well enough to get out again she took a holiday and spentit at Hampden Court, going by steam-boat and returning in the evening bytrain 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 wayhome when she was crossing the road where Bedford Square merges intoGower Street a private hansom passed her with St. John and his cousin init both in evening dress. Jill had fancied that Miss Bolton was out oftown, and the sight of her quite upset all the pleasure she had derivedfrom her jaunt.
They did not see her, for it was dark in the road, but a street lampshining full in their faces as they drove past revealed them plainly toher, and she noticed that St. John was looking both bored and worried, afact which compensated somewhat for the shock of disappointment she hadexperienced on seeing the heiress.
When she reached home there was a package of books addressed to her onthe hall table, and a note in the bold, familiar handwriting she hadlearnt to know so well. She carried them up to her room and sat on theedge of her bed while she read the latter without waiting to take offher hat, or put in water the knot of wild flowers, faded now, which shehad gathered and thrust into her belt.
"Dear Miss Erskine," it ran,--
"I am sending you some literature on the chance of your being wellenough now to do a little reading, and time, I know, hangs heavy whenone is convalescent. Don't worry about the lessons; I am enjoying theholiday; but when may I be allowed to call and see you? I havesomething 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 whichsent the blood to her face in a warm rich glow, and set her pulsestingling in ecstatic enjoyment. She was curious to hear that something,so curious that she could hardly wait, and yet she was determined not tolet St. John suspect how curious she really was. Going into the studioshe sat down at the table and wrote her reply, a carefully worded littlenote thanking him for the books, and appointing Friday morning at theusual hour for him to visit her; stating that she was quite well andanxious to begin work. It was Wednesday so that there would be thewhole of Thursday to get through, but Jill felt that she could managethat now that the letter was written, and tired though she was she wentout again and posted it.
The next morning by the same post that St. John got his letter, Jillreceived her doctor's account which was considerably heavier than shehad expected. It is an expensive luxury being ill. She sighed as shelooked at the bill, and wondered where the money was coming from. Shehad not got it just then that was certain; the settlement must bedeferred for a while. How hard it was to want to pay and not be able todo so! Later in the morning as she sat huddled up near the windowporing over one of the books St. John had sent--for she could not workwith the thought of the morrow before her; her sense of the fitness ofthings had bidden her take a last holiday and give herself up thoroughlyto the enjoyment of the present--her attention was diverted from thenovel by the sound of a footstep on the stairs, a heavy, uncertain,unmistakably masculine step which reminded her with a strange thrill ofSt. John's first visit when he had stumbled up those stairs in thedarkness eight months ago. She waited where she was until the visitorknocked, 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, withshoulders slightly bent, and iron grey hair and beard. He eyed Jilluncertainly, very much as St. John had done, and, also like St. John,concluded that she must be a pupil; she looked so very childish, muchmore 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 vagueforeboding, and with a dull repetition of her information on that formeroccasion, answered quietly,--
"I am Miss Erskine."
"Good God!" exclaimed her visitor, and without waiting for an invitationhe strode past her into the studio. Jill followed him wondering, andstanding 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 couldstudy anything in so mean a place; no doubt he considered that his son'sexplanation 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 sothoroughly self-possessed. He had expected something different; hisward had spoken of her as a horrid, designing, low-minded creature, hisson had told him plainly only the night before that she was the onewoman he loved, or ever could love; he had put the two descriptionstogether, and had pictured something handsome and sophisticated, boldperhaps, and necessarily charming, but nothing like what he found; notan ill-dressed, white-faced, ordinary-looking child-woman, whose greatgrey eyes watched him with such wistful, apprehensive, piteous anxietythat he turned away from their scrutiny with ill-concealed vexation.
"I have come on an unpleasant errand," he went on, "and naturally feelrather upset. But these unpleasant things must happen so long as menare imprudent and women over anxious. Have you no one belonging toyou?--no one to advise you?"
"Thank you," Jill answered drawing herself up proudly, "I do not wantadvice."
"So most young people think," he said irascibly; "but they do well toaccept it all the same. My son has been studying under you for sometime, 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 againstmy forming an extensive connection."
"And you and my son work here alone two mornings a week?" he continuedstaring hard at her under his bushy brows, "_Entirely_ alone?"
