Chapter Eleven.“And now, Mrs St. John, I think we’ll go and have lunch,” Jill’s new husband remarked as they stood together outside the Registrar’s office, the sun shining brightly on the two faces, his quietly amused, hers a little grave and wondering at the importance of the now irrevocable step which they had taken. At the sound of her new name Jill smiled. “It will be our wedding breakfast,” she said.“So it will. We’ll have fizz and go a buster—a man doesn’t get married every day. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, Jill for thinking of it.”Jill hadn’t slept either. In morbid retrospection, half sweet, half painful, she had spent the night in the empty studio—empty because St. John had had every stick of hers removed to her new home, even to the remains of the Clytie that he had broken, and which had been carefully preserved among Jill’s other treasures as too sacred to be thrown away. She looked up at him, the memory of all his thoughtfulness adding an increased tenderness to the loving smile that chased the momentary sadness from her face.“You’re a goose, my big boy,” she said slipping her hand through his arm as she spoke with a very unwonted display of affection. “And how nice to feel that you are my boy—my very own. No one can part us now, Jack; not all the spiteful machinations of the tyrannical, disagreeable, up-to-date parent can come between you and me, dear, nor alter the fact that we are man and wife.”“That’s true,” replied St. John with mock resignation. “There’s no getting out of it edgeways; for there is a helpless finality about matrimony that carries its own conviction. Jill, my dear, you look uncommonly nice in that gown.”Jill laughed contentedly. He had told her that three times already but she had not the least objection to hearing him say it again. She patted the grey folds of her dress with her grey-gloved hand, and tried to get a glimpse of herself in the shop windows as they passed. It was a very simple costume, and a very serviceable one in light tweed. She had managed to dispose of some work lately and had felt justified in being a little extravagant; though the extravagance had not gone further than buying the necessary materials; her own busy fingers had fashioned the costume with the aid of experience and a paper pattern, and the result was highly satisfactory and very creditable from the top of the smart little toque to the soles of her neat new walking-shoes.“Where shall we go?” enquired Jill serenely.“To Frascatti’s,” he answered, and to Frascatti’s they went accordingly. St. John ordered a very recherché little lunch although he was fully aware that even in small matters it was necessary to practise the strictest economy, but, as he argued in answer to Jill’s expostulations, it was out of all reason to expect a man to be economical on his wedding day.“I’m afraid it’s out of all reason to expect you to be economical at all, my dear saint,” remarked his wife sweetly, slowly withdrawing her gloves, and regarding her very new wedding ring with marked complacency. “I shall have to keep the purse, that’s evident, and dole you out an allowance.”“It’ll put me in mind of my schoolboy days,” laughed St. John, “when I received sixpence a week, and very often had that confiscated in payment of fines.”“I can quite imagine it,” retorted Jill with a grave little shake of the head. “It is strange considering what horrid little wretches boys generally are how really nice some of them grow up.”St. John laughed again; the compliment was intended for him, and he appropriated it. He paused in the act of taking his soup to look across at his small wife. Never had he felt more supremely happy and contented than he did at that moment. He had a careless habit of living solely in the present, turning his back on the past, and deliberately refusing to look into the future—that future which with its work, its independence, and its possible poverty meant so much to them both, and would prove not only a test to the strength of his manhood but to the sincerity of their mutual love. To-day he was determined to put such thoughts on one side; it was his wedding morning and he meant to enjoy himself. He turned his attention from his wife’s face to the study of the wine card, and ran his eye quickly down the list. “Do you like your wine dry?” he asked.“Um?” queried Jill.“Do you like dry wines?”“How funny!” she said. “I didn’t know there was such a thing. I don’t think I should; I’m so thirsty.”St. John looked the tiniest shade put out, the waiter stared, and a good-looking man with a lightish moustache who happened to be passing their table at the moment glanced down at the small grey figure in careless amusement. Jill flushed, suddenly conscious of having said the wrong thing, and the man behind her, looking from her to her companion and recognising the latter, wondered what country cousin St. John had got hold of now.“I don’t know much about it,” she admitted in a slightly vexed tone, “but I liked what we had here before.”St. John gave his order; then he looked into the troubled grey eyes opposite and smiled reassuringly. As he did so he caught sight of the man near Jill’s chair; he was about to seat himself at the next table, but before he could do so St. John rose and intercepted him.“Markham!” he exclaimed. “This is luck. I thought you were abroad.”“Only returned last night,” the other answered shaking hands. “Glad to see you again, St. John. All well at home?”“I don’t know,” St. John replied; “haven’t been there lately. Come over to our table, old boy; we wanted someone to drink our health.”Markham elevated his eyebrows in a show of surprise. St. John had hold of him by the arm, and he allowed himself to be drawn forward until he stood facing the little girl in grey, not quite clear even then as to how matters stood.“Jill,” exclaimed her husband, “allow me to introduce you to Mr Markham, a very old pal of mine.”Jill held out her hand with a smile. She was a little disappointed that St. John had so readily ended their tête-à-tête luncheon, but she carefully refrained from letting him see it, and graciously seconded the invitation which the stranger appeared by no means reluctant to accept. He took the seat on her right hand and looked her over with a glance that was at once curious and puzzled. She was a lady that was evident, though different in most respects to those he was accustomed to meet; what he could not rightly fix was the relationship between her and St. John. When he left England he had understood that the latter was to marry his cousin—it had been for that reason that he had gone abroad—and yet a moment ago St. John had distinctly asked him to ‘drink our health.’ Whose health? And why?“This is a very festive occasion you are participating in, Markham,” St. John observed gaily. “It is my wedding day. As the only guest present we look to you for a speech.”Mr Markham stared incredulously first at St. John, and then at his wife. Suddenly he caught sight of Jill’s new ring—the plain gold circlet seemed to carry conviction with it. He bowed to Jill and impulsively held out his hand to St. John.“My congratulations, old fellow,” he cried warmly, “my very sincere and hearty congratulations. By jove! I am surprised. But—”He paused. He had been going to ask ‘what about Miss Bolton?’ but bethought him in time that it might not be a welcome topic to the bride.“You don’t congratulateme” said Jill smiling, “and yet you might do that more readily because you know Jack and you don’t know me. I feel quite apprehensive; I’ve taken him for better andworse, you know.”Mr Markham laughed.“I think your having done so does infinite credit to your judgment, Mrs St. John,” he said. “I wish you both every happiness and success.”“Thank you,” Jill answered: “I feel reassured and good wishes are always most acceptable.”“To wish success in our case is very appropriate too,” struck in St. John. “I’m going to give you another surprise now, old fellow; I’ve set up in business on my own.”“Eh?” enquired Mr Markham, putting down his wineglass and staring at his friend. St. John whipped a card out of his pocket and laid it on the table cloth.“When you want your photograph taken,” he observed in some amusement, “go to that address, my boy, and you’ll get taken as you never were before. I’m the Co, and I go into harness a week from to-day.”To say that Mr Markham was astonished would be to express his sensations very inadequately he was astounded—almost incredulous. He looked at St. John’s smiling face, and then at Jill’s grave, matter-of-fact one, and ejaculated “By George!” in a tone that made St. John laugh more than ever.“It’s a fact,” observed the latter. “Put the card in your pocket and advertise the firm a bit at the club and elsewhere. Besides you’ll know my address then, though, of course, it is quite permissible for you to forget that if you want to.”Mr Markham took up the card in silence, read it, placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and sitting back in his chair fell to laughing immoderately as though it were a huge joke. He had grasped the situation immediately when he had quite taken in the news. He had wondered that Jack and his wife should be having their wedding breakfast at Frascatti’s, and alone; but now he understood. He knew that St. John, Senior, was bent on marrying his son to Miss Bolton, and he also knew that St. John possessed no private means. He had evidently run contrary to the paternal wishes and this was the outcome. What a fool he was to be sure! To chuck up quarter of a million and pretty Evie Bolton for—“You must really excuse me, Mrs St. John,” he exclaimed meeting Jill’s surprised, and slightly disapproving glance with easy frankness, “but it’s just immense to hear Jack talk about work; I don’t suppose he has done a hand’s turn in his life.”Jill lifted her eyes to her husband’s with unconcealed pride in her look.“It doesn’t follow that he won’t be able to do it,” she answered confidently. “You none of you seem to have understood him. He is full of pluck and perseverance, only he has always been discouraged.”“We understood the old Jack well enough,” Markham responded. “But there comes a crisis in some men’s lives when their whole nature undergoes a complete change. It doesn’t always last; they often go back to the original state which means disappointment, and sometimes disillusionment too. I don’t mean that St. John is likely to go back, I was merely—”“Preparing me,” suggested Jill.“No; wandering off into personal experience—a mistake at any time, unpardonable under existing circumstances. I won’t forget to advertise the show, old man,” he continued turning to St. John, “and, if I may, will book to-day fortnight for a sitting. I rather enjoy having my portrait taken, and don’t mind promising to become a regular customer. I think I can bring some others as well.”“Thanks awfully,” answered St. John. “It will be good for me if I can introduce some fresh customers. I have posted the old man a card. Wouldn’t it be a huge joke if I had the honour of photographing my own father?”Jill made a little grimace, and then the three of them laughed uproariously till Markham, raising his glass on high, drank to the health and prosperity of bride and bridegroom, and confusion to their enemies.“It is rather unfortunate having enemies at the outset of one’s married life, don’t you think?” observed Jill a little wistfully.“Well, I don’t know; I always fancy an enemy or two enhance, by comparison, the value of one’s friends.”“Yes, perhaps—if one has friends.”“You cannot persuade me thatyouwill not find plenty as you go through life,” Markham answered gallantly.“They are a long time coming,” she rejoined with a smile, “but that is generally the case where money is scarce, isn’t it? And Jack and I are horribly poor. We are going to live over the shop, you know, in three rooms and a kitchen. We are lucky to get so many; old Thompkins—”“My dear Jill,” interposed her husband, “you must really learn to speak more respectfully of the head of the firm.”“Old Thompkins,” went on Jill imperturbably, “has only two. But then, of course, he’s a bachelor. I think I shall flirt with him! it might be a stroke of business, eh?”Markham and St. John both laughed.“You’re all right,” ejaculated the former. “You can safely leave yourself in your wife’s hands; it is not difficult to foresee that old Thompkins will be speedily bowled out.”“He might be a misogynist,” suggested Jill.“They are the easiest to get over because they imagine themselves invulnerable,” he replied. “I knew one once, but he married long ago. I forgot to ask him to explain the inconsistency, but it seems to have answered very well.”“I’m glad of that,” said Jill gravely. Then catching his eye she smiled. “It would have been such a strong point against us if he had found it a mistake after all,” she explained.He smiled too. There was something about St. John’s small wife that unconsciously attracted him; he could not help thinking what a capital friend she would make if a fellow were in trouble and in need of advice, though why he should arrive at such a conclusion he could not guess; so far they had exchanged nothing but very slight commonplaces.“I feel I must contradict you there,” he said. “Had he found it a mistake it would most probably have been his fault; people with decided principles are generally difficult.”“Don’t,” cried Jill, “you make me nervous. Jack may have decided principles for aught I know—he’s got a decided temper, and I’m horribly afraid Ilfracombe will make it worse.”“So you propose spending the week at Ilfracombe?”“Yes. I stayed there with my father once while he painted the Coast, so Jack is taking me there for auld lang syne.”“It’s bracing,” struck in St. John, with a commendable determination to have nothing sad, not even reminiscences, on his wedding day. “Any place would do me, but the little woman really wants setting up.”“You will be putting up at the ‘Ilfracombe,’ I suppose?” observed Mr Markham, conversationally.“My dear fellow,” returned St. John, “you don’t seem to quite realise our position. We belong to the working-class, and will have to hunt out cheap rooms when we get there.”“Ah! Well, diggings are more convenient in many ways, and more private, too.” And Mr Markham, raising his wineglass to his lips, drained it quickly, as though he were swallowing something beside Heidsieck, as no doubt he was.
