"I know she has," said he.
"I suppose you didn't think that clever, what I said?"
"Oh, yes, I do--I do. I don't even think _the_ Mr. Chesterton would have thought of that."
"Don'tcher really, now? Don'tcher really?"
John had not smiled; but this--well, of course, this made up for everything. _The_ Mr. Chesterton would not have thought of Time and Tide being like a pair of children goin' to a circus! Now, if he were to write that and a few other things like it, which he dared say he could think of easily enough, he, too, might be a great man whose name would be on the lips of such women as that perfect little lady upstairs.
Then she _would_ understand the likes of him.
"Then you think I suited the part?" he said cheerfully at the door.
"I think, under the circumstances and everything being considered, you did it wonderfully," said John. "And as for your being good enough to trust me--well--it's finer than all the epigrams in the world."
He wrung his hand once more and the little man departed happily down the Lane, thinking of all the clever things that he would say to his old woman when eventually he got home. But--Time and Tide, like a pair of children--he knew he'd never beat that. She had smiled at it. She had thought it clever. The other things that came laboriously into his mind as he walked down the Lane, were not a patch on it.
The moment John had closed the door, he flew upstairs.
"Well--what do you think of _the great_ Mr. Chesterton?" he asked with a laugh.
"I do not think his conversation is nearly as good as his writing," said Jill.
"But you smiled at that last thing he said."
"Yes, I know." She explained it first with her eyes and then, "He was going," she added--"and I think it must have been relief."
John's heart thumped. A light of daring blazed in his eyes. It was relief! She was glad to be alone with him! This meant more than the look of disappointment. He had crossed the room, found himself beside her, found her hand gripped fiercely in his before he realised that he had obeyed the volition to do so.
"You wanted us to be alone?" he whispered.
"Yes--I've got a lot I want to say."
Had the moment not been such as this, he would have caught the note of pain that vibrated in her voice; but he was in the whirlwind of his love. It was deafening in his ears, it was blinding in his eyes; because then he knew she loved him also. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. Her hand was to his lips and he was kissing every finger.
Presently he held her hand to him and looked up.
"You knew this," he said--"didn't you? You knew this was bound to be?"
She bent her head.
"I don't know what it means," he went on passionately. "I haven't the faintest idea what it means. I love you--that's all. You mean everything to me. But I can't ask you to marry me. It wouldn't be fair." A thought of Mr. Chesterton rushed across his mind. "I--I can barely keep myself in rooms like these. I couldn't keep you. So I suppose I haven't a moment's right to say one of these things to you.
But I had to say them. You knew I was going to say them--didn't you--Jill--my Jill--you knew--didn't you?"
She let him take both her hands in his; she let him drag them to his shoulders and press them there. But she bent her head forward. She hid her face from his. There was that which she had to tell him, things which she had to say, that must be told before he could blame himself any more for the love he had offered. She had known it was coming. He was quite right; she had known all he was going to say, realised it ever since that day when they had quarrelled in Kensington Gardens. All the moments between until this, had been a wonderful anticipation. A thousand times her breath had caught; a thousand times her heart had thumped, thinking he was about to speak; and through it all, just these few weeks or so, the anxious longing, the tireless praying that what she had now to say need never be said.
For a little while she let him hold her so. It would be the last time.
God had been talking, or He had been sleeping, and St. Joseph--perhaps he had taken John's gift of generosity rather than that last candle of her's, for the petition she had made on that 18th of March in the Sardinia St. Chapel had not been answered.
Presently she looked up into his eyes.
"You mustn't blame yourself, John," she said gently. "It is I who deserve all the blame."
"Why?" he said--"why?"
"Because--not for the reason you said--but for something else, this is all impossible. I know it is the most wonderful thing that will ever be in my life. I know that. I'm sure of it. But something has happened since I saw you last, which makes it impossible for us to see each other again."
"Your people have found out? They forbid it?"
She shook her head.
"No--no--it's not that. They know nothing. I must go back in order to explain it to you."
Still holding his hand, she slipped into a chair, motioning him to draw up another beside her.
"You remember when we first met?"
He nodded.
"Did you ever wonder why I was praying to St. Joseph?"
"Wonder?" he echoed. "I've thought of a thousand different things."
"I don't suppose you've thought of the right one," said Jill. "My father's not rich, you know; not so rich as you might expect from his position and the house where we live. At one time we were better off, but they still try to live on at Prince of Wales' Terrace, though they can't really afford it. Father lost money in speculation, and, before that, he had put down Ronald's name for Eton. Then the chances of his ever going there seemed to dwindle to nothing. It was when it almost seemed as if we must leave the house in Kensington, that a friend of father's asked me to marry him. He was over forty--some years older than me and I----"
"You refused him, of course," said John quickly. At twenty-six, forty years can seem the millennium when they stand in your way.
"Yes--I--I refused. But he did not take my refusal. He asked me to think about it; that he would wait--would even wait a year. Then, I believe, he must have said something to father, besides telling him that I had refused, because father talked for a long while to me afterwards and mother, too. They showed me as plainly as they could, though, from their point of view alone, what an excellent match it would be. Father told me exactly what his financial position was--a thing he had never done before. I had always thought him to be quite rich. Then, at the end, he said he had invested in some speculation which he believed was going to set him quite right again, enable us to stay on in Kensington and make it quite possible for Ronald to go to Eton. But that if this failed, as he did not believe it would, then he hoped that I would reconsider my refusal to his friend. I say he hoped; but he did not put it in that way. He showed me that it would be my duty--that I should be spoiling Ronald's chances and mother's life and his, if I did not accept."
She paused. She waited for John to say something; but he sat there beside her with his lips set tight and his eyes unmoving.
"It was on the 18th of March, he told me that," she continued--"the day that I went to pray to St. Joseph that his speculation might not fail--the day I met you. Then--only the day before yesterday--they told me. The prayer had been no good. I always said poor St. Joseph was no good to me."
"He's lost his money?" said John hoarsely. He let her hand fall and moved away.
"Yes. I--I've got to accept."
CHAPTER XXI
THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE
"Then you'll never know my people in Venice," said John presently. He had suddenly remembered that there was nothing to tell the little old white-haired lady now. To all the thousand questions which she would whisper into his ears, only evasive answers could be given her.
"I told my mother about you," he went on slowly. "I told her how we met.
I told her that you were praying to St. Joseph and she's been wondering ever since--like me"--the emotion rose in his throat--"she's been wondering what you could have had to ask."