"Yes," she answered, and his tone brought the blood to her pale cheeksin a great wave of colour; but she looked him steadily in the facenotwithstanding. It did not seem to occur to her to resent this crossexamination; she just listened to his queries and answered them asthough 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 isso easy to wound another's feelings that sometimes the inflicter of somuch pain hardly realises the anguish that he causes.
"Mr St. John," the girl said quickly, speaking as though she wereanxious to say what she wished to, before her suddenly acquired couragedeserted her again, "I don't quite understand what it is you want withme, and I can hardly believe that you have come here with no otherintention than that of insulting me. Your last question was an insult.Do you think that I am in a position to be discreet entirely dependentas I am on my own exertions? Art with the many does not pay well. ButI can assure you had your son been other than he is--a gentleman--Ishould not, as you so graphically put it, have worked here with him twomornings a week entirely alone."
Mr St. John was rather taken aback; she was evidently not such a childas she looked.
"Excuse me," he said, "but you mistake me altogether. I know my sonthoroughly, and though I have never had the privilege of meeting youbefore to-day, yet once seeing is quite sufficient to disabuse my mindof any prejudice I may have entertained towards you. In speaking ofindiscretion I was thinking entirely of outside criticism."
Jill smiled faintly, contemptuously, incredulously. She had him at adisadvantage, and the knowledge gave her a gratifying sense ofsuperiority.
"I am too insignificant a unit in this little world to excite criticism,captious or the reverse," she answered. "I thought, myself, at firstthat it wouldn't do, but have since been humbled into learning that myactions pass unheeded by the outside world. A great many actions ofbigger people t
han myself pass unnoticed if they were only big-mindedenough to realise it. Humanity does not spend its time solely inwatching the doings of its neighbour; that is left for the little mindswho have nothing more important to occupy themselves with. But youdidn't come here to warn me of my indiscretion. Would you mind tellingme what the `unpleasant errand' is?"
"No," he answered bluntly coming to the point. "I was merely anxiousnot 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 withunnecessary display placed it upon the table. Jill watched himcomprehensively, and the blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she didso.
"Why," she asked, and could have bitten out her tongue because the wordchoked in her throat, "why should he give up coming?"
"This is absurd," exclaimed Mr St. John. "Let us give over fencing andunderstand one another. My son is infatuated--he generally is, by theway, it is a failing of his,"--Jill felt this to be untrue even while hesaid it, but she made no sign. "You, of course, are quite aware of hisinfatuation? But, Miss Erskine, he is a beggar; he has nothing in theworld save what I allow him."
"How degrading!" cried Jill. "I should have credited him withpossessing more manhood than that. Everyone should be independent whocan be."
He smiled and tapped the cheque-book with his fingers. He fancied thatshe would be sensible.
"It would not be wise to marry a pauper, would it?" he queried. "For aman who marries against his relative's wishes when he looks to them forevery penny, would be a pauper, without doubt."
"No," Jill answered with unnatural quietness, "it would not be wise. Idon'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 unemotionalthat he felt relieved.
"Personally, you will understand I should have no objection to you as adaughter-in-law at all, only I have made other arrangements for my son,arrangements so highly advantageous that it would be the height of follyto reject them as he proposes doing. He must marry his cousin, theyoung 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'llnever marry her."
"Indeed he will; there is nothing else for him to do. You forget that Ican cut him off without a shilling, and will do so if he does notconform to my wishes."
"Yes," Jill acquiesced as though she were discussing something entirelydisconnected with herself, "Of course, I had forgotten that."
"The long and the short of the matter is this, Miss Erskine, if youinsist upon encouraging my son in his mad infatuation you ruin hisprospects and do yourself no good; for I believe that you agreed thatyou would not marry a pauper?"
"No," she answered, staring stonily out of the window with a gaze whichsaw nothing. "I would not marry a pauper; I don't think it would bewise, 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 amgreatly indebted to you. How greatly you alone are in a position tosay," and he tapped the cheque-book again with reassuring delicacy, butJill did not notice the action and for once failed to follow the driftof his speech. A dull, heavy, aching despair had fallen upon her whichshe could not shake off. She seemed hardly to be listening to him nowand 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 mostirritating, "that you will work in conjunction with us? Disillusion hima little, and--"
"Oh, stop!" cried Jill, with the first real display of feeling that shehad shown throughout the interview. "I cannot bear it. Do you thinkthat because I have adopted art as a profession that I have turned intoa lay figure and have no heart at all? You have robbed existence of itsonly 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. Itwas a try on--a diplomatic ruse, he considered; he had wondered ratherat her former impassiveness; but apparently she was not very quickwittedand had been unprepared.
