Nothing could ruffle Cydonia's calm. The smile she had, unconsciously, prepared for the Bishop warmed McTaggart as he entered the room. Dazed him a little, truth to tell, she looked so lovely sitting there.
On her mother's face he read surprise and hastened to explain his mission.
"I'm the bearer of a message from Lady Leason. I must apologize for the hour, but she asked me to come on at once. She's dreadfully worried about the Tableaux. It seems Marie Dilke is off to Cannes. 'Doctor's orders'—so she says. Anyhow," he smiled mischievously, "one can understand the excuse this weather! So now the third picture is spoilt. We want another Sleeping Beauty. And I thought—we thought," he glanced at Cydonia—"that perhaps your daughter would help us out."
"But she's acting already in the first." Mrs. Cadell, secretly pleased, did not wish the fact to appear.
"I know. But there'll be loads of time." McTaggart swept the excuse aside. "The second tableau is in three parts; it will take at least a quarter of an hour. And it's really such a lovely scene—the stage will be a mass of flowers. Do say 'Yes.'" His blue eyes pleaded as he glanced from the mother back to the girl.
"Would you like it, Cydonia?" Mrs. Cadell consulted her daughter, but before the latter could find time to reply the door was opened by the butler, announcing the long-expected guest.
The Bishop of Oxton hurried in: a slight, bent man past the prime of life with a domed head which seemed too large for the small and delicate features beneath. His short-sighted, prominent eyes held a look of chronic bewilderment, and about his thin lips hovered a smile, sweet and deprecating, as though he felt perpetual astonishment at the high position thrust upon him.
"I fear I'm a trifle late," he said, shaking hands with Mrs. Cadell—"the fact is I have been detained by a matter of business in the City." He beamed affectionately at Cydonia, with an absent-minded glance towards McTaggart.
The hostess introduced the men.
"Ah yes." The Bishop blinked. "I fancy we have met before—at my cousin's, Lady Leason."
"That's curious." McTaggart laughed—"I've just this moment come from her, hot-foot on a begging errand."
"Then I'm sure," the Bishop responded suavely, "that your mission will not be in vain! This is the house of Charity."
The butler, to emphasize the fact, announced that the prelate's lunch was served.
McTaggart began to take his leave, but his hostess would not hear of it.
"Youmuststay and lunch with us—we have to decide about the Tableaux."
"I've half promised a man at the Club..." He offered the well-worn excuse, but Mrs. Cadell moved to the door.
"A half promise," she said lightly, "is surely one that can be broken."
As they passed out on to the stairs she referred the matter to the Bishop.
"You mustn't ask for my opinion," he entered into the little joke. "I'm not a believer in half measures! But if you make it a point of conscience I should say it depended upon the host."
"In that case"—McTaggart smiled—"I may consider myself absolved. It was what the Americans call 'Dutch Treat'—each to pay his own expenses."
They settled themselves at the round table, curiously inlaid with brass, smooth and innocent of cloth, where oysters in old Wedgwood plates lay on mats of Italian lace. The fruit, piled high on a centre dish—grapes with peaches and pears beneath—and the gold-flecked Venetian glass gave it a wholly foreign look. And this was emphasized by the room; the faded tapestry of the walls forming a mellow-toned background for the high-backed chairs and painted chest—once a wedding-coffer of state—and the heavy curtains of brocade, where the gold thread, tarnished, caught the light.
A perfect setting, McTaggart thought, for the fair-haired girl in her satin gown, as he watched the small patrician head bend attentive to the Bishop.
He wondered if she herself had chosen that misty, metallic blue, and the single ornament that hung from a fine gold chain around her neck. He looked at the latter with curious eyes, appreciating the design; seed pearls strung about a cross of pale and flawed emeralds, set with barbaric carelessness in the rough hand-wrought metal, and weighed down by loops of pearls, quivering with each breath she drew.
Meanwhile, the hostess was explaining the reason for the young man's visit. The Bishop, happy over his oysters, beamed his approval of the scheme.
"But who, may I ask, is to be the Prince?" His voice was sly and a twinkle gleamed in the prominent short-sighted eyes, as McTaggart, somewhat hurriedly, admitted that the part was his.
"In doublet and hose and pointed shoes. And a dreadful cap that won't stay on. You've no idea"—he turned to Cydonia—"the agony of mind it causes! Supposing—at the crucial moment"—he watched her still face as he spoke—"it tilted forward on to my nose? What a death-blow to Romance! And they won't allow me to wear an elastic, neatly fastened under my chin. And hat-pins are no earthly use. Can you suggest a remedy?"
"I should hold it in my hand," she said.
"Wonderful!"—McTaggart laughed—"and it never even occurred to me."
He was relieved—at the same time piqued—by her smiling air of unconcern.
"Under the circumstances, too, it might appear more chivalrous."
He added the speech in a lower tone, with a sudden mischievous desire to stir in her a slight revolt. And, as if conscious of his thought, the brown eyes were averted. A faint fugitive color stole under the fairness of her skin.
The Bishop's glance sought his hostess. Between the pair of elderly folk a silent question and answer flashed.
