"If you please, miss"—the untidy maid stood in the doorway, aggressively—"the chicken 'asn't come yet and Cook sez it would be no good sending round, as the shop's shut."
Jill jumped up from the floor where she crouched drying her wet hair before the fire. She glanced up at the clock and frowned.
"Why, it's half past seven!—Of course. She ought to have told me long ago."
"I'm sure, miss"—the other protested with a faint smile not unmixed with malice—"it isn't Cook's fault—she does 'er best. But I'm sure in this 'ouse it's 'ard to please. What with meals at any hour and never knowing if it's two orthree... I'm sure..." She stopped short at the sudden anger in Jill's expressive gray eyes.
"That will do." She threw back her hair, which fell in a dark cloud over her shoulders, narrowing into damp points far below the line of her waist. "I'll come down and see Cook myself."
Lizzie retreated, her face sullen, before the peremptory young voice. Then, changing her mind, she whisked round and barred Jill's passage insolently.
"I'd like to say I want to leave. This day month." She tossed her head. "I don't seem to suit—and it don't suit me!—such goings-on ... an' lawless talk. I ain't used to a mistress as ups and breaks windows—it ain't decent!—an' my young man, 'e sez..."
"Be silent!"—Jill was white with suppressed rage—"If you want to give notice you must speak to Mrs. Uniacke."
"OrMr. Somerfield, I s'pose..."
The barbed shaft stung the girl as she ran down the stairs, leaving Lizzie, quivering, in possession of the field.
Jill reached the basement, breathless and angry.
"Cook!" she called at the kitchen door. A stout and slovenly woman turned slowly round from before the range.
"Yes, miss?" She wiped her greasy hands on a torn apron, and stood there, expectant.
"What's all this about the chicken? Lizzie tells me it hasn't come?"
"No, miss." She leaned against the table, massive, inert, with an over-red face. Her person exhaled a faint smell of brandy and the glazed eyes completed the story.
"Then what are we going to have for dinner?"
"I'm sure I don't know, miss."
Jill gave her one look and passed with a quick stride into the larder. Thrown anyhow on the dingy shelves were scraps of fish, butter and suet, jars of dripping, some shrivelled apples and the scraggy remains of a leg of mutton. The closed-in place smelled of cheese and mice. Jill explored with hopeless disgust. Too well she knew the domestic chaos that balanced her mother's political activity.
For Mrs. Uniacke had no time for "home." She scorned the narrow "sheltered life" and wore out her strength in that daily fight to prove that Woman was fitted to rule.
"This mutton now..." Jill tipped the bone onto a clean plate from its close companionship with a raw herring, and came back, still frowning, into the kitchen.
"You could grill it, couldn't you?" she asked sharply.
The cook, stupidly, turned it over.
"Icould..." she debated with tipsy solemnity. "But there's only, then, enough for two."
"Well, wearetwo!" Jill was impatient.
The cook sniffed. "More often three! ... I'm sure it's enough to drive one crazy, never knowing what's wanted. An' the tradesmen clamouring for their money ... There's the butcher to-day—'e told me straight: 'That's the last j'int you'll get fromus!'—I've never lived in such a place...." Her voice rose. She stuck her hands on her hips and faced her young mistress.
"And I won't stay—what's more! I've always been a respectable woman ... and 'ard-working ... an' treated as such..." (The quick anger induced by spirits brought the tears to her bleary eyes.) "I'm sure if my pore 'usband was 'ere, 'e'd say: 'Martha—you clear, my girl.' 'E'd be ashamed—that's wot 'e'd be ... a butler 'e were in good service. So you can tell yer mother, miss, I've made my mind up—an' I goes!"
With a sob of injured pride she seized the bone in a shaky hand.
"Look at that!" She brandished it under Jill's disgusted nose.
"That's been our dinner since Sunday—andCanterb'ry—that's what it is!"
Poor Jill swallowed hard, struggling to keep her temper in check. Diplomacy she knew full well was the only weapon she dared use.
"Now, look here, Cook. I'm awfully sorry. But I don't want to bother Mother. She's not well—and she's worried to death ... You know what it is to feel bad."
"That I do, Miss Jill!" The cook, mollified, wiped her eyes. "I'm sure with my 'eart as is always flutt'ring—an' the 'ot kitchen—an' pore food ... I didn't ought to do scrubbing—it's a crool shame at my age ... But there..." the facile sentiment born of alcohol was bubbling up and drowning anger. "I don't want to upset yer, miss. Yer don't 'ave too gay a life, you an' Master Roddy—bless 'im!—as always 'as a kind word for Cook..."
She maundered on as Jill retreated, aware that the crisis was postponed.
"That's right, Cookie—you'll see to it? You always make a ripping grill."
"And may Heaven forgive me for the fib," she added as she ran upstairs.
"I wonder why it's such a muddle? Always changing servants like this?"
But in her heart she knew the fault lay in the lack of proper management. The justice of her clear young brain told her that never could they expect a good class of maid to stay in this disorganized "feckless" house! The discomfort of the servants' quarters, the wretched food and poor pay forced Mrs. Uniacke to take the riff-raff whose characters held obvious flaws—like the unsober creature below or Lizzie, lazy and insolent.
And it struck the girl with sudden force that her Mother was giving up her life to secure the Vote with the main object of ameliorating the condition of women.
Yet here in her own small kingdom were servants badly housed and fed, expected to work for a barren wage sixteen hours without complaint.
