"You told her about St. Joseph?"
"I said where I'd met you, in the Sardinia St. Chapel." She smiled up at him incredulously. "You didn't think I'd tell her that St. Joseph had introduced us, did you?"
"Why not? St. Joseph's a very proper man."
"Yes--on his altar, but not in Kensington."
"Well--what did she say?"
"She asked where you lived."
"Oh----"
It is impossible to make comparison between Fetter Lane and Prince of Wales' Terrace without a face longer than is your wont--especially if it is you who live in Fetter Lane.
"And you told her you didn't know."
"Of course."
She said it so expectantly, so hopefully that he would divulge the terrible secret which meant so much to the continuation of their acquaintance.
"And what did she say to that?"
"She said, of course, that it was impossible for me to know you until you had come properly as a visitor to the house, and that she couldn't ask you until she knew where you lived. And I suppose that's quite right."
"I suppose it is," said John. "At any rate you agree with her?"
"I suppose so."
It meant she didn't. One never does the thing one supposes to be right; there's no satisfaction in it.
"Well--the Martyrs' Club will always find me."
This was John's club; that club, to become a member of which, he had been despoiled of the amount of a whole year's rent. He was still staggering financially under the blow.
"Do you live there?" she asked.
"No--no one lives there. Members go to sleep there, but they never go to bed. There are no beds."
"Then where do you live?"
He turned and looked full in her eyes. If she were to have sympathy, if she were to have confidence and understanding, it must be now.
"I can't tell you where I live," said John.
The clock of St. Mary Abbot's chimed the hour of midday. He watched her face to see if she heard.
One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight nine--ten--eleven--twelve! She had not heard a single stroke of it, and they had been sitting there for an hour.
CHAPTER XV
WHAT IS HIDDEN BY A CAMISOLE
Add but the flavour of secrecy to the making of Romance; allow that every meeting be clandestine and every letter written sealed, and matters will so thrive apace that, before you can, with the children in the nursery, say Jack Robinson, the fire will be kindled and the flames of it leaping through your every pulse.
When, with tacit consent, Jill asked no further questions as to where John lived, and yet continued clandestinely to meet him, listening to the work he read aloud to her, offering her opinion, giving her approval, she was unconsciously, unwillingly, too, perhaps, had she known, hastening towards the ultimate and the inevitable end.
It must not be supposed that after this second interview in Kensington Gardens, when John had plainly said that he could not tell her where he lived, she had wilfully disobeyed the unyielding commands of her mother not to see him again. The fulfilment of destiny does not ask for disobedience. With the shuttles of circumstance and coincidence to its fingers, Destiny can weave a pattern in defiance of every law but that of Nature.
Jill had said that morning:
"Then we mustn't meet again."
"You mean that?" said John.
"I can't help it," she replied distressfully. "After all, I'm living with my people; I must respect their wishes to a certain degree. If you would only tell me----"
"But I can't," John had interposed. "It's no good. It's much better that I leave you in ignorance. Why won't the Martyrs' Club satisfy you?
There are men at the Martyrs' Club who live on Carlton House Terrace.
That is a part of their martyrdom. Is it beyond the stretch of your imagination for you to suppose that I might have an abode in--in--Bedford Park or Shepherd's Bush?"
She laughed, and then, as that stiff social figure of her mother rose before her eyes and she recalled to her mind remarks about a dressmaker who happened to live in Shepherd's Bush--"Poor thing--she lives at Shepherd's Bush--Life treats some people in a shameful way--" an expression of charity that went no further, for the dressmaker's work was not considered good enough or cheap enough, and she was given nothing more to do--when she remembered that, the laugh vanished from her eyes.
"Isn't it as good as Shepherd's Bush?" she had asked quite simply.
Well, when, in your more opulent moments, you have thought of such a thing as a better address at Shepherd's Bush, and have a question such as this put to you, you have little desire left to reveal the locality of the abode you do occupy. It takes the pride out of you. It silenced John. He recalled to his mind a remark of Mrs. Meakin's when, having invited him to take a rosy-cheeked apple from that little partition where the rosy-cheeked apples lay, she had thought by this subtle bribe to draw him into conversation about himself.
"Don't you find it very dull livin' 'ere all alone by yourself?" she had asked.
"Wherever you live," said John evasively, "you're by yourself. You're as much alone in a crowd as in an empty church."
She had nodded her head, picked up a large Spanish onion, and peeled off the outer skin to make it look more fresh.
"But I should have thought," she had added pensively--"I should have thought as 'ow you'd have found this such a very low-cality."
And so, perhaps it was--very low. And if Mrs. Meakin had thought so, and Jill herself could talk thus deprecatingly of Shepherd's Bush, where he had hoped to better his address, then it were as well to leave Fetter Lane alone.
"So you have made up your mind," he had said quietly. "You've made up your mind not to see me again?"
"It's not I who have made it up," she answered.
"But you're going to obey?"
"I must."
"You won't be here to-morrow morning, at this hour?"