"That's what I shall do," said McTaggart, "kneel and press it to my heart. I'd far rather have it there than balanced on my luckless head. Unfortunately," his voice was light—"you'll miss all my exquisite acting—unless you peep beneath your lashes. Do tell me that you will? Of course you'resupposedto be asleep."
"You talk as if it were quite settled," Mrs. Cadell with a smile, interposed, "but I haven't yet decided whether Cydonia will take the part."
"Oh! you couldn't be so cruel!" McTaggart showed his disappointment. "Think of poor Lady Leason. You've no idea how worried she is. And, if your daughter refuses to help us, we're threatened with Mrs. Bertie Eying. She's simply dying to take it on. Just picture her as a Sleeping Beauty!"
He gave a sudden shiver and turned toward the amused Bishop.
"One of those new ropy girls—all shoulders and feet, you know. No spine, and straight hair drawn down over her ears. Like a French fashion-plate with all the Frenchness left out."
"I observe there are no half-measures here," the Bishop gave a little chuckle. "I had no idea of the harassing details involved in an effort of charity. It's for some hospital, is it not?"
Mrs. Cadell supplied the name.
"We hope to clear off part of the debt. Since the Insurance Act was passed the subscriptions have decreased. So seriously in fact they talk of closing down a ward."
"Indeed?" The Bishop, nervously, evaded the lead into politics.
"Talking of financial losses——" he went on somewhat hurriedly—"reminds me of my morning's work. I'm afraid the ways of the City are quite beyond my understanding."
He sighed as he helped himself to curry.
Mrs. Cadell, to fill the pause, remarked that McTaggart was on the Stock Exchange.
"Really?" The Bishop looked up quickly. "Then, perhaps, he can relieve my mind on the question that is puzzling me."
Into the younger man's blue eyes came a shrewd look of attention. Inwardly he was summing up the possibility of a client.
"Delighted—if I can help at all."
Cydonia stole a glance at him. Here was another side to the picture she already knew by heart.
She watched the serious olive face with its strong chin and tight-closed lips—a hint of obstinacy there which added a strongly British look to his slightly foreign grace, banishing all effeminacy, suggesting a hidden power.
It seemed to her he was snatched away into a world remote from her, and for the first time in her life she felt uneasy, half-afraid ...
"Some years ago," the Bishop blinked, "six, to be strictly accurate, I was induced to invest some money in a new company. I am not quite sure as to the process, but it—the invention—claimed to produce a liquid fuel out of coal-slag at an absurdly low cost. The shares had run up quickly until they were eight pounds apiece—one pound shares, you understand. I gave eight." He paused ruefully.
"And now?" McTaggart prompted gently.
"I believe," the Bishop gave a sigh—"they are selling at ... about twelve shillings! The worst of it is——" his voice rose. "They have never paid a dividend."
"How did you hear of it?" McTaggart felt a half-amused sense of pity.
"One night I was dining with Lord Warleigh. His place, you know, is near Oxton. And the principal director—the promoter of the affair—was staying with him for the week-end, in order to place a block of shares to provide for further working expenses. Warleigh was enthusiastic and as to the man himself, he seemed most reliable, heart and soul absorbed in the scheme. Of German origin, naturalized—Herman Schliff—— Do you know the name?"
"Never heard of it—or the company." McTaggart shook his head.
"No, really?" The Bishop frowned.
"One of the most eloquent men I have ever come across. I remember, at the time——" he smiled apologetically—"I thought what a preacher was lost to the Church! And with it an enthusiasm, a grip of his subject and a faith in the prospects, which carried his listeners bodily away. To give you an example of this, Warleigh's poor old butler invested his savings—the hardly won nest-egg of forty years' service—then and there in the affair. He handed every penny of it over to Schliff before he left."
"What a shame!" Mrs. Cadell's sympathy was plainly aroused—"I suppose he will never get it back?"
"I fear not. And he's one of many." The Bishop frowned thoughtfully. "Looking through a list of shareholders only this morning I was surprised to find many names I knew personally of quite small people with narrow incomes. Good people too, I mean. Service men and petty squires living in the depths of the country."
"Exactly." McTaggart's face was grim—"the usual victims, I'm afraid. But it seems to have dragged on rather longer than these forlorn hopes generally do. What reason do they give for the fall in shares? and the absence of a dividend? What do the reports say?"
"Oh—they're full of excuses." The Bishop's thin, delicate hand went out in a gesture of impatience. "For instance—new machinery—some hitch in the process—a technical difference of opinion between the experts they employ. With always the same golden future dangled before our weary eyes, in Schliff's magnetic and pompous speeches, bolstered up by his tame directors. And themoneysunk in it—thousands squandered! With nothing practical to show—to warrant the huge expenditure."
"I suppose by now," McTaggart hazarded, "Schliff's a pretty prosperous man?"
"I couldn't say. To give him his due I should hesitate to class the man in any way as unscrupulous. He has a firm belief in himself and in anything that he undertakes. It's temperamental and most misleading; but I think, according to his light, he's honest. I really think so! That's the perplexing part to me. But he's hypnotized by his own verbosity——" the Bishop paused, pleased with the phrase—"he sees himself a second Napoleon—alas! without his genius for management."