And there was Roddy—her own brother—with riddled socks and worn-out clothes at a cheap school, while his mother spent their meagre surplus in outside expenses involved by this omnivorous Cause!
A memory of old times when her father lived rose in her mind. For Colonel Uniacke had held a firm rule over the house. In common with many retired officers, he supervised the daily ménage, with the result that when he died his wife missed his wise authority.
And if they couldn't govern their houses—Jill's active mind ran on—with the skill of the "old-fashioned woman," how were they going to govern the Empire?
It came to her with a sudden flash of childish insight that, in the new, inexorable cry of her sex, the Usefulness of the Individual was being carelessly swept aside for the dangerous Power of the Mass.
She had reached by now the second floor, immersed in her sombre thoughts, when she heard the front door open and paused to lean over the rail.
"That you, darling?" she called down—"it's so late—I was getting anxious."
She checked the impulse to retrace her steps as she saw below the shadow of Stephen.
Slowly toiling up the stairs, Mrs. Uniacke appeared, with a worn face where dark circles heightened the brilliance of her eyes.
"Oh, Mother—how tired you look!—and wet through..." Jill's hands ran with anxious fondness over the coat that shrouded the fragile form.
The older woman smiled feebly.
"I've had a hard day, Jill." She kissed her daughter's fresh cheek and moved on shakily into the bedroom.
"What luxury!"—her thin hands went out to the cheerful blaze—"did you tell Lizzie to light it, dear?"
"Yes. I washed my head, you see," Jill explained, "and I thought—it'ssocold to-night—I could dry it here by your fire and then it would warm your room for you."
"It's very nice." Her mother sank down in the armchair as she spoke. Jill, with quick fingers, undid her veil and removed the soaking hat.
"Now, your boots..." She began to unlace them. "I put your slippers to toast—there, isn't that nice? Look here, darling, just to please me, won't you go straight to bed?"
"I can't." Mrs. Uniacke sighed. "I've brought Stephen back to dinner. He's been so good ... and he's wet too. I do hope he won't get a chill."
A shadow fell on the girl's bright face.
"Well—he can dine with me—for once! I'll bring you up your dinner myself, so it won't make extra work for Lizzie."
She tossed back her mane of hair and tried to speak in a cheerful tone. But Mrs. Uniacke's mouth hardened.
"I promised to go through some papers to-night ... I can't, Jill—though it's very tempting..." She pressed her hand to her hot forehead. "This wet weather gives me neuralgia. Oh dear! I wish I were stronger."
"Do go to bed"—Jill pleaded. "Look here—if youmustwork this evening, why can't Stephen come up here? I could put a table by your side and you've got that lovely pink jacket Aunt Elizabeth sent at Christmas."
"Here? In my bedroom?" Mrs. Uniacke stared. "I shouldn'tthinkof such a thing! Really, Jill, you must be mad!"
The girl's face went suddenly scarlet at the horror in her mother's voice.
"Well—he's almost one of the family. I don't see..." She bit her lip.
"All right, Mother—you know best." She hesitated for a moment, then went slowly toward the door. "It's getting late. I must do my hair."
But on the landing outside she gave vent to her impatience.
"Bother him!—Iknowshe'll be ill." Then a voice called her back.
"Jill—I think—after all—I'll go to bed—my head's so bad. Will you look after Stephen? He likes a glass of port, remember. And I'm wondering if Roddy's slippers..."
"Too small," said Jill promptly. "There goes the gong!—don't you worry—I'll see to everything all right."
"No meat for me," her Mother added—"just a little soup—with a rack of toast. I'm too tired for anything solid."
"That's a mercy in disguise," said Jill as she fled up the further stairs. Her mind was much relieved as she thought of the debatable grilled bone. She brushed back her rebellious locks and tied them hurriedly with a ribbon. "I'm glad about the chicken now. Stephenwillenjoy his dinner!"
That worthy greeted her with his supercilious smile. "H'are you—Where's your mother?" He held out a limp white hand.
"She's dead-tired and gone to bed. You'll have to put up with me to-night."
"An unexpected pleasure." He drawled with a side-long glance at the girl, her face rosy from the fire in its mass of waving dark-brown hair. "'Pon me word, you're growing up!" He stuck his glass into his eye and moved leisurely to take the head of the long table.
"My place," said Jill politely. "Roddy's away. Will you sit here?"
With an air of childish dignity she began to ladle out the soup.
Stephen laughed—a trifle sourly.
"Sorry to hear your mother's ill. What's the matter?"
"Overwork."
Their eyes met, and at last the man lowered his against his will.
"I suppose you know you're killing her? She can't go on at this rate! I should have thought"—Jill paused a moment—"you would have seen it for yourself."
Stephen laid his spoon down. His irritation at her words was increased by his first taste of the soup, a muddy, thin brown mixture.
"Is this the cook I found for you?" Purposely he ignored her speech and spoke in a languid voice, with studied indifference.
"Yes. Aren't you pleased?" Jill laughed aloud. "You reallyarea comfort, Stephen! What should we do without your help?" She rose to her feet as she spoke. "Roddy was saying the other day"—she covered her mother's basin of soup and went on with mischievous glee—"'What I do like about Stephen is he always knows what's what! You've only to look at his socks and ties—they match to a T—he's such a K-nut!' D'you like being a Nut, Stephen?"
Her voice was innocence itself.
