"And now, Mrs St. John, I think we'll go and have lunch," Jill's new
husband remarked as they stood together outside the Registrar's office,
the sun shining brightly on the two faces, his quietly amused, hers a
little grave and wondering at the importance of the now irrevocable step
which they had taken. At the sound of her new name Jill smiled. "It
will be our wedding breakfast," she said.
"So it will. We'll have fizz and go a buster--a man doesn't get married
every day. I didn't sleep a wink last night, Jill for thinking of it."
Jill hadn't slept either. In morbid retrospection, half sweet, half
painful, she had spent the night in the empty studio--empty because St.
John had had every stick of hers removed to her new home, even to the
remains of the Clytie that he had broken, and which had been carefully
preserved among Jill's other treasures as too sacred to be thrown away.
She looked up at him, the memory of all his thoughtfulness adding an
increased tenderness to the loving smile that chased the momentary
sadness from her face.
"You're a goose, my big boy," she said slipping her hand through his arm
as she spoke with a very unwonted display of affection. "And how nice
to feel that you are my boy--my very own. No one can part us now, Jack;
not all the spiteful machinations of the tyrannical, disagreeable,
up-to-date parent can come between you and me, dear, nor alter the fact
that we are man and wife."
"That's true," replied St. John with mock resignation. "There's no
getting out of it edgeways; for there is a helpless finality about
matrimony that carries its own conviction. Jill, my dear, you look
uncommonly nice in that gown."
Jill laughed contentedly. He had told her that three times already but
she had not the least objection to hearing him say it again. She patted
the grey folds of her dress with her grey-gloved hand, and tried to get
a glimpse of herself in the shop windows as they passed. It was a very
simple costume, and a very serviceable one in light tweed. She had
managed to dispose of some work lately and had felt justified in being a
little extravagant; though the extravagance had not gone further than
buying the necessary materials; her own busy fingers had fashioned the
costume with the aid of experience and a paper pattern, and the result
was highly satisfactory and very creditable from the top of the smart
little toque to the soles of her neat new walking-shoes.
"Where shall we go?" enquired Jill serenely.
"To Frascatti's," he answered, and to Frascatti's they went accordingly.
St. John ordered a very recherche little lunch although he was fully
aware that even in small matters it was necessary to practise the
strictest economy, but, as he argued in answer to Jill's expostulations,
it was out of all reason to expect a man to be economical on his wedding
day.
"I'm afraid it's out of all reason to expect you to be economical at
all, my dear saint," remarked his wife sweetly, slowly withdrawing her
gloves, and regarding her very new wedding ring with marked complacency.
"I shall have to keep the purse, that's evident, and dole you out an
allowance."
"It'll put me in mind of my schoolboy days," laughed St. John, "when I
received sixpence a week, and very often had that confiscated in payment
of fines."
"I can quite imagine it," retorted Jill with a grave little shake of the
head. "It is strange considering what horrid little wretches boys
generally are how really nice some of them grow up."
St. John laughed again; the compliment was intended for him, and he
appropriated it. He paused in the act of taking his soup to look across
at his small wife. Never had he felt more supremely happy and contented
than he did at that moment. He had a careless habit of living solely in
the present, turning his back on the past, and deliberately refusing to
look into the future--that future which with its work, its independence,
and its possible poverty meant so much to them both, and would prove not
only a test to the strength of his manhood but to the sincerity of their
mutual love. To-day he was determined to put such thoughts on one side;
it was his wedding morning and he meant to enjoy himself. He turned his
attention from his wife's face to the study of the wine card, and ran
his eye quickly down the list. "Do you like your wine dry?" he asked.
"Um?" queried Jill.
"Do you like dry wines?"
"How funny!" she said. "I didn't know there was such a thing. I don't
think I should; I'm so thirsty."
St. John looked the tiniest shade put out, the waiter stared, and a
good-looking man with a lightish moustache who happened to be passing
their table at the moment glanced down at the small grey figure in
careless amusement. Jill flushed, suddenly conscious of having said the
wrong thing, and the man behind her, looking from her to her companion
and recognising the latter, wondered what country cousin St. John had
got hold of now.
