Chapter Four.On the next occasion that St. John made his appearance at the studio there was a visible constraint in his manner as there was also in Miss Erskine’s. Jill had rehearsed a grateful little speech to deliver on his entry, but when their hands met there was silence; the speech, like many another rehearsed effect, had taken to itself wings, and all she could find to say after an awkward pause was,—“Good morning. The weather seems to have turned milder, doesn’t it?”And St. John’s remarkably original answer was,—“Really! Do you think so?”And then they commenced work. Yet St. John knew that she had received his flowers, and was pleased with them before even he caught sight of them, withered and dead now, in their basket on the window ledge; and she was equally aware that he understood all that she felt and yet had failed to express in words. The words came later when the sudden fit of embarrassment had worn off, and the lesson was nearing its termination, and there was no doubt as to the genuineness of her pleasure when she did thank him. She was sitting in his seat correcting his work, and he was standing over her with his hands on the back of the chair. When she said.“It was more than kind of you, Mr St. John, to send me those lovely flowers,” he let his hands slip forward a little until they touched the sleeves of her gown. Jill, unconscious of the slight contact, continued gravely,—“I can’t very well tell you how I enjoyed them because you could hardly understand how anyone loving such luxuries and yet unaccustomed to them could appreciate them. It was like a peep of sunshine on a rainy day to me.”St. John drew himself up and stood with his hands clasped behind him. There was something about this girl, small, poorly clad, and friendless though she was, that commanded his respect, and he felt instinctively that his former lounging position had been an insult to her.“I am glad,” he answered simply. “It gives me pleasure to know that you enjoyed them.”When he left the Art school that morning, he carried away with him a pleasanter remembrance of it than he had ever had before, nor was he again to feel the same annoyance and resentment that he had experienced on every former occasion. Jill had let fall the mantle of reserve which at first it had pleased her to gather round her, and though she might later repent having done so she could never don it again with the same efficacy.The next day Jill paid a visit to the dealer who bought her pictures, and, having managed to dispose of a canvas, spent the rest of the morning shopping; eventually turning her steps in the direction of home laden with sundry small and not over tidy parcels. When passing Shoolbred’s she encountered St. John in company with Miss Bolton. They met face to face, and though Jill, unhappily aware that she was looking shabby and insignificant, would have slipped by without recognising him, he saw her and raised his hat with a pleased smile. Jill returned a very slight inclination of the head and hurried on conscious only of Miss Bolton’s cold stare, and her haughty, disapproving question before even the object of her enquiry had time to get out of earshot.“Who are you bowing to, Jack? I wish that you would remember that you are walking with me.”Jill did not hear the answer; she had walked too fast, but her cheek burned, and she experienced the very unholy desire to upset Miss Bolton off her bike.Having once heard of Miss Bolton it seemed fated that she should both hear and see more; the heiress appeared to cross her path at every turn, and for some reason which she could not altogether explain Jill entertained a very lively antipathy for her. Next Friday when St. John arrived at the Art School as usual her name again cropped up, and this time it was he who introduced it.“I have found you a fresh pupil,” he said, “if you care about bothering with another almost as great a novice as myself, what do you say, eh?”“Oh!” cried Jill, “I shall be delighted. But did you explain all the disadvantages people patronising my studio have to battle with? Did you mention the stairs?”St. John laughed.“Yes,” he answered. “But indeed you over-estimate the inconvenience of those stairs; they are nothing when you get accustomed to them. I am growing quite attached to them myself.”“I am glad of that,” Jill answered smiling. “Do you know I was rather afraid at first that they would drive you away.”“Afraid!” he repeated incredulously. “I thought you were hoping that they would.”“Then how ungenerous of you to have kept on coming. But tell me about my new pupil,—masculine or feminine gender?—minor or adult?”“It is my cousin Miss Bolton,” he answered, “the lady who was unfortunate enough to run you down last week.”Jill’s face fell; he could not help seeing it though he pretended not to. “The lady who had run her down!” Yes, she had indeed “run her down” in more senses than one. She turned away to hide her disappointment, and stood looking out of the window at the dirty roofs of the opposite houses. St. John watched her in silence. At length she spoke.“I hope Miss Bolton doesn’t think that that trifling accident which was as much my fault as hers necessitates a step of such great condescension?” she said. “I cannot look at it in any other light for a lady in her position could study under the best masters how and where she pleased; her coming here, therefore, is a great condescension and I should be sorry to think that she inconvenienced herself under the mistaken idea that she owed me some slight reparation.”St. John worked perturbed. This small person had a way of making him feel decidedly uncomfortable at times.“Miss Bolton’s fancy to study art is a merely temporary whim,” he answered. He did not add that the whim had been adopted at his instigation, and with a desire to please him rather than any enthusiasm on the subject, but went on gravely. “Her resolve to attend here is, I am conceited enough to believe, more on account of my doing so than any wish to obligate you. However as it has vexed you I am sorry that I mentioned the matter.”“Not at all,” replied Jill coldly, flushing with quick annoyance; his speech for some reason or other had not pleased her. “Since Miss Bolton’s desire is not simply to benefit me I shall be only too glad to get another pupil. I am very much obliged to you for recommending my establishment.”“Indeed!” he mentally ejaculated, “I shouldn’t have thought so.” Aloud he said,—“Don’t mention it. I will tell Miss Bolton your decision; no doubt she will come with me next time.”The advent of this new pupil made a good deal of difference to Jill’s simple arrangements. Hitherto two chairs had sufficed, now it was necessary to procure a third, but from where? Eventually she dragged to light an old packing case used for keeping odd papers in, and turning it on end, draped it with a piece of Turkey Twill which once a brilliant scarlet was now owing to having reached a respectable old age subdued to a more artistic shade. This erection would provide sitting accommodation for herself at any rate, and St. John could use the chair with the hole in it. This difficulty solved, Jill set to work to alter the position of the curtain, which partitioned off the end of the room, so as to include the door; thus making a small room in which to receive her pupils instead of ushering them straightway into the studio; if necessary the curtain could be drawn back afterwards to make the art school larger. The rest of the preparations were postponed until Monday, and consisted of a thorough turning out of the room, and dusting and rearranging the models. And on Tuesday morning Jill sat on her box and surveyed the scene of her labour with much inward satisfaction. There was a nice fire burning in the grate and everything was in apple pie order, even to Jill, herself, who had twisted her hair up into a loose teapot-handle arrangement at the back of her head, and had dispensed with the studio apron as too childish for so important an occasion. She wore also her best frock, and had gone to the expense of new collar and cuffs; and altogether felt thoroughly equal to receiving even the heiress to quarter of a million.The heiress came late as was only to be expected. When St. John had turned up alone he had been generally sharp on time, but regularity was at an end now, Jill mentally supposed, as she arranged St. John’s drawing-board and copy, and sharpened a pencil for him. It doesn’t do to judge by appearances, to quote a trite truism, therefore Jill might really have been highly delighted at the prospect of an additional pupil, but she certainly did not look pleased.It was ten o’clock before the new pupil arrived rather breathless, and clutching desperately at St. John’s arm. The latter was looking worried, and seemed greatly relieved when once inside Jill’s ante-chamber, an innovation that evidently met with his approval; for he glanced round with great satisfaction and having greeted Miss Erskine, and presented his cousin, he suddenly disappeared round the curtain into the art school, leaving the two alone.Miss Bolton was tall, pretty, and well dressed; she was also bent on being polite, and was almost effusive in her manner to Jill, but Miss Erskine was as cold as the North polar region, and equally distant.“I am so glad to see you again?” gushed the heiress; “I have so wanted to apologise to you for my stupidity that morning—”“Mystupidity,” corrected Jill.“Oh, no! because there was heaps of room the other side of me, only I didn’t notice that horrid cab. Cabs and busses are a nuisance in London, aren’t they?”“It would be a greater nuisance if London were without them,” Jill answered.“Do you think so? Oh! I don’t—But of course, yes; I was forgetting the working classes.”“Yes,” responded Miss Erskine in her North Pole tone; “because you don’t belong to them, I do.”But Miss Bolton was not in the least disconcerted.“Ah, no, you’re an artist,” she replied, “a genius; that’s heavenly, you know. Don’t you recollect that an Emperor stooped for an artist’s paint brush because ‘Titian was worthy to be served by Caesar?’”Jill’s lip curled.“I am not a Titian,” she answered.“Perhaps not,” continued Miss Bolton in a I-know-better tone of voice. “Anyway Jack says that you are terribly clever. He considers your paintings superior to many of those on the line this year.”“Mr St. John is very kind but I am afraid his criticism wouldn’t avail me much. Will you tell me how far advanced you are. Of course you have studied drawing before?”“Oh, yes! And painting also. My friends considered it a pity for me to drop it altogether with my other studies so I thought that perhaps I would take it up again. Like music it is a very useful accomplishment ‘pour passer le temps,’ you know. I am considered fairly good at it.”“Ah!” responded Jill with uncomplimentary vagueness. “And what do you wish to go in for? Mr St. John is studying the figure—”Miss Bolton interrupted with a little scream.“How horrid of him,” she cried. “Not the nude, Miss Erskine, surely?”Jill stared.“Well, at present,” she said, “he is drawing the human foot in outline, and it certainly hasn’t a stocking on.”“But you don’t teach—that sort of thing, do you?”“It is usually taught in Art Schools,” Jill answered frigidly. “So far as I am concerned I have only just commenced teaching. You do not wish to go in for the figure then?”“Certainly not; flowers are my forte; I adore nature.”Apparently she did not consider that the human form reckoned in this category, and certainly her own, thanks to the aid of the costumière, had deviated somewhat from the natural laws of contour; nevertheless nature is at the root of our being and no matter how we attempt to disguise and ignore the fact she will not be denied. It was on the tip of Jill’s tongue to remark that flowers alone did not constitute nature but she restrained herself, and endeavoured to check her increasing irritability.“You are quite right not to go in for the figure,” she said; “feeling as you do about it nature becomes coarse, and artificiality—or shall we say the conventional customs of circumstances?—preferable. Will you come into the studio?”It just flashed through her mind to wonder what this young lady whose modesty was only to be equalled by Isobel’s would say to the models when she saw them, and it must be confessed that the thought of them caused her a certain malicious satisfaction, but when she held aside the curtain for Miss Bolton to enter she perceived to her unspeakable astonishment that all the models had been carefully draped with the dust covers in which they were kept encased when not in use, and which she had herself taken off that morning, and had folded and placed on the shelf. She glanced towards St. John in wrathful indignation, but St. John was busy measuring the length of the big toe in the copy and comparing it with his own drawing, which, taking into consideration the fact that he was not supposed to be making an enlargement, was not altogether satisfactory.“May I enquire,” asked Jill with relentless irony, “the meaning of all these preparations? Was it fear of the models taking cold that induced you to cover them so carefully or a desire to study drapery, Mr St. John?”She paused expectantly, but St. John made no sign of having heard beyond an alarming increase of colour in the back of his neck, a mute appeal to her generosity, which she was not, however, in the mood to heed. Miss Bolton watched her in bewildered fascination, astonished at her displeasure and unable to understand the reason thereof. So entirely unprepared was she for what followed that it was probably a greater shock than if she had walked straight in amongst the models, it could not certainly have embarrassed her more. Jill, during the pause, had approached one of the figures, and now catching impatiently at the covering drew it off to the scandalised consternation of the new pupil, who, without waiting for more, burst into a very unexpected flood of tears, and fled precipitately from the room. Jill stared after her open-mouthed, and for a moment there was dead silence. Then St. John pushed back his chair and rose noisily to his feet.“Con—excuse me,” he corrected himself, “but I think that I had better go and see after my cousin.”He caught up his hat with marked annoyance, and Jill stood gaping now at him still too astonished for words. She watched him go in silence, and then sat down on the twill covered box and drew a long breath—a sort of letting off steam in order to prevent an explosion.“Well of all the inconceivable, incomparable, extraordinary, and revolting imbeciles that I have ever come across that girl is the worst,” she ejaculated. “Thank heaven that my mind is not of that grovelling order which sees vulgarity in nature and coarseness where there should only be refinement. What agonies such people must endure at times; they can never go to a gallery that’s certain, and I suppose they would blush at sight of a doll. Oh! my dear saint, why ever did you bring such a person here, I wonder?”And then she sat and stared at his empty chair and saw in retrospection the expression of vexed reproach in his eyes as he had risen to his feet, their mute enquiry.“Could you not have spared me this? Was it necessary?”And in equally mute response her heart made answer,—“Not necessary perhaps; but I’m not a bit sorry that it happened all the same.”
