Chapter XXI: The Struggling Professional

"Serene, and unafraid of solitude,
I worked the short days out."—Aurora Leigh.

JEAN had need of much patience during the weeks that followed. Her grandfather was irritable and difficult to please, yet he became so accustomed to her services, that he would never let her leave his room for very long at a time.

It was the old life again, the dreary flat marshland without, and the narrow confined life within, yet Jean wondered sometimes what had changed it all so to her. She was not unhappy; she did not feel the fret and chafe of it as she used to do, and she found herself taking an increasing interest in her poorer neighbours close to the door. She read and talked to her grandfather, and tried to consider all his whims; she gardened with Rawlings, and she found a little time for quiet reading herself.

"I suppose," she mused, "that my life is round a different centre. I hope and trust that it is. What a difference it has made in my life! But how I wish I could get grandfather to see it too!"

She prayed much that she might seize any little opportunity given to her, of speaking to others about the things that were of so much interest to her. She soon found in visiting some of the cottages which were a long way off from the church, that there were great big boys and farm lads who went to no place of worship and hardly knew what to do with themselves on Sunday. With some trepidation, she asked her grandfather if he would object to her starting a class for them, and holding it in an unused room on Sunday afternoons.

He stared at her in surprise at the request.

"What is this fancy? What can you teach them, except how to paint?"

Jean was not repulsed by his sneer. Her opportunity had come.

"Grandfather, I have never told you, but I have been led to look at life so differently since I have been in London. I see that it is so short down here compared with the years that will follow. And it is meant to be a preparation, isn't it? I don't know how to express myself well, but I have learnt to love and follow Christ, and I have taken Him as my Saviour and Master. It has made me so happy that I want others to be happy too."

"Well, keep it to yourself," grunted Mr. Desmond. "Women always are superstitious fools; they have no brains to be otherwise."

But he raised no objection to the class of boys, and Jean started it with great fear and trembling the following Sunday.

It was her first venture, and eight lads in the hobbledehoy stage appeared, four of whom could not read. They had learnt in a manner, but had forgotten, as from the time they had left school, they had never opened book or paper. Their ignorance was dense.

"Can you tell me anything about John the Baptist? Who was he?" she asked, after they had read a chapter together.

"He called out bears to eat the children up!" said one, who thought himself the scholar.

"Him what was thrown in the pit by his brothers," suggested another.

"Him what built the first Baptist chapel!" cried a third.

Jean found she must take them slowly, but her earnestness and sincerity carried weight, and her class increased to eighteen before she had had it for six weeks. It was a great interest to her, and she learnt as much as she taught them.

She heard from several of her friends, and her correspondence with them was a great pleasure to her.

Mrs. Douglas wrote from Cannes with real affection. She said that Colonel Douglas was growing gradually weaker, but "so cheerful and bright, and so interested in all that you are doing, Jean, dear."

Chris wrote bright, chatty letters, begging her to come and stay with them before the summer went, and Sunnie wrote her quaint, original epistles, always ending with—

"And I hope, my dear painter, that you will come to Scotland
soon again, for we want you badly."

Jean went about with a smile upon her lips at the thought of these writers, and Rawlings said one day to her, as she came out to him in the garden singing to herself—

"I always telled ye, Miss Jean, that you'd find your old home the happiest. Ye've got ten years younger since ye've come back, an' a month o' that there Lunnon do consume more lives away, and destroys more smiles an' music out of a body's heart than fifty year of country toil and honest work do!"

One afternoon, old Mr. Desmond, who was well enough now to creep out of doors with a stick, was walking round the garden with his granddaughter.

"I'm going to take a fresh lease of life," he said, with energy. "I feel stronger to-day than I have done for months."

"I am so glad," said Jean sincerely. "I am sure you are much stronger than you were. I wrote to Charlie to-day, and told him so."

"Ay, that lad is a good sort. If I had left you, he promised to look after you, which is more than you deserve. I never alter my mind, and my will remains as it was when I re-made it the day after you defied me, and took yourself away to London. Don't think—" here he turned upon her half irritably—"don't think that your coming back at this belated hour will change my mind towards you. Not one penny of money will you receive from me after my death."

"Oh, I know, I know," said Jean, trying to speak patiently. "I have not been wasting my time, grandfather. I believe I shall be able to earn my own living, and," she added, with some spirit, "I shall not be in need of any help from Charlie!"

Mr. Desmond gave a dry little laugh.

