him.
"'Course it's all right; what matters the money? You go and break achap's 'eart, and you talk to him o' money. You send a chap right awayto the devil, and you talk to him o' money. What's money to me to-day!I say, curse all women, curse goodness. I say--oh, Jill, Jill, youdon't mean it. It's a trick you're playing on me. Jill, my littlelove, my little sweet-heart, come back to me--come back."
Nat's voice was broken. He flung his hat on the floor, and, rushing upto the young girl, clasped her tightly in a passionate embrace.
For just a quarter of a minute she yielded to it. She felt the strengthof the arms she loved. She said to herself:
"I can't go on. Even for mother's sake, I can't go on with this."
But then the remembrance of Nat's words of the night before, theremembrance of that cruel creed of his, which only believed in honesty,sobriety, and truth, came back like a cold wave to turn aside the warmimpulses of nature.
"No, Nat," she said, detaching herself from him, "you must believe wot Isay. We ha' got to part. I did think as I loved yer, and it did seemnice and beautiful to me, the thought of living with yer--but you're toohigh--too high for the likes o' Jill. Ef you wedded me, you'd turnbitter agen me, for I ain't what you think; I must ha' my fling. May beI don't think them things wrong that you hold by. Wot's a lie now andthen, if it serves a good purpose, and wot's jest not being tooperticler 'bout change, and returning all the pennies you get, andselling withered flowers for fresh! There's a lot of fuss made by somefolks about that sort of thing--I know what you thinks; but I call thatsort of thing soft. Poor folks has got to live, and they can't be overperticler. And then, Nat--you holds a deal on to sobriety--mother, shehas a horror even o' a drop o' beer; but me, when I'm _werry_ tired,it's comfortin'. I don't go for to deny that it's werry comfortin'.Wot's the matter, Nat? How white you ha' got. I'm up to the averagegel, ain't I, Nat? I'm not all white like an angel; but I ain't blackneither, am I, Nat?"
"I has got a blow," said Nat Carter. "You're right, Jill. I don't knowyer all round. I has promised to wed yer, and I'll stick to it, ifyou're o' that mind. God forgive you, Jill, you're not what I thought,but I'll be a good husband to yer, if yer wishes it."
"Do I wish it?" said Jill with sudden scorn and passion. "Let therighteous wed with the righteous, and the sinner with the sinner. I'mas God made me; I'm full of passion, and I'm full of weakness. You'rewhite, and I'm black; but, Nat, where I loves I don't see the sin. Efyou were as black as a coal, Nat, and loved me, I'd love you back again.Oh me, me, my heart's broke, but I can't never, never be yer mate now,Nat Carter."
"And yet it seemed all right last night," said the young man.
"No. I had my doubts last night, and now they're certainties. Idoubted then as you was too high, and me too low for us to cometogether, now my doubts is turned to certainties. Good-bye, Nat,good-bye; choose a gel that never telled a lie, what would scorn tosteal, and what wouldn't touch a drop o' beer to save her life;good-bye, Nat."
"Good-bye," said Nat. He took up his hat in earnest this time. Jill'swords had frozen him. There was a numbness all over him, whichprevented his feeling the real agony of the parting; he turned thehandle of the room door and went out. Jill listened to his footstepsgoing down the stairs, till they died away in the distance.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
Susy Carter was one of those self-reliant people who are notover-troubled with conscience. Her nerves were in excellent order. Shedid not consider herself _vain_, but she was thoroughly satisfied withher life, with her ways, with her ideas. She utterly scorned the flowergirls who did not live up to the high standard which she had setherself. Had Susy been born in a different station of life, she wouldhave gone in for the education craze, for the women's suffrage question,and for all those extreme ideas of so-called emancipation which agitatedthe breasts of the sterner members of her sex.
Susy was not lovable, nor did she greatly love anyone but herself. Shewas ambitious and intended to rise in the world. Even a London flowergirl can have ambition. As in all other callings, that of the flowergirl has many grades. Between the poor, little, sloppy, ragged victim,who hawks miserable, withered flowers, reeking with stale vegetation andthe infection of badly ventilated rooms, and such a flower girl as SusyCarter, there is a very vast gulf fixed.