She turned with the tray in her hand, and added, as he answered nothing:
"Drink your soup—it will do you good! And Mother's sure to ask for news of your appetite."
The door banged and she was gone.
Stephen turned with a frown to Lizzie, now recovered from her tantrums and inwardly enjoying the sport, for the servants all hated the man.
He enjoyed in the kitchen circle the pseudonym of "The Cuckoo"—a flight of fancy on Cook's part, who likened the house to a Robin's nest!
"Sherry, please," he ordered sharply.
"There's none up, sir," the maid snapped. She would miss nothing by her manner, for Stephen rarely gave a tip.
Down came Jill with a kind message.
"Mother hopes you've all you want? She's feeling a little more rested. I think I shall keep her in bed a week."
"I'm afraid that's impossible." Stephen sneered. "She's going to speak at a meeting to-morrow, and on Friday we're off to Leeds—for the great Demonstration." ("One back," he said to himself, as he saw the girl's mouth tighten.)
"It's an odd thing," said Jill shortly, "that rest's not included in Woman's Rights."
"Not until we get the Vote." Somerfield eyed with suspicion a scraggy, blackened object borne by Lizzie toward his little hostess.
"Silver Grill," she explained, "cooked 'à point' by your treasure-trove. Like a bit?" She dug the fork into the charred meat and smiled.
"It's best Canterbury," she added, with a reminiscence from below. "You know, we have to economize or there'd be nothing for the Cause."
Stephen's temper began to slide.
"Look here, Jill. Don't talk of things you're too young yet to understand."
He turned the unpalatable fragments over angrily on his plate.
"Potatoes?—Onions?" Her voice was sweet. "Oh, I'msosorry, Stephen. I quite forgot you couldn't eat them! But then, you see, I didn't expect you. If you'd only given us a little warning. If you'd told me, for instance, yesterday—or was it Monday you lunched with us? No. Sunday supper. How stupid I am!—I never can remember dates."
Upstairs Mrs. Uniacke was lying back against the pillows and enjoying the rare luxury of a quiet rest in bed.
"I hope they're getting on all right?" Her thoughts were with the pair below. "I don't know how it is that Jill seems always to upset Stephen."
She knew her children resented his presence and the claim he made upon her time. But habit was too strong for her, and each day cemented the tie. She had always leaned. From nursery days she had never learnt to stand alone, and since her husband's death Stephen had slowly become a part of her life.
The friendship was that rare achievement, a purely platonic affair. Perhaps, as her children grew older, strong and capable, she missed the sense of tenderness about her, the touch of baby clinging hands. With all her utterly feminine nature, she longed to comfort and to guide. And in this parasite who had crept into the heart of her home she found the two attributes needed in her barren and widowed life.
She could "mother" him. He loved "fuss," with none of her children's independence. And at the same time she could lean on his young strength and masculine mind.
But her thoughts of him were utterly pure. It was no sentimental affair cropping up in her middle age with a last desperate clutch at romance.
And to strengthen the link between them stood the Cause—the cry of Woman's wrongs; the excitement of new-found power and the secret thrill of martyrdom.
She had reached an impressionable age, and broken by her great sorrow—for her husband had been the love of her life—her arms went out to her suffering sisters.
If only she could ease the burden, throw her failing strength into the balance, she could die with the sense of something achieved.
Humbly she offered her "widow's mite."
*****
Meanwhile in the dingy dining-room Jill had checked her love of fun. Her natural courtesy forbade an open quarrel with her mother's guest. She felt she had gone quite far enough...!
Assuming a more serious air, she asked the man for information respecting the long day's work.
Stephen, a little mollified by a glass of the late Colonel's port, smoking an excellent cigarette (recommended by him to Mrs. Uniacke), launched forth into description of a visit to a factory; a lengthy investigation of wages and the hours allotted to the female "hands"; while Jill sat at the end of the table, listening thoughtfully.
She held as yet no settled opinions on the question of Woman's Suffrage. Undetermined, she kept herself, by McTaggart's advice, slightly aloof.
Nevertheless the atmosphere of the house stimulated thought. It made life a bigger affair to picture a broader field for her sex.
"You say"—she leaned her chin on her hands, her dark-fringed eyes full of light. "That the finer, more delicate work is undertaken by the women. That they do it better, are paid less ... No, it doesn't sound a bit fair!"
"Ah! you begin to see," said Somerfield. "They do it too in less time. Their fingers are smaller, their work neater—in fact it's economy to employ them."
"Then what do you propose?" said Jill—"to get them paid the same as men?"
"Undoubtedly—or even more. It's their due—and we shall see it'sdone."
"But—wait a minute. You can't make money. I mean—it's got to come from somewhere. And if the employers can't give more, I suppose ... they'll take it from the men?" She went on thoughtfully, thinking aloud. "They could level down and pay all alike. Is that the idea?"
Somerfield nodded. "Well—one of them—but there are other methods."
"Let's stick to the first." Jill was logical, true to the broad college training.
It saved her from the common pitfall of feminine minds in argument. She could weigh the various pros and cons free from personalities.
"I suppose most of the men are married?"
"About two-thirds, roughly speaking."
"Then what abouttheirwives and children? If you cut down the wages the husbands earn won't it come pretty hard on them? It seems unfair that the factory women—who are most of them, I suppose, unmarried—should take the bread out of the mouths of their married sisters—and the children."
Somerfield looked annoyed.