"Wait till the time comes," he said. "If you continue to please him, your future is provided for."

"What do you mean, grandfather? Do you think I would take any money from Charlie?"

"As his wife you will, I should think."

"His wife!"

Jean laughed aloud.

"I shall never, under any circumstances, be his wife," she said decisively.

"Wait until he asks you. He means to ask you when he returns, and you are a fortunate young woman to have obtained his regard. I think he will improve you in many respects. He has right views concerning women, and is masterful enough to be able to enforce his wishes."

"Poor Charlie!"

That was all Jean permitted herself to say, but she felt very angry. Did Charlie think her affection would be so lightly won, as to be able to discuss her so coolly with her grandfather? She wisely put the subject away from her, and talked of other things. She took her grandfather into the kitchen garden, where he had a long talk with Rawlings, and brought him into the house at length, astonished at the increase of his powers both of body and mind. Late that evening, John came to her.

"The master seems very talkative to-night, Miss Jean; have ye noticed it?"

"Yes, I have," said Jean, looking at him a little dubiously. "Do you think it a bad sign, John? He seems so much better in every way to-day."

John rubbed his hands together.

"Well, miss, I'll sit up with him for a bit. He's a little bit too bright to my mind!"

"Call me, if you want me," said Jean.

She knew that John was pessimistic, and went to sleep with an untroubled mind.

But early the next morning, she was roused.

Old Mr. Desmond had had another stroke, and though the doctor was sent for, and everything was done that could be, he never rallied, but passed away unconsciously before twenty-four hours were over. Jean was almost stunned by the suddenness of it. She had no one to come to her to help at this sad time, but the doctor and her grandfather's lawyer arranged matters, and she, with a few of Mr. Desmond's old friends, followed him to the grave one bright September morning. She telegraphed the sad news to Charlie, and then, packing up her things, moved back to her London lodgings.

The old servants remonstrated with her, and begged her to stay till Charlie Oxton returned.

Jean was quite firm.

"It is not my house," she said. "It never has been. It belongs to Mr. Oxton now, and I know you will have a good master."

"But we want a missis," said Rawlings. "Mr. Charles never could manage here. Look at the downfall after Elsie went away! I never said much, but it sheer disgusted me to see the place go down so. Mary be too on in years, Miss Jean. Well, there, I'll say no more, for I know Mr. Charles's mind, and we'll see you back as missis yet!"

Jean went back to town with a sad heart. She parted with her Bible-class lads with real sorrow, for she felt they were being influenced. She did not regret her time spent with her invalid grandfather, but she did regret not making better use of her opportunities in her intercourse with him. "I might have talked to him more about unseen things. If I had only known! He seemed so uninterested, so bitterly disposed towards any religion. Oh, how I wish I had a readier tongue about the things I love! I ought to be longing to bring others to my Master, to win them for His cause, and I am silent and tongue-tied when the opportunity comes."

She opened her heart to Mrs. Douglas, who answered her very lovingly.

"Only the close presence of your Saviour, dear Jean," she wrote, "will give you the longing and the power to speak for Him. Do you remember after the disciples had walked and talked with their Master on the road to Emmaus, how they said their hearts burned within them on the way? It is this heart-burning that we want so badly nowadays, when there is so much slackness and half-heartedness in our Christianity. Pray for it, dear, and ask for the realisation of the Master's presence. That alone will give it to you."

Jean pondered and prayed, and very shyly and diffidently began to bear witness for her Master amongst the art students with whom she associated once again. She was hard at work now, for she realised as she never had before, that she must be in future a working woman. She had not a big balance in the bank, and she knew that she would miss her yearly income intensely. So she began to economise in matter of food and clothing, and inquired amongst her friends whether they could get her any commissions for portraits. Then suddenly one afternoon, Charlie Oxton appeared at her lodgings.

"Yes," he said when he had shaken hands with her, "I'm back again. I hurried up my business and took the first boat home, after I heard of the governor's death. Poor old chap! He was very good to me. Why did you come away? That house ought to be yours, you know. But we'll make that all right, I hope. You're a sensible girl, aren't you, Jean? I won't beat about the bush, but ever since I first saw you, I knew we were cut out for each other. I believe if I searched the whole earth, I couldn't find another your equal. And you like me, don't you? I know you do in a sneaking, underhand fashion, though you're too proud to confess it! You see, I couldn't walk in and take the whole of your inheritance because you happen to have offended the old man; but if we go shares, we shall both be happy and comfortable, and have the old man's blessing. He told me he wished it, though he said—" here the twinkle of humour crept into his eye—"you didn't deserve it. That was the money, of course, not me. Well, what do you say, Jean? Are you willing to take me 'for better for worse?' I'm sure I am, with all my heart and soul, and I promise to be a model husband."