Susy heard of the Flower Girls' Guild, she was one of the first to jointhis admirable band, she delighted in the sanitary conditions imposedupon her. She paid her shilling a week regularly, and enjoyed all theadvantages of the room where the flowers were kept at night, and thenice wash which she could give herself there in the morning.
Nature had made Susy fair and pretty, and the becoming uniform of theGuild suited her to perfection. Since she had joined it she had becomemore popular as a flower girl than ever. Her flowers were better inquality, and the ladies who bought from her, finding this fact out, wereonly too glad to come to her again; week after week she was steadilyputting away money. If this state of things went on Susy hoped that ina few years she might have saved enough either to marry a respectablecostermonger or to start a barrow, or even a shop for herself. Susy hadnot the least idea of marrying for love, she was thoroughly satisfiedwith her present life, which had a certain amount of excitement withoutundue hardship.
Nat and Susy Carter had neither father nor mother, they were somewhatalike in appearance, and had certain traits of character in common.They were both ambitious, hard-working, honest, respectable, but whereSusy's soul was small and crabbed, shrinking indeed from its normal sizefrom want of any due care or attention, Nat's was strong and brave, forNat's soul was saved by the intense love which he had felt for someyears now for Jill. Nat and Susy shared the same rooms, and these roomswere by no means to their taste. They were in a low part of the town,not exactly in Drury Lane, but in that poor neighbourhood. Thesituation was most convenient, not far from the market and in the verythick of the life which they were obliged to lead, but the roomsoccupied by the brother and sister, though fairly clean in themselves,were by no means to the taste of either. Nat would not have stayedthere but for the hope that he and Jill would soon set up housekeepingtogether, and Susy quite made her mind to share Nat's home whenever hemade it. She was sitting on this particular Sunday afternoon in theirlittle kitchen, leaning somewhat discontentedly out of the window, andwishing that the long dull Sabbath would come to an end, when to hersurprise the door of the room was suddenly opened and Nat came in. Susycould not help giving a start of astonishment. Nat had left her somehours ago with a distinct understanding that he would not return untilnight. Susy had given him a slightly contemptuous look when he had toldher what his day's work would be.
"Yes, yes," she muttered, "don't tell me no more; you'll be a goodSamaritan all the morning, and a lover all the arternoon. Each one totheir taste, don't tell me no more."
"It 'ud do you good, Susy, to have a lover of your own," said Nat, inreply to these bitter words; "a right good 'ansome feller as 'ud drawthe 'eart out of yer, and make yer feel."
"'Ow?" said Susy, looking at him with mocking eyes.
Nat reddened. A vision of Jill as she had looked the night before withthe moonlight shining all over her passionate, tender face flashedbefore him.
"I can't say," he replied. "You wait and see."
"No, I'll never see that sight," said Susy; "there ain't a man living as'ud make a fool on me. Give me a tidy bit of money, and I don't mindwhat the _man_ is like."
Nat closed the door behind him with a faint sigh. It was the firsttouch of that depression which was to seize him in such a mighty clutchlater in the day. Susy, in spite of herself, felt dull after he hadleft her. She wondered if she should go to church, but decided againstthis effort, and seating herself in the window began to unpick thetrimming off an old hat, and to put it on again in a fresher style. Shethen warmed some tea for her dinner, and boiled an egg to eat with herstale bread and butter. Afterwards she took up a penny novelette whichshe had borrowed f
rom her landlady, and tried to interest herself in theimpossible story which it contained. The hero of the tale was of coursea duke, and the heroine was in a very slightly more exalted positionthan Susy herself. The duke loved the maiden, and the romance ended ina brilliant wedding, in a shower of rice, and old satin slippers. Susythrew down the novelette with an impatient sigh. With all her faultsshe had plenty of sense, and the mawkish, impossible tale sickened her.
"I call it stuff," she said to herself.