"Art," said the man, regarding lingeringly a half finished canvas
standing on an easel in the middle of the poorly furnished room, and
then the very insignificant little girl beside him, who had posed for
him ever since she had dispensed with long clothes, and subsequently
taken to them, again, and had always proved an unsatisfactory model from
an 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 winning
profession, you understand. When you've got the bread, and plenty of
it, it's a very fine way of getting butter to it, and in exceptional
cases 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; I
should 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 done
otherwise."
"Perhaps you are right," he said, turning his head restlessly upon the
cushion. "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 a
caressing, protecting gesture; "it hurts me to hear you. And after all
there is nothing to regret. We have been very happy together, you and
I; I wouldn't have had it different. If you had been more successful in
a worldly sense we might not have been all in all to one another as we
have been. We have always managed to get along."
"Yes," he answered with a touch of masculine arrogance, "it was all
right 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 fast
now--two legs in the grave," with a flash of humour and the old light of
mirth in his eyes again, "though I'm hanging on to the upper ground with
both hands like the tenacious beggar I always was; but the sods are
giving 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 to
fight the battle of life alone."
The girl's lip quivered, and she turned away her head to hide her
emotion, fearful that any display of grief would hurt him, and sadden
his last few hours on earth.
"I shall manage," she answered confidently, "I shall teach; you have
often said I was quite competent of doing that, and occasionally I sell
my 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 after
all the expenses are paid."
"There are the models--my art school stocked," she replied with assumed
cheerfulness. "I shall be only awaiting the pupils, and they will come
after a while."
The speech was a brave one, but her heart sank nevertheless. She was
fairly self-reliant, but she had seen enough of the seamy side of life
to realise how difficult it was, added to which she was devoted to her
father, who was all she had in the world, and the knowledge that he was
leaving her just when she seemed to need him most was very bitter. They
had been comrades ever since she could remember, a bond that had made
the roving, Bohemian life very pleasant, and the severing of which meant
a loss that nothing could ever replace--a void no one else could fill.
And yet she continued cheerful and bright, even gay at times, though
each 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, and
maintained a smiling exterior, despite her grief, until there was no
need to conceal her feelings any longer, and then sorrow had its way,
and found vent in a wild burst of uncontrollable weeping, which after
half an hour exhausted both itself and her, and ended in a kind of
general collapse. But there was very little time in which to indulge
the luxury of grief. There was the future to think about; for it was
necessary to live even if one did not feel greatly inclined to; and so
Jill left her tiny bedroom with its sloping ceiling, and stole into the
studio, bare, save for its model throne, and casts, its easel, table,
and couple of cane-bottomed chairs, its smell of stale tobacco, and
cheese, and the memory of the dear presence that once had sat there
working and would work no more. With eyes blinded by tears, and hands
that trembled she proceeded to dust the models, and put the room to
rights, and as she did so her glance fell upon the still unfinished
picture--her father's last work--and, letting the dusting brush fall
from her hand, she threw her arms about the neck of the Apollo Belvidere
and 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 and
tenderly remove the specks of dust that had been allowed to gather there
through the inevitable neglect of the past sad days. This had been her
father's favourite model. He had liked it on account of a certain
worldliness of expression--a touch of the old Eve, he had been wont to
say--which the others lacked! and so henceforth Clytie would possess an
added attraction, a new interest for her born of pure sentiment.
When she had arranged the room to her satisfaction she set about writing
out her advertisement, no very lengthy matter, for she had thought about
it so continually of late that she knew exactly how to word it. She had
come to the conclusion that it would be better not to let people know
that she was just starting, so expressed herself in a noncommittal sort
of way as follows:--"Miss Erskine's Art School will re-open on January
15th. Classes, Tuesdays and Fridays 9:30 to 12:30 p.m., and 2:30--4:30
p.m., Geometry Classes every Wednesday evening from 7:30 to 9 o'clock."