McTaggart allowed himself the luxury of a long-repressed smile.
"The type is perhaps not uncommon. If you like I'll make a few inquiries—quite quietly, of course—and find out what sort of a record he bears in the city. I conclude this isn't his first venture? Herman Schliff ... and the Company?" He made a note upon his cuff. "Oh, it's really no trouble—I'm interested in the affair."
"I wish I were not!" The victim smiled. "But I went on buying after the fall."
Mrs. Cadell's restless eyes met McTaggart's. They both smiled. Then she signalled to the butler to fill up the Bishop's glass.
"Yes, I insist——" as the prelate protested—"it won't hurt you, it's quite light. And here comes your favourite sweet—ordered expressly for you."
The worn face cleared, and he smiled, touched by the other's kindly thought.
"I'm always spoilt in this house," he said, "and I'm afraid that the shocking result is that I take advantage of it, and come too often to loosen my pack of worries here. What can the Sleeping Beauty think of all this dreary business talk?"
He looked across wistfully at Cydonia's lovely face, with next to it the virile contrast of her dark-haired, handsome friend. Only too well he realized the heavy burden of the years and the narrowing road ahead where he must pass with lonely feet. Death he feared not. For the Faith he had long preached was indeed his own. Yet the human in him shrank, faced with the decay of power.
Cydonia's soft brown eyes met his with a child's affection. His question cut across her dreams.
"I?" she hesitated, smiling. "Oh! I like to hear of things."
McTaggart, watching her, caught into his memory an elusive dimple, near the fresh young mouth.
Following up the train of thought provoked by this miracle, he heard the doctor's voice once more, with a note of mischief, in his ears.
"Not married, are you, Mr. McTaggart? Well—you'd better take care ... a fair wife and a dark one..." He was certain, then and there, that his "Scotch heart" lay in Cydonia's hands.
He watched them now, with a languid grace remove the velvety skin of a peach. The faint colour of the fruit was not more fair than her little pink nails.
But swift on the thought came a vision of Fantine—mischievous, provocative, tingling with life; of dark-fringed eyes and full red lips, and honey-coloured fingers that flashed in quick gesture matching each turn of her gay clipped speech.
He thrust aside the picture, half-angrily; conscious of the atmosphere that hung about the Cadells' house, vaguely ecclesiastic and super-refined. The intrusion of Fantine seemed almost profane, the contrast too crude between this sheltered home and the gilded, over-lighted flat. He could see the long rooms with the doors flung wide and the ever-changing brilliant crowd, elbowing each other round the green table with the piled-up stakes and fluttering cards. He could feel once more the strain that hung in the air, the excitement of the lust for gain, the grasping hands and greedy eyes...
"A penny for your thoughts?" He gave a guilty start. Cydonia was watching him with childish curiosity.
"Impossible—the price is too high!"
He answered her lightly but his face was grave.
"I believe you've gone back to that velvet cap? You looked so solemn. It must be that!"
"More likely I was harassed with this cruel suspense." He leaned a little nearer and lowered his voice.
"Youaregoing to help us? Tell me, don't you want to?—You've no idea how anxious I am that you should take the part."
Then, seeing her hesitate, he added with malice, "Mrs. Bying would jump at it."
"But I'mnotMrs. Bying."
Up went Cydonia's head in pride.
"Thank Heaven, no." He laughed at her voice. "I didn't mind Marie Dilke—she's such a good sort"—he went on meditatively, forgetful of his listener—"but as to kissing Mrs. Bying..."
The moment the word was out he felt, with horror, the folly of his mistake. "Pretend to,—I mean," he corrected hurriedly. "Of course in acting—it's always pretence—and in this instance—I only ... you know——"
He broke off, at a loss for words. He dared not even look at her. The ominous pause prolonged itself. He felt an insane desire to laugh.
"With any other girl"—he thought—"but this girl ... oh!hangit all!" He grabbed at a peach. Viciously he dug his fork into it, searching in his empty brain for some sensible remark. But....
"I think it's going to snow——" was all that came to him after due thought. He said it with the air of a weather expert. "It's so awfully chilly..." And then a faint laugh startled him into a side-long glance.
Cydonia's face was pink and in her smooth cheek the dimple betrayed her battle with mirth.
"Snow?" said the Bishop. "Indeed, I trust not. One hopes at this time of year the winter is getting past. Not that we have much snow at Oxton."
He turned again to Mrs. Cadell.
"A wonderful year for chrysanthemums."
They started to discuss the Temple show.
"Say I'm forgiven?" McTaggart's voice was humble.
But Cydonia had recovered. She sat bolt upright, brown eyes discreetly lowered upon her plate.
"If you don't speak to me soon—" this in tragic tones—"I'll cut my throat with a silver knife. It will be a long business—painful too..." He checked his rising mischief, trying to probe her thought.
But the fact was Cydonia was somewhat at a loss. For the first time she tasted the consciousness of power—sweet, indeed, to the schoolgirl in her opening year of life. She wanted to be dignified and she wanted to laugh. And behind it all lay a curious joy—a touch of excitement and of wonder that hurt ... She wrapped it up in silence, mistrustful of speech.
