But as he neared the mist-wreathed cliffs of Dover McTaggart's patriotism was put to the test by the captious weather and the hopeless, sea-sick crowd around him. Rain and hail and distant thunder were his portion, a choppy sea and a boat packed with a draggled party from the Polytechnic, returning home.
He said to himself he had never seen his countrymen to worse advantage. Beside them, Mario, chilled to the bone but still cheerful, inured to the motion by many a past yachting trip, looked a perfect aristocrat from his well-poised head to his slender feet.
A woman, their neighbour on the boat, lost her hat, then her rug, wailing aloud, and Mario, at his master's nod, retrieved them imperturbably from the skittish antics of the wind.
The sufferer never even thanked him, but clutched her belongings with a glance full of mistrust, recognizing a foreigner—or, in other words—a doubtful character!
At last they bumped against the pier; ropes whirled out, gangways creaked; a mad herd of humans crushed after porters, charging with hoisted bags.
The train looked absurdly small. McTaggart thought the station shrunk and his first English cup of tea was cold and strong, in a leaking pot.
Even the fields, as they left the Downs, seemed to have dwindled to half their size. The rain lashed against the glass. Between the streams trickling down he began to catch green vistas of hops with their quaint, peaked oast-houses like the caps worn by hob-goblins from the pages of a fairy book.
Rochester!—under leaden skies, smoky, blurred. The train rocked on, the shorter gauge oddly aggressive in the low-built, narrow carriage.
Then, at last, Charing Cross; the endless wait for the luggage and the final crowning disenchantment—no taxis!—due to "the strike."
After a dismal half hour a "runner" returned with a four wheeler and they both got in, hampered by baggage, neither of them in the best of tempers.
Mario was plainly aghast. "This—London?" he seemed to say.
"Yes—confound it!" thought McTaggart. He began to wish he had stayed abroad.
They crawled along, past Trafalgar Square and its dripping lions, past Hampton's, then, before the block of carriages outside the Carlton, swerved to the right.
Half way up the Haymarket hill McTaggart thrust his head out and shouted.
"Hi! Cabby—stop a minute." His face brightened as he spoke. He opened the door and splashed across the muddy pavement into a shop with a quaint old fashioned bow-window and asked for a box of cigarettes.
"Good evening, sir." The man smiled across the counter with an air of pleased recognition. "We haven't seen you lately, sir." Here was his first welcome home.
"I've been abroad for eighteen months. I'll take a cigarette now." He lighted it with an English match, free from sulphur, and picked up the box.
"You can put it down to the old address." He drew in the fragrant smoke with joy. "Good-night—I'll take these matches." His hand closed on them lovingly. He retraced his steps and dived once more into the stuffy, waiting cab.
"Well—that's one thing you can't beat—our baccy," he said to himself as they jolted round against the curb into the full glare of the Circus.
The wet streets mirrored back the thousand lights from above ... McTaggart felt, suddenly, something grip him by the throat.
London! The magic of the word rushed up like a warm tide, round his heart, into his head.
"Good old London!"—he caught his breath.
"Mario!"—he touched the man. "Look out, quick! it's Piccadilly."
A burly policeman waved them on.
"Now, then—Hurry up!—four-wheeler."
Dodging like a human eel between the buses, a ragged boy slipped past and paused at the window, his shrill voice raised in a cry:
"Star!—'hEv'ning News—Speshul! 'Ere you are, sir—h'all the winners..." jerked the paper into the cab, and was off, clutching McTaggart's penny.
Like a silver ribbon streaked with light, Piccadilly stretched ahead, buses skidding, and near at hand rang the gay tootle of a horn.
Then, into the congested space, rattling harness, clanking bits, a private coach, with four bays, wet and shining, splashed with froth, picked its way like a dainty dame, disdainful of the lesser traffic.
Mario's dark face brightened. He loved horses and knew their points. This was a picture after his heart, dissipating his sense of gloom.
For he could not see with McTaggart's eyes. At his master's quick, impulsive cry, he had peered out eagerly, pleased by the word "Piccadilly" with its familiar foreign ring.
He saw a small open space, between a square and a circle, with shops and lights and a feeble statue—like a lost infant—in the centre.
He stared at it with inward contempt.
"Not half as fine," he said to himself, "as the fountain in our Sienese palace! And as for the rest of the 'piazza' ... why, there isn't a single public building—not even a decent Church! And the rain ... Is this the English summer? No wonder it's a cold race!"
He looked covertly at his master, amazed by his obvious touch of excitement.
For McTaggart was taking a deep breath of the foggy air that reeked with petrol.