"I don't know much about it," she admitted in a slightly vexed tone,
"but I liked what we had here before."
St. John gave his order; then he looked into the troubled grey eyes
opposite and smiled reassuringly. As he did so he caught sight of the
man near Jill's chair; he was about to seat himself at the next table,
but before he could do so St. John rose and intercepted him.
"Markham!" he exclaimed. "This is luck. I thought you were abroad."
"Only returned last night," the other answered shaking hands. "Glad to
see you again, St. John. All well at home?"
"I don't know," St. John replied; "haven't been there lately. Come over
to our table, old boy; we wanted someone to drink our health."
Markham elevated his eyebrows in a show of surprise. St. John had hold
of him by the arm, and he allowed himself to be drawn forward until he
stood facing the little girl in grey, not quite clear even then as to
how matters stood.
"Jill," exclaimed her husband, "allow me to introduce you to Mr
Markham, a very old pal of mine."
Jill held out her hand with a smile. She was a little disappointed that
St. John had so readily ended their tete-a-tete luncheon, but she
carefully refrained from letting him see it, and graciously seconded the
invitation which the stranger appeared by no means reluctant to accept.
He took the seat on her right hand and looked her over with a glance
that was at once curious and puzzled. She was a lady that was evident,
though different in most respects to those he was accustomed to meet;
what he could not rightly fix was the relationship between her and St.
John. When he left England he had understood that the latter was to
marry his cousin--it had been for that reason that he had gone abroad--
and yet a moment ago St. John had distinctly asked him to `drink our
health.' Whose health? And why?
"This is a very festive occasion you are participating in, Markham," St.
John observed gaily. "It is my wedding day. As the only guest present
we look to you for a speech."
Mr Markham stared incredulously first at St. John, and then at his
wife. Suddenly he caught sight of Jill's new ring--the plain gold
circlet seemed to carry conviction with it. He bowed to Jill and
impulsively held out his hand to St. John.
"My congratulations, old fellow," he cried warmly, "my very sincere and
hearty congratulations. By jove! I am surprised. But--"
He paused. He had been going to ask `what about Miss Bolton?' but
bethought him in time that it might not be a welcome topic to the bride.
"You don't congratulate _me_" said Jill smiling, "and yet you might do
that more readily because you know Jack and you don't know me. I feel
quite apprehensive; I've taken him for better and _worse_, you know."
Mr Markham laughed.
"I think your having done so does infinite credit to your judgment, Mrs
St. John," he said. "I wish you both every happiness and success."
"Thank you," Jill answered: "I feel reassured and good wishes are always
most acceptable."
"To wish success in our case is very appropriate too," struck in St.
John. "I'm going to give you another surprise now, old fellow; I've set
up in business on my own."
"Eh?" enquired Mr Markham, putting down his wineglass and staring at
his friend. St. John whipped a card out of his pocket and laid it on
the table cloth.
"When you want your photograph taken," he observed in some amusement,
"go to that address, my boy, and you'll get taken as you never were
before. I'm the Co, and I go into harness a week from to-day."
To say that Mr Markham was astonished would be to express his
sensations very inadequately he was astounded--almost incredulous. He
looked at St. John's smiling face, and then at Jill's grave,
matter-of-fact one, and ejaculated "By George!" in a tone that made St.
John laugh more than ever.
"It's a fact," observed the latter. "Put the card in your pocket and
advertise the firm a bit at the club and elsewhere. Besides you'll know
my address then, though, of course, it is quite permissible for you to
forget that if you want to."
Mr Markham took up the card in silence, read it, placed it carefully in
his pocket-book, and sitting back in his chair fell to laughing
immoderately as though it were a huge joke. He had grasped the
situation immediately when he had quite taken in the news. He had
wondered that Jack and his wife should be having their wedding breakfast
at Frascatti's, and alone; but now he understood. He knew that St.
John, Senior, was bent on marrying his son to Miss Bolton, and he also
knew that St. John possessed no private means. He had evidently run
contrary to the paternal wishes and this was the outcome. What a fool
he was to be sure! To chuck up quarter of a million and pretty Evie
Bolton for--
"You must really excuse me, Mrs St. John," he exclaimed meeting Jill's
surprised, and slightly disapproving glance with easy frankness, "but
it's just immense to hear Jack talk about work; I don't suppose he has
done a hand's turn in his life."