"I want you to understand," McTaggart was watching her. The little scene had gained a sudden significance. "However I might laugh—or joke, you know, I never couldthinkof you without respect. And if you take this part I'd hate you to feel ... that you weren't quite safe with me. D'you see what I mean." He took a deep breath and plunged in again. "I might flirt with Mrs. Bying—she's fair game, you know—but you——you're different..."
He stammered on the word.
For Cydonia had looked up and in her shy eyes he read a childish gratitude and with it, sweet and deep, the dawn of a woman's comprehension of men.
Something in the absorbed attitude of the pair caught the mother's restless glance.
"Well, Cydonia," she rose as she spoke, for the Bishop had snatched a quick look at the clock—"Have you made up your mind about the Tableaux, dear?"
"I think so, Madre. I think it sounds ... nice."
"You blessed child," said McTaggart in his heart.
McTaggart lay in bed, his eyes half-closed, watching the gray light spread from under the blind. His head ached and he felt unusually tired and heavy, bound down to his pillow by invisible chains.
From the sitting-room beyond came the clatter of plates, boards creaking in the wake of his housekeeper's step, and through the open window stole a muffled steady hum—the day-song of the London streets. A door banged loudly, and blessed silence followed. He drew the bed-clothes tighter under his chin. But now sleep had fled and into his brain thoughts rushed swiftly as though against his will; a baffling succession of events and surmises, throwing up pictures before his closed eyes.
He reached out a hand in search of his watch and found that the hour was close upon ten. A vast dissatisfaction settled down upon him. "Another day to be lived through?" it whispered in his ear. He felt a sick disgust for this business of life.
His eyes, from under their heavy lids, roaming about the room, marked on his dressing-table, without exultation, the little heap of silver and gold and crinkled bank-notes, thrown among his brushes from overnight.
In his fastidious mood the sight brought no joy, merely a memory of the long hot hours, with their inevitable accompaniment of frequent drinks. For the gambler's instinct was not his. He played carelessly, more as a means to pass the time than from any feverish attraction for the game.
And Fortune, that fickle jade, had stood by his side, tempting his indifference with a long run of luck.
He wondered as he lay there how Fantine could stand the life, night after night watch the same sordid scene, with that slightly aloof and mocking air of hers that warred with the welcome he read in her eyes.
He wondered, drearily, if the game could pay? He wondered what was to be the end of it all? It was not a woman's work, the strain was too great. For he knew the risks that underlay the affair.
He knew that she lived in fear of the police. What a horrible atmosphere! He shivered in his bed. He wished now he had not won. That heap of money there seemed to prolong the struggle of her days.
How pretty she was! He stirred restlessly, conjuring up her picture against the dark blind. With something beyond beauty, that inexpressible charm of the subtle Parisian, conscious of her power.
Something hyper-feminine set her apart from the women of that other world in which he moved. Delicately rounded, with tiny hands and feet, witty, provocative, dangerously sweet, she showed a curious contrast to the modern English girl with her sporting instincts and brusque, boyish speech.
Soft? That was the adjective—fragrant and warm, made for a strong man to love and protect. So few women nowadays held this appeal, meeting men on equal terms, half-ashamed of sex.
And all McTaggart's vanity and young virile pride were stirred by her silent call to his knight-errantry.
How he would like to snatch her away from her present feverish life! He braced himself between the sheets at the sudden stirring thought.
And then, with perplexing speed, another vision rose. He saw the face of Cydonia, with her childish smile. That was the right setting for a young girl, he decided, that cultured, shrine-like home, locked from the world outside.
For man still clings fondly to feudal memories. His reason may force him to approve the great stride of woman to the foreground of intellectual power, but his instinct still whispers that the woman he loves should be guarded from evil and from too curious eyes.
Some day this may fade away, swept aside in the course of the growing cry for freedom, but with it will pass a hidden safeguard to the sex, a human note divine—that tenderness towards the weak, purifying passion.
Well—it was all a mystery! McTaggart yawned and stretched. Almost as bewildering as his own curious case. He fell to thinking again about his double heart, Cydonia and Fantine at the back of his mind.
"It might lead to bigamy." He recalled the doctor's words—not without a certain youthful complacency! He dallied with the notion of possible married life, attracted by the novelty but mistrustful of the tie.
And here Romance was rudely assailed by an interruption from the world without and he became conscious of a knocking, loud and long, on the further door of his sitting-room.
McTaggart cursed the invisible one. Struggling out of bed he threw on a dressing-gown and blinking at the light made his way through the folding-doors to where his breakfast lay and called an exasperated, husky "Come in."
"Hullo, Peter!" a cheery voice replied—"hope I didn't wake you from your beauty sleep?"
In the open doorway stood a thick-set man, rendered still more bulky by a tweed overcoat, with merry dark eyes under shaggy brows, gleaming out of his pale, square face.
"Just off shooting," he explained hurriedly—"and run out of whiskey"—he held up a flask—"no time to get it in, so I thought as I passed your door I'd try and cadge some from you, old man."
McTaggart seized the decanter from off the sideboard, his face relaxing into a smile.
"Help yourself—confound yon! I was half asleep, after a somewhat late night."