“And now, Mrs St. John, I think we’ll go and have lunch,” Jill’s new husband remarked as they stood together outside the Registrar’s office, the sun shining brightly on the two faces, his quietly amused, hers a little grave and wondering at the importance of the now irrevocable step which they had taken. At the sound of her new name Jill smiled. “It will be our wedding breakfast,” she said.
“So it will. We’ll have fizz and go a buster—a man doesn’t get married every day. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, Jill for thinking of it.”
Jill hadn’t slept either. In morbid retrospection, half sweet, half painful, she had spent the night in the empty studio—empty because St. John had had every stick of hers removed to her new home, even to the remains of the Clytie that he had broken, and which had been carefully preserved among Jill’s other treasures as too sacred to be thrown away. She looked up at him, the memory of all his thoughtfulness adding an increased tenderness to the loving smile that chased the momentary sadness from her face.
“You’re a goose, my big boy,” she said slipping her hand through his arm as she spoke with a very unwonted display of affection. “And how nice to feel that you are my boy—my very own. No one can part us now, Jack; not all the spiteful machinations of the tyrannical, disagreeable, up-to-date parent can come between you and me, dear, nor alter the fact that we are man and wife.”
“That’s true,” replied St. John with mock resignation. “There’s no getting out of it edgeways; for there is a helpless finality about matrimony that carries its own conviction. Jill, my dear, you look uncommonly nice in that gown.”
Jill laughed contentedly. He had told her that three times already but she had not the least objection to hearing him say it again. She patted the grey folds of her dress with her grey-gloved hand, and tried to get a glimpse of herself in the shop windows as they passed. It was a very simple costume, and a very serviceable one in light tweed. She had managed to dispose of some work lately and had felt justified in being a little extravagant; though the extravagance had not gone further than buying the necessary materials; her own busy fingers had fashioned the costume with the aid of experience and a paper pattern, and the result was highly satisfactory and very creditable from the top of the smart little toque to the soles of her neat new walking-shoes.
“Where shall we go?” enquired Jill serenely.
“To Frascatti’s,” he answered, and to Frascatti’s they went accordingly. St. John ordered a very recherché little lunch although he was fully aware that even in small matters it was necessary to practise the strictest economy, but, as he argued in answer to Jill’s expostulations, it was out of all reason to expect a man to be economical on his wedding day.
“I’m afraid it’s out of all reason to expect you to be economical at all, my dear saint,” remarked his wife sweetly, slowly withdrawing her gloves, and regarding her very new wedding ring with marked complacency. “I shall have to keep the purse, that’s evident, and dole you out an allowance.”
“It’ll put me in mind of my schoolboy days,” laughed St. John, “when I received sixpence a week, and very often had that confiscated in payment of fines.”
“I can quite imagine it,” retorted Jill with a grave little shake of the head. “It is strange considering what horrid little wretches boys generally are how really nice some of them grow up.”
St. John laughed again; the compliment was intended for him, and he appropriated it. He paused in the act of taking his soup to look across at his small wife. Never had he felt more supremely happy and contented than he did at that moment. He had a careless habit of living solely in the present, turning his back on the past, and deliberately refusing to look into the future—that future which with its work, its independence, and its possible poverty meant so much to them both, and would prove not only a test to the strength of his manhood but to the sincerity of their mutual love. To-day he was determined to put such thoughts on one side; it was his wedding morning and he meant to enjoy himself. He turned his attention from his wife’s face to the study of the wine card, and ran his eye quickly down the list. “Do you like your wine dry?” he asked.
“Um?” queried Jill.
“Do you like dry wines?”
“How funny!” she said. “I didn’t know there was such a thing. I don’t think I should; I’m so thirsty.”
St. John looked the tiniest shade put out, the waiter stared, and a good-looking man with a lightish moustache who happened to be passing their table at the moment glanced down at the small grey figure in careless amusement. Jill flushed, suddenly conscious of having said the wrong thing, and the man behind her, looking from her to her companion and recognising the latter, wondered what country cousin St. John had got hold of now.
“I don’t know much about it,” she admitted in a slightly vexed tone, “but I liked what we had here before.”
St. John gave his order; then he looked into the troubled grey eyes opposite and smiled reassuringly. As he did so he caught sight of the man near Jill’s chair; he was about to seat himself at the next table, but before he could do so St. John rose and intercepted him.
“Markham!” he exclaimed. “This is luck. I thought you were abroad.”
“Only returned last night,” the other answered shaking hands. “Glad to see you again, St. John. All well at home?”
“I don’t know,” St. John replied; “haven’t been there lately. Come over to our table, old boy; we wanted someone to drink our health.”
Markham elevated his eyebrows in a show of surprise. St. John had hold of him by the arm, and he allowed himself to be drawn forward until he stood facing the little girl in grey, not quite clear even then as to how matters stood.
“Jill,” exclaimed her husband, “allow me to introduce you to Mr Markham, a very old pal of mine.”
Jill held out her hand with a smile. She was a little disappointed that St. John had so readily ended their tête-à-tête luncheon, but she carefully refrained from letting him see it, and graciously seconded the invitation which the stranger appeared by no means reluctant to accept. He took the seat on her right hand and looked her over with a glance that was at once curious and puzzled. She was a lady that was evident, though different in most respects to those he was accustomed to meet; what he could not rightly fix was the relationship between her and St. John. When he left England he had understood that the latter was to marry his cousin—it had been for that reason that he had gone abroad—and yet a moment ago St. John had distinctly asked him to ‘drink our health.’ Whose health? And why?
“This is a very festive occasion you are participating in, Markham,” St. John observed gaily. “It is my wedding day. As the only guest present we look to you for a speech.”
Mr Markham stared incredulously first at St. John, and then at his wife. Suddenly he caught sight of Jill’s new ring—the plain gold circlet seemed to carry conviction with it. He bowed to Jill and impulsively held out his hand to St. John.
“My congratulations, old fellow,” he cried warmly, “my very sincere and hearty congratulations. By jove! I am surprised. But—”
He paused. He had been going to ask ‘what about Miss Bolton?’ but bethought him in time that it might not be a welcome topic to the bride.
“You don’t congratulateme” said Jill smiling, “and yet you might do that more readily because you know Jack and you don’t know me. I feel quite apprehensive; I’ve taken him for better andworse, you know.”
Mr Markham laughed.
“I think your having done so does infinite credit to your judgment, Mrs St. John,” he said. “I wish you both every happiness and success.”
“Thank you,” Jill answered: “I feel reassured and good wishes are always most acceptable.”
“To wish success in our case is very appropriate too,” struck in St. John. “I’m going to give you another surprise now, old fellow; I’ve set up in business on my own.”
“Eh?” enquired Mr Markham, putting down his wineglass and staring at his friend. St. John whipped a card out of his pocket and laid it on the table cloth.
“When you want your photograph taken,” he observed in some amusement, “go to that address, my boy, and you’ll get taken as you never were before. I’m the Co, and I go into harness a week from to-day.”
To say that Mr Markham was astonished would be to express his sensations very inadequately he was astounded—almost incredulous. He looked at St. John’s smiling face, and then at Jill’s grave, matter-of-fact one, and ejaculated “By George!” in a tone that made St. John laugh more than ever.
“It’s a fact,” observed the latter. “Put the card in your pocket and advertise the firm a bit at the club and elsewhere. Besides you’ll know my address then, though, of course, it is quite permissible for you to forget that if you want to.”
Mr Markham took up the card in silence, read it, placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and sitting back in his chair fell to laughing immoderately as though it were a huge joke. He had grasped the situation immediately when he had quite taken in the news. He had wondered that Jack and his wife should be having their wedding breakfast at Frascatti’s, and alone; but now he understood. He knew that St. John, Senior, was bent on marrying his son to Miss Bolton, and he also knew that St. John possessed no private means. He had evidently run contrary to the paternal wishes and this was the outcome. What a fool he was to be sure! To chuck up quarter of a million and pretty Evie Bolton for—
“You must really excuse me, Mrs St. John,” he exclaimed meeting Jill’s surprised, and slightly disapproving glance with easy frankness, “but it’s just immense to hear Jack talk about work; I don’t suppose he has done a hand’s turn in his life.”
Jill lifted her eyes to her husband’s with unconcealed pride in her look.
“It doesn’t follow that he won’t be able to do it,” she answered confidently. “You none of you seem to have understood him. He is full of pluck and perseverance, only he has always been discouraged.”
“We understood the old Jack well enough,” Markham responded. “But there comes a crisis in some men’s lives when their whole nature undergoes a complete change. It doesn’t always last; they often go back to the original state which means disappointment, and sometimes disillusionment too. I don’t mean that St. John is likely to go back, I was merely—”
“Preparing me,” suggested Jill.
“No; wandering off into personal experience—a mistake at any time, unpardonable under existing circumstances. I won’t forget to advertise the show, old man,” he continued turning to St. John, “and, if I may, will book to-day fortnight for a sitting. I rather enjoy having my portrait taken, and don’t mind promising to become a regular customer. I think I can bring some others as well.”
“Thanks awfully,” answered St. John. “It will be good for me if I can introduce some fresh customers. I have posted the old man a card. Wouldn’t it be a huge joke if I had the honour of photographing my own father?”
Jill made a little grimace, and then the three of them laughed uproariously till Markham, raising his glass on high, drank to the health and prosperity of bride and bridegroom, and confusion to their enemies.
“It is rather unfortunate having enemies at the outset of one’s married life, don’t you think?” observed Jill a little wistfully.
“Well, I don’t know; I always fancy an enemy or two enhance, by comparison, the value of one’s friends.”
“Yes, perhaps—if one has friends.”
“You cannot persuade me thatyouwill not find plenty as you go through life,” Markham answered gallantly.
“They are a long time coming,” she rejoined with a smile, “but that is generally the case where money is scarce, isn’t it? And Jack and I are horribly poor. We are going to live over the shop, you know, in three rooms and a kitchen. We are lucky to get so many; old Thompkins—”
“My dear Jill,” interposed her husband, “you must really learn to speak more respectfully of the head of the firm.”
“Old Thompkins,” went on Jill imperturbably, “has only two. But then, of course, he’s a bachelor. I think I shall flirt with him! it might be a stroke of business, eh?”
Markham and St. John both laughed.
“You’re all right,” ejaculated the former. “You can safely leave yourself in your wife’s hands; it is not difficult to foresee that old Thompkins will be speedily bowled out.”