On the next occasion that St. John made his appearance at the studio there was a visible constraint in his manner as there was also in Miss Erskine’s. Jill had rehearsed a grateful little speech to deliver on his entry, but when their hands met there was silence; the speech, like many another rehearsed effect, had taken to itself wings, and all she could find to say after an awkward pause was,—
“Good morning. The weather seems to have turned milder, doesn’t it?”
And St. John’s remarkably original answer was,—
“Really! Do you think so?”
And then they commenced work. Yet St. John knew that she had received his flowers, and was pleased with them before even he caught sight of them, withered and dead now, in their basket on the window ledge; and she was equally aware that he understood all that she felt and yet had failed to express in words. The words came later when the sudden fit of embarrassment had worn off, and the lesson was nearing its termination, and there was no doubt as to the genuineness of her pleasure when she did thank him. She was sitting in his seat correcting his work, and he was standing over her with his hands on the back of the chair. When she said.
“It was more than kind of you, Mr St. John, to send me those lovely flowers,” he let his hands slip forward a little until they touched the sleeves of her gown. Jill, unconscious of the slight contact, continued gravely,—
“I can’t very well tell you how I enjoyed them because you could hardly understand how anyone loving such luxuries and yet unaccustomed to them could appreciate them. It was like a peep of sunshine on a rainy day to me.”
St. John drew himself up and stood with his hands clasped behind him. There was something about this girl, small, poorly clad, and friendless though she was, that commanded his respect, and he felt instinctively that his former lounging position had been an insult to her.
“I am glad,” he answered simply. “It gives me pleasure to know that you enjoyed them.”
When he left the Art school that morning, he carried away with him a pleasanter remembrance of it than he had ever had before, nor was he again to feel the same annoyance and resentment that he had experienced on every former occasion. Jill had let fall the mantle of reserve which at first it had pleased her to gather round her, and though she might later repent having done so she could never don it again with the same efficacy.
The next day Jill paid a visit to the dealer who bought her pictures, and, having managed to dispose of a canvas, spent the rest of the morning shopping; eventually turning her steps in the direction of home laden with sundry small and not over tidy parcels. When passing Shoolbred’s she encountered St. John in company with Miss Bolton. They met face to face, and though Jill, unhappily aware that she was looking shabby and insignificant, would have slipped by without recognising him, he saw her and raised his hat with a pleased smile. Jill returned a very slight inclination of the head and hurried on conscious only of Miss Bolton’s cold stare, and her haughty, disapproving question before even the object of her enquiry had time to get out of earshot.
“Who are you bowing to, Jack? I wish that you would remember that you are walking with me.”
Jill did not hear the answer; she had walked too fast, but her cheek burned, and she experienced the very unholy desire to upset Miss Bolton off her bike.
Having once heard of Miss Bolton it seemed fated that she should both hear and see more; the heiress appeared to cross her path at every turn, and for some reason which she could not altogether explain Jill entertained a very lively antipathy for her. Next Friday when St. John arrived at the Art School as usual her name again cropped up, and this time it was he who introduced it.
“I have found you a fresh pupil,” he said, “if you care about bothering with another almost as great a novice as myself, what do you say, eh?”
“Oh!” cried Jill, “I shall be delighted. But did you explain all the disadvantages people patronising my studio have to battle with? Did you mention the stairs?”
St. John laughed.
“Yes,” he answered. “But indeed you over-estimate the inconvenience of those stairs; they are nothing when you get accustomed to them. I am growing quite attached to them myself.”
“I am glad of that,” Jill answered smiling. “Do you know I was rather afraid at first that they would drive you away.”
“Afraid!” he repeated incredulously. “I thought you were hoping that they would.”
“Then how ungenerous of you to have kept on coming. But tell me about my new pupil,—masculine or feminine gender?—minor or adult?”
“It is my cousin Miss Bolton,” he answered, “the lady who was unfortunate enough to run you down last week.”
Jill’s face fell; he could not help seeing it though he pretended not to. “The lady who had run her down!” Yes, she had indeed “run her down” in more senses than one. She turned away to hide her disappointment, and stood looking out of the window at the dirty roofs of the opposite houses. St. John watched her in silence. At length she spoke.
“I hope Miss Bolton doesn’t think that that trifling accident which was as much my fault as hers necessitates a step of such great condescension?” she said. “I cannot look at it in any other light for a lady in her position could study under the best masters how and where she pleased; her coming here, therefore, is a great condescension and I should be sorry to think that she inconvenienced herself under the mistaken idea that she owed me some slight reparation.”
St. John worked perturbed. This small person had a way of making him feel decidedly uncomfortable at times.
“Miss Bolton’s fancy to study art is a merely temporary whim,” he answered. He did not add that the whim had been adopted at his instigation, and with a desire to please him rather than any enthusiasm on the subject, but went on gravely. “Her resolve to attend here is, I am conceited enough to believe, more on account of my doing so than any wish to obligate you. However as it has vexed you I am sorry that I mentioned the matter.”
“Not at all,” replied Jill coldly, flushing with quick annoyance; his speech for some reason or other had not pleased her. “Since Miss Bolton’s desire is not simply to benefit me I shall be only too glad to get another pupil. I am very much obliged to you for recommending my establishment.”
“Indeed!” he mentally ejaculated, “I shouldn’t have thought so.” Aloud he said,—
“Don’t mention it. I will tell Miss Bolton your decision; no doubt she will come with me next time.”
The advent of this new pupil made a good deal of difference to Jill’s simple arrangements. Hitherto two chairs had sufficed, now it was necessary to procure a third, but from where? Eventually she dragged to light an old packing case used for keeping odd papers in, and turning it on end, draped it with a piece of Turkey Twill which once a brilliant scarlet was now owing to having reached a respectable old age subdued to a more artistic shade. This erection would provide sitting accommodation for herself at any rate, and St. John could use the chair with the hole in it. This difficulty solved, Jill set to work to alter the position of the curtain, which partitioned off the end of the room, so as to include the door; thus making a small room in which to receive her pupils instead of ushering them straightway into the studio; if necessary the curtain could be drawn back afterwards to make the art school larger. The rest of the preparations were postponed until Monday, and consisted of a thorough turning out of the room, and dusting and rearranging the models. And on Tuesday morning Jill sat on her box and surveyed the scene of her labour with much inward satisfaction. There was a nice fire burning in the grate and everything was in apple pie order, even to Jill, herself, who had twisted her hair up into a loose teapot-handle arrangement at the back of her head, and had dispensed with the studio apron as too childish for so important an occasion. She wore also her best frock, and had gone to the expense of new collar and cuffs; and altogether felt thoroughly equal to receiving even the heiress to quarter of a million.
The heiress came late as was only to be expected. When St. John had turned up alone he had been generally sharp on time, but regularity was at an end now, Jill mentally supposed, as she arranged St. John’s drawing-board and copy, and sharpened a pencil for him. It doesn’t do to judge by appearances, to quote a trite truism, therefore Jill might really have been highly delighted at the prospect of an additional pupil, but she certainly did not look pleased.
It was ten o’clock before the new pupil arrived rather breathless, and clutching desperately at St. John’s arm. The latter was looking worried, and seemed greatly relieved when once inside Jill’s ante-chamber, an innovation that evidently met with his approval; for he glanced round with great satisfaction and having greeted Miss Erskine, and presented his cousin, he suddenly disappeared round the curtain into the art school, leaving the two alone.