"Sorry." The visitor grinned as he spoke. "Better for you, sonnie, up with the dawn. How doth the busy little bee—or rather howdidhe sacrifice to the gods his heritage of sleep?"
"In a silly game that's called chemin-de-fer, varied by supper and fifth-rate fizz."
"Any luck?" Bethune carefully filled the flask. "How's that for a steady hand?" He screwed in the stopper.
"More than mine is! Yes, I won—forty pounds odd—as far as I remember."
"The devil you did!" Bethune stared—"you wouldn't like to lend me a fiver, would you?"
"D'you mean it?" McTaggart turned toward his room, but his visitor caught him by the arm.
"Don't be an ass! I was only rotting. Nice stuff that——" he fingered the dressing-gown—"lapped in luxury—and wins forty pounds!"
His brown eyes rested for a second affectionately on his friend's weary face.
"Pity, all the same," he said abruptly. "Do you an almighty good to work. No—I mean it..." as McTaggart laughed—"a slack life's all wrong for a fellow like you. Now here I am, at it hard, every blessed day in the week. And what's the result? When I get a Saturday clear for a day's shoot or golf, you've no idea how I enjoy it. I'm like a school-boy at a bean-feast!"
"Bless you, my child," McTaggart mocked. "I don't grudge you your virtuous pleasure—go and paddle and make mud-pies—it keeps you nice and young—andfat!"
"Shut up!" Bethune made for the door—"Oh, by the way, would you like the car? If so ring up Central 609, and one of the men will bring it round. Any time before two o'clock, but you'll have to take it back yourself. It's half-day at the works, you know."
"Right-o! Hope you'll have good sport."
He watched Bethune clamber down the narrow staircase out of sight, with his broad shoulders and thick brown coat, not unlike an enormous bumble-bee.
Then, closing his door, he poured out a cup of tepid coffee and drank it thirstily. He lifted the cover off the dish that flanked the battered rack of toast. Spread-eagled, gray and cold, a mackerel met his disgusted gaze.
"Looks dead," said McTaggart thoughtfully. He replaced the cover rather quickly, played with some toast upon his plate and gathered up his pile of letters.
Three bills, a stockbroker's list and an invitation to a dance. Then, with a slight awakening of interest, he found a letter in Jill's round hand.
"DEAR PETER,
Many happy returns of the day. I'm awfully sorry your present's not ready, but I've been so busy all this term. I'll explain better when we meet and I hope to send it you next week.
Wishing you no end of luck.
Yours affectionately,JILL."
McTaggart laid the letter down, a sudden glow in the "double heart." He was pleased that the child should remember the date.
His birthday? Why—of course, it was!
"And I'll take her out and give her a treat. By Jove, there's the car—it's Saturday too. I'll send her a wire to say I'm coming—she'll find it when she gets back from school."
Under the spur of awakened energy the old depression fell away. To his surprise he found himself singing, midway through his bath.
Jill herself opened the door.
"Come in and have some coffee," her eyes passed from McTaggart to the big gray car. "Doesn't it look jolly! I'm longing to go in it, but I'm rather bothered too—I'll tell you why..."
She led the way through the hall into the dining-room, where the remains of a frugal lunch on a much-darned cloth were scattered around a dying fern in a tarnished brass pot, sole ornament of the long bare table.
The room had a forlorn look, with its dingy, crooked blinds, the mantel-piece littered with circulars above the feeble gas fire. It had the unhomelike air one associates with lodgings—a place to be used, not loved, and shunned when meals were over.
"Now don't say you can't come." McTaggart frowned severely—"because I mean to carry you off whether you like it or not. I've got the car for the day, and we'll go right into the country and have tea somewhere—at a little village pub!"
"Lovely!" Jill clapped her hands. She poured out a brimming cup of a thin and cloudy mixture from a chipped coffee-pot. "There you are!—Sugar? The only thing is I'd promised to go and see the baker's wife."
McTaggart laughed at her serious face.
"Oh, bother the baker's wife! Surely for one day you might relax your ... social efforts. Think of poor me."
"Poor you!" Jill mocked—"I shall have to go there first if we can fit it in. She's been so ill—it's rather a sad story, but I'll tell you if you like."
"Nothing infectious, I hope?" McTaggart stirred his muddy coffee; then, manfully, took a great gulp.
"Oh, dear, no." Jill's voice was calm. "She's had a baby, that's all." There came a little pause.
"It's dead too," the girl went on in clear, steady tones. "That's the cruel part. It needn't have been."
"No?" McTaggart felt somewhat at a loss. But Jill was plainly absorbed in the simple tragedy. She leaned towards him, elbows planted on the table, her chin propped on her hands, her eyes far away.
"She wassucha nice little thing!—I've known her for years. She used to come with her grandmother, who did upholstery work, on Saturday afternoons and give her a hand. She, herself, was employed at a laundry and engaged to the baker even then.
"For five long years they saved all they could and at last they were married and took a tiny house next door to where our charwoman lives. It's not the baker himself, you know, but one of his employés who makes the bread—he's the head man. Theywereso happy, and then—all this trouble came!
"The 'bakers' went out on strike—d'you remember it?—and, bit by bit, all their savings melted away. The husband was worried out of his life. He couldn't go back on his pals, you see, or find any other job to do; and so at last his wife returned to the laundry and begged for some employment again.
