Chapter Sixteen.
Jill had got her canvas and everything in readiness, and was waiting for her model. She had been waiting for about ten minutes, and was growing slightly impatient; she hated wasting her time. St. John was busy in the studio, unusually busy, so that he could not possibly get away even for a few minutes. He wanted her badly, she knew; he always wanted a mate, and she felt rather as if she were shirking. She looked at the canvas in a dissatisfied kind of way, and then out of the window at the people in the street.
“I believe,” she mused, thinking of the absent Markham, “that I could draw his face from memory.”
Fetching a piece of paper she seated herself at the table and made a rough sketch in pencil as she had once done of St. John, only in St. John’s case she had not trusted to memory. Markham arrived while she was thus employed, and he stood by the table watching her, as she put in the finishing strokes. He smiled while he watched as though he were amused. Jill was grave and very much absorbed.
“What a wonderful little head it is,” he said.
“Do you think so?” she asked, lifting the head he alluded to the better to regard the one on paper which he was not even looking at. “I don’t call it wonderful, but I had an idea that I could catch the likeness; some faces are quite easily remembered.”
“Yes,” he acquiesced, “yours is.”
“Mine? I don’t agree with you; my features are too indescribable. There. It’s finished. I have caught the expression, haven’t! But I haven’t done justice to the nose. Will you sit in this chair near the window, please? you are dreadfully late, so we mustn’t waste further time.”
Jill worked rapidly, and there could not possibly be any question as to her ability. Markham watched her with interest, and every now and again he rose from his seat to have a look how the work progressed, notwithstanding her protest that it spoilt the pose.
“I can’t help that,” he declared, “it fascinates me, I must look.”
“I had no idea before that you were so vain,” she said.
“I’m not,” he answered. “It isn’t the subject that interests me but the work. I could stand behind you and watch you all day.”
“Not having eyes at the back of my head I shouldn’t make much progress with the portrait in that case,” she retorted. “Do you mind going back to your seat, please, and allowing me to study your physiognomy again?”
He obeyed reluctantly, and for a time the work continued in silence; Jill was too engrossed to talk, and Markham apparently had no desire to. He sat quite motionless watching her with a strained, intent, unfathomable expression in his glance that Jill in unconscious accuracy was transmitting to the painted eyes on the canvas, though the expression was by no means habitual to him, and gave the portrait an unlifelike appearance. She shook her head over it despondently, and stood back from the easel in order to take a better look.
“I must leave the eyes alone to-day,” she said, “I am making a muddle of them. They are your eyes, and yet they are not yours. I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, bother the portrait,” he exclaimed. “Put it up for to-day and let’s talk.”
“It wouldn’t get finished very quickly at that rate,” she answered.
“I don’t want it finished quickly,” he said.
“No?” Jill’s tone was expressive of surprise, and she looked at him very straightly as she spoke. “What are you going to do with it when it is finished?” she asked.
“Give it to you if you will accept it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! that’s not what you had it painted for.”
“Now, how do you know that?” he enquired. He had risen, and coming forward took the palette and paint brushes out of her hand; then, receiving no remonstrance, he began to untie the strings of her painting apron.
“Shut up shop for to-day,” he pleaded. “I am going to stay to tea.”
It was rather an unfortunate moment for St. John to choose for putting in an appearance. Had he been married as many years as he had months it would not have mattered, but under existing circumstances it was regrettable that he should open the door when he did Jill, all unconscious of the suspicious proximity of Mr Markham’s arm to her shoulder, smiled serenely as she encountered St. John’s sharp, surprised glance, and noting that he looked displeased, presumed that he had spent a wearisome afternoon in the studio.
“Leisurable at last?” she queried cheerfully. “I am so glad, dear. Come and make yourself agreeable while I see about the kettle; Mr Markham is going to stay to tea.”
“Sorry, but I can’t,” he answered shortly. “I have to be in the dark room in a few minutes, and have enough developing to keep me engaged for some time. How’s the sitting getting on? You don’t appear to be very busy. Is Markham tired already?”
“We’ve been at it a solid three quarters of an hour,” rejoined Markham aggrieved, “and as for not being busy, look at the canvas, man.”
St. John did look; he stood a little way off, and studied it earnestly for several minutes, but he did not speak.
“Well, what do you think of it?” enquired the other.
“I never presume to criticise Jill’s work until it is finished,” he answered. “At present I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I,” acquiesced Jill, “that’s why I was not loth to give up for to-day. It’s the eyes, I think; they have a sinister expression that makes him look like a stage villain. And yet I’m sure the expression was there at the time.”