“He might be a misogynist,” suggested Jill.
“They are the easiest to get over because they imagine themselves invulnerable,” he replied. “I knew one once, but he married long ago. I forgot to ask him to explain the inconsistency, but it seems to have answered very well.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Jill gravely. Then catching his eye she smiled. “It would have been such a strong point against us if he had found it a mistake after all,” she explained.
He smiled too. There was something about St. John’s small wife that unconsciously attracted him; he could not help thinking what a capital friend she would make if a fellow were in trouble and in need of advice, though why he should arrive at such a conclusion he could not guess; so far they had exchanged nothing but very slight commonplaces.
“I feel I must contradict you there,” he said. “Had he found it a mistake it would most probably have been his fault; people with decided principles are generally difficult.”
“Don’t,” cried Jill, “you make me nervous. Jack may have decided principles for aught I know—he’s got a decided temper, and I’m horribly afraid Ilfracombe will make it worse.”
“So you propose spending the week at Ilfracombe?”
“Yes. I stayed there with my father once while he painted the Coast, so Jack is taking me there for auld lang syne.”
“It’s bracing,” struck in St. John, with a commendable determination to have nothing sad, not even reminiscences, on his wedding day. “Any place would do me, but the little woman really wants setting up.”
“You will be putting up at the ‘Ilfracombe,’ I suppose?” observed Mr Markham, conversationally.
“My dear fellow,” returned St. John, “you don’t seem to quite realise our position. We belong to the working-class, and will have to hunt out cheap rooms when we get there.”
“Ah! Well, diggings are more convenient in many ways, and more private, too.” And Mr Markham, raising his wineglass to his lips, drained it quickly, as though he were swallowing something beside Heidsieck, as no doubt he was.
Chapter Twelve.Cheap apartments are not easily obtainable at watering places in the summer, that is apartments which combine cheapness with a certain amount of comfort. It was Jill who pointed out the likeliest locality to search in, and who finally discovered what they wanted after many fruitless enquiries. They did not suit St. John’s taste, however much they might his pocket. He would have pronounced them impossible at once had not Jill firmly maintained that they would do. She had had to study economy so much all her life that she was easily pleased, and really considered the rooms quite good enough for what they required.“They are,” she observed cheerfully as soon as they were alone together, “clean and comfortable. To me, after my old attic, they are more—they are luxurious. And the air is perfectly delightful.”St. John glanced round the tiny sitting-room with its cheap saddle-bag suite, and uncompromisingly hard sofa, and endeavoured to see things from her point of view, but with no very marked success. He was losing sight of the romance of poverty, in the realisation of its sordidness. He hated cheap lodgings and all their attendant discomforts, and his dissatisfaction was written plainly on his face.“It might have been worse,” he answered disparagingly.Jill bit her lip and turned to look out of the window. He followed her example, and his discontent increased.“Not much of an outlook on somebody’s bean patch,” he grumbled. “Deuce of a nuisance we didn’t go nearer the sea.”“Sea view apartments are beyond our figure,” she returned. “Besides you ought not to want any outlook, nor anything else except me.”St. John’s ill-humour vanished, and he smiled as he put his arm round her shoulders and drew her nearer to his side.“I don’t,” he asseverated.“Then what are you grumbling at?”“I wasn’t; I was only wishing that things were a little nicer for you.”“That’s very kind of you, dear, but you might wait until I complain before you begin throwing a damper on things. I think that everything is lovely, only—who is to manage the landlady, Jack? I’m sure I daren’t; she looks as if she would stick on the extras. We must do our own marketing, and she won’t like that, I suppose.”St. John looked uneasy.“You always said,” he remarked in a reminiscent manner, “that you would never allow your husband to interfere in domestic concerns; it wasn’t a man’s work.”“Well, you are a coward,” cried Jill; “big men generally are. And she’s only a little woman, not any bigger than I.”“Little women are so vindictive,” he retorted. “I shouldn’t have minded how big she had been, but I did mind the way in which she looked us over and said, ‘You’ll have breakfast at eight-thirty, I suppose? I can let you have some butter that I’ve got in house.’ Eight-thirty is such a commonplace plebeian hour, and sums up one’s social status so exactly, and why couldn’t she say in ‘the’ house?”“Oh! don’t be so ridiculous,” replied Jill, “she is a Devonshire woman, of course, which makes a difference. But I don’t want her butter; I’m sure it isn’t good and that’s why she is anxious to get rid of it.”“Then why didn’t you tell her so instead of saying thank you?”“I hadn’t the moral courage to,” Jill admitted frankly. “I don’t know why you didn’t help me out. If you were half a man you wouldn’t allow me to be worried on my honeymoon.”“It’s my honeymoon too,” protested St. John. “I don’t see why I should be worried either. Jill, dear, run and put your hat on we can’t stay all the evening in this pokey room. Let’s go out catering for to-morrow and have a peep at the sea.”So with a laugh Jill went to do his bidding and together they sallied forth like a pair of children, or two sea-side trippers who having come for a week’s holiday, intend making the most of their time. They turned their footsteps towards the sea, and sauntered along the steep winding path up the cliff for the sake of the view, and the breezes, and to catch sight of the little paddle steamers passing in the distance. They talked a great deal of nonsense, and St. John painted a golden future as background to the rosy present till Jill almost believed that the insignificant firm of Thompkins and Co. was the gilded gate to fortune, and Jack’s the lucky hand to hold the key. Markham’s name cropped up in the course of conversation. St. John introduced it, as he had the owner, unexpectedly, and apropos of nothing that had gone before.“How did you like Markham?” he enquired. “Not a bad sort, is he?”Jill looked dubious, and puckered her brows thoughtfully.“I don’t know,” she answered. “I am not sure whether if I knew him better I should like him a little, or dislike him a great deal. Why did you ask him to come and spoil our lunch?”“I didn’t, I asked him to come and drink our health.”“But why?” she protested. “We didn’t want any horrid third person. What would you have thought if I had asked a girl?”“I should have thought it inconsiderate of you from a monetary point of view, otherwise a charming arrangement.”“You are a brute,” cried Mrs St. John pettishly. “I’m not enjoying my honeymoon a bit.”“People never do,” he rejoined; “It isn’t fashionable, besides its bad taste. I am afraid that I’m going to prove an exception to the rule though; for I don’t know when I have enjoyed anything so much as to-day. Beastly form on my part to admit it, I know. But to return to Markham, I asked him to join us for several reasons, not the least important being a natural desire to introduce my wife—”“Yes, dear, I’ll excuse the preliminaries,” interposed Jill. “I want to know the real reason.”“You aggravating monkey, I’ve a good mind not to satisfy you. And I daresay you will be aggrieved when you hear it because it concerns Evie.”“Oh! Was he in love withher?”St. John laughed at the disparaging tone and teasingly pinched her ear.“Incredible as it may sound he was,” he replied. “I believe she refused him a little while ago but he has been out of England since then and I never heard the rights of the case. He’s an old college chum of mine, and an awfully good sort; I don’t know why Evie doesn’t have him.”“Oh, yes, you do,” rejoined Jill sagely. “And so you thought you would let Mr Markham see that you were married and out of the runnings, you conceited old humbug; and that’s why he laughed so much, and was so very polite to me. He’ll send us a wedding present, Jack, I feel convinced of that.”“You’ve always got your eye open for the main chance,” observed St. John, “and ought to make a good business woman. You’ll be pondering the intrinsic value of that present within half-an-hour. Personally, I shall be thoroughly satisfied if I hear that he wins Evie.”Jill looked up at him swiftly, and slipped her hand into his with a smile.“I don’t mind who wins Evie now,” she said, “but I was horribly anxious once. I don’t believe that I really felt quite safe until this little gold band was placed on my finger, and then I knew that not even Miss Bolton could take you away from me.”“Possession is only nine-tenths of the law,” interposed St. John; but he squeezed the small hand lovingly, lying so confidingly in his, so that, feeling the pressure, and meeting his earnest gaze, Jill was too thoroughly happy even to retort.
Cheap apartments are not easily obtainable at watering places in the summer, that is apartments which combine cheapness with a certain amount of comfort. It was Jill who pointed out the likeliest locality to search in, and who finally discovered what they wanted after many fruitless enquiries. They did not suit St. John’s taste, however much they might his pocket. He would have pronounced them impossible at once had not Jill firmly maintained that they would do. She had had to study economy so much all her life that she was easily pleased, and really considered the rooms quite good enough for what they required.
“They are,” she observed cheerfully as soon as they were alone together, “clean and comfortable. To me, after my old attic, they are more—they are luxurious. And the air is perfectly delightful.”
St. John glanced round the tiny sitting-room with its cheap saddle-bag suite, and uncompromisingly hard sofa, and endeavoured to see things from her point of view, but with no very marked success. He was losing sight of the romance of poverty, in the realisation of its sordidness. He hated cheap lodgings and all their attendant discomforts, and his dissatisfaction was written plainly on his face.
“It might have been worse,” he answered disparagingly.
Jill bit her lip and turned to look out of the window. He followed her example, and his discontent increased.
“Not much of an outlook on somebody’s bean patch,” he grumbled. “Deuce of a nuisance we didn’t go nearer the sea.”
“Sea view apartments are beyond our figure,” she returned. “Besides you ought not to want any outlook, nor anything else except me.”
St. John’s ill-humour vanished, and he smiled as he put his arm round her shoulders and drew her nearer to his side.
“I don’t,” he asseverated.
“Then what are you grumbling at?”
“I wasn’t; I was only wishing that things were a little nicer for you.”
“That’s very kind of you, dear, but you might wait until I complain before you begin throwing a damper on things. I think that everything is lovely, only—who is to manage the landlady, Jack? I’m sure I daren’t; she looks as if she would stick on the extras. We must do our own marketing, and she won’t like that, I suppose.”
St. John looked uneasy.
“You always said,” he remarked in a reminiscent manner, “that you would never allow your husband to interfere in domestic concerns; it wasn’t a man’s work.”
“Well, you are a coward,” cried Jill; “big men generally are. And she’s only a little woman, not any bigger than I.”
“Little women are so vindictive,” he retorted. “I shouldn’t have minded how big she had been, but I did mind the way in which she looked us over and said, ‘You’ll have breakfast at eight-thirty, I suppose? I can let you have some butter that I’ve got in house.’ Eight-thirty is such a commonplace plebeian hour, and sums up one’s social status so exactly, and why couldn’t she say in ‘the’ house?”
“Oh! don’t be so ridiculous,” replied Jill, “she is a Devonshire woman, of course, which makes a difference. But I don’t want her butter; I’m sure it isn’t good and that’s why she is anxious to get rid of it.”
“Then why didn’t you tell her so instead of saying thank you?”
“I hadn’t the moral courage to,” Jill admitted frankly. “I don’t know why you didn’t help me out. If you were half a man you wouldn’t allow me to be worried on my honeymoon.”
“It’s my honeymoon too,” protested St. John. “I don’t see why I should be worried either. Jill, dear, run and put your hat on we can’t stay all the evening in this pokey room. Let’s go out catering for to-morrow and have a peep at the sea.”