"There happened to be a vacancy in the ironing room just then—far too heavy work for a delicate woman!—but the rate of pay is higher there, so, pluckily, she took it on. She kept this a secret from her husband and gave the latter to understand it was just a matter of light mending, without dangerous exertion. And in this way she earned enough to keep them afloat to the end of the strike. Then she collapsed—broke down utterly!—and her baby was born, before its time. The baker nearly went off his head when the true story leaked out. To think of her, with those heavy irons, on her feet all day in the heat and steam! ... I call her a real heroine." Jill's gray eyes flashed as she spoke, then softened as she added, sadly:
"But the baby died. It hadn't a chance, so the doctor said, and she was so ill. Now she's simply broken-hearted at losing it and can't pick up. I heard about it from our charwoman and promised to go and see her to-day. I must, Peter." Her voice was firm. "You won't mind if I call there first?"
"Of course not——" said McTaggart gravely. He felt a trifle taken aback by this pitiful, sordid chapter of life from the lips of his little friend: a man's discomfort, too, at the thought of her youthful knowledge of matters he deemed better kept from her awhile. He realised with sudden force the outlook, purely practical, of the growing generation of girls. Healthy, but somewhat startling too, this determination to face the facts of life in defiance of old traditions.
Jill still sat there, chin on hands, absorbed in the problem offered to her by this contrast in the life of the poor with that of the well-to-do around him.
Serenely devoid of self-consciousness she looked up suddenly at McTaggart, meeting the kindly blue eyes with a faint trouble in their depths.
"I wish these strikes could be avoided. They seem to bring such misery. I can't understand life at all!—the hopeless suffering involved..." Her voice held a note of rebellion.
"Everyone seems to be fighting hard, not for the present but the future—for something they'll never live to see!—ruining their own lives meanwhile. Supposing these strikers get their way—higher wages and all that—" she waved her hand with a broad gesture—"D'you think the generations ahead will be contented in their turn? Or will they be fighting for more, too? I don't see any end to it!"
"Well, I wouldn't worry if I were you," McTaggart nodded his head wisely. "I expect it's always been the same. It's what we're pleased to call 'Progress'.
"I think your plan's the best, my dear. To help and comfort where you can; and leave the larger questions alone for those who have really studied the matter.
"We'll go and see the baker's wife, and—can't we take her something, Jill? Food—or money? what d'you think?"
"Not money!" Jill winced. "They aren't really paupers, you know. It's so easy to hurt the pride of the poor—theworkingpoor. We might get her some flowers."
"Well, come along then. Thanks for my coffee." He rose to his feet. "You'll want a thick coat, old girl, the wind's in the North—but a good blow will do you good—scatter the cobwebs."
As they passed into the hall he asked after Mrs. Uniacke.
"She's not very well." Jill still looked troubled. "She's gone to Reading for a suffrage meeting."
"I say—did you tell her about the baker's wife?" He tucked the rug closely around her as she settled herself in the car.
"Oh, yes." She gave him a comical glance, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Can't you guess what she said?"
But Peter was winding up the engine. He sprang back into his seat and the girl went on, raising her voice above the noisy throbbing note.
"She said—'You must try and win her at once to the Cause. Of course whenweget the vote, all this will be put to rights.' They always think of the mass, you see, never of the individual. I suppose there's some truth in it." She paused doubtfully—"I wonder?"
"Well, I don't!" said McTaggart shortly. "I'm not very keen on present day politics, but I think when women are allowed to add a new party it will be a case of confusion worse confounded! So don't you go and get involved, Jill. You keep an open mind. I'd hate to see you in any way mixed up in this militant folly."
"Well—I wish Mother weren't. It's simply killing her. She hasn't the nerve for these perpetual scenes."
They slowed down at a corner where a flower-woman stood with a basket of yellow chrysanthemums.
"Will these do for you?" McTaggart bought a bunch and laid them in Jill's lap; the heavy golden heads on their long pale stems preserving their subtle and Eastern charm, as though a secret lay beneath the curled petals in each still and exquisite flower heart.
They twisted through mean streets until they came to a row of little houses behind the Circus Road.
"It's number 36," directed Jill; but as the car stopped before the door it was opened from within and a woman emerged, old and bent, shrouded in a shawl.
Jill got down and spoke to her, and after a few words returned to McTaggart's side.
"She's fast asleep"—her voice was hushed—"so I won't go in and wake her up." The woman, with suspicious eyes, stared at the young man in the car, as Jill took the flowers and held them out.
"Give her these, please, and say I'll come again. I'm so glad she's getting on. Thank you—good-bye."
McTaggart was amused at the lack of gratitude. For the woman took the offering without another word. He guessed shrewdly that the sight of the car—the outward sign of luxury—had roused the deep slumbering resentment of the poor, their latent fear of being patronized.
"Charming old lady," he suggested. But Jill seemed unconscious of the slight.
"That's her Aunt," she informed him with a sigh, spelling relief at a duty done. "She's come from Stratford to look after her. So now we can have a lovely drive."
