When St. John had closed the door after his father he walked into the
studio and busied himself unnecessarily shifting back scenes and
rearranging everything in order to work off the depression the recent
interview had left behind. He thoroughly understood that this was the
final break with his father, and the realisation cost him more than one
pang of bitter regret. He felt that to a certain extent he had been
wanting 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 might
have been so different had it not been for the obstinate pride of one
ambitious old man.
In the midst of his sad reflections he forgot Jill altogether. Sorrow
inclines one to be selfish, and St. John just then was dwelling so much
upon his own wounded feelings that he had no room for any other thought.
That Jill, too, might be hurt, and that very possibly she was worrying
on his account did not occur to him or he would have gone to her at
once, instead he seated himself on a little rustic bench that had so
often served to pose a difficult subject, and leaned his head dejectedly
upon his open palm. And thus Jill found him later when, having left her
baby in his Godfather's charge, she came in search of him wondering at
his continued absence. The sight brought the tears to her eyes, and she
drew back with the half-formed resolve of going away unseen, but
changing her mind almost immediately she dropped the shabby curtain
which formed the exit behind her, and running forward put both her arms
about his neck.
"Oh! my saint, my dear old saint, don't take it to heart so," she cried
imploringly.
And at the sound of her voice, the voice that was dearer to him than any
other in all the world, he lifted his head and smiled up at her, a
loving, reassuring smile.
"I am not taking it to heart," he said. "I was a little bit hipped,
that's all."
"You don't think that I acted wrongly?" queried Jill diffidently. "You
are not vexed that I declined his offer for baby?"
"Good Lord, no!" he answered vehemently. "I could never have reconciled
myself to giving the little beggar up. We managed very well without him
before he came, Jill dear; but we couldn't manage now after once having
him, could we? You did what was right as I knew you would. In any
serious matter I should invariably leave the decision to you."
"How good you are to me, Jack," she whispered gratefully. "How
unselfish! It doesn't seem fair that you should have had to give up so
much for me. And now comes this fresh trouble. We have had one or two
worries, haven't we dear?"
"Yes," he answered brightly, rising, and putting his arm protectingly
around her waist, "we have, but fortunately we are both sufficiently
self-respecting, and single-purposed to trust one another implicitly,
and so the worries don't affect us very much. Some people would have
magnified them into tragedies, but we have managed to shake them off
somehow, and come up smiling. So long as we have each other, and
health--"
"And Baby," supplemented Jill. "And Baby, of course; there is nothing
much we need worry about. The business manages to keep on its feet
somehow; I think one day it may possibly even walk."
"You are brave and confident," Jill whispered a little wistfully, "but
you will never be well off now dear."
And St. John with his arm still round her, drew her nearer to him and
kissed her upon the lips. The feeling of sadness had passed, a deep
happiness and contentment had risen in its place.
"I _am_ well off," he answered. "No man, whatever his social standing
or the size of his banking account, could be better off. I wouldn't
swop you and the boy, Jill, for the untold wealth of the world."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.