Miss Bolton was tall, pretty, and well dressed; she was also bent on being polite, and was almost effusive in her manner to Jill, but Miss Erskine was as cold as the North polar region, and equally distant.
“I am so glad to see you again?” gushed the heiress; “I have so wanted to apologise to you for my stupidity that morning—”
“Mystupidity,” corrected Jill.
“Oh, no! because there was heaps of room the other side of me, only I didn’t notice that horrid cab. Cabs and busses are a nuisance in London, aren’t they?”
“It would be a greater nuisance if London were without them,” Jill answered.
“Do you think so? Oh! I don’t—But of course, yes; I was forgetting the working classes.”
“Yes,” responded Miss Erskine in her North Pole tone; “because you don’t belong to them, I do.”
But Miss Bolton was not in the least disconcerted.
“Ah, no, you’re an artist,” she replied, “a genius; that’s heavenly, you know. Don’t you recollect that an Emperor stooped for an artist’s paint brush because ‘Titian was worthy to be served by Caesar?’”
Jill’s lip curled.
“I am not a Titian,” she answered.
“Perhaps not,” continued Miss Bolton in a I-know-better tone of voice. “Anyway Jack says that you are terribly clever. He considers your paintings superior to many of those on the line this year.”
“Mr St. John is very kind but I am afraid his criticism wouldn’t avail me much. Will you tell me how far advanced you are. Of course you have studied drawing before?”
“Oh, yes! And painting also. My friends considered it a pity for me to drop it altogether with my other studies so I thought that perhaps I would take it up again. Like music it is a very useful accomplishment ‘pour passer le temps,’ you know. I am considered fairly good at it.”
“Ah!” responded Jill with uncomplimentary vagueness. “And what do you wish to go in for? Mr St. John is studying the figure—”
Miss Bolton interrupted with a little scream.
“How horrid of him,” she cried. “Not the nude, Miss Erskine, surely?”
Jill stared.
“Well, at present,” she said, “he is drawing the human foot in outline, and it certainly hasn’t a stocking on.”
“But you don’t teach—that sort of thing, do you?”
“It is usually taught in Art Schools,” Jill answered frigidly. “So far as I am concerned I have only just commenced teaching. You do not wish to go in for the figure then?”
“Certainly not; flowers are my forte; I adore nature.”
Apparently she did not consider that the human form reckoned in this category, and certainly her own, thanks to the aid of the costumière, had deviated somewhat from the natural laws of contour; nevertheless nature is at the root of our being and no matter how we attempt to disguise and ignore the fact she will not be denied. It was on the tip of Jill’s tongue to remark that flowers alone did not constitute nature but she restrained herself, and endeavoured to check her increasing irritability.
“You are quite right not to go in for the figure,” she said; “feeling as you do about it nature becomes coarse, and artificiality—or shall we say the conventional customs of circumstances?—preferable. Will you come into the studio?”
It just flashed through her mind to wonder what this young lady whose modesty was only to be equalled by Isobel’s would say to the models when she saw them, and it must be confessed that the thought of them caused her a certain malicious satisfaction, but when she held aside the curtain for Miss Bolton to enter she perceived to her unspeakable astonishment that all the models had been carefully draped with the dust covers in which they were kept encased when not in use, and which she had herself taken off that morning, and had folded and placed on the shelf. She glanced towards St. John in wrathful indignation, but St. John was busy measuring the length of the big toe in the copy and comparing it with his own drawing, which, taking into consideration the fact that he was not supposed to be making an enlargement, was not altogether satisfactory.
“May I enquire,” asked Jill with relentless irony, “the meaning of all these preparations? Was it fear of the models taking cold that induced you to cover them so carefully or a desire to study drapery, Mr St. John?”
She paused expectantly, but St. John made no sign of having heard beyond an alarming increase of colour in the back of his neck, a mute appeal to her generosity, which she was not, however, in the mood to heed. Miss Bolton watched her in bewildered fascination, astonished at her displeasure and unable to understand the reason thereof. So entirely unprepared was she for what followed that it was probably a greater shock than if she had walked straight in amongst the models, it could not certainly have embarrassed her more. Jill, during the pause, had approached one of the figures, and now catching impatiently at the covering drew it off to the scandalised consternation of the new pupil, who, without waiting for more, burst into a very unexpected flood of tears, and fled precipitately from the room. Jill stared after her open-mouthed, and for a moment there was dead silence. Then St. John pushed back his chair and rose noisily to his feet.
“Con—excuse me,” he corrected himself, “but I think that I had better go and see after my cousin.”
He caught up his hat with marked annoyance, and Jill stood gaping now at him still too astonished for words. She watched him go in silence, and then sat down on the twill covered box and drew a long breath—a sort of letting off steam in order to prevent an explosion.
“Well of all the inconceivable, incomparable, extraordinary, and revolting imbeciles that I have ever come across that girl is the worst,” she ejaculated. “Thank heaven that my mind is not of that grovelling order which sees vulgarity in nature and coarseness where there should only be refinement. What agonies such people must endure at times; they can never go to a gallery that’s certain, and I suppose they would blush at sight of a doll. Oh! my dear saint, why ever did you bring such a person here, I wonder?”
And then she sat and stared at his empty chair and saw in retrospection the expression of vexed reproach in his eyes as he had risen to his feet, their mute enquiry.
“Could you not have spared me this? Was it necessary?”
And in equally mute response her heart made answer,—
“Not necessary perhaps; but I’m not a bit sorry that it happened all the same.”
Chapter Five.Jill did not anticipate the return of either of her pupils that morning—did not, indeed, expect Miss Bolton to return at all; in both of which surmises she proved correct. St. John had been obliged to hail a four-wheeler and drive with his cousin home, and a most unpleasant drive she made it; it was as much as he could do to sit quiet under her shower of tearful reproaches. He ought to have known better than to have taken her to such a low place. She might have guessed after having seen her what sort of creature the girl was. It would have been much better to have acted as she wished to in the first place—given some suitable donation or commissioned her for a painting; that would have been quite sufficient; it wasn’t her fault that the stupid girl got in front of her wheel, etc: etc: St. John said,—“Shut up, Evie; don’t talk rot.” But when you tell some people to shut up it has a contrary effect and serves as an incentive to talk more, it was so with Miss Bolton. She was not violent because it was not her nature to be demonstrative, nor was she in the slightest degree vulgar; but her command over the English language could not fail to excite the astonishment of her listener; to quote St. John’s euphonism, “it made him sick.”“I daresay,” retorted Miss Bolton disagreeably; “my remarks generally have a nauseating effect upon you, I notice; yet that disgraceful girl without any sense of decency—”“Indecency, you mean,” he interrupted. “You are very horrid,” sobbed his cousin, subsiding into tears again, and St. John devoutly wished that he had held his peace.The rest of the journey was very watery, and at its termination he felt too demoralised to do anything except go for a stroll; the house with Miss Bolton in it was too small for him. Miss Bolton was Mr St. John senior’s ward; she was a kind of fifth cousin twice removed, which was the nearest kinship that she could claim on earth—that is to say with anyone worth claiming kinship with. There were cousins who kept a haberdashery, and spoke of the ‘heiress’ with a big ‘h’ but Evie Bolton didn’t know them; though according to the genealogical tree they were only once removed, but that remove had been so distant that it made all the difference in the world. Mr St. John, senior, both admired and loved his ward, Mr St. John, junior, was expected to follow the paternal example, and Miss Bolton, herself, was quite willing to present her big, good-looking cousin with her hand, and her fortune, and as much of her heart as she could conveniently spare. It would be difficult to ascertain whether St. John appreciated her generosity as it deserved. He had appeared thoroughly acquiescent up to the present when a possible engagement had been mooted by his father, but had so far refrained from putting his luck to the test. But in Mr St. John, senior’s, eyes the affair was a settled fact, and had anyone suggested the probability of its coming to nothing he would have scouted the idea.The following Friday when St. John entered the Art School he found a very subdued little figure waiting for him—the old style of Jill with her hair tied with ribbon, and the big pinafore over her shabby frock. But not altogether the old style either; there was no attempt at dignity here, no self-sufficiency of manner but that she was so thoroughly composed he would have thought her nervous. She shook hands with a slightly deprecating smile, and remarked interrogatively,—“Miss Bolton has not come? I am sorry.”“No,” he answered with an assumption at indifference which he was far from feeling. “I told you art was a temporary whim with her, and I fancy the stairs rather appalled her; she is not very strong.”His desire to spare her embarrassment was altogether too palpable. Jill turned away to hide a smile, or a blush, or something feminine which she did not wish him to perceive. He watched her in some amusement and waited for her to break the silence. He would have liked to have helped her out, but could think of nothing to say.“I behaved foolishly last Tuesday;” she remarked at length, speaking with her back impolitely turned towards him, and a mixture of shame and triumph on the face which he could not see. “I lost my temper which was ill bred; and,” turning round and laughingly openly, “I’m afraid that I’m not so sorry as I ought to be. Don’t,” putting up her hand as he essayed to speak, “go on making excuses—your very apologies but condemn me further. It was most ungracious on my part after Miss Bolton’s condescension in coming; yet how was I to know that she was so supersensitive?”“I ought to have warned you,” he answered. “But never mind now; there is very little harm done, only I am afraid that you have lost a pupil.”“And isn’t that highly deplorable,” cried Jill, “considering how few I have?”But St. John was not to be drawn into any expression of sympathy; personally he felt no inconvenience, and he shrewdly suspected that Miss Erskine was not particularly distressed herself. He sat down and work commenced as usual.St. John was getting on more quickly than his teacher had imagined that he would. He was not likely to ever make an artist but still he progressed very fairly in amateur fashion. His eye unfortunately was not true; he could never see when a thing was out of drawing, but he was always ready to listen to advice, and correct his work under supervision. His greatest fault was a desire to get on too quickly; and Jill had to assert her authority on more than one occasion to restrain him, and keep his ambition in check.One day, several weeks after the Bolton episode, he suggested that it was time he commenced painting; he was tired of black and white. He was then drawing from the bust of Clytie, and had only just begun working from the cast. Jill was not in a good temper that morning—things had not been prospering with her lately—and so St. John’s ill-timed suggestion met with scant consideration.