"It's good to be back again," he thought; "I wonder if Bethune will be there? I sent him a wire, but he's such a beggar for work, one never knows. By Jove, I must see about a car—useful during the present strike..." He peered out at the Berkeley steps where a lady in evening dress, her light wrap drawn about her, filmy skirts wound close, crossed, dainty, over the pavement beside her attendant cavalier.
They turned into a side street, splashing and lumbering along, until, at last, they halted before the old familiar, narrow house.
The door was open. McTaggart ran up the steep stairs like a boy.
"Hullo! Mrs. Frost—how are you? Yes, I'm back. Rather late. Hope you got my letter all right?"
"Yessir. Your rooms are ready." The sour faced woman was actually smiling.
"My man's below—but he can't speak English—Will you see to him and pay the cab?Hullo! there you are, old man."
He was shaking hands wildly with Bethune.
"Steady on—what a grip! Confound you, you've broken my wrist..." Bethune's honest face was beaming. He dealt him a playful blow on the chest.
"Hard as a rock!—you do look fit. I prepared to receive a languid foreigner. Come inside, Monsieur le Marquis..."
"Oh—shut up! You ... dear old fool!"
McTaggart glanced around at his rooms, the worn carpet and furniture that had seen service in College days—each scratch and dent a memory.
Above the glass, still littered with cards and photographs, there hung an oar and underneath, on either side, stood a pair of battered silver cups.
He drew a deep sigh of content.
"Get me a drink—there's a dear chap! Hullo—that window's still smashed. What a rag it was! d'you remember that night?" For the topmost pane of glass was cracked from side to side beneath the blind.
"Let's look at you"—he took the glass that Bethune filled for him and drank. "That's good. Why!—the 'Round Man's' growing a figure..."
Bethune scowled.
"Shut up! I got in whiskey—thought you'd want it. Here's luck——" he tossed it off—"What are you going to do about dinner? It's getting pretty late, you know."
"Yes—we had a rotten crossing—the boat an hour over time. Have you dined yourself—no?—that's right. I thought we'd go down to Simpson's. I feel like a good cut off the joint..."
Bethune laughed. "The illustrious Marquis is tired of his native macaroni?"
"A bottle of beer—and some Welsh rabbit"—the other ran on, ignoring the taunt. "I'm fed up with Chianti."
He stopped on the word with a little start.
For the first time for many weeks a memory returned to him of his visit to Harley Street and the problem of his "double" heart.
What was it he had laughingly said? (How long ago that day seemed ... The era of Fantine and Cydonia.)
Yes—"porridge" it was, and "Chianti!"
He glanced up at the mantelpiece as Bethune, hearing steps outside, trundled away to give instructions to the bewildered Mario.
"No change?" he heard him say. "All right—I'll see to it."
A face smiled down at McTaggart out of a tarnished silver frame. Cydonia in a big black hat, white furs around her throat—with her childish mouth and wide eyes. He took it down and gazed at it.
Cydonia!—the girl he had loved.
Deliberately he placed the verb in the past tense. For it was true. Nothing of his passion remained, but a mild, wondering affection! Absence and time had achieved the cure.Onebroken heart at least was mended! And Fantine...? At the name he felt a sudden stab of regret.
How strange were life and life's emotions! Although her picture was destroyed—(he had done it in anger that fatal night) her image rose clear in his mind.
Of the two women he missed her most—in the flood-tide of his return. Her stronger personality, the power of wit and imagination that blent with her careless scorn of men, her nameless, utterly feminine charm, had survived that other disillusion.
He put Cydonia's portrait back quickly as Bethune re-entered the room. Then, conscious that his hasty action had not escaped his friend's eyes, in an indifferent voice, he asked:
"Ever hear anything of the Cadells?"
"Yes—no!" Bethune turned to the sideboard, horribly at a loss. He coughed, then started with a plunge to get his unwelcome news over.
"Met 'Jinks' the other day—remember 'Jinks' of Trinity?—got his blue for Rugger—Well, he knows Miss Cadell—that was."
"What?" McTaggart's voice was sharp.
Bethune, fidgeting with the syphon, his back turned to his friend, received a sudden baptism, stinging and cold, of soda water.
"Oh, damn!—now I've spilled it. Yes, that's it—She's married, you know. A chap called Euan Flemming—an M.P. for ... God knows where!"
"Well—I'm blessed!" McTaggart laughed; a little sourly, truth to tell. Despite the conclusion arrived at earlier he felt somewhat taken aback.
"Cheer up," he addressed the broad shoulders of his still perturbed friend. "You mixed the news with soda water but I could have stood it neat."
Bethune wheeled round, his face red. "I'm jolly glad—I've been funking it." He met McTaggart's amused eyes and beamed all over his honest face.