"Oh, I don't say that would happen exactly. There are other ways ... But what we want is to see women get decent wages, full value for their work. The employers will have to come forward. If we make a strong stand they're bound to give way..."
"Strikes?" Jill raised her eyebrows. "I thought they ruined the nation's trade? And that women always suffered more—the wives and mothers in these times. Besides..." relentlessly she pursued her way with a child's honest search for knowledge. "I don't really understand ... But, supposing that wages all round are raised, well then the employers—to make a profit—will have to sell at a higher cost. And won't that make living dearer?—in case of food and necessities?"
"Not in the end. You ought to study Political Economy. I doubt if it much affects the class we're working for at any rate. It may hit ours!" He smiled sadly with an air of secret martyrdom—"And the rich too, I sincerely hope!"
"But if you keep on 'hitting the rich'"—Jill adopted his expression—"and the large class of employers—won't they some day have to retrench? And doesn't that mean cutting down employment in every grade—for women too?"
"More likely smaller dividends!" Somerfield sneered. "These syndicates and capitalists are the curse of England"—his voice rose—"that's where the people's money goes—back to the pockets of the rich!"
"But aren't there a lot of decent people, middle-class and rather poor, investors too, dependent on dividends? Oh, I can't understand it all!—It seems to me whatever you do to alter the distribution of wealth you ruin some one—and always,alwaysit pans out harder for those who work!"
"We're not talking of Socialism," Somerfield hastily interposed—"we're discussing the need for the Vote—for women to have a hand in the Government. To see that their own sex don't suffer—to put down all sorts of wrongs that have lingered on from feudal days when women were nothing more than slaves!"
"It sounds glorious." Jill was moved, but the doubt still haunted her.
"If only one could pick the women. They're such a lot of us, you see—and—really—some are awful fools!"
"And what about the present Government? And the next too, if it comes to that! D'you think their brains are above suspicion?" He gave her a mocking glance.
"No." Jill nodded her head. "But allowing that they're rather stupid, do you want to add to the general confusion by pairing them with the other sex—an equal number of ignorant women?"
"Oh! you'rehopeless!" He got up and poured himself out another glass from the port decanter on the sideboard. "I thought you really wanted to learn?"
"So I do." Jill sat tight. "But I won't be swept off my feet by ... a sort of hypnotism of Sex! I want to keep an unprejudiced eye.Of courseI'd like to see women take a leading place everywhere. But if they make a mess of it, we're worse off than we were before. We stand to lose as well as gain by rushing into public life." She threw back a lock of hair that had fallen forward, blinding her.
"Now, look here, Stephen, we've got a lot ... I'm not talking of influence and the right to expect chivalry—which by the way I think we're losing, through the tactics of the Militants! You've only to stand in a Suffrage crowd and listen to some of the remarks. Why, fifty ... a hundred years ago ... a decent man would have taken umbrage. Men were run through in those days for far less said of their sisters or wives! But—to go back—-we've gotsomepull. To begin with, men, when they marry, keep us! I dare say I'm old-fashioned. Yes—of course! I knew you'd laugh!—but it's big, really. It means a home—and protection—and a fair chance for ... bringing up a family."
She flushed slightly under his smile, but went on bravely with her argument.
"It seems to me that by and by we'll have to work, share and share alike, ill or well, on equal terms. And what's to become of our home life—and—well ... the next generation?"
Stephen saw his chance at last.
"Are you thinking of marriage yourself, Jill? You seem to arrange forallpossibilities..."
His greenish eyes were insolent under their long fair lashes.
"Oh!" She sprang up. "Oh! youbeast...!"
But she faced him still, breathless, white.
"At any rate, if I did, I'd live in myownhouse!" she cried.
McTaggart drew his chair forward from behind the curtain of the box and gazed out on the crowded Hippodrome.
Not a seat was vacant. For to-night a famous composer was conducting his masterpiece with a picked company brought over for a fleeting visit to England.
As he watched, the lights were lowered in the body of the hall and the beautiful overture began, stealing like a spirit of sun-lit shores across the artificially warm atmosphere. The curtain rolled up to disclose a narrowed stage and the cheap, garish scenery that seems a necessary adjunct to the opera in Italy.
McTaggart's eyes took it in with a careless glance, and returned to the other occupant of the box.
To-night Fantine seemed to acquire a new personality. An air faintly tragic and dignified hung over the pale face, and even her dress enhanced the suggestion, with that subtle link that lies between a Parisian and her clothes.
She wore a long cloak of velvet brocade: dull wine-coloured flowers on an oyster ground, relieved by a border of silver fox and the faint gleam of metallic threads running through the material.
Beneath this, one caught a glimpse of a demi-toilette of black and white: that veiled décolletage dear to the foreigner, suggesting without revealing each line of the neck and arms which the Englishwoman seems more ready to expose. Her hair, waved, glossy and black, was perfectly dressed without ornament, and among the crowd of women there, each with nodding Paradise plumes or a jewelled fillet, the delusive simplicity struck a restful, distinctive note, throwing into strong relief the haunting charm of her pale face.
McTaggart's eyes rested on her, with a quiet sense of pleasure. Where other women of her class would have welcomed the occasion to outvie in "smartness" the "respectable rich," Fantine seemed to have drawn back with unconscious pride relying on some hidden power to set her apart.