“You want to run before you can walk,” she returned with ill-humoured sarcasm. “Some people are like that. I knew of a girl once who was learning riding and insisted on cantering the second time she went out. The result was not altogether satisfactory; for it left her sitting in the middle of the road. Last week I yielded to your insane desire to attempt Clytie; the attempt is a failure; and so you want to begin painting.”“Well,” he answered not exactly pleased by her manner of refusing his petition. “I certainly should like to vary the monotony. I don’t see why I shouldn’t paint one day a week and draw on the other.”“That’s not my system,” replied Jill, and the curt finality of tone and manner irritated him exceedingly. He felt like saying ‘Damn your system,’ and only refrained by biting fiercely at his moustache, and jerking back his drawing-board with such vehemence that, coming into violent contact with the cast from which he had been working, and which stood on a box in the centre of the table, it upset the whole erection, and with a terrible crash Jill’s favourite model was shivered into fragments. Jill, herself, flew into such a rage as baffles description, and, alas to have to record it! springing forward boxed St. John’s ears. It was by no means a lady-like thing to do; but it seemed to occasion her some slight relief. She was positively quivering with passion, and stood glaring at the offender as though he had been guilty of a crime. St. John flushed crimson, and as if fearful of further assault dodged behind the model of the Venus de Medici. He could hardly be reproached with taking refuge behind a woman’s petticoats; anyone knowing the figure could vouch for the impracticability of that; but he felt decidedly safer screened by the white limbs which had so scandalised his cousin, and betrayed no disposition to emerge again in a hurry; he was very big and Jill was very little but he most certainly felt afraid of her just then.“How clumsy of you!” she cried. “I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world—I believe you did it on purpose.”“I did not,” he protested indignantly. “How can you say such a thing? I am as sorry as you can be that it happened.”He was not though, and he knew it. He considered her vexation altogether disproportionate, and absurd to a degree verging on affectation. Had the damage been irreparable he could have understood her loss of self-control; but it was only a plaster cast which she must assuredly know that he would replace. Being a man he did not take sentiment into consideration at all, but merely thought her ill-tempered and ungovernable.“How dare you equal your sorrow to mine?” Jill demanded fiercely. “You can’t know how I feel. I don’t believe you care.”Her lip trembled and she turned quickly away. Never had she looked so forlorn, so little, so shabby, he thought, as at that moment, and perhaps never in his life before had he felt so uncomfortable—such a brute. Vacating his position of safety he approached until he was close behind her where she stood with her back to the débris, and he saw that her hands were picking nervously at the paint-soiled apron.“Don’t,” he said, and his voice sounded strangely unlike his usual tones. “You make me feel such a beast. You know that I care—you must know it. I would rather anything had happened than have vexed you like this.”“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jill a little unsteadily, and then one of the two big tears which had been welling slowly in her eyes fell with a splash upon the floor, and he started as though she had struck him a second time.“Don’t,” he entreated again. And then without waiting for more he took his hat and slipped quietly out of the studio. Jill scarcely noticed his departure, did not even speculate as to his object in thus unceremoniously leaving, nor wonder whether he was likely to return or not. She was rather relieved at finding herself alone, and able to give vent to the emotion she could no longer repress. Sitting down at the table in the seat which St. John had so suddenly vacated she laid her head upon his drawing-board and wept all over the paper. The outburst, which was purely neurotic,—such outbursts usually are—had been gathering for days past, and had culminated with the fall of Clytie—the breaking of the bust which her father had so loved. Alas! for the sweet, sad, absurd associations which cling about the things that the dead have touched.St. John was not away very long; he had been to a shop that he knew of quite handy, and had driven there and back thanks to the stupid cabs that Miss Bolton found so inconvenient. He had bought another bust of Clytie, an altogether superior article in Parian marble which he carried back to the studio in triumph quite expecting to see Jill’s grief vanish at sight of it, and tears give place to smiles. He found her still seated at the table; she was not crying any longer; but the traces of recent emotion were sufficiently apparent for him to detect at a glance. The sight sobered him instantly, and he approached with less confidence in the efficiency of his purchase than had possessed him when out of her presence.“It’s all right,” he exclaimed, speaking as cheerfully as he could, and placing the new Clytie on the table among the ruins of her predecessor, “I managed to get another. I hope you’ll like it as well as the one I broke. It was confoundedly clumsy of me. But you aren’t angry with me still?”“No,” answered Jill, raising her head to view the Clytie as he drew off the paper wrapping for her to see. “Oh!” she cried, “it is far too good; mine was only plaster.”“Was it?” he said slowly. “And yet, I fancy, you preferred it infinitely to this one.”Jill’s lips quivered ominously again, and half unconsciously as it were she fingered one of the broken pieces in lingering regret.“It had associations,” she said simply.He stooped forward so that he could see her face, and his hand sought hers where it rested upon the table, and with a kindly pressure imprisoned it while he spoke.“Can’t you form associations round this one too?” he asked.For a moment there was silence. Then she looked back at him and smiled faintly.“I have commenced doing so already,” she answered, and, quietly withdrawing her hand, rose and stood back a little the better to admire his purchase.“It was dreadfully extravagant of you to buy a thing like that just for an art school model,” she exclaimed. “It ought to be in some drawing-room instead of here.”“It looks very well where it is,” he answered coolly. “But I think I’ll give over trying to draw it for a time; I can’t catch that sadly contemplative, sweetly scornful expression at all; I make a sneer of it which is diabolical. Don’t insist, please; because it makes me nervous just to look at her.”That was the beginning of things—at any rate the perceptible commencement; though it might have begun with the flowers as Isobel had insinuated. Never a word did St. John utter that Jill could possibly have turned or twisted into a betrayal of the growing regard which she felt in her heart he entertained for her, and never a sign did Jill make that she understood, or in any way reciprocated his unspoken liking. She knew that he loved her by instinct, and the knowledge made her glad, so that her life was no longer lonely, nor the occasional privations, the incessant work, the petty, carking, almost daily worries so hard to bear. Life was one long pleasant day-dream; though sometimes Miss Bolton “biked” through the dreaming, and then it became a night-mare, and Jill was consumed with a fierce burning jealousy that lasted until a new-born, audacious, delicious conceit—her woman’s intuition—assured her that poor and insignificant though she was St. John was far more fond of her than he would ever be of his pretty, elegant, and wealthy cousin.
Jill did not anticipate the return of either of her pupils that morning—did not, indeed, expect Miss Bolton to return at all; in both of which surmises she proved correct. St. John had been obliged to hail a four-wheeler and drive with his cousin home, and a most unpleasant drive she made it; it was as much as he could do to sit quiet under her shower of tearful reproaches. He ought to have known better than to have taken her to such a low place. She might have guessed after having seen her what sort of creature the girl was. It would have been much better to have acted as she wished to in the first place—given some suitable donation or commissioned her for a painting; that would have been quite sufficient; it wasn’t her fault that the stupid girl got in front of her wheel, etc: etc: St. John said,—
“Shut up, Evie; don’t talk rot.” But when you tell some people to shut up it has a contrary effect and serves as an incentive to talk more, it was so with Miss Bolton. She was not violent because it was not her nature to be demonstrative, nor was she in the slightest degree vulgar; but her command over the English language could not fail to excite the astonishment of her listener; to quote St. John’s euphonism, “it made him sick.”
“I daresay,” retorted Miss Bolton disagreeably; “my remarks generally have a nauseating effect upon you, I notice; yet that disgraceful girl without any sense of decency—”
“Indecency, you mean,” he interrupted. “You are very horrid,” sobbed his cousin, subsiding into tears again, and St. John devoutly wished that he had held his peace.
The rest of the journey was very watery, and at its termination he felt too demoralised to do anything except go for a stroll; the house with Miss Bolton in it was too small for him. Miss Bolton was Mr St. John senior’s ward; she was a kind of fifth cousin twice removed, which was the nearest kinship that she could claim on earth—that is to say with anyone worth claiming kinship with. There were cousins who kept a haberdashery, and spoke of the ‘heiress’ with a big ‘h’ but Evie Bolton didn’t know them; though according to the genealogical tree they were only once removed, but that remove had been so distant that it made all the difference in the world. Mr St. John, senior, both admired and loved his ward, Mr St. John, junior, was expected to follow the paternal example, and Miss Bolton, herself, was quite willing to present her big, good-looking cousin with her hand, and her fortune, and as much of her heart as she could conveniently spare. It would be difficult to ascertain whether St. John appreciated her generosity as it deserved. He had appeared thoroughly acquiescent up to the present when a possible engagement had been mooted by his father, but had so far refrained from putting his luck to the test. But in Mr St. John, senior’s, eyes the affair was a settled fact, and had anyone suggested the probability of its coming to nothing he would have scouted the idea.
The following Friday when St. John entered the Art School he found a very subdued little figure waiting for him—the old style of Jill with her hair tied with ribbon, and the big pinafore over her shabby frock. But not altogether the old style either; there was no attempt at dignity here, no self-sufficiency of manner but that she was so thoroughly composed he would have thought her nervous. She shook hands with a slightly deprecating smile, and remarked interrogatively,—
“Miss Bolton has not come? I am sorry.”
“No,” he answered with an assumption at indifference which he was far from feeling. “I told you art was a temporary whim with her, and I fancy the stairs rather appalled her; she is not very strong.”
His desire to spare her embarrassment was altogether too palpable. Jill turned away to hide a smile, or a blush, or something feminine which she did not wish him to perceive. He watched her in some amusement and waited for her to break the silence. He would have liked to have helped her out, but could think of nothing to say.
