“You came to me to learn to do for your self, you poor child! You know how glad I shall be to help you, if I can.”
“Embrance, you’re the kindest person in the world!” was all Joan said; but she slipped her hand into her friend’s slim fingers caressingly.
They had been friends from childhood. Embrance had often helped little Joan Fulloch with her lessons, or coaxed her grandfather into overlooking some escapade that was against his notions of propriety. She knew well that it was a dreary home for an imaginative girl down at Doveton, and that Emily (another granddaughter of the old man’s) was as unsympathetic as she could be, looking upon Joan’s wish to become an artist as the wildest of wild schemes. Embrance had vague recollections of Mr. Brownhill (a flourishing county town solicitor) as a dull man, who played lawn tennis. She did not believe that Joan liked him, and as the child was harshly treated at home, she was doubly welcome here. At any rate, if the worst came to the worst, there was a small sum in the savings bank that would pay extra expenses for a year to come—and a year was a long time to look forward in Embrance’s eyes.
Joan soon regained her spirits, and forgot her fatigue in the novelty of the situation. It was like a fairy tale, living up here at the top of that corkscrew staircase; and what a pretty flower! and might she paint here when Embrance was out? She had her own notions, though they were somewhat erratic, about making money.
To-morrow she would write to her cousin, Horace Meade, and he would help her to get something to do; and she began making calculations as to the number of people who required dinner services in the course of a year. If Horace could once get orders for her, her fortune was made, and in her spare time, she would paint landscapes for exhibitions. “Then, you must give up these rooms,” exclaimed Joan, eagerly, “and we can go and live somewhere where there is a garden. And, dear Embrance, you’ll let me buy you another dress. You ought really never to wear that cold colour.”
Joan’s own dress was of a delicate blue shade, hanging in artistic folds about her pretty figure.
Embrance heaved a little sigh; she was accustomed of old to her friend’s castle-building, but she would not say a word to damp her ardour on this first night. She arranged her books and papers ready for the morning’s work (her special reading must, of course, be put aside now), then she came and sat by Joan, and listened to her long account of home troubles, till the clock struck eleven, and the lamp began to burn low.
The days passed on; the winter was at hand. In spite of Joan Fulloch’s good resolutions, in spite of her hostess’s kindness, she was far from content in her new surroundings. Her grandfather had sent a box containing clothes and painting materials; he had enclosed a brief note in which he foretold that she would soon wish to return to Doveton. Perhaps, if it had not been for this note, Joan would have said good-bye to Embrance and the second floor parlour some weeks ago. As it was she stayed on, always looking out for commissions that never came, and making plans to paint pictures that she never began. Either the light was too bad, or she had a headache; there was always an excuse, and Embrance returned night after night, to find her visitor plunged in the depths of despair. She would straightway set to work to cheer her up, and before tea was over, Joan was invariably sure of success—to-morrow or the next day. At last she heard of a pupil, but, unfortunately, she did not take kindly to teaching; she was very unpunctual, and it did not seem likely that her connection would increase with rapidity. In the meantime, Embrance had begun to draw upon her savings, for the expenses had increased marvellously since the autumn. There were so many little luxuries that Joan, poor child, could not possibly do without.
“Embrance,” said Joan, one evening. She was sitting over the fire with a novel, her face was flushed, and her hair was disordered; “I do want so many things. I wish I could earn some money.”
“You have got your pupil,” said Embrance, looking up from her book. She was translating Schiller, and it was the third time that Joan had interrupted her.