So with a laugh Jill went to do his bidding and together they sallied forth like a pair of children, or two sea-side trippers who having come for a week’s holiday, intend making the most of their time. They turned their footsteps towards the sea, and sauntered along the steep winding path up the cliff for the sake of the view, and the breezes, and to catch sight of the little paddle steamers passing in the distance. They talked a great deal of nonsense, and St. John painted a golden future as background to the rosy present till Jill almost believed that the insignificant firm of Thompkins and Co. was the gilded gate to fortune, and Jack’s the lucky hand to hold the key. Markham’s name cropped up in the course of conversation. St. John introduced it, as he had the owner, unexpectedly, and apropos of nothing that had gone before.
“How did you like Markham?” he enquired. “Not a bad sort, is he?”
Jill looked dubious, and puckered her brows thoughtfully.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I am not sure whether if I knew him better I should like him a little, or dislike him a great deal. Why did you ask him to come and spoil our lunch?”
“I didn’t, I asked him to come and drink our health.”
“But why?” she protested. “We didn’t want any horrid third person. What would you have thought if I had asked a girl?”
“I should have thought it inconsiderate of you from a monetary point of view, otherwise a charming arrangement.”
“You are a brute,” cried Mrs St. John pettishly. “I’m not enjoying my honeymoon a bit.”
“People never do,” he rejoined; “It isn’t fashionable, besides its bad taste. I am afraid that I’m going to prove an exception to the rule though; for I don’t know when I have enjoyed anything so much as to-day. Beastly form on my part to admit it, I know. But to return to Markham, I asked him to join us for several reasons, not the least important being a natural desire to introduce my wife—”
“Yes, dear, I’ll excuse the preliminaries,” interposed Jill. “I want to know the real reason.”
“You aggravating monkey, I’ve a good mind not to satisfy you. And I daresay you will be aggrieved when you hear it because it concerns Evie.”
“Oh! Was he in love withher?”
St. John laughed at the disparaging tone and teasingly pinched her ear.
“Incredible as it may sound he was,” he replied. “I believe she refused him a little while ago but he has been out of England since then and I never heard the rights of the case. He’s an old college chum of mine, and an awfully good sort; I don’t know why Evie doesn’t have him.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” rejoined Jill sagely. “And so you thought you would let Mr Markham see that you were married and out of the runnings, you conceited old humbug; and that’s why he laughed so much, and was so very polite to me. He’ll send us a wedding present, Jack, I feel convinced of that.”
“You’ve always got your eye open for the main chance,” observed St. John, “and ought to make a good business woman. You’ll be pondering the intrinsic value of that present within half-an-hour. Personally, I shall be thoroughly satisfied if I hear that he wins Evie.”
Jill looked up at him swiftly, and slipped her hand into his with a smile.
“I don’t mind who wins Evie now,” she said, “but I was horribly anxious once. I don’t believe that I really felt quite safe until this little gold band was placed on my finger, and then I knew that not even Miss Bolton could take you away from me.”
“Possession is only nine-tenths of the law,” interposed St. John; but he squeezed the small hand lovingly, lying so confidingly in his, so that, feeling the pressure, and meeting his earnest gaze, Jill was too thoroughly happy even to retort.
Chapter Thirteen.Mr St. John, Senior’s, wrath knew no bounds when he received his son’s note and learnt that he had taken the irrevocable step and actually married the art mistress. He passed the letter on to his niece with Thompkins and Co.’s card, and turned away from the lunch-table too disgusted to eat his food. Evie Bolton took things more quietly. She had realised her defeat from the first, and accepted it as she did the announcement of her cousin’s marriage with a composure that did more credit to her head than to her heart. She read the letter through without comment, and studied the card. Then she looked up with a little laugh.“How funny,” she said. “I will go and have my photograph taken there.”Mr St. John said nothing. He just wheeled about shortly and left the room, but when he got outside his language was more forcible than polite, and he kicked Miss Bolton’s pet pug right across the hall. For the first time he saw the heiress with his son’s eyes.“Jack is a fool,” mused Miss Bolton complacently, tapping the pasteboard in a meditative fashion. “He will hate it all three months hence, and then they will quarrel horribly. A photographer indeed! What possessed him, I wonder?”When Miss Bolton flippantly observed that she intended having her photograph taken at Thompkins and Co.’s, she did not mean it seriously; for she had not considered the matter, and only spoke upon impulse. Some months later, however, the idea returning to her mind, she determined, after thinking it over for a little while, to act upon it, and judge for herself how Jack adapted himself to his changed circumstances.It was characteristic of her that she should don her richest attire for the occasion, and drive there in style instead of going in the quietest and most unobtrusive manner; and it was also characteristic that on arriving and entering the shop she should haughtily demand to see Mr St. John, entirely ignoring Jill, who, on her entry, had risen from her seat at the desk, and now in her usual philosophic manner walked quietly out of the shop to call her husband St. John was in the studio endeavouring to snap an infant in its vest, and only succeeding in making it howl. He was looking worried and annoyed, and welcomed Jill’s advent with relief.“You are better at this kind of thing than I am,” he said in an aside to her; “just see if you can pacify the little beast.”“All right,” answered Jill shortly. “You can go and do the agreeable to Evie Bolton; she’s in the shop waiting to see you.”St. John whistled, and the infant stopped yelling to listen; it was noted for its love of music.“How jolly nice of her,” he cried. “Perhaps she’ll stay and have tea with us.”“Perhaps she won’t,” Jill answered rather bitterly; but St. John was not paying any attention; he was busy adjusting the collar of his coat, and failed to detect the chagrin in his wife’s tone and manner. Jill turned her back on him quickly to hide her annoyance, and walked over to make friends with the baby, while St. John, unconscious that anything was amiss, strode through the studio into the shop where Evie Bolton awaited him. She turned at his entry and advanced to greet him, recognising with a little pang of envy as she did so, what a fine, manly, handsome fellow this cousin of hers was. St. John, too, realised for the first time how very pretty and stylish Evie was. When he had lived with stylish women he had not noticed these things, now that his lot was cast among the working-classes, he perceived and appreciated the difference. His glance rested on Miss Bolton’s well groomed prettiness with a kind of tired relief, and the sordidness of his own surroundings became more apparent.“It is good of you to look us up,” he cried. “I half feared that I was going to get the cold shoulder altogether.”He had taken the girl’s outstretched hand in both of his, and now looked into her eyes with a smile of pleased gratitude. Evie smiled back.“You should never have thought that of me,” she said. “You might have known I would come eventually. If uncle hadn’t been so furious about it I should have come sooner, but I had to use my discretion and wait. The first time I suggested a visit he flung out of the room in a temper. I fear you have done for yourself, dear, so far as your father is concerned.”St. John looked moody, and seeing his change of countenance, she hastened to turn the subject.“Jack,” she said, “I am awfully low-spirited—I suppose I have missed you rather. I want you to take me out to tea somewhere and cheer me up if you can.”St. John swallowed the bait. The idea of a diversion was pleasing to him, and the knowledge that he had been missed gratified his vanity.“Dear little girl, of course I will,” he answered. “I’ll just go and put it all right with Thompkins, and then I’ll be at your service. Jill’s in the studio. You saw her though, didn’t you?”Miss Bolton flushed.“Ye-es,” she answered hesitatingly, “for a minute. Make haste, Jack dear; I am so impatient to be off. While you are gone I will look at these abominable photographs. I meant to let you take mine to-day, but I object to being caricatured.”“You must let Jill paint you,” he said, “She’s first class at portrait painting and would like to get some customers.”“One day,” the girl answered vaguely, “perhaps I will.”St. John hurried out, and Miss Bolton turned with languid interest to inspect the portraits round the walls. When her cousin returned he discovered her intently scrutinising a cabinet photograph of Mr Markham.“What a libel,” she cried holding it up. “This is your handiwork, I should imagine. When did you take it?”“Oh! I don’t know,” he answered carelessly, “Jill took it one day. She has taken him lots of times; he often calls in.”Evie’s eyebrows went up with a show of surprise.“Is he a friend of—Mrs St. John?” she asked.“I suppose so; Jill likes him. He and I were always rather chummy, and he drops in in to talk about—oh! well, about old times and—friends, you know.”“He never told me,” she rejoined slowly. “I saw him yesterday and he mentioned very casually that he met you recently; he did not say that he was intimate here.”“Perhaps he didn’t think that it would interest you,” he suggested. “Or he might have thought the subject tabooed.”“With me?” she cried. “Impossible! I am always talking about you.”“Very flattering of you, my dear Evie,” he laughingly rejoined, “but you’ll never persuade me that you are so one idead.”Miss Bolton put the photograph back in its place, and turned towards the entrance with an evident desire to get away.“I am,” she said. “I’ve only got one idea at present and that’s tea. Don’t let us waste more time, Jack, but come along at once.”“It’s an awful pity Jill can’t come with us,” he remarked as he followed her out, “but we couldn’t both leave together.”“Yes,” acquiesced Evie, none too heartily, “it is a pity. Never mind she sees plenty of you now and I don’t. She can’t begrudge me a few hours now and then. I am seriously thinking of getting married myself, Jack; it is so deadly dull since you went.”Thinking of Markham, St. John looked pleased.“Why don’t you?” he asked.“I am going to,” she answered settling herself in a corner of the carriage with an airy laugh. “I am looking about for a title.”“Oh!” observed St. John disapprovingly, “I shouldn’t bother about that. Why not look about for someone you can give your heart to?”“Because I haven’t got one to bestow,” she retorted. “If I ever possessed such an uncomfortable organ it must have been stolen from me long ago, but I don’t feel the want of it so don’t miss it at all. I suppose you flatter yourself that Jill has given her heart to you?”“Yes,” he answered smiling, and patting his left side, “I have it here safe enough in place of the one I gave to her.”“Ah!” returned Miss Bolton coolly, “a pretty fancy no doubt, but a fancy all the same, my dear Jack, and absolutely ridiculous.”“Don’t be cynical,” he said; “it’s a sign of the times, and unbecoming.”“And cynical women are generally old maids,” laughed Evie. “That won’t do for I must have my title. I won’t die an old maid if I have to advertise in a matrimonial journal.”
Mr St. John, Senior’s, wrath knew no bounds when he received his son’s note and learnt that he had taken the irrevocable step and actually married the art mistress. He passed the letter on to his niece with Thompkins and Co.’s card, and turned away from the lunch-table too disgusted to eat his food. Evie Bolton took things more quietly. She had realised her defeat from the first, and accepted it as she did the announcement of her cousin’s marriage with a composure that did more credit to her head than to her heart. She read the letter through without comment, and studied the card. Then she looked up with a little laugh.
“How funny,” she said. “I will go and have my photograph taken there.”
Mr St. John said nothing. He just wheeled about shortly and left the room, but when he got outside his language was more forcible than polite, and he kicked Miss Bolton’s pet pug right across the hall. For the first time he saw the heiress with his son’s eyes.
“Jack is a fool,” mused Miss Bolton complacently, tapping the pasteboard in a meditative fashion. “He will hate it all three months hence, and then they will quarrel horribly. A photographer indeed! What possessed him, I wonder?”