“I behaved foolishly last Tuesday;” she remarked at length, speaking with her back impolitely turned towards him, and a mixture of shame and triumph on the face which he could not see. “I lost my temper which was ill bred; and,” turning round and laughingly openly, “I’m afraid that I’m not so sorry as I ought to be. Don’t,” putting up her hand as he essayed to speak, “go on making excuses—your very apologies but condemn me further. It was most ungracious on my part after Miss Bolton’s condescension in coming; yet how was I to know that she was so supersensitive?”
“I ought to have warned you,” he answered. “But never mind now; there is very little harm done, only I am afraid that you have lost a pupil.”
“And isn’t that highly deplorable,” cried Jill, “considering how few I have?”
But St. John was not to be drawn into any expression of sympathy; personally he felt no inconvenience, and he shrewdly suspected that Miss Erskine was not particularly distressed herself. He sat down and work commenced as usual.
St. John was getting on more quickly than his teacher had imagined that he would. He was not likely to ever make an artist but still he progressed very fairly in amateur fashion. His eye unfortunately was not true; he could never see when a thing was out of drawing, but he was always ready to listen to advice, and correct his work under supervision. His greatest fault was a desire to get on too quickly; and Jill had to assert her authority on more than one occasion to restrain him, and keep his ambition in check.
One day, several weeks after the Bolton episode, he suggested that it was time he commenced painting; he was tired of black and white. He was then drawing from the bust of Clytie, and had only just begun working from the cast. Jill was not in a good temper that morning—things had not been prospering with her lately—and so St. John’s ill-timed suggestion met with scant consideration.
“You want to run before you can walk,” she returned with ill-humoured sarcasm. “Some people are like that. I knew of a girl once who was learning riding and insisted on cantering the second time she went out. The result was not altogether satisfactory; for it left her sitting in the middle of the road. Last week I yielded to your insane desire to attempt Clytie; the attempt is a failure; and so you want to begin painting.”
“Well,” he answered not exactly pleased by her manner of refusing his petition. “I certainly should like to vary the monotony. I don’t see why I shouldn’t paint one day a week and draw on the other.”
“That’s not my system,” replied Jill, and the curt finality of tone and manner irritated him exceedingly. He felt like saying ‘Damn your system,’ and only refrained by biting fiercely at his moustache, and jerking back his drawing-board with such vehemence that, coming into violent contact with the cast from which he had been working, and which stood on a box in the centre of the table, it upset the whole erection, and with a terrible crash Jill’s favourite model was shivered into fragments. Jill, herself, flew into such a rage as baffles description, and, alas to have to record it! springing forward boxed St. John’s ears. It was by no means a lady-like thing to do; but it seemed to occasion her some slight relief. She was positively quivering with passion, and stood glaring at the offender as though he had been guilty of a crime. St. John flushed crimson, and as if fearful of further assault dodged behind the model of the Venus de Medici. He could hardly be reproached with taking refuge behind a woman’s petticoats; anyone knowing the figure could vouch for the impracticability of that; but he felt decidedly safer screened by the white limbs which had so scandalised his cousin, and betrayed no disposition to emerge again in a hurry; he was very big and Jill was very little but he most certainly felt afraid of her just then.
“How clumsy of you!” she cried. “I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world—I believe you did it on purpose.”
“I did not,” he protested indignantly. “How can you say such a thing? I am as sorry as you can be that it happened.”
He was not though, and he knew it. He considered her vexation altogether disproportionate, and absurd to a degree verging on affectation. Had the damage been irreparable he could have understood her loss of self-control; but it was only a plaster cast which she must assuredly know that he would replace. Being a man he did not take sentiment into consideration at all, but merely thought her ill-tempered and ungovernable.
“How dare you equal your sorrow to mine?” Jill demanded fiercely. “You can’t know how I feel. I don’t believe you care.”
Her lip trembled and she turned quickly away. Never had she looked so forlorn, so little, so shabby, he thought, as at that moment, and perhaps never in his life before had he felt so uncomfortable—such a brute. Vacating his position of safety he approached until he was close behind her where she stood with her back to the débris, and he saw that her hands were picking nervously at the paint-soiled apron.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice sounded strangely unlike his usual tones. “You make me feel such a beast. You know that I care—you must know it. I would rather anything had happened than have vexed you like this.”
“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jill a little unsteadily, and then one of the two big tears which had been welling slowly in her eyes fell with a splash upon the floor, and he started as though she had struck him a second time.
“Don’t,” he entreated again. And then without waiting for more he took his hat and slipped quietly out of the studio. Jill scarcely noticed his departure, did not even speculate as to his object in thus unceremoniously leaving, nor wonder whether he was likely to return or not. She was rather relieved at finding herself alone, and able to give vent to the emotion she could no longer repress. Sitting down at the table in the seat which St. John had so suddenly vacated she laid her head upon his drawing-board and wept all over the paper. The outburst, which was purely neurotic,—such outbursts usually are—had been gathering for days past, and had culminated with the fall of Clytie—the breaking of the bust which her father had so loved. Alas! for the sweet, sad, absurd associations which cling about the things that the dead have touched.
St. John was not away very long; he had been to a shop that he knew of quite handy, and had driven there and back thanks to the stupid cabs that Miss Bolton found so inconvenient. He had bought another bust of Clytie, an altogether superior article in Parian marble which he carried back to the studio in triumph quite expecting to see Jill’s grief vanish at sight of it, and tears give place to smiles. He found her still seated at the table; she was not crying any longer; but the traces of recent emotion were sufficiently apparent for him to detect at a glance. The sight sobered him instantly, and he approached with less confidence in the efficiency of his purchase than had possessed him when out of her presence.
“It’s all right,” he exclaimed, speaking as cheerfully as he could, and placing the new Clytie on the table among the ruins of her predecessor, “I managed to get another. I hope you’ll like it as well as the one I broke. It was confoundedly clumsy of me. But you aren’t angry with me still?”
“No,” answered Jill, raising her head to view the Clytie as he drew off the paper wrapping for her to see. “Oh!” she cried, “it is far too good; mine was only plaster.”
“Was it?” he said slowly. “And yet, I fancy, you preferred it infinitely to this one.”
Jill’s lips quivered ominously again, and half unconsciously as it were she fingered one of the broken pieces in lingering regret.
“It had associations,” she said simply.
He stooped forward so that he could see her face, and his hand sought hers where it rested upon the table, and with a kindly pressure imprisoned it while he spoke.
“Can’t you form associations round this one too?” he asked.
For a moment there was silence. Then she looked back at him and smiled faintly.
“I have commenced doing so already,” she answered, and, quietly withdrawing her hand, rose and stood back a little the better to admire his purchase.
“It was dreadfully extravagant of you to buy a thing like that just for an art school model,” she exclaimed. “It ought to be in some drawing-room instead of here.”
“It looks very well where it is,” he answered coolly. “But I think I’ll give over trying to draw it for a time; I can’t catch that sadly contemplative, sweetly scornful expression at all; I make a sneer of it which is diabolical. Don’t insist, please; because it makes me nervous just to look at her.”
That was the beginning of things—at any rate the perceptible commencement; though it might have begun with the flowers as Isobel had insinuated. Never a word did St. John utter that Jill could possibly have turned or twisted into a betrayal of the growing regard which she felt in her heart he entertained for her, and never a sign did Jill make that she understood, or in any way reciprocated his unspoken liking. She knew that he loved her by instinct, and the knowledge made her glad, so that her life was no longer lonely, nor the occasional privations, the incessant work, the petty, carking, almost daily worries so hard to bear. Life was one long pleasant day-dream; though sometimes Miss Bolton “biked” through the dreaming, and then it became a night-mare, and Jill was consumed with a fierce burning jealousy that lasted until a new-born, audacious, delicious conceit—her woman’s intuition—assured her that poor and insignificant though she was St. John was far more fond of her than he would ever be of his pretty, elegant, and wealthy cousin.