She turned a smiling face toward him, cheeks rosy with the air, keen and crisp, of the winter day, and drew the shabby fur tighter round her throat as the car backed slowly out of the narrow road.
"Where are we going?"
"That's for you to decide. But I think through Hampstead, now we've come this way. Sure you're warm enough? I put in my other coat—so burrow into that if the wind gets keen."
He turned the car up the long hilly road leading to Swiss Cottage and leaned back easily.
"How's school going?" He smiled at her with pride. She looked so pretty with her childish, flushed cheeks.
"College, d'you mean?" Jill corrected him. "Nothing exciting since the row over ancient history. I'm working rather hard for the Exams now."
"I don't think you told me that. Let's hear about it."
"Well, it's rather a long story——" she settled herself back with her cold hands thrust beneath the fur rug. "So if you get bored, please say so at once."
"Fire away," McTaggart observed.
"You remember that unholy fuss last Boat Race day? When I and the other Cambridge girls held the Bun Shop against Oxford?"
"No—not exactly. What Bun Shop?"
McTaggart saw fun ahead, for Jill's gray eyes were full of mischief beneath their dark lashes. He noticed, for the first time, how long and thick they were, curling back in a rippling line that cast a faint shadow when she lowered the lids.
"Oh, the Bun Shop is a little room in the basement of the college where old Mother Griggs sells all sorts of cakes, sticks of chocolate and hot coffee—for 'Elevens' or lunch, you know. It's at the end of a long passage, quite by itself, with just a counter across it and a dim religious sort of light from a top-window into the area. There Mother Griggs sits and barters—rather like a grim old idol—and in between she grumbles and knits socks. She must have knitted hundreds by now! Well, on boat race day we all wear colors—I'm Cambridge, of course, because Uncle was at King's. And some Oxford girl had a wonderful cousin who was rowing in the boat. So she simply 'swanked,' you know, and swore Oxford was sure to win. The end of it waswegot riled. So we formed up into the Bun Shop—all of us Cambridge girls—and we held the place against Oxford right through the mid-day hour—— We wouldn't let a single Dark Blue pass. Itwasfun!—a gorgeous scrimmage. Until some sneak went up and told, and down came the Principal. As luck would have it, she fell on me. So I got put in the Black Book."
She paused for breath as they crossed FitzJohn's Parade and started on the steep climb to Hampstead.
McTaggart glanced at her and laughed.
"What does that mean?" he inquired.
"The very worst." Her voice was tragic. "It's the only punishment we get. You see, it's not like any school. It's run on University lines. Just lectures you're supposed to attend and if you don't it's your lookout—you get ploughed in the Exams. But for any serious, big offence your name is written in the Black Book. And after a third entry (which rarely happens) you're 'sent down'—that is, expelled."
"Phew...!" McTaggart whistled. "May I ask how many times you've managed to get yourself inscribed?"
"Twice." The girl's face was grave. "It's bad luck, isn't it? And the other day at ancient history I very nearly was nabbed again!"
She paused for a moment to turn the collar of her coat up round her ears. Her eyes above the gray fur shone like stars in the frosty air.
"We got a new Professor last term; rather young, just down from Oxford. I don't think..." she smiled mischievously—"hequiteunderstands girls. It isn't like a school, you see. We're rather keen on that idea. We don't mind hard work or a man who insists on our attention. But the Professor thought it funny to—well, to patronize, you know. He used to be satirical and make allowance for female brains. Just as if we weren't as sharp—and sharper, too, than a pack of boys! He had bright ginger hair and a brand-new cap and gown—rather a 'nut'!"—McTaggart roared—"with a drawly sort of 'superior' voice. Well, Judy Seton——" Jill broke off—"she's a pal of mine—a splendid girl, always up to sport—arrived one day just before his lecture and handed round envelopes. Inside was a card and stitched to it was a little curl cut off a door-mat—one of those ginger ones, you know. It's woolly stuff, but exactly the shade of the Professor's Titian glory!
"Underneath it she had written—'In fond memory'—and below—'R.I.P. The Oxford man—ah!'
"We were all in the class-room ready for lecture and some girl had a box of pins. So it ended in our fastening the love-locks over our hearts!
"Well, presently my Lord arrives, in his brand-new cap and gown with his sheaf of notes, and mounts the platform, very suave and very bored.
"And the first thing that he did—you'd never believe it!—was to run his hand smoothly across his head.
"'He's missing them!' Judy whispered, and, of course, we all went off at that. We daren't laugh out aloud, but there we were, giggling hopelessly, while the Professor glared at us.
"He started in his most sarcastic voice:
"'A little less amusement, ladies. I can understand that it is difficult for youth to stoop to serious subjects...' And then he stopped with a little gasp and we knew he had seen the red curls! Just at that moment the door opened and in came a lady visitor. You know they're sort of inquisitors, very often 'old girls'—who can walk into any class-room and sit there to hear a lecture. Judy calls them 'Propriety Pills,' and, although some are really nice, here and there you get a Tartar who carries stories to the Principal.
"This one was a Mrs. Bevis—we'd nicknamed her 'The Beaver.' She really was rather like that animal, with a snub-nosed, anxious face, and she always wore a black mantle and waddled as she walked. Well—you're sure you're not bored?"
