Chapter 20 Jill: A Flower Girl by L. T. Meade
The moon and the stars have some advantages which mankind in times of perplexity would gladly possess. For instance, they can take a bird’s-eye view of events; from their lofty standpoint they can look down on more than one place at a time in this small world. Doubtless things of immense and overpowering importance to us assume their juster proportions from this immeasurable distance.
On the night which should have been Silas Lynn’s wedding night, there was a clear sky, the moon was at its full, and the stars shone in multitudes in the deep blue firmament. Amongst other things they looked down on a ship returning to its native shores. There were sailors on board of course, and many passengers, and, amongst others, a rather disconsolate, pale-faced, freckled boy, who sat on his bunk in the sailors’ cabin, and rubbed his tear-stained, small eyes with one dirty knuckle, while in his other hand he held a pen, and tried to scribble some words on a sheet of paper.
“Dear sister Jill,” he wrote, “this is to say that Tom and me has had a bad time of it. We are real sorry as we tuk the money, and then put the sin o’ it on mother. We don’t like being sailors, and we gets lots o’ cuffs, and Tom ran away at the last port. I ain’t coming ’ome, although the ship will be in England in twenty-four hours, ef the weather keeps fair; but I write now to say as it was me and Tom tuk the money, all ’cept one pound ten what mother tuk when she ran away. This is to say, too, as I rubbed out mother’s writing on the letter, and put in the words that said she tuk it all. It worn’t mother; it wor Tom and me. I believe the proverb now ’bout ill-gotten gains, for I’m very misribble.
“Your affectionate brother:
“Bob.”
Some tears dropped from Bob’s eyes on the crooked and ill-spelt writing; but the letter got finished somehow, and, what is more, got into an envelope which bore the superscription, “Jill, Howard’s Buildings, Nettle Street, London.” A stamp was fixed on the envelope, and it was dropped into the ship’s letterbox, and in due course did reach Jill’s hands.
Several other characters have been introduced into this story, and the moon and stars looked down on them all – on Poll, lying on her bed in the hospital; on Susy Carter; on Irish Molly Maloney. But perhaps those on whom the brilliant rays of that clear full moon shone with the deepest interest were Jill and Nat, who sat once again in the garden on the Embankment, and talked of their wedding-day. They were together and happy, and they said anew that they owed it all to Silas.
“Who’d ha’ thought it?” said Nat; “and he looks so rough.”
But Jill would not even admit now that Silas was rough.
“You don’t know what a tender ’eart he has, Nat!” she exclaimed. “Ef he has a roughness, it’s only jest on the surface, and what matters that? Oh, Nat, I’m quite positive sure that I’ll allers love Silas next best in the world to mother and you.”
For Silas himself, he stood at that moment by the porch in his little garden; his arms were folded, his head was bare, the flowers lay sleeping at his feet, and the great glory and peace of the summer heavens surrounded him. There had been a tempest in his soul; but even the fiercest storms have their limits, and this storm, though it might rend him again, was for the present succeeded by calm. It is true that his heart felt sadly bruised and sore.
“I’m sort o’ empty,” he said to himself. “I ain’t sorry, in course, as I done it. I might ha’ guessed that the sweet little cuttin’ couldn’t take root yere,” and he struck his breast with his great hand; “but all the same I’m sort o’ empty.”
He went back into the house, and shut the door behind him and sat down in the chair which he had bought for Jill; but the moonbeams still followed him, and shone all over him as he sat near his lattice window.
“I ain’t sorry I ha’ done it,” he repeated. “Lord, I’m willin’; I’m a poor sort o’ critter at best, but I’m willin’ to do Thy will.”
He sighed heavily several times, and at last, worn out from many emotions, fell asleep where he sat in Jill’s chair.
There are compensations for all; and, although Silas did not know it, he had risen out of the commonplace that day and was enrolled in heaven as one of God’s heroes.