Chapter Six.St. John had attended Miss Erskine’s studio for two quarters, and was now into the third. He was still her sole pupil; though she had had another student, a long-legged girl of fifteen who had attended for three weeks and then been taken away in a hurry because her mother had discovered that Miss Erskine was very young, and had, besides her daughter, only one other pupil—a man—and no chaperone. She wrote Miss Erskine very plainly on the subject of the impropriety of her conduct, and gave her a good deal of advice, but omitted to enclose the fee. Jill showed the letter to St. John as the best way of explaining his fellow-student’s absence, and St. John laughed over it immoderately; he was so glad that the long-legged girl was gone.“It’s rather rough on you though,” he remarked as he returned the missive which Jill put into her pocket to keep for a curiosity. “If you get another pupil of that description you’ll have to get rid of me, that’s certain. Poor little snub-nosed Flossie! I hope we didn’t demoralise her altogether. How I do detest the respectable British matron, don’t you?”“No,” answered Jill. “I detest the vulgar, narrow-minded order though, like the writer of this letter. That poor child! I used to think her a giggling little idiot. She did giggle, and she wasn’t very wise; but she is greatly to be commiserated all the same.”Jill had no fresh pupils after that, only St. John trudged manfully up the steep, narrow stairs with unfailing regularity, and once, when she was ill and obliged to stay in bed with a bad cold on her chest, he sent her fruit and flowers, but carefully refrained from going near the studio himself until he received a little note from her thanking him and saying that she was well enough to resume work.Independent of the fee he paid for tuition, and the pleasure she derived from his society Jill enjoyed many advantages through his being at the studio which she could not herself have afforded. For one thing when he started painting he insisted upon employing a model; he wanted to paint from life; and Jill had to pose the model and paint from him or her—as the case might be—at the same time. She made good use of her opportunities, and many of the canvasses sold, but she had to dispose of them far below their market value at a merely nominal profit which just paid her and that was all. St. John offered her a hundred and fifty pounds for one picture—a female figure against a background of sea and sky, the whole veiled in a kind of white mist—a vapoury shroud which softened yet did not conceal. Jill had christened this picture “The Pride of the Morning,” and for some reason, perhaps because St. John so greatly admired it, she felt loth to let it go for the ridiculous price which she had accepted for the other canvasses; yet when St. John wished to purchase it she refused. She would not sell it to him though she offered it as a gift, but he would not take it, and so “The Pride of the Morning” was stood in a corner of the studio facing the wall just as though it was in disgrace.Just about this time Jill had a regular run of ill luck. In the first instance the man who always bought her canvasses became bankrupt and was sold up, and Jill, who didn’t know anything about sending in claims, and had no one to advise her; for she never consulted St. John on purely personal matters for fear of his finding out how very poor she really was, lost the price of three canvasses which he had taken of her and never paid for, besides having nowhere now to dispose of her work. He had paid her poorly but it had been a certain market, and although she tramped London over, as it seemed to her weary feet, she could find no one to give her an order, or even a promise of work in the future; she had plenty of time for dreaming now. Besides this, the rent of her rooms was due again, and it was absolutely expedient that she should have new boots. And then came the climax—at least it seemed the climax to Jill’s overwrought and tired brain, but it was not so; as a matter of fact that fell later when she had not conceived it possible that greater trouble could fall to human lot. She became ill again—off her head, as Isobel informed St. John when she received him one Tuesday with the intimation that he could not go up as usual. The heat of summer, together with the continual atmosphere of white lead and turpentine had been too much for Jill, and she had collapsed, and, becoming rambling and incoherent in her talk the landlady had taken things into her own hands and sent for the doctor, when it was only rest and a little nursing and relief from mental worry that the invalid stood in need of, and not physic, a doctor’s bill, and impossible advice. The doctor came. She was thoroughly run down, he said; and he ordered her things that she could not buy, and change of air which she could not afford either, though she told him that she would see about it for fear he should think that she was hoping he would not charge her for attendance, which was very foolish and proud, just as foolish as her refusal to sell St. John the picture.When she was well enough to get out again she took a holiday and spent it at Hampden Court, going by steam-boat and returning in the evening by train after a long, solitary, but on the whole fairly enjoyable day. That was all the change of air she took, and greatly it benefitted her, far more than anyone would imagine so short a time could do. On her way home when she was crossing the road where Bedford Square merges into Gower Street a private hansom passed her with St. John and his cousin in it both in evening dress. Jill had fancied that Miss Bolton was out of town, and the sight of her quite upset all the pleasure she had derived from her jaunt.They did not see her, for it was dark in the road, but a street lamp shining full in their faces as they drove past revealed them plainly to her, and she noticed that St. John was looking both bored and worried, a fact which compensated somewhat for the shock of disappointment she had experienced on seeing the heiress.When she reached home there was a package of books addressed to her on the hall table, and a note in the bold, familiar handwriting she had learnt to know so well. She carried them up to her room and sat on the edge of her bed while she read the latter without waiting to take off her hat, or put in water the knot of wild flowers, faded now, which she had gathered and thrust into her belt.“Dear Miss Erskine,” it ran,—“I am sending you some literature on the chance of your being well enough now to do a little reading, and time, I know, hangs heavy when one is convalescent. Don’t worry about the lessons; I am enjoying the holiday; but when may I be allowed to call and see you? I have something to say to you which will not keep.“Yours very truly, J. St. John.”Jill’s heart gave a little jump as her eye took in the last sentence, and she made a shy guess at what the ‘something’ might be, a guess which sent the blood to her face in a warm rich glow, and set her pulses tingling in ecstatic enjoyment. She was curious to hear that something, so curious that she could hardly wait, and yet she was determined not to let St. John suspect how curious she really was. Going into the studio she sat down at the table and wrote her reply, a carefully worded little note thanking him for the books, and appointing Friday morning at the usual hour for him to visit her; stating that she was quite well and anxious to begin work. It was Wednesday so that there would be the whole of Thursday to get through, but Jill felt that she could manage that now that the letter was written, and tired though she was she went out again and posted it.The next morning by the same post that St. John got his letter, Jill received her doctor’s account which was considerably heavier than she had expected. It is an expensive luxury being ill. She sighed as she looked at the bill, and wondered where the money was coming from. She had not got it just then that was certain; the settlement must be deferred for a while. How hard it was to want to pay and not be able to do so! Later in the morning as she sat huddled up near the window poring over one of the books St. John had sent—for she could not work with the thought of the morrow before her; her sense of the fitness of things had bidden her take a last holiday and give herself up thoroughly to the enjoyment of the present—her attention was diverted from the novel by the sound of a footstep on the stairs, a heavy, uncertain, unmistakably masculine step which reminded her with a strange thrill of St. John’s first visit when he had stumbled up those stairs in the darkness eight months ago. She waited where she was until the visitor knocked, a loud, imperative, double knock on the door with his stick, then she rose, laid aside her book, and slowly crossed the room. Outside on the narrow landing stood an elderly man, tall and gaunt, with shoulders slightly bent, and iron grey hair and beard. He eyed Jill uncertainly, very much as St. John had done, and, also like St. John, concluded that she must be a pupil; she looked so very childish, much more like a child, indeed, than had the lanky, short-frocked, girl-student who had studied there so brief a time.“I wish to speak with Miss Erskine,” he said. And Jill, in vague foreboding, and with a dull repetition of her information on that former occasion, answered quietly,—“I am Miss Erskine.”“Good God!” exclaimed her visitor, and without waiting for an invitation he strode past her into the studio. Jill followed him wondering, and standing opposite to him, watched him closely, waiting for more.“My name is St. John,” he said—the bomb had fallen. “My son—h’m!—studies art here.”He looked round superciliously as though he wondered how anyone could study anything in so mean a place; no doubt he considered that his son’s explanation had been merely a plausible excuse.“Yes,” Jill answered, and that was all.He felt irritated with her that she was so quiet, so reserved, and so thoroughly self-possessed. He had expected something different; his ward had spoken of her as a horrid, designing, low-minded creature, his son had told him plainly only the night before that she was the one woman he loved, or ever could love; he had put the two descriptions together, and had pictured something handsome and sophisticated, bold perhaps, and necessarily charming, but nothing like what he found; not an ill-dressed, white-faced, ordinary-looking child-woman, whose great grey eyes watched him with such wistful, apprehensive, piteous anxiety that he turned away from their scrutiny with ill-concealed vexation.“I have come on an unpleasant errand,” he went on, “and naturally feel rather upset. But these unpleasant things must happen so long as men are imprudent and women over anxious. Have you no one belonging to you?—no one to advise you?”“Thank you,” Jill answered drawing herself up proudly, “I do not want advice.”“So most young people think,” he said irascibly; “but they do well to accept it all the same. My son has been studying under you for some time, I believe?”“Yes,” replied Jill, “since last January.”“And have you any more pupils?”“Not now; I had one other for a short time. But the locality is against my forming an extensive connection.”“And you and my son work here alone two mornings a week?” he continued staring hard at her under his bushy brows, “Entirelyalone?”“Yes,” she answered, and his tone brought the blood to her pale cheeks in a great wave of colour; but she looked him steadily in the face notwithstanding. It did not seem to occur to her to resent this cross examination; she just listened to his queries and answered them as though he had a right to catechise her, and she must of necessity reply.“Do you consider that altogether discreet, Miss Erskine?” he enquired.Jill flushed painfully again, and her breath came more quickly. It is so easy to wound another’s feelings that sometimes the inflicter of so much pain hardly realises the anguish that he causes.“Mr St. John,” the girl said quickly, speaking as though she were anxious to say what she wished to, before her suddenly acquired courage deserted her again, “I don’t quite understand what it is you want with me, and I can hardly believe that you have come here with no other intention than that of insulting me. Your last question was an insult. Do you think that I am in a position to be discreet entirely dependent as I am on my own exertions? Art with the many does not pay well. But I can assure you had your son been other than he is—a gentleman—I should not, as you so graphically put it, have worked here with him two mornings a week entirely alone.”Mr St. John was rather taken aback; she was evidently not such a child as she looked.“Excuse me,” he said, “but you mistake me altogether. I know my son thoroughly, and though I have never had the privilege of meeting you before to-day, yet once seeing is quite sufficient to disabuse my mind of any prejudice I may have entertained towards you. In speaking of indiscretion I was thinking entirely of outside criticism.”Jill smiled faintly, contemptuously, incredulously. She had him at a disadvantage, and the knowledge gave her a gratifying sense of superiority.“I am too insignificant a unit in this little world to excite criticism, captious or the reverse,” she answered. “I thought, myself, at first that it wouldn’t do, but have since been humbled into learning that my actions pass unheeded by the outside world. A great many actions of bigger people than myself pass unnoticed if they were only big-minded enough to realise it. Humanity does not spend its time solely in watching the doings of its neighbour; that is left for the little minds who have nothing more important to occupy themselves with. But you didn’t come here to warn me of my indiscretion. Would you mind telling me what the ‘unpleasant errand’ is?”