The Triumph of Jill Part 10

"You may consider that remark worthy of a gentleman, Mr St. John," she said, "I don't. You will oblige me by leaving the studio at once; I--I shall be rude to you if you don't."

Her voice broke, and she turned to her work again abruptly, painting with feverish haste as thought she had not a moment to lose. In two strides St. John was behind her, and stooping he put his arms about her with a swift movement for which she was entirely unprepared, and which imprisoned her so firmly that she could not escape.

"Rude to me if you like," he cried; "but not unkind, Jill--never any more."

Jill had dropped her utensils, and the palette lay paint side downwards on the floor. She put her small hands on St. John's wrists and tried to free herself from his embrace, but the attempt was ineffectual, his arms Only tightened round her, and his face bent lower until it was on a level with her own. She looked into his eyes and read in them a laughing mastery that defied her efforts to escape, and, even while it angered her, set her pulses leaping in a wild excitement that was half fear, half gladness. She breathed quickly, and pulled at his wrists again.

"Let me go," she whispered. "How dare you touch me?"

But he only laughed in answer and held her closer to him, and for the first time Jill felt his warm kisses on her lips.

"It's not a bit of good," he said; "you can't get away. I feel as though I could hold you to my heart for ever. You expelled me for a fault that I was not guilty of; I am now going to justify your accusation. Jill, Jill, you foolish child, what are you thinking?

Don't shrink away like that, dear. I love you, my darling, my little independent, high-spirited girl. I love every tone of your voice, every fresh mood, wound and vex me though they may at the time. Jill will you marry me?"

"No," Jill answered with curt abruptness. He shook his head at her reprovingly, but looked not the least whit disconcerted.

"Oh! yes, you will," he returned with confidence; "you must if I have to carry you all the way to the Church in my arms like this. I can't let you go again; these last four days have been unbearable. Answer me truly, haven't you found them so too, dear?--just a little sad and lonely, eh Jill?"

"Stand back," she cried still struggling futilely to shake him off.

"You are mad to talk to me the way you are doing, and I should be worse than mad to listen."

"Oh! no, you wouldn't," he replied with gay audacity. "You can't help listening, sweetheart, any more than you can prevent my kissing you.

Come, Jill, end this farce and be candid. Is it pique, dear, or what?

Why won't you own that you care for me? I know you do."

"Yes. Oh, my G.o.d, yes!" she answered, and she broke into violent sobs.

"I wish from my heart that I could answer truthfully that I do not."

He was startled at her outburst, and drew back in consternation letting his hands fall to his sides. She was free enough now, but she hardly seemed to realise the fact and made no attempt to rise.

"Jill," he exclaimed, "what is it? What has happened, dear? Won't you tell me?"

But Jill only buried her face in her hands and sobbed on. She would have given anything to have preserved her composure throughout this interview; but once having broken down there was no stemming the torrent; the flood must have its way, and a regular deluge it proved.

St. John watched her uneasily for a while, then unable to stand it longer he went up to her again, and putting his arm around her neck, tried to draw her hands away. In a moment she was on her feet facing him, grief changed to indignation, scorn and anger in her eyes, while the tear drops glistened still upon her flushed cheeks, and trembled wet and sparkling on her lashes.

"Don't come near me," she panted; "your touch is hateful to me--keep away, do you hear?"

"Don't worry yourself, my dear girl," he retorted a trifle impatiently it must be confessed. "I have no wish to approach any nearer; indeed I'd rather remain where I am. If you would only tell me what it is all about, instead of flying off at a tangent we might arrive at a better understanding. Have I done anything to forfeit your regard?"

"Yes," she answered petulantly, "you know you have."

"Should I ask for information which I had already?" he questioned coolly. "Information moreover which is presumably hardly creditable to myself. What is the something, please?"

Jill looked at him coldly, but he bore her scrutiny well. He was grave, but he certainly did not appear apprehensive, nor was he in the least embarra.s.sed or perturbed.

"What is the something?" he repeated. "I think I have a right to know."

But Jill seemed to find a difficulty in answering, or a disinclination to do so; for she drew herself up and remained silent, an angry spot of colour in either cheek. St. John tapped the floor impatiently with his boot.

"Come, come," he cried, "this is childish to accuse a fellow of some possibly imaginary wrong, and not give him the chance of refuting it.

What heinous offence do you fancy me guilty of? Robbing a bank? I haven't I a.s.sure you."

He was turning her doubts of him to ridicule which only angered her the more. There was a gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes and his moustache twitched ever so slightly.

"What! sceptical of that even?" he continued ironically. "So it's my honesty that's called into question, eh?"

"Yes," Jill flashed back with a fierceness born of wounded pride, "your honesty, Mr St. John. Is it honest of you to come and make love to me?

No, you know it is not, it is dishonourable, despicable--"

"Stop a bit," he interrupted with a quietness and control which surprised himself; "don't let us lose ourselves in a labyrinth of adjectives, and so get away from the main subject altogether. Why is it dishonourable for me to make love to you? For, though you will insist to the contrary, I am absolutely ignorant of any prohibitive reason."

"That is impossible," Jill replied, and he flushed at her want of faith in his veracity. "But as you are determined to keep your counsel until you discover how much I know I had better speak out I suppose. You are not free to propose matrimony to me."

St. John's eyebrows went up with a jerk.

"Indeed!" he said. "Your statement is news to me, so also is the very low idea you have formed of my character. In what way am I not free?

Do you mean that there is someone else?"

Jill nodded; she could find no words.

"And the lady's name?" he questioned in peremptory tones.

"Miss Bolton," she answered with a visible effort. "I have recently learnt from unquestionable authority that you have been engaged to your cousin for some months."

St. John started, pulled thoughtfully at his moustache for a moment, and then looking up sharply,--

"The name of your informant?" he asked.

"Never mind that," Jill answered, "my informant was in a position to know. I have tried to but cannot doubt the a.s.sertion."

"And yet you seem to find it easy enough to doubt mine," he said.

She made no reply; and striding up to her he caught her by the shoulders and transfixed her with a gaze at once stern and reproachful.

"Speak," he exclaimed. "I will know who is the lying, interfering mischief-maker who has spread such abominable reports about me."

Jill swayed slightly in his grip, and her glance met his in wide-eyed questioning as though she would read his very soul.

"Ah!" she cried, "if it were false! if it were only false!"

"The name?" he repeated impatiently, and almost shook her in his excitement. She hesitated still for a minute, then the answer came unwillingly, more as though his glance compelled the truth than that she gave it voluntarily.

"It was your father," she half-whispered, and her eyes sought the floor and stayed there as though she dreaded reading what she might see in his face.

He stared at her for a moment, then he pushed her from him with a laugh.

"Unquestionable authority certainly," he said moodily, and laughed again. Jill remained motionless watching him, uncertain whether he intended denying the allegation or not, and he stood opposite in a towering rage glowering back at her with his brows drawn together in the old bad-tempered scowl.