When Miss Bolton flippantly observed that she intended having her photograph taken at Thompkins and Co.’s, she did not mean it seriously; for she had not considered the matter, and only spoke upon impulse. Some months later, however, the idea returning to her mind, she determined, after thinking it over for a little while, to act upon it, and judge for herself how Jack adapted himself to his changed circumstances.
It was characteristic of her that she should don her richest attire for the occasion, and drive there in style instead of going in the quietest and most unobtrusive manner; and it was also characteristic that on arriving and entering the shop she should haughtily demand to see Mr St. John, entirely ignoring Jill, who, on her entry, had risen from her seat at the desk, and now in her usual philosophic manner walked quietly out of the shop to call her husband St. John was in the studio endeavouring to snap an infant in its vest, and only succeeding in making it howl. He was looking worried and annoyed, and welcomed Jill’s advent with relief.
“You are better at this kind of thing than I am,” he said in an aside to her; “just see if you can pacify the little beast.”
“All right,” answered Jill shortly. “You can go and do the agreeable to Evie Bolton; she’s in the shop waiting to see you.”
St. John whistled, and the infant stopped yelling to listen; it was noted for its love of music.
“How jolly nice of her,” he cried. “Perhaps she’ll stay and have tea with us.”
“Perhaps she won’t,” Jill answered rather bitterly; but St. John was not paying any attention; he was busy adjusting the collar of his coat, and failed to detect the chagrin in his wife’s tone and manner. Jill turned her back on him quickly to hide her annoyance, and walked over to make friends with the baby, while St. John, unconscious that anything was amiss, strode through the studio into the shop where Evie Bolton awaited him. She turned at his entry and advanced to greet him, recognising with a little pang of envy as she did so, what a fine, manly, handsome fellow this cousin of hers was. St. John, too, realised for the first time how very pretty and stylish Evie was. When he had lived with stylish women he had not noticed these things, now that his lot was cast among the working-classes, he perceived and appreciated the difference. His glance rested on Miss Bolton’s well groomed prettiness with a kind of tired relief, and the sordidness of his own surroundings became more apparent.
“It is good of you to look us up,” he cried. “I half feared that I was going to get the cold shoulder altogether.”
He had taken the girl’s outstretched hand in both of his, and now looked into her eyes with a smile of pleased gratitude. Evie smiled back.
“You should never have thought that of me,” she said. “You might have known I would come eventually. If uncle hadn’t been so furious about it I should have come sooner, but I had to use my discretion and wait. The first time I suggested a visit he flung out of the room in a temper. I fear you have done for yourself, dear, so far as your father is concerned.”
St. John looked moody, and seeing his change of countenance, she hastened to turn the subject.
“Jack,” she said, “I am awfully low-spirited—I suppose I have missed you rather. I want you to take me out to tea somewhere and cheer me up if you can.”
St. John swallowed the bait. The idea of a diversion was pleasing to him, and the knowledge that he had been missed gratified his vanity.
“Dear little girl, of course I will,” he answered. “I’ll just go and put it all right with Thompkins, and then I’ll be at your service. Jill’s in the studio. You saw her though, didn’t you?”
Miss Bolton flushed.
“Ye-es,” she answered hesitatingly, “for a minute. Make haste, Jack dear; I am so impatient to be off. While you are gone I will look at these abominable photographs. I meant to let you take mine to-day, but I object to being caricatured.”
“You must let Jill paint you,” he said, “She’s first class at portrait painting and would like to get some customers.”
“One day,” the girl answered vaguely, “perhaps I will.”
St. John hurried out, and Miss Bolton turned with languid interest to inspect the portraits round the walls. When her cousin returned he discovered her intently scrutinising a cabinet photograph of Mr Markham.
“What a libel,” she cried holding it up. “This is your handiwork, I should imagine. When did you take it?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” he answered carelessly, “Jill took it one day. She has taken him lots of times; he often calls in.”
Evie’s eyebrows went up with a show of surprise.
“Is he a friend of—Mrs St. John?” she asked.
“I suppose so; Jill likes him. He and I were always rather chummy, and he drops in in to talk about—oh! well, about old times and—friends, you know.”
“He never told me,” she rejoined slowly. “I saw him yesterday and he mentioned very casually that he met you recently; he did not say that he was intimate here.”
“Perhaps he didn’t think that it would interest you,” he suggested. “Or he might have thought the subject tabooed.”
“With me?” she cried. “Impossible! I am always talking about you.”
“Very flattering of you, my dear Evie,” he laughingly rejoined, “but you’ll never persuade me that you are so one idead.”
Miss Bolton put the photograph back in its place, and turned towards the entrance with an evident desire to get away.
“I am,” she said. “I’ve only got one idea at present and that’s tea. Don’t let us waste more time, Jack, but come along at once.”
“It’s an awful pity Jill can’t come with us,” he remarked as he followed her out, “but we couldn’t both leave together.”
“Yes,” acquiesced Evie, none too heartily, “it is a pity. Never mind she sees plenty of you now and I don’t. She can’t begrudge me a few hours now and then. I am seriously thinking of getting married myself, Jack; it is so deadly dull since you went.”
Thinking of Markham, St. John looked pleased.
“Why don’t you?” he asked.
“I am going to,” she answered settling herself in a corner of the carriage with an airy laugh. “I am looking about for a title.”
“Oh!” observed St. John disapprovingly, “I shouldn’t bother about that. Why not look about for someone you can give your heart to?”
“Because I haven’t got one to bestow,” she retorted. “If I ever possessed such an uncomfortable organ it must have been stolen from me long ago, but I don’t feel the want of it so don’t miss it at all. I suppose you flatter yourself that Jill has given her heart to you?”
“Yes,” he answered smiling, and patting his left side, “I have it here safe enough in place of the one I gave to her.”
“Ah!” returned Miss Bolton coolly, “a pretty fancy no doubt, but a fancy all the same, my dear Jack, and absolutely ridiculous.”
“Don’t be cynical,” he said; “it’s a sign of the times, and unbecoming.”
“And cynical women are generally old maids,” laughed Evie. “That won’t do for I must have my title. I won’t die an old maid if I have to advertise in a matrimonial journal.”
Chapter Fourteen.When St. John returned after seeing his cousin safely home it was late in the afternoon, and though the place still remained open business was apparently over for the day. Thompkins and Co. were not over-burdened with customers at any time, and their number since the advent of the new Co. had been steadily on the decrease. Business was slack, the returns were very small, and St. John felt by no means sanguine as to the success of his venture. He had been married a little over four months, and it was only by exercising the greatest care that they managed to pay their way even. Jill was a thrifty housewife—she always had been,—but St. John forgot his straightened circumstances at times, and launched out a little recklessly. He had not been altogether careful that afternoon, and the consciousness of the fact gave him an unpleasant twinge of remorse as he mounted the steep stairs to their little sitting-room.Jill was alone standing looking out of the window with her back towards the door, nor did she turn round at his entry. She was displeased.“You have been a long time,” she said.“I’m afraid I have,” he admitted. “You weren’t lonely I hope?”“No; I was too busy for that. And afterwards Mr Markham came in. He has just left.”“Why, he was here yesterday. He surely didn’t want his photo taken again?”“No, I think he wanted a chat, and when he found I was alone he stayed on for company. Have you had a pleasant time? Where did you go?”“We went and had tea,” he answered. He didn’t say where; he was ashamed to; it was one of the places where you pay for locality and Miss Bolton had not once offered to share expenses. “And then we spent a little time at the Academy—Evie’s fond of pictures you know.”“Oh, yes, I know,” agreed Jill drily. “I have a vivid recollection of her passion for art; it was so upsetting. I suppose she shut her eyes occasionally? Some people take art like they do physic—shut their eyes and hold their noses except when nobody’s looking.”“Jill dear, don’t be nasty,” he said.Jill laughed.“I can’t help it,” she answered. “I’m afraid my nature must be warped I have such a knack of being disagreeable. I could have pinched that horrid little baby this afternoon, it irritated me so; and yet I am fond of children. And I could have been exceedingly rude to Miss Bolton if she hadn’t been rude to me first;—of course I wouldn’t follow her example in anything.”“Rude to you?—Evie? How?”“Oh! in an entirely lady-like manner. She merely gave me to understand that she didn’t intend to recognise me, and treated me as she would any other shop assistant. Miss Bolton means taking you up and cutting your wife. I suppose she is perfectly justified.”“Don’t be ridiculous, Jill,” St. John cried sharply. “Evie means nothing of the sort. She spoke of you most kindly, and said it was a pity you couldn’t go with us.”“Ah!” rejoined Jill queerly. “My mistake again. Evie has a mystifying way of showing her kindness, but doubtless she means well. You, I suppose, understand her better than I do, but I shouldn’t advise you to try arranging an excursion for three.”“Very well,” he returned, “I won’t go with her again. I wouldn’t have to-day if I had thought it would annoy you. We were like brother and sister always and it was pleasant for me to see her again.”Jill heaved a deep sigh, and leaned her forehead against the window pane. She knew that he had no intention of wounding her feelings yet these unconscious allusions to the sacrifice that he had made in marrying her hurt her more than they need have done. And St. John never guessed. Not for a moment had he regretted the step he had taken, and it did not occur to him that Jill should imagine he might.“I am not annoyed,” she said after a brief pause. “I am irritable this evening, that’s all. Mr Markham said that I wasn’t looking well; perhaps I am a little out of sorts. Are the pictures good this year, Jack?”“Good enough. But none of them to come up to yours in my eyes as I told Evie. It’s scandalous to think that real talent should get overlooked, yet it’s often enough the case.”“Mr Markham,” jerked out Jill suddenly, “wishes me to paint his portrait.”St. John laughed.“Markham is getting vain,” he said. “No doubt he purposes presenting it to Evie. When is the first sitting to be?”“I don’t know, nothing is definitely settled, I thought I would speak to you about it first.”St. John looked at her in astonishment.“Why?” he asked.Jill hesitated. She had no real reason to offer, but when Mr Markham made the proposal she felt that she would like to consult Jack before deciding. She had consulted him, and now regretted having done so.“I wasn’t sure whether the arrangement would be agreeable to Mr Thompkins,” she answered. “He expects me to be available for the studio at all times and seasons you know, and, of course, undertaking this would mean giving a good deal of my time—”“To hear you one would think,” interposed her husband, “that you contemplated painting a multitude. You know as well as I do that Thompkins will be quite agreeable. I should have thought you would have settled the matter out of hand.”“I am not at all sure that I will undertake it,” retorted Jill pettishly. “I hate painting men; they make such horribly uninteresting subjects; and I’m sick to death of the sound of Evie Bolton’s name. Fancy listening for a solid hour to the extolling of her virtues! I don’t think I could stand it.”“Oh! that’s it, is it?” laughed St. John. “Well, of course, you must please yourself, old girl, but I shouldn’t let Evie do me out of a fiver if I were you. Besides I have thought lately that Markham avoids the subject I suppose he twigs that you’re not so fond of it as he is.”Jill said nothing. She had noticed the same thing; and could not help wondering why their visitor came so frequently when he no longer cared to discuss the once all sufficing topic. Jack had formerly declared that he only came to talk Evie, but that could hardly be said of him now. Sometimes Mrs Jack fancied that his suit did not progress altogether as he could have wished, and in her womanly, whole-hearted way felt sorry for him. She had been so happy in her own love that she would have pitied anyone less fortunate than herself. Besides she liked Markham and admired his perseverance, though she wondered occasionally whether he would have been quite so devoted had Miss Bolton been penniless like herself.“I saw the Governor on my way home,” observed St. John at length, breaking the silence with a short laugh. Mrs St. John’s heart gave a sudden jump.“He didn’t—cut you?” she queried.“Oh, dear no! bowed to me almost as though he considered me on an equality. Feels jolly rum being treated by one’s father like that.”“I call it abominable of him,” Jill cried hotly. “He seems absolutely heartless.”St. John looked amused.“Well, I don’t quite see what else he could have done under the circumstances,” said he. “I don’t blame him for giving me the kick out and all that as I disappointed him, but I do for not bringing me up to some profession; it’s beastly rough luck for me.”Jill laid one small hand upon his shoulder, ever so light a touch but it carried great comfort with it.“You don’t make a good poor man, dear,” she said gently. “You should have known my father; he was always cheerful even in his poorest moments; yet no one would have called him careless nor improvident. He was simply brave and self-reliant.”“Little mentor,” answered her husband gravely, drawing her face down to his. “I accept the rebuke; there shall be no more complaints. I will be ‘up and doing—learn to labour and to wait.’”
