Then followed a minute account of where she had been trying to get work; of an engagement promised; Mr. Lennard, too, still wanted her to pose to him. At this she gashed a look at Hilary, then cast down her eyes. She could get plenty of work if she began that way. But she hadn't, because he had told her not, and, of course, she didn't want to; she liked coming to Mr. Stone so much. And she got on very well, and she liked London, and she liked the shops. She mentioned neither Hughs nor Mrs. Hughs. In all this rigmarole, told with such obvious purpose, stolidity was strangely mingled with almost cunning quickness to see the effect made; but the dog-like devotion was never quite out of her eyes when they were fixed on Hilary.
This look got through the weakest places in what little armour Nature had bestowed on him. It touched one of the least conceited and most amiable of men profoundly. He felt it an honour that anything so young as this should regard him in that way. He had always tried to keep out of his mind that which might have given him the key to her special feeling for himself--those words of the painter of still life: "She's got a story of some sort." But it flashed across him suddenly like an inspiration: If her story were the ******st of all stories--the direct, rather brutal, love affair of a village boy and girl--would not she, naturally given to surrender, be forced this time to the very antithesis of that young animal amour which had brought on her such, sharp consequences?
But, wherever her devotion came from, it seemed to Hilary the grossest violation of the feelings of a gentleman to treat it ungratefully. Yet it was as if for the purpose of saying, "You are a nuisance to me, or worse!" that he had asked her to his study. Her presence had hitherto chiefly roused in him the half-amused, half-tender feelings of one who strokes a foal or calf, watching its soft uncouthness; now, about to say good-bye to her, there was the question of whether that was the only feeling.
Miranda, stealing out between her master and his visitor, growled.
The little model, who was stroking a china ash-tray with her ungloved, inky fingers, muttered, with a smile, half pathetic, half cynical: "She doesn't like me! She knows I don't belong here. She hates me to come. She's jealous!"Hilary said abruptly:
"Tell me! Have you made any friends since you've been in London?"The girl flashed a look at him that said:
'Could I make you jealous?'
Then, as though guilty of afar too daring thought, drooped her head, and answered:
"No."
"Not one?"
The little model repeated almost passionately: "No. I don't want any friends; I only want to be let alone."Hilary began speaking rapidly.
"But these Hughs have not left you alone. I told you, I thought you ought to move; I've taken another room for you quite away from them.
Leave your furniture with a week's rent, and take your trunk quietly away to-morrow in a cab without saying a word to anyone. This is the new address, and here's the money for your expenses. They're dangerous for you, those people."The little model muttered desperately: "But I don't care what they do!"Hilary went on: "Listen! You mustn't come here again, or the man will trace you. We will take care you have what's necessary till you can get other work."The little model looked up at him without a word. Now that the thin link which bound her to some sort of household gods had snapped, all the patience and submission bred in her by village life, by the hard facts of her story, and by these last months in London, served her well enough. She made no fuss. Hilary saw a tear roll down her cheek.
He turned his head away, and said: "Don't cry, my child!"Quite obediently the little model swallowed the tear. A thought seemed to strike her:
"But I could see you, Mr. Dallison, couldn't I, sometimes?"Seeing from his face that this was not in the programme, she stood silent again, looking up at him.
It was a little difficult for Hilary to say: "I can't see you because my wife is jealous!" It was cruel to tell her: "I don't want to see you! "besides, it was not true.
"You'll soon be ****** friends," he said at last, "and you can always write to me"; and with a queer smile he added: "You're only just beginning life; you mustn't take these things to heart; you'll find plenty of people better able to advise and help you than ever I shall be!"The little model answered this by seizing his hand with both of hers.
She dropped it again at once, as if guilty of presumption, and stood with her head bent. Hilary, looking down on the little hat which, by his special wish, contained no feathers, felt a lump rise in his throat.
"It's funny," he said; "I don't know your Christian name.""Ivy," muttered the little model.
"Ivy! Well, I'll write to you. But you must promise me to do exactly as I said."The girl looked up; her face was almost ugly--like a child's in whom a storm of feeling is repressed.
"Promise!" repeated Hilary.
With a bitter droop of her lower lip, she nodded, and suddenly put her hand to her heart. That action, of which she was clearly unconscious, so *****ly, so almost automatically was it done, nearly put an end to Hilary's determination.
"Now you must go," he said.
The little model choked, grew very red, and then quite white.
"Aren't I even to say good-bye to Mr. Stone?"Hilary shook his head.
"He'll miss me," she said desperately. "He will. I know he will!""So shall I," said Hilary. "We can't help that."The little model drew herself up to her full height; her breast heaved beneath the clothes which had made her Hilary's. She was very like "The Shadow" at that moment, as though whatever Hilary might do there she would be--a little ghost, the spirit of the helpless submerged world, for ever haunting with its dumb appeal the minds of men.
"Give me your hand," said Hilary.
The little model put out her not too white, small hand. It was soft, clinging: and as hot as fire.
"Good-bye, my dear, and bless you!"
The little model gave him a look with who-knows-what of reproach in it, and, faithful to her training, went submissively away.
Hilary did not look after her, but, standing by the lofty mantelpiece above the ashes of the fire, rested his forehead on his arm. Not even a fly's buzzing broke the stillness. There was sound for all that-not of distant music, but of blood beating in his ears and temples.
