“It takes a man,” Mr St. John answered sententiously. He had not sat down throughout the brief interview, although his son had placed a chair for him, and now he turned to go with less ceremony than when he entered. He even omitted the courtesy of bowing to Jill; he simply walked out without looking at her. St. John followed him and opened the shop door for him to pass through.
“Good-bye,” he said earnestly. “I regret the breach between us with all my heart—though that will hardly bridge it over, will it? If at any time you want me you have only to command.”
“You have always obeyed my commands so readily, eh?” retorted his father. “I am not likely to trouble you again. By the way you need not consider it necessary in future to make a kind of family Bible of me for the chronicling of domestic events. Our intercourse is at an end from this date. I neither wish to hear of, nor to see you again.”
Chapter Twenty.
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.