Jill lifted her eyes to her husband's with unconcealed pride in her
look.
"It doesn't follow that he won't be able to do it," she answered
confidently. "You none of you seem to have understood him. He is full
of pluck and perseverance, only he has always been discouraged."
"We understood the old Jack well enough," Markham responded. "But there
comes a crisis in some men's lives when their whole nature undergoes a
complete change. It doesn't always last; they often go back to the
original state which means disappointment, and sometimes disillusionment
too. I don't mean that St. John is likely to go back, I was merely--"
"Preparing me," suggested Jill.
"No; wandering off into personal experience--a mistake at any time,
unpardonable under existing circumstances. I won't forget to advertise
the show, old man," he continued turning to St. John, "and, if I may,
will book to-day fortnight for a sitting. I rather enjoy having my
portrait taken, and don't mind promising to become a regular customer.
I think I can bring some others as well."
"Thanks awfully," answered St. John. "It will be good for me if I can
introduce some fresh customers. I have posted the old man a card.
Wouldn't it be a huge joke if I had the honour of photographing my own
father?"
Jill made a little grimace, and then the three of them laughed
uproariously till Markham, raising his glass on high, drank to the
health and prosperity of bride and bridegroom, and confusion to their
enemies.
"It is rather unfortunate having enemies at the outset of one's married
life, don't you think?" observed Jill a little wistfully.
"Well, I don't know; I always fancy an enemy or two enhance, by
comparison, the value of one's friends."
"Yes, perhaps--if one has friends."
"You cannot persuade me that _you_ will not find plenty as you go
through life," Markham answered gallantly.
"They are a long time coming," she rejoined with a smile, "but that is
generally the case where money is scarce, isn't it? And Jack and I are
horribly poor. We are going to live over the shop, you know, in three
rooms and a kitchen. We are lucky to get so many; old Thompkins--"
"My dear Jill," interposed her husband, "you must really learn to speak
more respectfully of the head of the firm."
"Old Thompkins," went on Jill imperturbably, "has only two. But then,
of course, he's a bachelor. I think I shall flirt with him! it might be
a stroke of business, eh?"
Markham and St. John both laughed.
"You're all right," ejaculated the former. "You can safely leave
yourself in your wife's hands; it is not difficult to foresee that old
Thompkins will be speedily bowled out."
"He might be a misogynist," suggested Jill.
"They are the easiest to get over because they imagine themselves
invulnerable," he replied. "I knew one once, but he married long ago.
I forgot to ask him to explain the inconsistency, but it seems to have
answered very well."
"I'm glad of that," said Jill gravely. Then catching his eye she
smiled. "It would have been such a strong point against us if he had
found it a mistake after all," she explained.
He smiled too. There was something about St. John's small wife that
unconsciously attracted him; he could not help thinking what a capital
friend she would make if a fellow were in trouble and in need of advice,
though why he should arrive at such a conclusion he could not guess; so
far they had exchanged nothing but very slight commonplaces.
"I feel I must contradict you there," he said. "Had he found it a
mistake it would most probably have been his fault; people with decided
principles are generally difficult."
"Don't," cried Jill, "you make me nervous. Jack may have decided
principles for aught I know--he's got a decided temper, and I'm horribly
afraid Ilfracombe will make it worse."
"So you propose spending the week at Ilfracombe?"
"Yes. I stayed there with my father once while he painted the Coast, so
Jack is taking me there for auld lang syne."
"It's bracing," struck in St. John, with a commendable determination to
have nothing sad, not even reminiscences, on his wedding day. "Any
place would do me, but the little woman really wants setting up."
"You will be putting up at the `Ilfracombe,' I suppose?" observed Mr
Markham, conversationally.
"My dear fellow," returned St. John, "you don't seem to quite realise
our position. We belong to the working-class, and will have to hunt out
cheap rooms when we get there."
"Ah! Well, diggings are more convenient in many ways, and more private,
too." And Mr Markham, raising his wineglass to his lips, drained it
quickly, as though he were swallowing something beside Heidsieck, as no
doubt he was.