A faint buzz of applause broke through the young man's silent admiration. The fat tenor had achieved a wonderful feat of long-drawn breath. The air still trembled with the vibration of sound, and it seemed to add to the scented heat of the over-packed, excited house.
"Would you mind the door ajar?" McTaggart whispered in her ear. "I can close it directly you feel the draught."
Fantine, absently, nodded assent, her eyes riveted on the stage, heart and soul absorbed in the music.
He got up noiselessly, and effected the improvement, standing there for a few seconds—to breathe the cooler air without. Down the curved corridor some late arrivals were hastening, a short, stout, red-faced man and a young girl with golden hair.
McTaggart started. He gave them a quick, searching glance and ducked back. To his annoyance the pair paused outside, and he heard the attendant's voice:
"This way, please."
The door of the next box grated on its hinges, and steps echoed beyond the partition.
McTaggart listened, his face very grim. Then he heard Cydonia's voice, clear and gentle. "Yes, Papa. Please, Papa," and the scrabbling noise of chairs dragged forward over the floor.
The unlooked-for contretemps clouded his pleasure. He had no desire the two women should meet. Above all he mistrusted Cadell's shrewd eyes and the use he might make of the innocent adventure.
He closed the door softly again. Fantine was plainly far away, lost to a world of heat or cold. She leaned forward, listening, her hands tightly clasped together on the broad velvet edge before her.
"I wish she'd keep back!" thought McTaggart. He could picture in the next box Cydonia's golden head at just the same angle and in between the narrow velvet curtains barely separating the pair.
In the dim light he groped for and found his own chair, lifted it with bated breath and placed it down again behind that of his guest, who turned at his movement with a faint frown of displeasure over her broken dreams.
"What are you doing there, Pierrot?" The whisper was sharp.
"I thought," McTaggart explained mendaciously, "this way I could hear without seeing too much. That fat soprano is murdering romance!"
"Quel enfant!" Fantine smiled. For the singer in question with her capacious bosom, now clasped fervently in the fat tenor's arms, appealed suddenly to her dormant sense of humor.
"Rather a ... magnificent figure for a maiden..." McTaggart followed up his remark. Some one below them breathed an indignant "Sh! ..." and Fantine held up an admonitory finger.
McTaggart leaned back, conscious again of the heat. "Stifling in here—wish I hadn't come!" His thoughts ran on, seeking a plan to get his guest away before the final rush.
He was determined the pair should not meet. Oddly enough sub-consciously he blamed Cydonia—with that hateful parent—exonerating himself in the matter.
His flirtation with the girl had lapsed a little of late, owing to the serious illness of Mrs. Cadell. A chill followed up by a tiring sale of work in a draughty hall had resulted in pneumonia. The dance had been postponed and Cydonia herself, bereft of her chaperone, had rarely made an appearance among the few friends she shared with McTaggart.
Stolen meetings had been few and far between. The anxiety caused by her mother's condition had roused the slumbering conscience in the girl, and McTaggart's love for her had suffered from the test. It needed propinquity to keep the fires alight.
Fantine had profited by the disaffection. Daily her hold on him grew more strong. Her ever-changing moods, her daring speech, her open dependence on his attentions, had forged new links in the chain between them, riveted by the subtle ties of habit.
Without home interests or the urgent need to work, McTaggart found time hang heavy on his hands. He had long since wearied of London's appeal to the moneyed youth on his emancipation from school. The round of music hall and supper club, of cards and drink and doubtful ladies had held him a victim but a very short time. His brains had saved him the career of a "Nut."
He had no active distaste for work; it was more that work did not come his way. For his first three years on the Stock Exchange he had thrown himself unwearied into the task of absorbing the details of his profession in the interest of his few clients.
But, bit by bit, these had fallen away.
College friends for the greater part, they had drifted abroad, lost money or married, preferring few investments to many speculations.
For a brief period McTaggart had tried to hunt up others through social means. But his soul shrank from the merest suggestion of touting without the strong spur of necessity.
Bad times, heavy taxes and perpetual wars had broken the confidence of the public. He found himself at the end of the third year several hundreds out of pocket!
The cost of entertaining well—not for pleasure but possible profit—and bad debts had more than swallowed the sum of his hard-won commissions.
His father had left him a steady income quite sufficient for his needs, and from his mother he had inherited a fluctuating interest from property abroad.
Had he been poor, it is probable that he would have made a career for himself. His idleness was undoubtedly due to the lack of necessity: that poor man's stimulus.
Unfortunately for his comfort, his vitality resented inaction. With no outlook his restlessness fed on itself, and he waxed irritable, a prey to sudden moods.
He was not a man to live alone. Healthy, impulsive, and full of life, he had nothing of the celibate in his mixed composition.
But a certain fastidiousness held him back from the casual vice of many men, and his hot blood was generally balanced by the finer instincts of his brain.
Nevertheless the man suffered. And, since his memorable visit to the specialist, his imagination had been disturbed, to a degree hardly healthy, by a physical self-consciousness.
It bred in him a profound distrust. It set him apart from other men. It seemed to give him a moral excuse for an irresolute habit of thought.
He had kept the secret to himself, fearing ridicule from his kind and with a shrewd appreciation of its doubtful value in feminine circles.
Once he had nearly confided in Jill, realizing that with the girl sex still lay in abeyance, almost ignored by her clean young soul.
But something had checked him; a feeling perhaps that it led into a further field, impossible to discuss with her, this child who claimed his loyal respect.
