“No: my natural home is, of course, with Aunt Margaret as father’s sister, but there are other considerations.” Sylvia hesitated a moment, then added impetuously—it seemed so natural to confide in Jack!—“About money, I mean. I don’t know what I have, or if I have anything at all. Father always said he was poor, though he seemed to have enough for what he wanted, and to give me all I asked. Perhaps he made enough to keep us, but had nothing to leave behind. Mrs Nisbet just referred to the subject one evening, and I could see from her manner that there was something I did not know, so I turned the conversation at once. I had had so much trouble that I felt as if I simply could not bear any more bad news just then, and would rather remain in ignorance as long as possible. It was weak, perhaps, but—can’t you understand the feeling?”
“Me name’s O’Shaughnessy!” said Jack simply. “We never face a disagreeable fact until it comes so close that we hit ourselves against it. I’m sorry; but don’t worry more than you can help. I’ve been short of money all my life, but I don’t know anyone who has had a better time. So long as you have youth and health, what does it matter whether you are rich or poor? It’s all in the way you look at things. For useful purposes, most people can make their money go farther than mine, but for sheer fun and enjoyment I’ll back my half-crown against another fellow’s sovereign!”
“Ah, but you’re Irish! You have the happy temperament which can throw off troubles and forget all about them for the time being. They sit right down upon my shoulders—little black imps of care, and anxiety, and quaking fears, and press so heavily that I can remember nothing else. Perhaps I could be philosophical too, if I were one of a big, happy family—but when one is all alone—”
“All alone—when I’m here! How can you be all alone, when there are two of ye!” cried Jack impulsively.
He had resolved, not once, but a hundred times over, that he would speak no words but those of friendship; that no temptation, however strong, should make him break his vow of silence; but some impulses seem independent of thought. He did not know what he was going to do, he was conscious of no mental prompting, but one moment he was quietly sitting in his corner opposite Sylvia, and the next he was seated beside her, with both arms wrapped tightly round her trembling figure, and she was shedding tears of mingled sorrow and happiness upon his shoulder.
“I’ve been in love with you ever since the first evening you came to our house. Before that! Ever since I saw you sitting up at your window in your little red jacket. You knew it, didn’t you? You found that out for yourself?”
“No—Yes! Sometimes. Only I thought—I was afraid it couldn’t be true, and there was—Mollie!” faltered Sylvia incoherently, hardly knowing what she was saying, conscious of nothing but an overwhelming sense of content and well-being, as the strong arm supported her tired back, and the big, tender finger wiped away her tears.
Jack laughed at the suggestion, but did not indulge in the depreciatory remarks concerning Miss Burrell which many men would have used under the circumstances.
“Good old Mollie!” he said. “She’s a broth of a girl, but I would as soon think of marrying Bridgie herself. She was my confidante, bless her, and cheered me up when I was down on my luck. You might have noticed how interested she was in you that night at Esmeralda’s crush!”
At that Sylvia opened her eyes wide, with a sudden unpleasant recollection.