When St. John returned after seeing his cousin safely home it was late in the afternoon, and though the place still remained open business was apparently over for the day. Thompkins and Co. were not over-burdened with customers at any time, and their number since the advent of the new Co. had been steadily on the decrease. Business was slack, the returns were very small, and St. John felt by no means sanguine as to the success of his venture. He had been married a little over four months, and it was only by exercising the greatest care that they managed to pay their way even. Jill was a thrifty housewife—she always had been,—but St. John forgot his straightened circumstances at times, and launched out a little recklessly. He had not been altogether careful that afternoon, and the consciousness of the fact gave him an unpleasant twinge of remorse as he mounted the steep stairs to their little sitting-room.
Jill was alone standing looking out of the window with her back towards the door, nor did she turn round at his entry. She was displeased.
“You have been a long time,” she said.
“I’m afraid I have,” he admitted. “You weren’t lonely I hope?”
“No; I was too busy for that. And afterwards Mr Markham came in. He has just left.”
“Why, he was here yesterday. He surely didn’t want his photo taken again?”
“No, I think he wanted a chat, and when he found I was alone he stayed on for company. Have you had a pleasant time? Where did you go?”
“We went and had tea,” he answered. He didn’t say where; he was ashamed to; it was one of the places where you pay for locality and Miss Bolton had not once offered to share expenses. “And then we spent a little time at the Academy—Evie’s fond of pictures you know.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” agreed Jill drily. “I have a vivid recollection of her passion for art; it was so upsetting. I suppose she shut her eyes occasionally? Some people take art like they do physic—shut their eyes and hold their noses except when nobody’s looking.”
“Jill dear, don’t be nasty,” he said.
Jill laughed.
“I can’t help it,” she answered. “I’m afraid my nature must be warped I have such a knack of being disagreeable. I could have pinched that horrid little baby this afternoon, it irritated me so; and yet I am fond of children. And I could have been exceedingly rude to Miss Bolton if she hadn’t been rude to me first;—of course I wouldn’t follow her example in anything.”
“Rude to you?—Evie? How?”
“Oh! in an entirely lady-like manner. She merely gave me to understand that she didn’t intend to recognise me, and treated me as she would any other shop assistant. Miss Bolton means taking you up and cutting your wife. I suppose she is perfectly justified.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jill,” St. John cried sharply. “Evie means nothing of the sort. She spoke of you most kindly, and said it was a pity you couldn’t go with us.”
“Ah!” rejoined Jill queerly. “My mistake again. Evie has a mystifying way of showing her kindness, but doubtless she means well. You, I suppose, understand her better than I do, but I shouldn’t advise you to try arranging an excursion for three.”
“Very well,” he returned, “I won’t go with her again. I wouldn’t have to-day if I had thought it would annoy you. We were like brother and sister always and it was pleasant for me to see her again.”
Jill heaved a deep sigh, and leaned her forehead against the window pane. She knew that he had no intention of wounding her feelings yet these unconscious allusions to the sacrifice that he had made in marrying her hurt her more than they need have done. And St. John never guessed. Not for a moment had he regretted the step he had taken, and it did not occur to him that Jill should imagine he might.
“I am not annoyed,” she said after a brief pause. “I am irritable this evening, that’s all. Mr Markham said that I wasn’t looking well; perhaps I am a little out of sorts. Are the pictures good this year, Jack?”
“Good enough. But none of them to come up to yours in my eyes as I told Evie. It’s scandalous to think that real talent should get overlooked, yet it’s often enough the case.”
“Mr Markham,” jerked out Jill suddenly, “wishes me to paint his portrait.”
St. John laughed.
“Markham is getting vain,” he said. “No doubt he purposes presenting it to Evie. When is the first sitting to be?”
“I don’t know, nothing is definitely settled, I thought I would speak to you about it first.”
St. John looked at her in astonishment.
“Why?” he asked.
Jill hesitated. She had no real reason to offer, but when Mr Markham made the proposal she felt that she would like to consult Jack before deciding. She had consulted him, and now regretted having done so.
“I wasn’t sure whether the arrangement would be agreeable to Mr Thompkins,” she answered. “He expects me to be available for the studio at all times and seasons you know, and, of course, undertaking this would mean giving a good deal of my time—”
“To hear you one would think,” interposed her husband, “that you contemplated painting a multitude. You know as well as I do that Thompkins will be quite agreeable. I should have thought you would have settled the matter out of hand.”
“I am not at all sure that I will undertake it,” retorted Jill pettishly. “I hate painting men; they make such horribly uninteresting subjects; and I’m sick to death of the sound of Evie Bolton’s name. Fancy listening for a solid hour to the extolling of her virtues! I don’t think I could stand it.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” laughed St. John. “Well, of course, you must please yourself, old girl, but I shouldn’t let Evie do me out of a fiver if I were you. Besides I have thought lately that Markham avoids the subject I suppose he twigs that you’re not so fond of it as he is.”
Jill said nothing. She had noticed the same thing; and could not help wondering why their visitor came so frequently when he no longer cared to discuss the once all sufficing topic. Jack had formerly declared that he only came to talk Evie, but that could hardly be said of him now. Sometimes Mrs Jack fancied that his suit did not progress altogether as he could have wished, and in her womanly, whole-hearted way felt sorry for him. She had been so happy in her own love that she would have pitied anyone less fortunate than herself. Besides she liked Markham and admired his perseverance, though she wondered occasionally whether he would have been quite so devoted had Miss Bolton been penniless like herself.
“I saw the Governor on my way home,” observed St. John at length, breaking the silence with a short laugh. Mrs St. John’s heart gave a sudden jump.
“He didn’t—cut you?” she queried.
“Oh, dear no! bowed to me almost as though he considered me on an equality. Feels jolly rum being treated by one’s father like that.”
“I call it abominable of him,” Jill cried hotly. “He seems absolutely heartless.”
St. John looked amused.
“Well, I don’t quite see what else he could have done under the circumstances,” said he. “I don’t blame him for giving me the kick out and all that as I disappointed him, but I do for not bringing me up to some profession; it’s beastly rough luck for me.”
Jill laid one small hand upon his shoulder, ever so light a touch but it carried great comfort with it.
“You don’t make a good poor man, dear,” she said gently. “You should have known my father; he was always cheerful even in his poorest moments; yet no one would have called him careless nor improvident. He was simply brave and self-reliant.”
“Little mentor,” answered her husband gravely, drawing her face down to his. “I accept the rebuke; there shall be no more complaints. I will be ‘up and doing—learn to labour and to wait.’”
Chapter Fifteen.Notwithstanding her former reluctance Jill eventually undertook the commission for Mr Markham’s portrait, though some time elapsed before she started on the work, Markham, himself, being out of town staying as a guest at a house where Evie Bolton was also visiting, a circumstance that filled St. John with pleasurable anticipation, though Jill, less sanguine as to the result, was more inclined to foresee troubles ahead, and looked forward with no great joy to their friend’s return. Yet his manner, when he did put in an appearance, conveyed absolutely no impression; as St. John afterwards informed his wife he believed that Markham had funked it.“When shall we have the first sitting, Mrs St. John?” he exclaimed after the usual greetings were over. “I am quite anxious to begin.”“Why not fix Monday?” suggested St. John amicably.“Monday!” cried Jill. “It’s washing day. How can you be so inconsiderate?”“Oh, ah! washing day! I forgot. The atmosphere is composed of soap-suds, and we have cold meat. Not Monday, my dear boy; it is the most ungodly day of the week.”“Tuesday would do,” said Jill, “if that suits, and I think three o’clock would be the most convenient hour for me. The light, of course, is best in the mornings, but I am always busy then.”“Any time will suit me,” Markham answered promptly, “and any day.”“Ah,” said Jill with a little smile, “Jack was like that once. Why don’t you get something to do?”“Because it isn’t necessary.”“But independence is such a grand thing,” she persisted.“Exactly. I inherited it, and I like it best that way.”Jill laughed.“We can’t all be workers, I suppose,” she said, “yet I fancy if I had been given my choice I should have chosen that kind of independence. Work is necessary to me.”“From a selfish point of view I am glad that it is; otherwise you wouldn’t paint portraits.”“What makes you fancy that?” she asked.“No one who paints as you do would undertake portraits if they could avoid it. I know a man who has always one canvas at least in the academy, but he can’t afford to paint pictures now; they don’t sell; so he does portraits.”Jill sighed.“I am sorry for that man,” she said, “his life must be a disappointment. The people who want to be painted are generally so impossible.”“My dear girl,” remonstrated St. John, “considering the circumstances that is one of the things better left unsaid.”“I am speaking from the artistic sense,” she replied; “besides I said ‘generally.’”“I quite understand,” interposed Markham laughing, “and entirely agree with you. But that won’t interfere with the sitting on Tuesday, eh?”“I hope not,” she answered gravely; “I should be doubly sorry now if you didn’t come.”“There is no fear of that,” he said. “I enjoy seeing myself reproduced. It is so often an improvement, you know, yet one invariably flatters oneself that it is as one habitually looks.”“We haven’t done much to foster your conceit so far,” she observed.“Oh! I don’t know,” he answered. “I really thought that that last portrait was a bit like me. Somebody told me I did look like that sometimes when I had a liver attack.”“Evie said it was a libel,” St. John remarked tentatively.“Ah! Well, I should be sorry to contradict her,” he replied, and Jill fancied, though she could not be quite sure, that he looked slightly displeased at the mention of Miss Bolton’s name. Why should a name that had once been his sole subject of conversation excite his annoyance now? It was not consistent. Had it been a case of unrequited affection she could have understood his being hurt, but displeasure was something she could not account for; it irritated her, why she could not have explained. She was not accustomed to analyse her sensations even to herself; it would have been wiser if she had; for her instinct was wonderfully true, and her nature peculiarly observant.“You put me on my mettle,” she said, smiling. “It shan’t be a libel this time I promise you if infinite pains can prevent.”“I am not afraid to trust myself in your hands,” he said.Jill laughed.“That’s very fulsome flattery,” she answered. “I was responsible for the libel, remember. Mr Thompkins declares that I shall ruin the firm yet. It is so humiliating because I was so positive at first that I was going to become one of those celebrated lady photographers who have all the best people sitting to them, and can charge any price they like.”“It’s just as well as it is, perhaps,” St. John rejoined with conviction. “Success would make you a horrid little prig, Jill; very few people can stand it.”“If Mr Markham were not here,” Jill returned, “I would tell you what I think of you.”