He stopped from sheer breathlessness, and perhaps there was a tinge of nervousness in his tone at this epoch.

Jean gazed at him as one petrified. Then she found her voice.

"I am sorry, Charlie—very. I like you immensely as a friend, but we can be nothing more to each other, never!"

Very clear and determined was her voice.

Charlie had been standing by the window as he talked and she sitting at her tea-table. He came over to her.

"Of course I expected you to say something of this sort; but, Jean, I won't take 'no.' I'm not going to be dismissed. You belong to me, I consider. Why, your grandfather bequeathed you to me with his money. I said I wouldn't take one without the other, and you know which I value most. And I've had some experience with girls—don't look so furious! Not in the way you imagine; but I know that if I'm not built as a hero, I'm built for a jolly good husband, and I haven't a vice about me. Don't smile! I'm in dead earnest. We shall be as happy as turtle-doves together. You don't know your own mind, but let me make it up for you. If we were only living a century or two ago, I would run away with you—carry you off by force—and it would be a complete success. Now, honestly, have you any real dislike to me?"

"I like you very much," faltered Jean, edging away from him as she spoke, "but not as a possible husband, Charlie."

"Then it's only a question of time. I'm sure of it. I won't worry you, but you won't get rid of me very easily. You'll find yourself in quite a different mind one of these days. I won't stay longer now, but remember I'm not a rejected lover, I'm a postponed one."

He took up his hat and held out his hand. When Jean took it, he raised her hand to his lips.

"There! That's a pledge of what will follow. Now, I'm off to the old place, and I sha'n't know a happy hour till you come to me."

He swung out of the house, and Jean felt quite dazed by his vehemence. She was amused in spite of it by his original wooing.

"There wasn't one word of love," she said. "Charlie is essentially practical, and yet I know he likes me."

She dismissed him from her thoughts, but as time went on, she began to be annoyed by the continual presents he sent her—game, fish, flowers, honey, dairy produce; and her landlady at last had the boldness to say with a smile—

"From your young gentleman again, miss."

The crowning blow was when Jean discovered that two hundred pounds had been paid into her account at the bank. She wrote off in hot haste to Charlie, sending him a cheque for it, and asking him for an explanation. He came up in person to do her bidding, which was not what she desired.

"I'm not a good hand with my pen. It is only your usual allowance, my dear Coz, which, of course, your grandfather wished continued. Wasn't it two hundred he allowed you? Or was it more?"

"It was one hundred and fifty," replied Jean severely. "And you know my grandfather did not wish it continued. I had a talk with him about it before he died. He never left me a penny, and you know he did not. Do you think I shall ask you to support me?"

"You needn't be so tragic and scornful. I know what the governor did wish, and you know it too. Ah! my lady fair, blush away! Have you no regard for his wishes?" Then, changing his tone, he said earnestly: "Look here, Jean, you're leading me an awful life at present. How can I eat, drink, or sleep, when I'm consuming everything that you ought to be sharing? If I thought you knew your own mind, I'd chuck it all up and go back to Australia, but I'm dead certain you'll come round. Oh, Jean, we could be so stunningly happy together! Do listen to me."

Then Jean lost her temper.

"It is cruel of you to persecute me like this, Charlie. It is not gentlemanly. You know my defenceless position, and you take advantage of it. I have no parents, no brother to take my part. I never wish to see you again—never!"

Charlie took up his hat and walked off in high dudgeon, and for the time his gifts ceased.

Jean was working very hard just now. She was painting the portrait of an alderman's wife, giving lessons in the place of one of the teachers in the art school, and attempting a fancy picture of her own, which she hoped might be accepted for the next Academy. In the midst of this, she received another invitation from Mrs. Fergusson, begging her to come to her for a little rest and relaxation. It was a bitter disappointment to her to decline, but she literally could not afford to go. She had neither the time nor the money to do it.

Sometimes when she came back to her lodgings tired and weary, she wondered if this incessant grind for daily bread would be her lot in life. Yet she was not unhappy, and she pluckily and cheerfully put her shoulder to the wheel. Few of her fellow-students, hearing her bright tones and ringing laugh, realised that she had changed from the comfortable amateur into the struggling professional.