“No,” he answered bluntly coming to the point. “I was merely anxious not to be too abrupt. I want to induce my son to give up coming here, and I can’t persuade him. Will you?”He did not look at her, but drawing a cheque-book from his pocket with unnecessary display placed it upon the table. Jill watched him comprehensively, and the blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she did so.“Why,” she asked, and could have bitten out her tongue because the word choked in her throat, “why should he give up coming?”“This is absurd,” exclaimed Mr St. John. “Let us give over fencing and understand one another. My son is infatuated—he generally is, by the way, it is a failing of his,”—Jill felt this to be untrue even while he said it, but she made no sign. “You, of course, are quite aware of his infatuation? But, Miss Erskine, he is a beggar; he has nothing in the world save what I allow him.”“How degrading!” cried Jill. “I should have credited him with possessing more manhood than that. Everyone should be independent who can be.”He smiled and tapped the cheque-book with his fingers. He fancied that she would be sensible.“It would not be wise to marry a pauper, would it?” he queried. “For a man who marries against his relative’s wishes when he looks to them for every penny, would be a pauper, without doubt.”“No,” Jill answered with unnatural quietness, “it would not be wise. I don’t think anyone would contradict that.”“You would not yourself, for instance?”“Most certainly I should not.”“Now we begin to understand one another,” he resumed almost cheerfully. He had greatly feared a scene; but she was so absolutely unemotional that he felt relieved.“Personally, you will understand I should have no objection to you as a daughter-in-law at all, only I have made other arrangements for my son, arrangements so highly advantageous that it would be the height of folly to reject them as he proposes doing. He must marry his cousin, the young lady whose acquaintance, I learn, you have already made—”“What! The young lady with a soul above nature?” interrupted Jill, thoroughly astonished, and for the first time off her guard. “Oh, he’ll never marry her.”“Indeed he will; there is nothing else for him to do. You forget that I can cut him off without a shilling, and will do so if he does not conform to my wishes.”“Yes,” Jill acquiesced as though she were discussing something entirely disconnected with herself, “Of course, I had forgotten that.”“The long and the short of the matter is this, Miss Erskine, if you insist upon encouraging my son in his mad infatuation you ruin his prospects and do yourself no good; for I believe that you agreed that you would not marry a pauper?”“No,” she answered, staring stonily out of the window with a gaze which saw nothing. “I would not marry a pauper; I don’t think it would be wise, and I don’t think it would be right to do so.”“A very sensible decision,” returned Mr St. John, senior, approvingly. “You have taken a great weight off my mind, my dear young lady; and I am greatly indebted to you. How greatly you alone are in a position to say,” and he tapped the cheque-book again with reassuring delicacy, but Jill did not notice the action and for once failed to follow the drift of his speech. A dull, heavy, aching despair had fallen upon her which she could not shake off. She seemed hardly to be listening to him now and only imperfectly comprehended his meaning.“I am to understand then,” Mr St. John resumed, straightening himself, and looking about him with an urbane benevolence that was most irritating, “that you will work in conjunction with us? Disillusion him a little, and—”“Oh, stop!” cried Jill, with the first real display of feeling that she had shown throughout the interview. “I cannot bear it. Do you think that because I have adopted art as a profession that I have turned into a lay figure and have no heart at all? You have robbed existence of its only pleasure so far as I am concerned. Can you not spare me the rest? I won’t impoverish him by marrying him but I am glad that he loves me, and I won’t try to lessen his love—I can’t do that.”He regarded her with angry impatience, frowning heavily the while. It was a try on—a diplomatic ruse, he considered; he had wondered rather at her former impassiveness; but apparently she was not very quickwitted and had been unprepared.“My dear Miss—Erskine,” he exclaimed, endeavouring to adapt himself to the new mood with but little success however, “you are too sensible altogether to indulge in heroics. I don’t wish to appear harsh, and I am quite certain that you have your feelings like anyone else, but there are Miss Bolton’s feelings also to be taken into consideration, and, though I greatly regret having myself to announce his dishonourable behaviour, she has been engaged to my son for some months past.”Jill stared at him in dumb, unquestioning anguish. Engaged! Perhaps that had been the ‘something’ he wished to communicate to her. He had never, given her any reason to suppose otherwise; it had only been her vanity that had led her to imagine what she had.“He has not behaved dishonourably,” she answered with difficulty; “he has never made love to me. It was you who told me that he cared; I did not know.”He looked surprised.“I am glad to learn that that is so,” he said. “I had feared things had gone further. And now, my dear young lady, I must apologise for the intrusion, and will finish up this very unpleasant business as speedily as possible.”He opened the cheque-book and took up a pen to write with.“You will allow me,” he began; but Jill took the pen quickly and replaced it in the stand. She was white to the very lips, and trembled all over like a person with the ague.“Go,” she said hoarsely, “before I say what I might regret all my life. My God! what have I done or said that you should take me for a thing like that? Go, please; oh! go away at once.”
St. John had attended Miss Erskine’s studio for two quarters, and was now into the third. He was still her sole pupil; though she had had another student, a long-legged girl of fifteen who had attended for three weeks and then been taken away in a hurry because her mother had discovered that Miss Erskine was very young, and had, besides her daughter, only one other pupil—a man—and no chaperone. She wrote Miss Erskine very plainly on the subject of the impropriety of her conduct, and gave her a good deal of advice, but omitted to enclose the fee. Jill showed the letter to St. John as the best way of explaining his fellow-student’s absence, and St. John laughed over it immoderately; he was so glad that the long-legged girl was gone.
“It’s rather rough on you though,” he remarked as he returned the missive which Jill put into her pocket to keep for a curiosity. “If you get another pupil of that description you’ll have to get rid of me, that’s certain. Poor little snub-nosed Flossie! I hope we didn’t demoralise her altogether. How I do detest the respectable British matron, don’t you?”
“No,” answered Jill. “I detest the vulgar, narrow-minded order though, like the writer of this letter. That poor child! I used to think her a giggling little idiot. She did giggle, and she wasn’t very wise; but she is greatly to be commiserated all the same.”
Jill had no fresh pupils after that, only St. John trudged manfully up the steep, narrow stairs with unfailing regularity, and once, when she was ill and obliged to stay in bed with a bad cold on her chest, he sent her fruit and flowers, but carefully refrained from going near the studio himself until he received a little note from her thanking him and saying that she was well enough to resume work.
Independent of the fee he paid for tuition, and the pleasure she derived from his society Jill enjoyed many advantages through his being at the studio which she could not herself have afforded. For one thing when he started painting he insisted upon employing a model; he wanted to paint from life; and Jill had to pose the model and paint from him or her—as the case might be—at the same time. She made good use of her opportunities, and many of the canvasses sold, but she had to dispose of them far below their market value at a merely nominal profit which just paid her and that was all. St. John offered her a hundred and fifty pounds for one picture—a female figure against a background of sea and sky, the whole veiled in a kind of white mist—a vapoury shroud which softened yet did not conceal. Jill had christened this picture “The Pride of the Morning,” and for some reason, perhaps because St. John so greatly admired it, she felt loth to let it go for the ridiculous price which she had accepted for the other canvasses; yet when St. John wished to purchase it she refused. She would not sell it to him though she offered it as a gift, but he would not take it, and so “The Pride of the Morning” was stood in a corner of the studio facing the wall just as though it was in disgrace.
Just about this time Jill had a regular run of ill luck. In the first instance the man who always bought her canvasses became bankrupt and was sold up, and Jill, who didn’t know anything about sending in claims, and had no one to advise her; for she never consulted St. John on purely personal matters for fear of his finding out how very poor she really was, lost the price of three canvasses which he had taken of her and never paid for, besides having nowhere now to dispose of her work. He had paid her poorly but it had been a certain market, and although she tramped London over, as it seemed to her weary feet, she could find no one to give her an order, or even a promise of work in the future; she had plenty of time for dreaming now. Besides this, the rent of her rooms was due again, and it was absolutely expedient that she should have new boots. And then came the climax—at least it seemed the climax to Jill’s overwrought and tired brain, but it was not so; as a matter of fact that fell later when she had not conceived it possible that greater trouble could fall to human lot. She became ill again—off her head, as Isobel informed St. John when she received him one Tuesday with the intimation that he could not go up as usual. The heat of summer, together with the continual atmosphere of white lead and turpentine had been too much for Jill, and she had collapsed, and, becoming rambling and incoherent in her talk the landlady had taken things into her own hands and sent for the doctor, when it was only rest and a little nursing and relief from mental worry that the invalid stood in need of, and not physic, a doctor’s bill, and impossible advice. The doctor came. She was thoroughly run down, he said; and he ordered her things that she could not buy, and change of air which she could not afford either, though she told him that she would see about it for fear he should think that she was hoping he would not charge her for attendance, which was very foolish and proud, just as foolish as her refusal to sell St. John the picture.
When she was well enough to get out again she took a holiday and spent it at Hampden Court, going by steam-boat and returning in the evening by train after a long, solitary, but on the whole fairly enjoyable day. That was all the change of air she took, and greatly it benefitted her, far more than anyone would imagine so short a time could do. On her way home when she was crossing the road where Bedford Square merges into Gower Street a private hansom passed her with St. John and his cousin in it both in evening dress. Jill had fancied that Miss Bolton was out of town, and the sight of her quite upset all the pleasure she had derived from her jaunt.
They did not see her, for it was dark in the road, but a street lamp shining full in their faces as they drove past revealed them plainly to her, and she noticed that St. John was looking both bored and worried, a fact which compensated somewhat for the shock of disappointment she had experienced on seeing the heiress.
When she reached home there was a package of books addressed to her on the hall table, and a note in the bold, familiar handwriting she had learnt to know so well. She carried them up to her room and sat on the edge of her bed while she read the latter without waiting to take off her hat, or put in water the knot of wild flowers, faded now, which she had gathered and thrust into her belt.
“Dear Miss Erskine,” it ran,—
“I am sending you some literature on the chance of your being well enough now to do a little reading, and time, I know, hangs heavy when one is convalescent. Don’t worry about the lessons; I am enjoying the holiday; but when may I be allowed to call and see you? I have something to say to you which will not keep.
“Yours very truly, J. St. John.”
Jill’s heart gave a little jump as her eye took in the last sentence, and she made a shy guess at what the ‘something’ might be, a guess which sent the blood to her face in a warm rich glow, and set her pulses tingling in ecstatic enjoyment. She was curious to hear that something, so curious that she could hardly wait, and yet she was determined not to let St. John suspect how curious she really was. Going into the studio she sat down at the table and wrote her reply, a carefully worded little note thanking him for the books, and appointing Friday morning at the usual hour for him to visit her; stating that she was quite well and anxious to begin work. It was Wednesday so that there would be the whole of Thursday to get through, but Jill felt that she could manage that now that the letter was written, and tired though she was she went out again and posted it.