Then followed the address and date, and the advertisement was completed
and ready to appear. So far everything was easy, but Jill herself felt
by no means sanguine of results. For one thing the locality was not
very desirable, and the Art School commanded what many people in house
hunting insist upon, a lofty situation, but in the latter instance, of
course, it has nothing to do with stairs. Miss Erskine's establishment
was four storeys high, and the shape of the ceiling hinted unkindly at
being in close communication with the slates. Would anybody who was
able 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 the
dust, which the obscurity hid, but which one's olfactory organ detected
unmistakably as one wended one's way wearily up or down? No, it did not
seem very probable, and yet it was just possible enough to leave a
margin of hope in her otherwise despondent reasoning.
The next day, Jill had the sorry satisfaction of seeing her
advertisement in print. It was stuck away in a corner of one of the
least important columns, and did not look very imposing, but it
occasioned her a little thrill of pride all the same, and gave her fresh
heart to return to work, though she had endeavoured to sell a small
canvas that morning for a proportionally small sum and had failed, a
fact, considering the state of her exchequer, not conducive to great
exhilaration.
Fortunately, the rent was settled for the next six months, and she had
still 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 back
turned towards the empty grate, but the weather was particularly cold,
and her hands became so numbed, that she could not hold the brushes; and
on 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 for
another, which she set to work on at once; and for the first time since
her father's death she felt almost light hearted. But fortune's wheel
is seldom stationary long, and after she had completed the second canvas
there seemed no further demand upon her energies. This was
discouraging, but still she persevered, painting all morning, and
spending the afternoons trying to sell her work, returning after
nightfall, cold and weary to a dark, cheerless room, and creeping early
to bed for the sake of warmth, and the saving of unnecessary
illumination.
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 something
that day, seeing but small chance of making a more substantial meal
later on, she was interrupted by the sound of a footstep on the stairs,
a blundering heavy footstep, that kicked each stair it mounted, and
finally came down with a stamp at the top, having taken a step too many
in the gloom of a fourth storey landing. It was enough to try anybody's
temper, and the owner of the footstep said "damn!" audibly enough to
reach Miss Erskine's ear as she sat before her easel. She rose as
promptly as though he had knocked and opened the door. She had climbed
those stairs so often herself that she found it easy to make allowances.
Not for one moment did she suppose that the visit was intended for
her,--it was a mistake that had happened before, but not often; as a
rule people preferred to make those mistakes lower down,--neither did it
cross her mind to imagine that it might mean pupils; she had given up
all hope of anything in that line, had almost forgotten the poor little
advertisement that she had felt so proud to read in print; it seemed so
long ago since it had been written; and yet it was not quite three
weeks. A young man stood outside in the narrow passage at the head of
the stairs, a big young man--disproportionately big he appeared to Jill,
but that was only because his surroundings were disproportionately
cramped. He was in reality a very fine young man, with a good deal of
muscular development, and a pair of long legs. He was not seen to
advantage just at that moment for he was looking decidedly out of
humour, and his brows were drawn together over his eyes until he
appeared to scowl. He bowed gravely on seeing Jill, and his face
relaxed a little.
"I beg your pardon," he began, but Jill cut him short.
"Don't mention it," she answered promptly. "I wasn't surprised in the
least; I have felt that way myself sometimes--just at first, you know."
He stared rather. Not being acquainted with the quality and thickness
of the lath and plaster of that locality, he did not connect her speech
with the mild ejaculation that had apprised her of the fact that he had
reached the top, and had mounted those stairs for the first time, and he
rather inclined to the belief that he had chanced upon a lunatic.
"I was informed that Miss Erskine lives here," he continued, glancing at
the palette and mhalstick in her hand, which in her haste she had
forgotten to put down. Instantly she perceived that he had not followed
her train of thought, and regretted her former speech. Then she said
"Oh!" because she did not know what else to say, and felt glad that she
had a fire.
"Won't you come inside?" she asked.
He took her for one of Miss Erskine's pupils, and followed her in
silence. She shut the door behind him, and then he saw that there was
no one else in the room.
"The--the servant,"--he had narrowly escaped saying `slavey'--"told me
to come straight up," he went on explanatorily, "she said Miss Erskine
was in. Can I see her if she is not engaged?"
Jill smiled a little bitterly. Engaged!
