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, "_Entirely_ alone?"
"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."