Notwithstanding her former reluctance Jill eventually undertook the commission for Mr Markham’s portrait, though some time elapsed before she started on the work, Markham, himself, being out of town staying as a guest at a house where Evie Bolton was also visiting, a circumstance that filled St. John with pleasurable anticipation, though Jill, less sanguine as to the result, was more inclined to foresee troubles ahead, and looked forward with no great joy to their friend’s return. Yet his manner, when he did put in an appearance, conveyed absolutely no impression; as St. John afterwards informed his wife he believed that Markham had funked it.
“When shall we have the first sitting, Mrs St. John?” he exclaimed after the usual greetings were over. “I am quite anxious to begin.”
“Why not fix Monday?” suggested St. John amicably.
“Monday!” cried Jill. “It’s washing day. How can you be so inconsiderate?”
“Oh, ah! washing day! I forgot. The atmosphere is composed of soap-suds, and we have cold meat. Not Monday, my dear boy; it is the most ungodly day of the week.”
“Tuesday would do,” said Jill, “if that suits, and I think three o’clock would be the most convenient hour for me. The light, of course, is best in the mornings, but I am always busy then.”
“Any time will suit me,” Markham answered promptly, “and any day.”
“Ah,” said Jill with a little smile, “Jack was like that once. Why don’t you get something to do?”
“Because it isn’t necessary.”
“But independence is such a grand thing,” she persisted.
“Exactly. I inherited it, and I like it best that way.”
Jill laughed.
“We can’t all be workers, I suppose,” she said, “yet I fancy if I had been given my choice I should have chosen that kind of independence. Work is necessary to me.”
“From a selfish point of view I am glad that it is; otherwise you wouldn’t paint portraits.”
“What makes you fancy that?” she asked.
“No one who paints as you do would undertake portraits if they could avoid it. I know a man who has always one canvas at least in the academy, but he can’t afford to paint pictures now; they don’t sell; so he does portraits.”
Jill sighed.
“I am sorry for that man,” she said, “his life must be a disappointment. The people who want to be painted are generally so impossible.”
“My dear girl,” remonstrated St. John, “considering the circumstances that is one of the things better left unsaid.”
“I am speaking from the artistic sense,” she replied; “besides I said ‘generally.’”
“I quite understand,” interposed Markham laughing, “and entirely agree with you. But that won’t interfere with the sitting on Tuesday, eh?”
“I hope not,” she answered gravely; “I should be doubly sorry now if you didn’t come.”
“There is no fear of that,” he said. “I enjoy seeing myself reproduced. It is so often an improvement, you know, yet one invariably flatters oneself that it is as one habitually looks.”
“We haven’t done much to foster your conceit so far,” she observed.
“Oh! I don’t know,” he answered. “I really thought that that last portrait was a bit like me. Somebody told me I did look like that sometimes when I had a liver attack.”
“Evie said it was a libel,” St. John remarked tentatively.
“Ah! Well, I should be sorry to contradict her,” he replied, and Jill fancied, though she could not be quite sure, that he looked slightly displeased at the mention of Miss Bolton’s name. Why should a name that had once been his sole subject of conversation excite his annoyance now? It was not consistent. Had it been a case of unrequited affection she could have understood his being hurt, but displeasure was something she could not account for; it irritated her, why she could not have explained. She was not accustomed to analyse her sensations even to herself; it would have been wiser if she had; for her instinct was wonderfully true, and her nature peculiarly observant.
“You put me on my mettle,” she said, smiling. “It shan’t be a libel this time I promise you if infinite pains can prevent.”
“I am not afraid to trust myself in your hands,” he said.
Jill laughed.
“That’s very fulsome flattery,” she answered. “I was responsible for the libel, remember. Mr Thompkins declares that I shall ruin the firm yet. It is so humiliating because I was so positive at first that I was going to become one of those celebrated lady photographers who have all the best people sitting to them, and can charge any price they like.”
“It’s just as well as it is, perhaps,” St. John rejoined with conviction. “Success would make you a horrid little prig, Jill; very few people can stand it.”
“If Mr Markham were not here,” Jill returned, “I would tell you what I think of you.”
Chapter Sixteen.Jill had got her canvas and everything in readiness, and was waiting for her model. She had been waiting for about ten minutes, and was growing slightly impatient; she hated wasting her time. St. John was busy in the studio, unusually busy, so that he could not possibly get away even for a few minutes. He wanted her badly, she knew; he always wanted a mate, and she felt rather as if she were shirking. She looked at the canvas in a dissatisfied kind of way, and then out of the window at the people in the street.“I believe,” she mused, thinking of the absent Markham, “that I could draw his face from memory.”Fetching a piece of paper she seated herself at the table and made a rough sketch in pencil as she had once done of St. John, only in St. John’s case she had not trusted to memory. Markham arrived while she was thus employed, and he stood by the table watching her, as she put in the finishing strokes. He smiled while he watched as though he were amused. Jill was grave and very much absorbed.“What a wonderful little head it is,” he said.“Do you think so?” she asked, lifting the head he alluded to the better to regard the one on paper which he was not even looking at. “I don’t call it wonderful, but I had an idea that I could catch the likeness; some faces are quite easily remembered.”“Yes,” he acquiesced, “yours is.”“Mine? I don’t agree with you; my features are too indescribable. There. It’s finished. I have caught the expression, haven’t! But I haven’t done justice to the nose. Will you sit in this chair near the window, please? you are dreadfully late, so we mustn’t waste further time.”Jill worked rapidly, and there could not possibly be any question as to her ability. Markham watched her with interest, and every now and again he rose from his seat to have a look how the work progressed, notwithstanding her protest that it spoilt the pose.“I can’t help that,” he declared, “it fascinates me, I must look.”“I had no idea before that you were so vain,” she said.“I’m not,” he answered. “It isn’t the subject that interests me but the work. I could stand behind you and watch you all day.”“Not having eyes at the back of my head I shouldn’t make much progress with the portrait in that case,” she retorted. “Do you mind going back to your seat, please, and allowing me to study your physiognomy again?”He obeyed reluctantly, and for a time the work continued in silence; Jill was too engrossed to talk, and Markham apparently had no desire to. He sat quite motionless watching her with a strained, intent, unfathomable expression in his glance that Jill in unconscious accuracy was transmitting to the painted eyes on the canvas, though the expression was by no means habitual to him, and gave the portrait an unlifelike appearance. She shook her head over it despondently, and stood back from the easel in order to take a better look.“I must leave the eyes alone to-day,” she said, “I am making a muddle of them. They are your eyes, and yet they are not yours. I don’t understand it.”“Oh, bother the portrait,” he exclaimed. “Put it up for to-day and let’s talk.”“It wouldn’t get finished very quickly at that rate,” she answered.“I don’t want it finished quickly,” he said.“No?” Jill’s tone was expressive of surprise, and she looked at him very straightly as she spoke. “What are you going to do with it when itisfinished?” she asked.“Give it to you if you will accept it.”“Don’t be ridiculous! that’s not what you had it painted for.”“Now, how do you know that?” he enquired. He had risen, and coming forward took the palette and paint brushes out of her hand; then, receiving no remonstrance, he began to untie the strings of her painting apron.“Shut up shop for to-day,” he pleaded. “I am going to stay to tea.”It was rather an unfortunate moment for St. John to choose for putting in an appearance. Had he been married as many years as he had months it would not have mattered, but under existing circumstances it was regrettable that he should open the door when he did Jill, all unconscious of the suspicious proximity of Mr Markham’s arm to her shoulder, smiled serenely as she encountered St. John’s sharp, surprised glance, and noting that he looked displeased, presumed that he had spent a wearisome afternoon in the studio.“Leisurable at last?” she queried cheerfully. “I am so glad, dear. Come and make yourself agreeable while I see about the kettle; Mr Markham is going to stay to tea.”“Sorry, but I can’t,” he answered shortly. “I have to be in the dark room in a few minutes, and have enough developing to keep me engaged for some time. How’s the sitting getting on? You don’t appear to be very busy. Is Markham tired already?”“We’ve been at it a solid three quarters of an hour,” rejoined Markham aggrieved, “and as for not being busy, look at the canvas, man.”St. John did look; he stood a little way off, and studied it earnestly for several minutes, but he did not speak.“Well, what do you think of it?” enquired the other.“I never presume to criticise Jill’s work until it is finished,” he answered. “At present I don’t like it.”“Neither do I,” acquiesced Jill, “that’s why I was not loth to give up for to-day. It’s the eyes, I think; they have a sinister expression that makes him look like a stage villain. And yet I’m sure the expression was there at the time.”“I hope not,” St. John rejoined, looking fixedly at his friend in a rather disconcerting manner; “the eyes never lie, you know.”Jill took the canvas down from the easel and leaned it with its face hidden against the wall.“Don’t utter uncomfortable platitudes,” she remarked. “If you can’t be more cheerful I hope you’ll retire to your dark room speedily; Mr Markham and I were enjoying ourselves till you came.”To her surprise he took her literally, and, muttering something about ‘sorry to be a wet blanket,’ wheeled about abruptly and left the room. Jill looked at Markham, and her eyes were both angry and concerned.“I can’t think what’s the matter with Jack,” she said half apologetically; “he is not often such a bear. Do you know that I think you had almost better not stay this evening. It wouldn’t be very hilarious if he were in that mood, would it?”“Of course I won’t stay; I was only joking. Jack is a bit huffed about something no doubt, but you’ll soon coax him into a better temper,” he responded, “I’ll come to-morrow for another sitting, shall I?”“No,” Jill answered slowly; “the same day and hour next week, if you please.”On the following Tuesday when Markham turned up for the arranged sitting he found Jill alone as on the former occasion, St. John having purposely gone out to spend the afternoon with Evie Bolton. The latter had written to him during the past week asking him if he could manage to meet her somewhere as she had something of importance to impart to him, and St. John, in his fit of suddenly awakened jealousy had settled on the day that Jill had fixed upon for the second sitting, taking a very malicious satisfaction in her evident annoyance when he stated his intention. She said little enough at the time, but her manner betrayed her vexation, and the strained relationship that had existed between them during the past few days grew more apparent. When Markham arrived, she was feeling more hurt than angry, and her mood was softened and subdued, and nearer akin to tears than it had been since her marriage.“Jack has gone out,” she said in answer to his enquiry, not so much explanatorily, but because she felt she must say something, and that was the only thing she could think of at the moment. It was the one miserable refrain that kept repeating itself in her mind—“Jack has gone out—back to his own people.”“He won’t be home till late,” she went on apathetically. “He said he was going to take a journey into the past, and forget the sordid present for a time. I don’t think it altogether wise of him, do you? Where is the use in looking back when the sordid present has to be lived through, and the uncertain future to be faced?”“Mrs St. John,” Markham answered gravely. “St. John—ourSt. John was never wise; the only noteworthy action of his life was when he married you.”“Ah!” said Jill with a very pathetic smile, “I often fancy that that was the most unwise thing he ever did.”Markham looked at her speculatively, and failed to make an immediate reply. Was it St. John, himself, who had given her cause to think so, he wondered. Was she finding out so soon that their marriage had been a mistake?“You are depressed,” he said, leaning towards her, his hands lightly grasping the arms of his chair. “It isn’t good for you to feel like that. Jack is a brute to leave you to yourself. What can I do to cheer you up, I wonder? After all we are both in the same boat; for if you are lonely, so am I.”“You!” echoed Jill in a tone which implied that her listener did not know what loneliness meant. “How can you talk of loneliness? At least you have Evie—”“No,” he interrupted shortly; “Evie is nothing to me, and less than nothing. She is engaged to marry a marquis. I should have thought you would have heard of that by now.”At his words, Jill’s face visibly brightened. It flashed upon her with a certain amount of conviction that this was why her husband had gone to his cousin; possibly she had sent for him to consult him on the subject, and the trouble that had oppressed her lightened instantly with the thought. How could she have doubted him even for a moment? But he ought to have taken her into his confidence; it was a mistake to make a secret of so simple a thing.Markham misinterpreted the sudden brightening of her countenance, and when in her impulsive, sympathetic way she laid her small fingers compassionately over his, he grasped the little hand feverishly between both his eager palms, and held it against his breast while he drew her nearer to him and stared into her face with burning, compelling eyes. She thought his manner strange but pardonable under the circumstances.“I am so sorry,” she said gently, “so very sorry.”“Sorry for what?” he asked.“Oh, the—the—your disappointment,” she rejoined with an awkward deepening of the colour in her cheeks. She felt that she was getting on to delicate ground, and did not know very well how to proceed; but he relieved the situation by a short, impatient laugh.“There wasn’t any disappointment,” he returned. “You must have known that I was off that long ago. Don’t humbug, Jill; you must have perceived that ever since I knew you I have cared for no one else. I should not have mentioned it only I see now that you care a little also—that your marriage is not altogether a success. You are lonely as well as I, dear. Why not let us console one another?”
