat, that things worn’t the way they are. S’pose I wor Jill still, with a heart all trembling with love to you, and my face the same as it is, and everything looking jest as it do now, but the inside, Nat, the inside o’ your Jill quite different. S’pose, jest for the sake o’ the thing, that my mother worn’t a sober woman, that she’d take a drop too much sometimes, and sometimes go the length o’ singing songs in the street, with a mob round her, and s’pose your Jill had to go and fetch her home and cossit her up and make purtense as she wor a very sober, ’spectable sort o’ woman, and s’pose, still more, that when you giv’d me yer mate’s money I didn’t keep it safe, but I giv’d it to my por mother what worn’t sober. You trusted Jill, and Jill worn’t worthy, and your dead pal’s money wor all gone, every stiver of it. You look at that picter, Nat, and say what you’d do with sech a Jill as I ha’ drawed out. Would you take her to your heart and say, ‘Never mind, poor Jill, you loves me, and that makes up for all. Your mother ain’t sober and you ain’t true; but your love is true, and I’ll take you to be my wife.’ That wouldn’t be your way, would it, Nat?”
“How wildly you talk, Jill. I think you must be a-going to have fever.”
“No; I ain’t goin’ to have any fever, and I ain’t talking wildly. Answer me. Would you take the Jill as I have pictured to be your wife?”
“Take the child of a drunken mother,” said Nat; “take a false gel, what wor the werry worst kind of a thief, to be my wife! No, thank yer. Don’t talk on it, Jill; it pains me; it seems sort o’ cruel to yourself even to speak on such matters.”
“But,” said Jill, “one moment, Nat. You wouldn’t have her—you’re sartin sure, even ef she had my face; the face you loves, the face you think werry lovely.” Jill threw off her many-coloured shawl as she spoke; her dark eyes gloomy in their great depths, were raised to Nat’s; her little brown well-shaped hands were placed on his shoulders, her lips were parted in a faint smile, the gleam of her pearly teeth just showed. There was a passion of love and longing in her gaze which stirred the young man to the very depths of his being. Nevertheless, what a horrible picture she had drawn! A false Jill, a thief, the daughter of a drunkard!
“No, no,” he said, almost pushing her clinging hands away; “sech a Jill ’ud be nought, and worse than nought to me. Ef she had ten times your beauty I’d spurn her. I’d push her from me. Don’t talk on her no more—don’t think on her. Put your hand inside my arm, my little love, and let’s walk fast, for you’re beginning to shiver again. Why did you talk so strangely, Jill?”
“A fancy I had,” said Jill in a light tone. “It’s over now; let’s talk o’ pleasant things again. When’ll you want your mate’s money, Nat? Shall I give it to yer to-night?”
“No, not to-night; I’ll come round and fetch it to-morrow some time.”
“About what time, Nat?”