The Triumph of Jill
Page 24
enough to feel the degradation of it."
"Until you met Jill you were not a fool," snapped his father.
"We won't discuss that point further," St. John rejoined; "it is one onwhich we are never likely to agree. You wanted, your note said, to seeJill. I can't imagine why, but if you still wish to see her we will goupstairs at once."
Mr St. John having intimated that a two minutes' uncomfortableconversation with his son had not altered his intention in coming, thelatter turned impatiently upon his heel and led the way to thesitting-room where Jill was waiting with her little boy, striving, inher efforts to amuse him, to stifle her own nervousness and vaguemisgivings.
The child was simply and daintily dressed in white, and had grown from apuny infant into a sturdy, healthy little man, with more than anordinary share of good looks and good spirits, and a very charming andlovable disposition. Jill idolised him, but she was wise in her love,and the spoiling--if spoiling it could be called--was of a veryjudicious kind, tending chiefly to bring out the best qualities in theimpressionable baby-nature, so that surrounded, as this baby was, withlove and care and tenderness, he bade fair to turn out a generous,affectionate, happy little fellow; and if he were not as well off assome babies, at least he had been born without the silver spoon, and sowas not likely to feel the deprivation.
Jill had been playing with him on the floor, doing her best to keep himgood-tempered before his grandfather's arrival; for with hermother-instinct she associated this visit with the child, and wasnaturally anxious that he should appear at his best. When she heardtheir steps upon the stairs she scrambled hastily to a more dignifiedposition, and stood with bright eyes, and flushed cheeks waiting toreceive her former enemy. She had not forgotten his first and onlyother visit to her; she was not likely to forget it, nor to forgive himthe pain he made her suffer then, and the insult which he had offeredher. But she was content to ignore the past for her husband's sake morethan her own, and equally ready to treat her father-in-law with apoliteness and consideration that he had no right to expect at herhands. Doubtless he remembered the incident also; he certainly did notanticipate a welcome, for he returned her cool little bow with equaldistance--indeed hardly appeared to notice her at all. It was evidentthat if she had not forgiven him neither had he forgiven her; to her heowed the upsetting of all his plans, and his present lonely, childlesscondition, and he was not the sort of man who easily forgot an injury,nor readily pardoned the offender. His supercilious gaze rested for aninstant on the mother's face, and then wandered away to the child's,taking in every detail of the baby-features from the wide, curious eyes,so absurdly like Jill's both in expression and colouring, to the prettycurved lips, and rounded chin which even then gave promise of being assquare and obstinate as his father's. What he saw apparently pleasedhim; his features relaxed a little, Jill even fancied that he smiledback when the child in his friendly, confiding fashion smiled up at him,though if such were the case, which was doubtful, he made no furtheradvance. He had never cared for children, and he did not now pretend tofeel any interest in this one more than another. He had not come to seehis grandson, but merely to make a proposal concerning him, and thisproposal he forthwith expounded to the baby's parents to their no smallastonishment and dismay. His offer--and it was a good one from aworldly point of view--was to adopt the child altogether; to take him atthe age of seven from his present surroundings and bring him up as hehad brought up the father, bequeathing, at his death, his entire fortuneto him unconditionally. He made no stipulation against the child seeinghis parents as often as the latter wished, but he was not to live withthem, nor to stay beneath their roof for any length of time.
When he had finished speaking he looked towards his son, but St. Johnshook his head decisively, and turned abruptly away; he could not answersuch a question; he felt that he had not the right to do so.
"Ask his mother," was all he said.
"Petticoat government, eh?" sneered the old man. "I appealed to youbecause I hoped that you would have profited by your own experience andbeen glad of the opportunity of giving your son a chance. With women itis different; they are so beastly selfish in their love; they alwayswant the object of their affection near them."
"Ask his mother," St. John repeated in a hard voice. "A mother has moreright than anyone else to decide the future of her child."
Jill, who had remained till now impassive, listening open-eyed to allshe heard, came forward as her husband finished speaking and stoodbetween the old man and the baby on the floor as though she wouldprotect the child from his grandfather's designs. She was quite calmand collected; St. John wondered rather at her evident self-control.
"It is very good of you, Mr St. John," she said, "to make Baby such ahandsome offer. But you are wrong in thinking that a mother's love isselfish; it is not where it is real; and it is entirely in my baby'sinterests that I am going to regard your proposal."
"Going to refuse it you mean," he snapped.
Jill smiled.
"Going to refuse it if you like to put it that way," she said. "Ofcourse it would be splendid for Baby in one sense, but I don't think itwould be kind. I have never approved of bringing children up in adifferent position to their parents. My boy, no matter how good-heartedhe turned out, would grow to look down upon his father, and the poorlittle shop with its poorer photographs, and upon the kind old man whostood Godfather to him, and drops his h's, but loves the child almost asthough he were his own. I have heard of such things before. Childrenwho are exalted to very different positions to their parents learn todespise them, and feel ashamed of them, and then, of course, theydespise themselves for doing so; and altogether it is very hopeless, andrather cruel, I think.
"Don't fancy me ungrateful; it is not that. It isn't that I wouldn'tspare my boy if I considered it all for the best; but I don't I think hewill be a much happier, and a better little boy if he is brought up justas well as we can manage, with no more brilliant prospect than theknowledge that he has to make his own way in the world as his father didbefore him."
"So you are going to make an independent beggar of him as you did of hisfather, eh? Well, I would have made him an independent gentleman. Butno matter. You possess the right unfortunately of ruining both theirfutures. Perhaps one day you will remember my offer with regret, butunderstand, please that I shall not renew it; neither will you or yoursbenefit from me in any way."
"I had never expected that we should," Jill answered with proudsimplicity. "I have not been accustomed to luxury and so don't feel theneed of it. It is harder for my husband than for me, harder for himthan it will be for the boy; but I don't fancy that Jack minds it much."
"Jack is a fool," his father answered bitterly. "He could have beenanything almost if he had followed out my wishes."
St. John smiled faintly. He did not resent the slighting epithetapplied to himself; he understood in a way, the old man's keendisappointment, and felt more sorry than chagrined at his unrelentingharshness.
"Don't think too much about it, sir," he said; "I should have been boundto fail you somehow. I was never one of those brainy ambitious fellows,you know; it takes more than money to make a great career."
"It takes a _man_," Mr St. John answered sententiously. He had not satdown throughout the brief interview, although his son had placed a chairfor him, and now he turned to go with less ceremony than when heentered. He even omitted the courtesy of bowing to Jill; he simplywalked out without looking at her. St. John followed him and opened theshop door for him to pass through.
"Good-bye," he said earnestly. "I regret the breach between us with allmy heart--though that will hardly bridge it over, will it? If at anytime you want me you have only to command."
"You have always obeyed my commands so readily, eh?" retorted hisfather. "I am not likely to trouble you again. By the way you need notconsider it necessary in future to make a kind of family Bible of me forthe chronicling of domestic events. Our intercourse is at an end fromthis date. I n
either wish to hear of, nor to see you again."
CHAPTER TWENTY.
When St. John had closed the door after his father he walked into thestudio and busied himself unnecessarily shifting back scenes andrearranging everything in order to work off the depression the recentinterview had left behind. He thoroughly understood that this was thefinal break with his father, and the realisation cost him more than onepang of bitter regret. He felt that to a certain extent he had beenwanting in duty, and yet he knew that he could not have acted otherwise;the whole thing was as deplorable as it was inevitable; and it mighthave been so different had it not been for the obstinate pride of oneambitious old man.
In the midst of his