And meanwhile Fantine lured him on with the skill of her vast experience.
The drop scene fell amid loud applause, and lights flashed up about the house.
McTaggart felt a sudden thirst, but dare not leave the sheltering box unaware whether Mr. Cadell would take advantage of the entr'acte.
Fantine turned and smiled at him, tears not far from the topaz eyes, a faint colour in her face, soft with the pleasure of the music.
"Like it?" He knew as he said the words that the question was superfluous, and went on a little quickly, full of his own immediate cares.
"We'll have supper at the Savoy—it's sure to be packed to-night." He drew out his watch as he spoke, and glanced at it with a slight frown. "Jove! it's getting pretty late..."
Fantine smiled, resigning herself. She knew exactly what he wanted, guessing him bored by the music.
"Would you like to go before the end? After all"—she checked a sigh—"one knows by heart the tragic story. We could slip out before the finale."
The man brightened visibly.
"Well, you see—it's like this—I haven't reserved a table to-night. We shall have to take our chance, so we'd better be there before the rush."
He still avoided the front of the box, conscious of his neighbour's eyes, but, now that the danger seemed averted, he felt a mischievous delight. He could picture Cydonia, very correct, in her white frock and string of pearls, with her inevitable "Isn't it nice?" addressed to the somewhat bored parent.
And at the thought a slight shame ran through him; the knowledge, too, of all the young girl represented in his somewhat aimless life.
But Fantine was addressing him.
"Say now, Pierrot, would you mind—instead of going to the Savoy—a picnic supper at my flat?"
His face fell, and immediately she added quickly: "We'd leave early—but ... the fact is I can't bear to think of that aggressive band. It seems almost profane to me—after the feast of music here. But of course—if you're hungry?" Her voice pleaded. "I think I've got some foie gras—and a cold tongue—won't that do? And we'd have ... a cosy evening together."
"Do?" McTaggart laughed softly, relieved by the saving clause, "Why, I'd infinitely prefer it. One gets so tired of the Savoy."
"Good." She slipped her hand sideways and laid it a moment on his knee.
"Rather fun, eh, Pierrot?—to play at being Darby and Joan."
McTaggart nodded, without speaking. He felt a sudden tinge of excitement, the forerunner of adventure. "We're hardly old enough for that"—mischief was in his laughing eyes—"Why not 'Paul et Virginie?'—brought a little up-to-date."
The lights went down. Behind the curtain a bell tolled as if for Mass, cutting through the buzz of chatter, a summons from another world. Then, like a clear call to love, came the sweet sound of Santuzza's voice.
Fantine caught a quick breath. The scene to come was significant. For she knew that this night spelled the last of many a happy one with McTaggart. And she wondered ... Would she miss the man?
For a second her whole soul recoiled from the task she had set herself: the crisis of the long-drawn-out and carefully prepared betrayal. She saw in a flash the years ahead on that stony downward path of intrigue, a tool herself in another man's hands, to be cast aside when Time should blunt it ...
The mood lasted until they reached the flat. McTaggart believed her still to be under the spell of the music. He respected her silence and enjoyed his cigarette as they sat side by side in the speeding taxi.
She opened the door with her latch-key, and switched on the hall light, leading the way into the drawing-room, where before a bright fire a table was spread with a dainty supper laid for one.
"I'm all alone to-night—it will be a real picnic." She took off her opera cloak and threw it on the sofa. "My cook sleeps out—she's a married woman—and Mélanie has gone home for a short holiday."
She told the lie coolly, knowing that near at hand the maid, well coached, was waiting for her cue; an important witness if subsequent events should necessitate her reappearance.
"You aren't nervous?" McTaggart looked surprised—"I mean, of staying here alone all night."
"Oh, dear no." She shrugged her shoulders. "I could ring up the porter in case of need."
She studied her face a moment in the glass, fingering the tulle that covered her shoulders. "I think perhaps... Yes!—I'll get out of this and slip into a comfortable tea-gown. You don't mind waiting, do you, Pierrot? I shan't be long." She turned to the door, then came back again with a forced smile.
"I wonder—could you undo these hooks." She turned her back to him as she spoke. "I can manage all the rest ... but just those between the shoulders?"
Gallantly McTaggart stooped to the task.
As the tulle fell away, leaving her neck bare, a sudden temptation seized the man. He lowered his head and kissed the warm flesh, honey-tinted, and soft to his lips.
But she swung round quickly with an incoherent cry. "Non, non, Pierrot—je ne veux pas!" Her face looked frightened. She thrust him back, a sudden remorse awake in her heart.
McTaggart laughed. She read in his eyes amusement at her show of resistance.
And the knowledge of this and his lack of respect swept aside her lingering scruples. Her mood veered round. A feverish exultation spurred her now down the path of revenge.
"Naughty boy!" She shook her head and was gone, with a laughing backward glance.
Left to himself, McTaggart strolled about, stretching his long legs, cramped in the box.
A memory brought him back to the mantelpiece, and he sought for and found the faded photograph.
Once more he gazed at the sinister face, with its black beard and evil eyes. It held a curious fascination for him, repulsive and mesmeric at the same time. He saw that a name was written beneath, indistinct in violet ink, and holding it nearer to the light he deciphered "Gustave," with a slight start. Below it was a blotted date and then "Alger" clear and bright, where a frame had once protected the edge.
He put it back behind the mirror, a frown on his face, his mouth tight.
So that was the husband. What a brute! ...