The next morning by the same post that St. John got his letter, Jill received her doctor’s account which was considerably heavier than she had expected. It is an expensive luxury being ill. She sighed as she looked at the bill, and wondered where the money was coming from. She had not got it just then that was certain; the settlement must be deferred for a while. How hard it was to want to pay and not be able to do so! Later in the morning as she sat huddled up near the window poring over one of the books St. John had sent—for she could not work with the thought of the morrow before her; her sense of the fitness of things had bidden her take a last holiday and give herself up thoroughly to the enjoyment of the present—her attention was diverted from the novel by the sound of a footstep on the stairs, a heavy, uncertain, unmistakably masculine step which reminded her with a strange thrill of St. John’s first visit when he had stumbled up those stairs in the darkness eight months ago. She waited where she was until the visitor knocked, a loud, imperative, double knock on the door with his stick, then she rose, laid aside her book, and slowly crossed the room. Outside on the narrow landing stood an elderly man, tall and gaunt, with shoulders slightly bent, and iron grey hair and beard. He eyed Jill uncertainly, very much as St. John had done, and, also like St. John, concluded that she must be a pupil; she looked so very childish, much more like a child, indeed, than had the lanky, short-frocked, girl-student who had studied there so brief a time.
“I wish to speak with Miss Erskine,” he said. And Jill, in vague foreboding, and with a dull repetition of her information on that former occasion, answered quietly,—
“I am Miss Erskine.”
“Good God!” exclaimed her visitor, and without waiting for an invitation he strode past her into the studio. Jill followed him wondering, and standing opposite to him, watched him closely, waiting for more.
“My name is St. John,” he said—the bomb had fallen. “My son—h’m!—studies art here.”
He looked round superciliously as though he wondered how anyone could study anything in so mean a place; no doubt he considered that his son’s explanation had been merely a plausible excuse.
“Yes,” Jill answered, and that was all.
He felt irritated with her that she was so quiet, so reserved, and so thoroughly self-possessed. He had expected something different; his ward had spoken of her as a horrid, designing, low-minded creature, his son had told him plainly only the night before that she was the one woman he loved, or ever could love; he had put the two descriptions together, and had pictured something handsome and sophisticated, bold perhaps, and necessarily charming, but nothing like what he found; not an ill-dressed, white-faced, ordinary-looking child-woman, whose great grey eyes watched him with such wistful, apprehensive, piteous anxiety that he turned away from their scrutiny with ill-concealed vexation.
“I have come on an unpleasant errand,” he went on, “and naturally feel rather upset. But these unpleasant things must happen so long as men are imprudent and women over anxious. Have you no one belonging to you?—no one to advise you?”
“Thank you,” Jill answered drawing herself up proudly, “I do not want advice.”
“So most young people think,” he said irascibly; “but they do well to accept it all the same. My son has been studying under you for some time, I believe?”
“Yes,” replied Jill, “since last January.”
“And have you any more pupils?”
“Not now; I had one other for a short time. But the locality is against my forming an extensive connection.”
“And you and my son work here alone two mornings a week?” he continued staring hard at her under his bushy brows, “Entirelyalone?”
“Yes,” she answered, and his tone brought the blood to her pale cheeks in a great wave of colour; but she looked him steadily in the face notwithstanding. It did not seem to occur to her to resent this cross examination; she just listened to his queries and answered them as though he had a right to catechise her, and she must of necessity reply.
“Do you consider that altogether discreet, Miss Erskine?” he enquired.
Jill flushed painfully again, and her breath came more quickly. It is so easy to wound another’s feelings that sometimes the inflicter of so much pain hardly realises the anguish that he causes.
“Mr St. John,” the girl said quickly, speaking as though she were anxious to say what she wished to, before her suddenly acquired courage deserted her again, “I don’t quite understand what it is you want with me, and I can hardly believe that you have come here with no other intention than that of insulting me. Your last question was an insult. Do you think that I am in a position to be discreet entirely dependent as I am on my own exertions? Art with the many does not pay well. But I can assure you had your son been other than he is—a gentleman—I should not, as you so graphically put it, have worked here with him two mornings a week entirely alone.”
Mr St. John was rather taken aback; she was evidently not such a child as she looked.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but you mistake me altogether. I know my son thoroughly, and though I have never had the privilege of meeting you before to-day, yet once seeing is quite sufficient to disabuse my mind of any prejudice I may have entertained towards you. In speaking of indiscretion I was thinking entirely of outside criticism.”
Jill smiled faintly, contemptuously, incredulously. She had him at a disadvantage, and the knowledge gave her a gratifying sense of superiority.
“I am too insignificant a unit in this little world to excite criticism, captious or the reverse,” she answered. “I thought, myself, at first that it wouldn’t do, but have since been humbled into learning that my actions pass unheeded by the outside world. A great many actions of bigger people than myself pass unnoticed if they were only big-minded enough to realise it. Humanity does not spend its time solely in watching the doings of its neighbour; that is left for the little minds who have nothing more important to occupy themselves with. But you didn’t come here to warn me of my indiscretion. Would you mind telling me what the ‘unpleasant errand’ is?”
“No,” he answered bluntly coming to the point. “I was merely anxious not to be too abrupt. I want to induce my son to give up coming here, and I can’t persuade him. Will you?”
He did not look at her, but drawing a cheque-book from his pocket with unnecessary display placed it upon the table. Jill watched him comprehensively, and the blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she did so.
“Why,” she asked, and could have bitten out her tongue because the word choked in her throat, “why should he give up coming?”
“This is absurd,” exclaimed Mr St. John. “Let us give over fencing and understand one another. My son is infatuated—he generally is, by the way, it is a failing of his,”—Jill felt this to be untrue even while he said it, but she made no sign. “You, of course, are quite aware of his infatuation? But, Miss Erskine, he is a beggar; he has nothing in the world save what I allow him.”
“How degrading!” cried Jill. “I should have credited him with possessing more manhood than that. Everyone should be independent who can be.”
He smiled and tapped the cheque-book with his fingers. He fancied that she would be sensible.
“It would not be wise to marry a pauper, would it?” he queried. “For a man who marries against his relative’s wishes when he looks to them for every penny, would be a pauper, without doubt.”
“No,” Jill answered with unnatural quietness, “it would not be wise. I don’t think anyone would contradict that.”
“You would not yourself, for instance?”
“Most certainly I should not.”
“Now we begin to understand one another,” he resumed almost cheerfully. He had greatly feared a scene; but she was so absolutely unemotional that he felt relieved.
“Personally, you will understand I should have no objection to you as a daughter-in-law at all, only I have made other arrangements for my son, arrangements so highly advantageous that it would be the height of folly to reject them as he proposes doing. He must marry his cousin, the young lady whose acquaintance, I learn, you have already made—”
“What! The young lady with a soul above nature?” interrupted Jill, thoroughly astonished, and for the first time off her guard. “Oh, he’ll never marry her.”
“Indeed he will; there is nothing else for him to do. You forget that I can cut him off without a shilling, and will do so if he does not conform to my wishes.”
“Yes,” Jill acquiesced as though she were discussing something entirely disconnected with herself, “Of course, I had forgotten that.”
“The long and the short of the matter is this, Miss Erskine, if you insist upon encouraging my son in his mad infatuation you ruin his prospects and do yourself no good; for I believe that you agreed that you would not marry a pauper?”
“No,” she answered, staring stonily out of the window with a gaze which saw nothing. “I would not marry a pauper; I don’t think it would be wise, and I don’t think it would be right to do so.”
“A very sensible decision,” returned Mr St. John, senior, approvingly. “You have taken a great weight off my mind, my dear young lady; and I am greatly indebted to you. How greatly you alone are in a position to say,” and he tapped the cheque-book again with reassuring delicacy, but Jill did not notice the action and for once failed to follow the drift of his speech. A dull, heavy, aching despair had fallen upon her which she could not shake off. She seemed hardly to be listening to him now and only imperfectly comprehended his meaning.
“I am to understand then,” Mr St. John resumed, straightening himself, and looking about him with an urbane benevolence that was most irritating, “that you will work in conjunction with us? Disillusion him a little, and—”
“Oh, stop!” cried Jill, with the first real display of feeling that she had shown throughout the interview. “I cannot bear it. Do you think that because I have adopted art as a profession that I have turned into a lay figure and have no heart at all? You have robbed existence of its only pleasure so far as I am concerned. Can you not spare me the rest? I won’t impoverish him by marrying him but I am glad that he loves me, and I won’t try to lessen his love—I can’t do that.”
He regarded her with angry impatience, frowning heavily the while. It was a try on—a diplomatic ruse, he considered; he had wondered rather at her former impassiveness; but apparently she was not very quickwitted and had been unprepared.
“My dear Miss—Erskine,” he exclaimed, endeavouring to adapt himself to the new mood with but little success however, “you are too sensible altogether to indulge in heroics. I don’t wish to appear harsh, and I am quite certain that you have your feelings like anyone else, but there are Miss Bolton’s feelings also to be taken into consideration, and, though I greatly regret having myself to announce his dishonourable behaviour, she has been engaged to my son for some months past.”
Jill stared at him in dumb, unquestioning anguish. Engaged! Perhaps that had been the ‘something’ he wished to communicate to her. He had never, given her any reason to suppose otherwise; it had only been her vanity that had led her to imagine what she had.
“He has not behaved dishonourably,” she answered with difficulty; “he has never made love to me. It was you who told me that he cared; I did not know.”
He looked surprised.
“I am glad to learn that that is so,” he said. “I had feared things had gone further. And now, my dear young lady, I must apologise for the intrusion, and will finish up this very unpleasant business as speedily as possible.”
He opened the cheque-book and took up a pen to write with.
“You will allow me,” he began; but Jill took the pen quickly and replaced it in the stand. She was white to the very lips, and trembled all over like a person with the ague.
“Go,” she said hoarsely, “before I say what I might regret all my life. My God! what have I done or said that you should take me for a thing like that? Go, please; oh! go away at once.”