"Sure." McTaggart's voice was hearty. This sidelight on a school for girls was entertaining and unexpected.
"Go on. What happened then?"
"The Professor gave the Beaver a chair by the fire, facing the room. We'd hurriedly removed the curls during their polite palaver. This is the idiotic part. I'd put mine into a book that lay with others on my desk. I didn't notice at the time that it was an 'Ancient History.' As it happened, that day I was sitting just beneath the platform. We were, all of us, solemn as owls under the Beaver's sharp black eyes. For she's about the worst of the pack for nosing out any trouble.
"The Professor lent her his primer and started on the lecture, still looking a little flushed, while we were busy taking notes. As luck would have it, midway, some date tripped him up and before I could collect my wits he asked me for my 'Ancient History.'"
"Where the curl was?" McTaggart suggested.
"Exactly." Jill's voice was tragic. "He leaned down from the platform and picked it up off my desk. Of course, it opened atthepage! There was the red lock—the card as well!
"You can just imagine how I felt and I heard Judy Seton gasp. Luckily the Beaver missed it. The Professor never said a word, but his face was like a thunder-cloud. He hunted up the date he wanted, closed the book with a snap and put it down on his desk. At the end of the lecture he handed it back with a curt word of thanks and went off with the 'lady visitor,' talking fourteen to the dozen."
"That's not the end?" McTaggart saw by the girl's face there was more to follow.
"No—of course not. All that morning I simply sat on thorns, expecting between every lecture to be sent for by the Principal. But nothing happened. At five o'clock I went down from my last lecture and passed by the Professors' room, where the door was wide open. Inside was Mr. Jackson—theProfessor—you know—writing hard. So, then, I had an inspiration. I knocked and said: 'May I speak to you, sir?' And he wheeled round, looked surprised and said in a chilly voice:
"'Certainly. What do you want?'
"It was no good mincing matters, so I asked, outright:
"'Are you going to report me, sir?'
"He didn't answer for a moment. He seemed to be thinking hard. Then, in the same cold, absent manner——
"'No.' Just that and nothing more."
Jill stopped, her attention caught by the first glimpse of the open heath as the car breasted the last rise, and the wind came blustering in their teeth.
"Oh,isn'tit lovely here!" She drew a deep breath of content.
"Straight across?" McTaggart asked. She nodded her head, her eyes fixed on the far-away vista of trees, bare but shrouded in a violet haze.
Over Hendon a misty sun was veiled in banks of gray clouds, but high in the sky a wide streak showed of a pale and tender bird's egg blue.
"Well—what happened next?" McTaggart brought her, with a sudden drop, back to earth.
"Oh ... I felt so relieved I just rushed ahead, you know. I told him he was a regular brick! And then, as he seemed a bit surprised, I explained about the Black Book—how a third entry now might end in my being sent down for good.'
"'Good Heavens!' he said, 'I'd no idea,' and, really, he looked sympathetic. SoIsaid I was awfully sorry that we'd all of us played the goat. Well, what d'you thinkhesaid then? quite simply—without 'side.'
"'It's partly my own fault, too ... I'm not popular, I know—I can't get the atmosphere...'
"You might have knocked me down with a feather!"
"I'll bet anything you explained it!" McTaggart smiled to himself.
"Why, of course I did." Jill stared at him. "I felt so awfully sorry. I said:
"'Look here, sir, we'd like you all right if only you'd treat us more like men. It's not a girl's school, it's a college. And lots of us are working hard to earn our own living when we leave. So, perhaps, we think a good deal of the ... usefulness of our work. We like to feel the Professors know it, and help and ... respect us—just like men. In the senior lectures most of us, too, are in our third year course, you know, and you treat us exactly like the juniors! It's all wrong, sir, don't you see?'"
"Bravo you! ..." McTaggart cried. "How did he take your ... candid help?"
"He said: 'Thank you—I see the point—you aren't Freshers any more. And, perhaps ... Yes—the manner's wrong.' Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. 'The Oxford man—ah! eh, Miss Uniacke?'
"I felt rather a fool then, Peter."
Irrelevantly, she added: "He's got nice eyes when he laughs."
"Oh ... Jill, Jill!" McTaggart's glance swerved from the steering wheel aside to find his little friend's face flushed beyond the excuse of the breeze.
"Anyhow, we shook hands," Jill went on hurriedly, "and he said, 'Well I hope at the next lecture I shall find a more attentive class.'"
"So I told himI'dsee to that! and I went downstairs and talked to the girls. And the next Friday we were good. You could hear a pin fall," Jill laughed.
"I must say he looked nervous but, when the lecture was over and he stood on the platform ready to leave, Judy got up and gave the signal—'Three Cheers for Mr. Jackson.'
"We let it rip—such a row! He looked rather taken aback but awfully pleased, said 'Thank you, ladies,' and then simply did a bolt."
"Well, I'm blessed!" McTaggart roared—"but glad I'm not a Professor for girls."
"We thought him such a brick, you see, for not reporting the whole matter. And, after all," Jill smiled—"he can't help his red hair."
"Nor his 'nice eyes'?" Peter added.
But Jill refused to be drawn.