"My dear Miss--Erskine," he exclaimed, endeavouring to adapt himself tothe new mood with but little success however, "you are too sensiblealtogether to indulge in heroics. I don't wish to appear harsh, and Iam quite certain that you have your feelings like anyone else, but thereare Miss Bolton's feelings also to be taken into consideration, and,though I greatly regret having myself to announce his dishonourablebehaviour, she has been engaged to my son for some months past."
Jill stared at him in dumb, unquestioning anguish. Engaged! Perhapsthat had been the `something' he wished to communicate to her. He hadnever, given her any reason to suppose otherwise; it had only been hervanity that had led her to imagine what she had.
"He has not behaved dishonourably," she answered with difficulty; "hehas never made love to me. It was you who told me that he cared; I didnot know."
He looked surprised.
"I am glad to learn that that is so," he said. "I had feared things hadgone further. And now, my dear young lady, I must apologise for theintrusion, and will finish up this very unpleasant business as speedilyas 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 andreplaced it in the stand. She was white to the very lips, and trembledall 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 thinglike that? Go, please; oh! go away at once."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
The climax had come. It had rushed upon her with an unexpectedness thatwas overwhelming and had left her too stunned to even think connectedly.Only the night before she had been so full of glad expectation, and noweverything seemed at an end and all the gladness vanished. She walkedunsteadily back to her old seat by the window, and fingered absently thebook St. John had sent. It was a new volume, and had been a gift; forhe had written her name on the fly leaf. The fact had given herpleasure last night, now she wondered why he had done it, and laid thebook down again wearily, all her former interest gone. There were otherevidences of his gifts about the room in the shape of baskets oncecontaining fruit and flowers. The fruit had been all eaten, and theflowers were dead; a bunch of them, fading fast, drooped in a vase uponthe table; the rest, dried and discoloured, with all their beautyperished, were hidden away in Jill's little bedroom where only she couldsee them, and recall the pleasure they had given; and from her exaltedposition on on the bracket which she occupied alone, Clytie looked downwhite, and pure, and pensive, seeming to understand. Oh! it was hard,and cruel, and bitter,--all the more bitter, that the mistake had beenher own. She drew from the bosom of her frock St. John's brief note,the note that had made her so happy, and read it again by the light ofher new understanding, `Don't worry about the lessons; I am enjoying theholiday.' Perhaps he had meant it literally and not, as she hadimagined, penned the clause solely with a thoughtful desire to save heranxiety. How vain she had been!--how mad! `I have something to say toyou which will not keep.' So vague a sentence, and yet she had fanciedthat she had guessed his meaning rightly. He might have meant a hundredthings, and what more probable than the announcement of his engagement?
Jill crouched by the window for the rest of the morning hugging this newtrouble which had dwarfed all the others into insignificance. At firstshe was too dazed to feel anything much, then gradually the anguish
ofmind grew keener until it seemed unbearable, and finally exhausteditself by its own violence. After that came a lull, and then followedresentment, fierce, active, healthy resentment that left absolutely noroom for any other emotion; resentment against her recent visitor,angry, contemptuous, indignant; resentment against Miss Bolton of thefiercely jealous order; but keenest of all resentment against St. John,the cold, inflexible, heartsore resentment of wounded love. He ought tohave told her of his engagement; if not actually dishonourable it wasmean of him to have suppressed the fact when he must have seen that hewas becoming necessary to her, when he knew, too, that she was morethan, under the circumstances, she should have been to him; for that hedid care for her she did not doubt--infatuation his father had calledit, and it might be that he was right. At any rate St. John should haveleft the Art School before it had grown too late. This feeling of angeracted as a tonic to Jill; it braced her nerves and put her on hermettle, so that she determined to face her trouble and conquer it, andif possible show St. John what a poor opinion she had of him. But thencame the remembrance of her small debts and her poverty. It had been abad thing for her this acquaintance with St. John; she had not reliedsufficiently on herself. When he was gone the fee would cease, and shehad not sold any work for weeks. The last canvas that she had beenengaged upon before her illness, painting from a model
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