“I hope not,” St. John rejoined, looking fixedly at his friend in a rather disconcerting manner; “the eyes never lie, you know.”
Jill took the canvas down from the easel and leaned it with its face hidden against the wall.
“Don’t utter uncomfortable platitudes,” she remarked. “If you can’t be more cheerful I hope you’ll retire to your dark room speedily; Mr Markham and I were enjoying ourselves till you came.”
To her surprise he took her literally, and, muttering something about ‘sorry to be a wet blanket,’ wheeled about abruptly and left the room. Jill looked at Markham, and her eyes were both angry and concerned.
“I can’t think what’s the matter with Jack,” she said half apologetically; “he is not often such a bear. Do you know that I think you had almost better not stay this evening. It wouldn’t be very hilarious if he were in that mood, would it?”
“Of course I won’t stay; I was only joking. Jack is a bit huffed about something no doubt, but you’ll soon coax him into a better temper,” he responded, “I’ll come to-morrow for another sitting, shall I?”
“No,” Jill answered slowly; “the same day and hour next week, if you please.”
On the following Tuesday when Markham turned up for the arranged sitting he found Jill alone as on the former occasion, St. John having purposely gone out to spend the afternoon with Evie Bolton. The latter had written to him during the past week asking him if he could manage to meet her somewhere as she had something of importance to impart to him, and St. John, in his fit of suddenly awakened jealousy had settled on the day that Jill had fixed upon for the second sitting, taking a very malicious satisfaction in her evident annoyance when he stated his intention. She said little enough at the time, but her manner betrayed her vexation, and the strained relationship that had existed between them during the past few days grew more apparent. When Markham arrived, she was feeling more hurt than angry, and her mood was softened and subdued, and nearer akin to tears than it had been since her marriage.
“Jack has gone out,” she said in answer to his enquiry, not so much explanatorily, but because she felt she must say something, and that was the only thing she could think of at the moment. It was the one miserable refrain that kept repeating itself in her mind—“Jack has gone out—back to his own people.”
“He won’t be home till late,” she went on apathetically. “He said he was going to take a journey into the past, and forget the sordid present for a time. I don’t think it altogether wise of him, do you? Where is the use in looking back when the sordid present has to be lived through, and the uncertain future to be faced?”
“Mrs St. John,” Markham answered gravely. “St. John—our St. John was never wise; the only noteworthy action of his life was when he married you.”
“Ah!” said Jill with a very pathetic smile, “I often fancy that that was the most unwise thing he ever did.”
Markham looked at her speculatively, and failed to make an immediate reply. Was it St. John, himself, who had given her cause to think so, he wondered. Was she finding out so soon that their marriage had been a mistake?
“You are depressed,” he said, leaning towards her, his hands lightly grasping the arms of his chair. “It isn’t good for you to feel like that. Jack is a brute to leave you to yourself. What can I do to cheer you up, I wonder? After all we are both in the same boat; for if you are lonely, so am I.”
“You!” echoed Jill in a tone which implied that her listener did not know what loneliness meant. “How can you talk of loneliness? At least you have Evie—”
“No,” he interrupted shortly; “Evie is nothing to me, and less than nothing. She is engaged to marry a marquis. I should have thought you would have heard of that by now.”
At his words, Jill’s face visibly brightened. It flashed upon her with a certain amount of conviction that this was why her husband had gone to his cousin; possibly she had sent for him to consult him on the subject, and the trouble that had oppressed her lightened instantly with the thought. How could she have doubted him even for a moment? But he ought to have taken her into his confidence; it was a mistake to make a secret of so simple a thing.
Markham misinterpreted the sudden brightening of her countenance, and when in her impulsive, sympathetic way she laid her small fingers compassionately over his, he grasped the little hand feverishly between both his eager palms, and held it against his breast while he drew her nearer to him and stared into her face with burning, compelling eyes. She thought his manner strange but pardonable under the circumstances.
“I am so sorry,” she said gently, “so very sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” he asked.
“Oh, the—the—your disappointment,” she rejoined with an awkward deepening of the colour in her cheeks. She felt that she was getting on to delicate ground, and did not know very well how to proceed; but he relieved the situation by a short, impatient laugh.
“There wasn’t any disappointment,” he returned. “You must have known that I was off that long ago. Don’t humbug, Jill; you must have perceived that ever since I knew you I have cared for no one else. I should not have mentioned it only I see now that you care a little also—that your marriage is not altogether a success. You are lonely as well as I, dear. Why not let us console one another?”