His pity stirred beneath his disgust. He thought of Fantine, dainty and sweet, at the mercy of such a type. Thank God the man was dead!
He recalled her remark in the restaurant, the night they had dined at the "Bon Bourgeois."
"He was always very kind to me..."
"Kind?"—with those eyes!—He shuddered slightly, connecting the pair in his mind.
Poor little woman ... what a life!
It sobered him, bringing the best to the surface, and he turned with a very real affection on his handsome face as she opened the door.
But here was a new irresistible Fantine. With bright eyes, she danced toward him, mischief incarnate, her pale face laughing above a peignoir, diaphanous, intimate; showing gleams of silk-shod ankles through the daring draperies.
"You see! I make myself at home ... And now for supper." She laid down a silver tray with a plate and glass and arranged his knives and forks for him.
"Monsieur est servi." She caught up a napkin and threw it gaily over her arm.
"Monsieur will not forget the poor waiter—who—how absurd!—cannot open the wine!" She held out toward him a bottle of champagne.
"Vite, mon cher!—I die of thirst."
McTaggart felt suddenly relieved. He entered heartily into the sport.
"What would the poor waiter like for a tip? Furs perhaps, or a motor car?"
"I'll tell you later," she flashed him a glance as he cut the wire and extracted the cork.
He poured it foaming in the glasses.
"Here's to ... to-night!" He drank it off.
As supper proceeded the desire of adventure drowned all else in McTaggart's mind. A man can only be young once, he told himself, and refilled his glass.
And Fantine seemed to lay aside all thought of to-morrow, to drift content through this golden hour the Gods vouchsafed, ignoring the loom where the Grey Fates spun.
When the last drop of wine was gone and satiety claimed them as willing victims, McTaggart dragged the table back and pulled the sofa near the fire.
"Now—come and talk to me, mon amie—here's a stool for those little feet. You really are a dream to-night!—I never saw you look so ... tempting!"
She lay back against the cushions, watching him stir the coals in the grate.
"Let's sit in the fire light," he suggested, and switched off the electricity.
Behind his back she stole a glance at the clock, and her face fell, then grew thoughtful.
"Another hour," she said to herself, with the odd sensation of a respite.
"A cigarette first—please, Pierrot."
"What nonsense! You've smoked enough." His voice was masterful and she pouted.
"Méchant! give me one,at once."
He lit it, somewhat grudgingly, watching the flame of the match spurt and illumine her piquante face in the semi-darkness of the room.
She drew the smoke in lazily, through the pursed-up, vivid lips.
"Have one too?" She handed the box—"and tell me ... all about yourself."
"That's clever..." McTaggart smiled. "You've hit upon my favorite subject. But I think to-night we'll talk of you. Tell me"—he paused—"of your life in Algiers." Strange, how that picture haunted him!
"That's long ago," she shrank slightly, then rallied herself to the task. "I went there as a bride, you see. My husband was head of a kind of syndicate. It's a nice place in the Winter-time—there's a large French Colony there. And plenty of English people too—it's quite gay—with music—and cards."
McTaggart smiled to himself. At the words he made a shrewd guess at Gustave's business in Algiers. But Fantine skillfully led the talk through devious channels back to himself. Once launched on the stream he told her of his early years, his parents' death, his college career, and the growing boredom of his days.
And between the lines Fantine gleaned all that she needed; his obvious means and that fastidiousness of his—an important factor in her game.
The clock ticked on and the fire died low. The little room seemed shut off from the world.
"It sounds lonely..." she said at last—"You poor boy!—I understan'."
"Do you?" he leaned eagerly nearer. "No one cares—that's about it!" His arm stole round her. "Fantine ...dear, it's in your hands to cure, you know."
He stooped down and their lips met ...
The clock struck with a silver chime, ringing out the midnight hour; and Fantine, startled, drew away. Not yet—the warning rang in her ears.
But McTaggart, fired by that close embrace, stung too by her shrinking gesture, caught her roughly in his arms.
"Pierrot!"—she gasped—"wait ... wait! There's something—I must tell you—first..."
His strong young arms were like a vise, his eyes were brilliant, pleading for him.
"Fantine...?" he breathed.
"No!no!" She forced him back with all her strength, aware of his sudden loss of control, but perfect mistress of herself. Her hands, pressed against his chest, checked him for a fleeting moment. Within his coat that the struggle forced open, her eyes detected a note of white—the corner of an envelope, and in a flash her fingers sought and found the letter, purloining it.
She heard him give a little gasp, incredulous and vexed at once; his arms relaxed, the spell snapped, and twisting sidewards she slipped away out of his reach, breathless, triumphant.
Little she guessed what the trick cost her! For McTaggart in common with his kind was scrupulous toward correspondence. Nothing on earth would have induced him to trifle with another's letters.
And now as Fantine stood before him with a mocking smile, and in her grasp an envelope with his name upon it, in Jill's childish scrawling hand, it added the last fatal spark to resentment caused by baffled desire.
"That's mine, I think." His husky voice, almost rude in his sudden anger, proved to the woman she had found the right excuse to delay her surrender.
"Ah non, mon cher Pierrot!—I think I will keep your ... lettre d'amour. I'm very, ver-ry cross with you..." But her eyes belied the implied reproof. She stepped back, and the glow from the fire fell on her flushed and mischievous face, on the crumpled transparent peignoir that had fallen away from one bare shoulder.