Jill had got her canvas and everything in readiness, and was waiting for her model. She had been waiting for about ten minutes, and was growing slightly impatient; she hated wasting her time. St. John was busy in the studio, unusually busy, so that he could not possibly get away even for a few minutes. He wanted her badly, she knew; he always wanted a mate, and she felt rather as if she were shirking. She looked at the canvas in a dissatisfied kind of way, and then out of the window at the people in the street.
“I believe,” she mused, thinking of the absent Markham, “that I could draw his face from memory.”
Fetching a piece of paper she seated herself at the table and made a rough sketch in pencil as she had once done of St. John, only in St. John’s case she had not trusted to memory. Markham arrived while she was thus employed, and he stood by the table watching her, as she put in the finishing strokes. He smiled while he watched as though he were amused. Jill was grave and very much absorbed.
“What a wonderful little head it is,” he said.
“Do you think so?” she asked, lifting the head he alluded to the better to regard the one on paper which he was not even looking at. “I don’t call it wonderful, but I had an idea that I could catch the likeness; some faces are quite easily remembered.”
“Yes,” he acquiesced, “yours is.”
“Mine? I don’t agree with you; my features are too indescribable. There. It’s finished. I have caught the expression, haven’t! But I haven’t done justice to the nose. Will you sit in this chair near the window, please? you are dreadfully late, so we mustn’t waste further time.”
Jill worked rapidly, and there could not possibly be any question as to her ability. Markham watched her with interest, and every now and again he rose from his seat to have a look how the work progressed, notwithstanding her protest that it spoilt the pose.
“I can’t help that,” he declared, “it fascinates me, I must look.”
“I had no idea before that you were so vain,” she said.
“I’m not,” he answered. “It isn’t the subject that interests me but the work. I could stand behind you and watch you all day.”
“Not having eyes at the back of my head I shouldn’t make much progress with the portrait in that case,” she retorted. “Do you mind going back to your seat, please, and allowing me to study your physiognomy again?”
He obeyed reluctantly, and for a time the work continued in silence; Jill was too engrossed to talk, and Markham apparently had no desire to. He sat quite motionless watching her with a strained, intent, unfathomable expression in his glance that Jill in unconscious accuracy was transmitting to the painted eyes on the canvas, though the expression was by no means habitual to him, and gave the portrait an unlifelike appearance. She shook her head over it despondently, and stood back from the easel in order to take a better look.
“I must leave the eyes alone to-day,” she said, “I am making a muddle of them. They are your eyes, and yet they are not yours. I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, bother the portrait,” he exclaimed. “Put it up for to-day and let’s talk.”
“It wouldn’t get finished very quickly at that rate,” she answered.
“I don’t want it finished quickly,” he said.
“No?” Jill’s tone was expressive of surprise, and she looked at him very straightly as she spoke. “What are you going to do with it when itisfinished?” she asked.
“Give it to you if you will accept it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! that’s not what you had it painted for.”
“Now, how do you know that?” he enquired. He had risen, and coming forward took the palette and paint brushes out of her hand; then, receiving no remonstrance, he began to untie the strings of her painting apron.
“Shut up shop for to-day,” he pleaded. “I am going to stay to tea.”
It was rather an unfortunate moment for St. John to choose for putting in an appearance. Had he been married as many years as he had months it would not have mattered, but under existing circumstances it was regrettable that he should open the door when he did Jill, all unconscious of the suspicious proximity of Mr Markham’s arm to her shoulder, smiled serenely as she encountered St. John’s sharp, surprised glance, and noting that he looked displeased, presumed that he had spent a wearisome afternoon in the studio.
“Leisurable at last?” she queried cheerfully. “I am so glad, dear. Come and make yourself agreeable while I see about the kettle; Mr Markham is going to stay to tea.”
“Sorry, but I can’t,” he answered shortly. “I have to be in the dark room in a few minutes, and have enough developing to keep me engaged for some time. How’s the sitting getting on? You don’t appear to be very busy. Is Markham tired already?”
“We’ve been at it a solid three quarters of an hour,” rejoined Markham aggrieved, “and as for not being busy, look at the canvas, man.”
St. John did look; he stood a little way off, and studied it earnestly for several minutes, but he did not speak.
“Well, what do you think of it?” enquired the other.
“I never presume to criticise Jill’s work until it is finished,” he answered. “At present I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” acquiesced Jill, “that’s why I was not loth to give up for to-day. It’s the eyes, I think; they have a sinister expression that makes him look like a stage villain. And yet I’m sure the expression was there at the time.”
“I hope not,” St. John rejoined, looking fixedly at his friend in a rather disconcerting manner; “the eyes never lie, you know.”
Jill took the canvas down from the easel and leaned it with its face hidden against the wall.
“Don’t utter uncomfortable platitudes,” she remarked. “If you can’t be more cheerful I hope you’ll retire to your dark room speedily; Mr Markham and I were enjoying ourselves till you came.”
To her surprise he took her literally, and, muttering something about ‘sorry to be a wet blanket,’ wheeled about abruptly and left the room. Jill looked at Markham, and her eyes were both angry and concerned.
“I can’t think what’s the matter with Jack,” she said half apologetically; “he is not often such a bear. Do you know that I think you had almost better not stay this evening. It wouldn’t be very hilarious if he were in that mood, would it?”
“Of course I won’t stay; I was only joking. Jack is a bit huffed about something no doubt, but you’ll soon coax him into a better temper,” he responded, “I’ll come to-morrow for another sitting, shall I?”
“No,” Jill answered slowly; “the same day and hour next week, if you please.”
On the following Tuesday when Markham turned up for the arranged sitting he found Jill alone as on the former occasion, St. John having purposely gone out to spend the afternoon with Evie Bolton. The latter had written to him during the past week asking him if he could manage to meet her somewhere as she had something of importance to impart to him, and St. John, in his fit of suddenly awakened jealousy had settled on the day that Jill had fixed upon for the second sitting, taking a very malicious satisfaction in her evident annoyance when he stated his intention. She said little enough at the time, but her manner betrayed her vexation, and the strained relationship that had existed between them during the past few days grew more apparent. When Markham arrived, she was feeling more hurt than angry, and her mood was softened and subdued, and nearer akin to tears than it had been since her marriage.
“Jack has gone out,” she said in answer to his enquiry, not so much explanatorily, but because she felt she must say something, and that was the only thing she could think of at the moment. It was the one miserable refrain that kept repeating itself in her mind—“Jack has gone out—back to his own people.”
“He won’t be home till late,” she went on apathetically. “He said he was going to take a journey into the past, and forget the sordid present for a time. I don’t think it altogether wise of him, do you? Where is the use in looking back when the sordid present has to be lived through, and the uncertain future to be faced?”
“Mrs St. John,” Markham answered gravely. “St. John—ourSt. John was never wise; the only noteworthy action of his life was when he married you.”
“Ah!” said Jill with a very pathetic smile, “I often fancy that that was the most unwise thing he ever did.”
Markham looked at her speculatively, and failed to make an immediate reply. Was it St. John, himself, who had given her cause to think so, he wondered. Was she finding out so soon that their marriage had been a mistake?
“You are depressed,” he said, leaning towards her, his hands lightly grasping the arms of his chair. “It isn’t good for you to feel like that. Jack is a brute to leave you to yourself. What can I do to cheer you up, I wonder? After all we are both in the same boat; for if you are lonely, so am I.”
“You!” echoed Jill in a tone which implied that her listener did not know what loneliness meant. “How can you talk of loneliness? At least you have Evie—”
“No,” he interrupted shortly; “Evie is nothing to me, and less than nothing. She is engaged to marry a marquis. I should have thought you would have heard of that by now.”
At his words, Jill’s face visibly brightened. It flashed upon her with a certain amount of conviction that this was why her husband had gone to his cousin; possibly she had sent for him to consult him on the subject, and the trouble that had oppressed her lightened instantly with the thought. How could she have doubted him even for a moment? But he ought to have taken her into his confidence; it was a mistake to make a secret of so simple a thing.
Markham misinterpreted the sudden brightening of her countenance, and when in her impulsive, sympathetic way she laid her small fingers compassionately over his, he grasped the little hand feverishly between both his eager palms, and held it against his breast while he drew her nearer to him and stared into her face with burning, compelling eyes. She thought his manner strange but pardonable under the circumstances.
“I am so sorry,” she said gently, “so very sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” he asked.
“Oh, the—the—your disappointment,” she rejoined with an awkward deepening of the colour in her cheeks. She felt that she was getting on to delicate ground, and did not know very well how to proceed; but he relieved the situation by a short, impatient laugh.
“There wasn’t any disappointment,” he returned. “You must have known that I was off that long ago. Don’t humbug, Jill; you must have perceived that ever since I knew you I have cared for no one else. I should not have mentioned it only I see now that you care a little also—that your marriage is not altogether a success. You are lonely as well as I, dear. Why not let us console one another?”