Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Triumph of JillBy F.E. Mills YoungPublished by John Long, London.This edition dated 1903.
The Triumph of Jill, by F.E. Mills Young.
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________________________________________________________________________THE TRIUMPH OF JILL, BY F.E. MILLS YOUNG.
CHAPTER ONE.
"Art," said the man, regarding lingeringly a half finished canvasstanding on an easel in the middle of the poorly furnished room, andthen the very insignificant little girl beside him, who had posed forhim ever since she had dispensed with long clothes, and subsequentlytaken to them, again, and had always proved an unsatisfactory model froman artistic point of view, "is the only thing really worth living for,and yet it's the most bally rotten thing to take up--as a bread winningprofession, you understand. When you've got the bread, and plenty ofit, it's a very fine way of getting butter to it, and in exceptionalcases preserves as well. I'm sorry," with a smothered sigh of regret,"that I didn't go in for something more satisfactory for your sake; Ishould have felt easier in my mind when it came to pegging out."
But the girl was enthusiastic upon the subject as well as himself.
"It was your life's work," she answered; "you could not have doneotherwise."
"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning his head restlessly upon thecushion. "My life's work! And what a poor thing I have made of it.What a grind it has been, and what a failure."
"Don't, dear," she whispered, slipping her hand into his with acaressing, protecting gesture; "it hurts me to hear you. And after allthere is nothing to regret. We have been very happy together, you andI; I wouldn't have had it different. If you had been more successful ina worldly sense we might not have been all in all to one another as wehave been. We have always managed to get along."
"Yes," he answered with a touch of masculine arrogance, "it was allright so long as I was well, but I shall never finish that canvas, Jill,though I've forced myself to work to the last; but I'm pegging out fastnow--two legs in the grave," with a flash of humour and the old light ofmirth in his eyes again, "though I'm hanging on to the upper ground withboth hands like the tenacious beggar I always was; but the sods aregiving way, and I shall suddenly drop out of sight one day, and then--and then," the sad look coming back to his face, "you'll be left tofight the battle of life alone."
The girl's lip quivered, and she turned away her head to hide heremotion, fearful that any display of grief would hurt him, and saddenhis last few hours on earth.
"I shall manage," she answered confidently, "I shall teach; you haveoften said I was quite competent of doing that, and occasionally I sellmy own work, you know."
"Yes," he said, "you have my talent, and I have taught you all I could.But I wish that I had more to leave you; there will be so little afterall the expenses are paid."
"There are the models--my art school stocked," she replied with assumedcheerfulness. "I shall be only awaiting the pupils, and they will comeafter a while."
The speech was a brave one, but her heart sank nevertheless. She wasfairly self-reliant, but she had seen enough of the seamy side of lifeto realise how difficult it was, added to which she was devoted to herfather, who was all she had in the world, and the knowledge that he wasleaving her just when she seemed to need him most was very bitter. Theyhad been comrades ever since she could remember, a bond that had madethe roving, Bohemian life very pleasant, and the severing of which meanta loss that nothing could ever replace--a void no one else could fill.And yet she continued cheerful and bright, even gay at times, thougheach day found him weaker, and her own heart heavier, and more hopeless.But she choked down the lump that was always rising in her throat, andmaintained a smiling exterior, despite her grief, until there was noneed to conceal her feelings any longer, and then sorrow had its way,and found vent in a wild burst of uncontrollable weeping, which afterhalf an hour exhausted both itself and her, and ended in a kind ofgeneral collapse. But there was very little time in which to indulgethe luxury of grief. There was the future to think about; for it wasnecessary to live even if one did not feel greatly inclined to; and soJill left her tiny bedroom with its sloping ceiling, and stole into thestudio, bare, save for its model throne, and casts, its easel, table,and couple of cane-bottomed chairs, its smell of stale tobacco, andcheese, and the memory of the dear presence that once had sat thereworking and would work no more. With eyes blinded by tears, and handsthat trembled she proceeded to dust the models, and put the room torights, and as she did so her glance fell upon the still unfinishedpicture--her father's last work--and, letting the dusting brush fallfrom her hand, she threw her arms about the neck of the Apollo Belvidereand wept afresh. Her next move, when this new outburst had subsided,was to take down the bust of Clytie from the shelf on which it stood andtenderly remove the specks of dust that had been allowed to gather therethrough the inevitable neglect of the past sad days. This had been herfather's favourite model. He had liked it on account of a certainworldliness of expression--a touch of the old Eve, he had been wont tosay--which the others lacked! and so henceforth Clytie would possess anadded attraction, a new interest for her born of pure sentiment.
When she had arranged the room to her satisfaction she set about writingout her advertisement, no very lengthy matter, for she had thought aboutit so continually of late that she knew exactly how to word it. She hadcome to the conclusion that it would be better not to let people knowthat she was just starting, so expressed herself in a noncommittal sortof way as follows:--"Miss Erskine's Art School will re-open on January15th. Classes, Tuesdays and Fridays 9:30 to 12:30 p.m., and 2:30--4:30p.m., Geometry Classes every Wednesday evening from 7:30 to 9 o'clock."Then followed the address and date, and the advertisement was completedand ready to appear. So far everything was easy, but Jill herself feltby no means sanguine of results. For one thing the locality was notvery desirable, and the Art School commanded what many people in househunting insist upon, a lofty situation, but in the latter instance, ofcourse, it has nothing to do with stairs. Miss Erskine's establishmentwas four storeys high, and the shape of the ceiling hinted unkindly atbeing in close communication with the slates. Would anybody who wasable to pay for tuition be willing to climb those stairs twice a week,narrow and steep, and dark enough to be dangerous, not to mention thedust, which the obscurity hid, but which one's olfactory organ detectedunmistakably as one wended one's way wearily up or down? No, it did notseem very probable, and yet it was just possible enough to leave amargin of hope in her otherwise despondent reasoning.
The next day, Jill had the sorry satisfaction of seeing heradvertisement in print. It was stuck away in a corner of one of theleast important columns, and did not look very imposing, but itoccasioned her a little thrill of pride all the same, and gave her freshheart to return to work, though she had endeavoured to sell a smallcanvas that morning for a proportionally small sum and had failed, afact, considering the state of her exchequer, not conducive to greatexhilaration.
Fortunately, the rent was settled for the next six months, and she hadstill some funds in hand, and after that--well, something would turn up.For the sake of economy Jill sat at work with a jacket on and her backturned towards the empty grate, but the weather was particularly cold,and her hands became so numbed, that she could not hold the brushes; andon the third day she was obliged to give in and indulge in a fire again.Soon after that, she sold a picture and received a commission foranother, which she set to work on at once; and for the first time sinceher father's death she felt almost light hearted. But fortune's wheelis seldom stationary long, and after she had completed the second canvasthere seemed no further demand u
pon her energies. This wasdiscouraging, but still she persevered, painting all morning, andspending the afternoons trying to sell her work, returning afternightfall, cold and weary to a dark, cheerless room, and creeping earlyto bed for the sake of warmth, and the saving of unnecessaryillumination.
One morning as she sat at work in a by no means cheerful frame of mind,having made only a very scant breakfast, and unless she sold somethingthat day, seeing but small chance of making a more substantial meallater on, she was interrupted by the sound of a footstep on the stairs,a blundering heavy footstep, that kicked each stair it mounted, andfinally came down with a stamp at the top, having taken a step too manyin the gloom of a fourth storey landing. It was enough to try anybody'stemper, and the owner of
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