And suddenly it came to McTaggart what she was ... and his own folly!
He saw that passion swayed him alone without the redeeming touch of love.
"I'm sorry." He stood up, stiff and straight. "You're quite right—I lost my head!" For the shrewder side of his nature swung him back once more into safe balance. He switched on the electric light and glanced openly at the clock.
"I'm afraid, too, I'm keeping you up. I'd no idea it was so late."
His voice was frigidly polite, a mask to hide his deep anger. For there she stood, with Jill's letter—Jill's of all people on earth!—that note of hers yet unread, caught up at the Club before he started.
He held out his hand for it.
Silently she gave it up. For once the woman in her quailed before the wrath in his blue eyes.
"Thank you." He placed it in his pocket and smiled, his young face still hard.
"Now we're quits ... eh! Fantine."
She began to realize her mistake.
"Quits?" she pouted. With one hand she smoothed the tumbled laces about her. "I think ... that you're unkind, Pierrot."
To his dismay she began to cry.
For indeed her nerve had given out, and the tears, at first assumed, grew real. She sobbed on, her head in her hands.
"You're not going?—oh—Pierrot! ... don't go ... Mon Dieu! ... Mon Dieu! ... I didn't mean ... I only ... tease ... oh! unkind..." she choked on the word.
McTaggart's heart began to soften.
"Why! Fantine ... why—my dear ...! I'mnotcross ... honour bright! But it's getting deuced late, you know ... there ... there ... don't cry."
He soothed her like a fractious child.
"You go to bed—-you're dog-tired. That's it—I'm a selfish ass! ..." He tried to thrust the thought aside of what was really troubling her.
And in his friendly voice she read the failure of her deep-laid plans, conscious too that their early return had thrown out the scheme of time. Well, it was over—no! postponed...
She lifted her tear-stained face, oddly swayed between relief and infinite discouragement.
"Good night, Pierrot—I'm ... so tired! I'll go to bed—you're quite right. But come and see me very soon. Promise, Pierrot."
He smiled at her.
"Rather!—why! what d'you think?"
But once outside the front door he felt a sudden sense of blankness. He hated tears and shrank from scenes with the wholesome distrust of perfect nerves. And then—that letter! His face darkened ... What an end to the evening! The unexpected with a vengeance. He started to descend the stairs when a sound below made him pause.
Some one was coming slowly up. The steps passed the third floor and moved toward the last flight.
McTaggart glanced quickly round. He felt a curious distaste to be found there at this hour, and his eyes fell on the lift, level with Fantine's door. He remembered he had brought her up, working the ropes himself, and there it stood in semi-darkness offering a hiding-place.
He stepped inside and sat down in the far corner, holding his breath, as a tall man came into sight muffled in an overcoat.
"He's going to the opposite flat. Jolly lucky the lift being here." McTaggart's soliloquy stopped short. He gave a little gasp of wonder.
For the man passed him, unaware of his presence, making straight for Fantine's door, with a light, noiseless step that seemed to the other oddly furtive.
Arrived there he paused a moment, then bent down and with his finger lifted up the narrow flap of the letter box and peered through.
Instantly McTaggart was on the defensive. He thought of Mrs. Merrod alone, without a single soul to guard her, and the opportunity it offered.
But the next moment the pseudo-thief produced a latch-key from his pocket, fitted it softly in the lock, and the light shone out through the opened door. Here the first check greeted him. For the key stuck and, as he turned, McTaggart caught a glimpse of his face with a sudden and bewildering shock.
The square-cut beard had been shaved away, but above it gleamed those evil eyes and the hooked nose slightly bent of the man in the faded photograph!
"Gustave"—"Alger"—The two words flashed into remembrance. Here in the flesh was Fantine's husband—the dead returned! No doubt of it!
The man, with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, ceased to wrestle with the lock, and through the door left ajar McTaggart, his face glued to the glass of the lift, could see him cross the narrow hall, still on tiptoe, and bend to listen at the opposite key-hole.
What did it mean? A sudden suspicion shot through McTaggart's brain. He caught dimly the thread of the plot and a cold chill ran down his spine.
The next moment the bedroom door was flung wide, and Fantine stood, half dressed, her white face sharp and haggard, but undismayed.
A quick volley of words passed, unintelligible, in French. The sudden draught caught the outer door, and it slammed to with a loud bang.
Alone, in the darkness of the lift, McTaggart crouched, his brain on fire. A single word from the woman's lips had reached him and vaguely repeated itself.
"Raté...!" He found no meaning to it. With the consciousness of his equivocal position came the desire to escape. His hand groped for the cords and the lift slid down to the ground floor.
He fumbled with the heavy door, and was outside in the cold night air. Like a thief himself, he took to his heels, running down the deserted street, hailed a belated four-wheeler and arrived at length at his own chambers.
Once inside his sitting-room, he seemed to awaken from his stupor. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass, forced a laugh at his white face and helped himself to a stiff drink.
Blackmail. The ugly word supplied the link that was missing. Blackmail—that was it. And Fantine? He felt suddenly sick. But as the brandy sent a glow through his cold disgusted frame, another memory returned to set the seal on his doubts.
He crossed to his bookcase and drew out from a pile of tattered French novels a shabby book bound in leather, thumbed and torn by days of school.
With nervous haste he turned the pages. "P," "Q," "R"—here it was! His eyes strained down the narrow print.
"Rater—(verb) to miss fire."