"I am Miss Erskine," she answered with a touch of dignity that sat very
quaintly on her, for she was small, and, in her black dress with the big
white painting apron falling straight from the yoke like a child's
pinafore, looked ridiculously school-girlish and young; in addition to
which she wore her hair in a plait, the end doubled underneath and tied
with a black velvet bow. No wonder that he had taken her for a pupil.
The information seemed to surprise him, and he regarded her somewhat
dubiously for a moment. Then he bowed.
"I am fortunate to find you disengaged," he said.
"_I_ should be fortunate if you had found me otherwise," Jill answered
ruefully, but he did not smile; probably he considered her flippant.
"I read your advertisement in the paper a short while since," he
continued gravely, "and came to--" he hesitated, and glanced round the
room till his eye fell upon the canvas on which she was engaged, and the
sight of it seemed to decide him, "to enquire your terms. I wish to
study act."
Jill gasped. She had never connected him for a moment with the
advertisement; this was not the sort of applicant that she had expected
at all; the mere idea of teaching this dreadfully big young man appalled
her. Apparently the incongruity of the situation did not appeal to him,
or perhaps he was too much engrossed with the main object to think of
anything else; for he went on quite coolly as though her acceptance of
him as a pupil were a foregone conclusion.
"I have long wanted to take up art as a hobby for leisure moments, but I
have never had the pluck to go to one of the big studios as I know
absolutely nothing, and I'm not quite sure, dubiously, whether I have
much talent that way."
"That is soon proved," she answered. "But you will never do anything at
it if you intend only to make a `hobby' of it."
He smiled.
"You think the term ill-advised?" he said.
"I think it inapplicable."
"And when shall I come?" he asked. "To-morrow?"
"Good gracious, no!" she exclaimed vehemently; then checked herself and
continued in a slightly apologetic tone, "That is I mean if you will
leave your address I will write. I must have a little while in which to
decide."
"Certainly," he replied, and he took out a card and laid it on the
table, and the next thing Miss Erskine knew was, that she was bowing her
visitor out, and keeping the studio door obligingly open to light him
down to the next landing. There was no more work for her that morning;
she sat in front of the fire with his card in her hand, and went over
the interview in her mind till she laughed aloud. On the card was
engraved in neat copper plate, "Mr John St. John, 13 Bedford Square,"
and below that again was another address at Henley. Evidently Mr St.
John was fairly well to do. And he wished to dabble in art. Well, why
shouldn't he? Jill could see no reason why he shouldn't, but she saw a
great many why she should not be his instructress. It was a great
temptation nevertheless; she was badly in want of money for one thing,
but on the other hand he was so tremendously big that the thought of
undertaking him as a pupil filled her with a strange shyness. She felt
that she could not do it, and determined to write and tell him so. As
luck would have it that afternoon she sold three canvasses. They did
not fetch much it is true, still it was something, and the dealer
further intimated that he would be glad of more work from her in the
future. This was encouraging, and Jill went home in the best of
spirits. That night she wrote to Mr St. John stating as briefly as
possible that she regretted any inconvenience to which he had been put,
but on consideration she discovered that she could not possibly take any
fresh pupils just at present. Then she tossed his card into the fire
with a sigh of relief, and, watching it consume, saw the last, as she
supposed, of Mr John St. John.
The next day she did not go out at all, but sat at home working busily,
and endeavouring her hardest not to think with regret of last night's
now irrevocable decision. What a pity it was that instead of Mr St.
John it had not been some lanky school girl with short dresses and a
pigtail; it would have been so nice to have someone to talk to
occasionally. At present her conversation was restricted to the man who
bought her pictures, and the hard-worked, lodging-house slavey on the
not too numerous occasions when she brought up the coals. The following
afternoon she went out as usual to try and get a few fresh orders, and
if possible sell some of her present work. Neither attempt however
proved successful, and she arrived home tired and worried with a
distinct disinclination to climb the stairs. The ascent had to be made
nevertheless, and so she trudged wearily up, and pushed open the studio
door with a long drawn sigh of sheer fatigue. That night she crept into
bed supperless because she did not feel hungry, and as a natural
sequence cried herself to sleep.