"That's over," said McTaggart—"long ago. What about dinner?—I'll just go and have a wash and be with you—if you're ready."
"I should think I am!—half famished—I've been down at Brooklands with a new car. Hurry up!"
He dropped into a chair as McTaggart called through the folding doors.
"D'you ever see Jill now? It's a bad business about her mother."
"I was there yesterday—to inquire. They let her out at the end of the week—but she's been awfully ill since. It was pretty nearly touch and go..."
There came a sound of splashing water; then McTaggart's voice again:
"I'm glad she's home at any rate. What's become of the priceless Stephen?"
"Dont's ask me. I bar the chap. D'you remember old Charlie Mason? Well, he managed at last to get a billet with Hensley and Benton, the big wine people. He dropped in to see me, last night, full of trouble. It seems that Somerfield had let him in for a big order for himself and several pals of his. And now they say they can't stump up—it sounds like a regular plant! Awfully hard lines on Charlie—the firm have given him the sack."
"You don't say so. Bad luck! I always thought Stephen a wrong 'un. How's Jill herself?"
A pause.
"Oh—all right," but Bethune frowned. "Jolly plucky about it all. I fancy they're rather in low water. It's between ourselves, you understand. But she's left College for good now and it seems to me she's taken on most of the house work at home. They only keep one servant."
"What a shame!" came from McTaggart, busily brushing back his hair. "It's a thousand pities her mother gives up all her time to Suffrage work. She might consider her family. I can't understand the attraction. Seems to me it's like drink—when a woman really takes to it there's no earthly stopping her!"
"I quite agree," said Bethune, "I'm sorry for Jill. And the boy, too," he added somewhat hastily. His pale face was slightly flushed. "You ready?"
He picked up his hat as his friend reappeared. "It's stopped raining——" he glanced at the window. "We've had an awfully wet season—nothing like it since the Flood. I nearly started a motor boat—cheap trips in Piccadilly!"
They clattered downstairs together and out on to the shining pavement.
"We'd better take a bus, I suppose," said McTaggart—"how long has this strike been on?"
"About a fortnight——" Bethune laughed. "I expect you're glad to get back to England?"
But the other answered seriously. "Well—Iam. It's an odd thing——" he sniffed up the air, damp and smoky, and smiled to himself, his eyes bright. "But there's something about London, you know..."
He left the sentence incomplete
Jill crept downstairs on tiptoe.
Inside the dining-room Roddy was leaning over the table, a sketch-block and paints before him. He looked up as his sister appeared with an anxious, inquiring glance that seemed oddly out of place on his round, boyish face.
"Well?"
"She's asleep. At last!" Jill sighed—"Lizzie's sitting in the room, so I stole away to you."
She flung herself into the armchair and curled her feet up under her, arms clasped behind her head, dark shadows round her eyes.
"Tired, old girl?" Roddy's voice was tender. He saw that the long nights of vigil were leaving their mark on the fresh young face that began to look white and strained.
"Just a bit——" Jill smiled bravely. "But I think she's improving. She's more like herself. If only she'd stay in bed for a month and give it a chance—get really strong before she begins to think of work."
Roddy nodded and turned to his task. A silence fell in the bare room, broken by the buzz of a blue-bottle blundering round the chandelier and the sound of water stirred in the glass as the boy washed his paint brushes.
"What are you doing, Roddy?" Jill asked lazily.
"Oh—a ship. It'srotten!" his voice was full of despair. "I can't get the sea—it looks thick and flat—like a blooming table-cloth! Think I shall tear it up..." he paused gloomily, sucking his brush.
"No—don't." With a quick movement Jill rose to her feet. She bent over her brother, an arm thrown round his shoulder.
"It's jolly good. Really, old boy—the ship, I mean. Though the sea's all wrong," she added honestly. "But there's something I like—most awfully—" her grey eyes narrowed, criticizing.
"What?" Roddy lifted a wistful face, with that longing for praise peculiar to the artist, which has nothing to do with vanity but the deeper need for encouragement in the long up-hill fight of creative work.
"It's the way the ship's moving before the wind. It's alive, somehow, and one feels the struggle. It isn't just chased along—it's up against the strong tide—and the slap of the waves..."
"Of course it is." He smiled. "It's getting the full swell round the headland. The drawing's all right—it's the colour that's wrong. Idowant some painting lessons!"
"Well, perhaps we'll manage it by-and-bye—next summer holidays. You'd like to go in for Art, wouldn't you, Roddy?"
"Yes." The boy's voice was gruff. He felt too deeply for easy speech.
Jill looked anxious. Long since she had guessed the secret hope in the schoolboy's heart. But she knew it was not a paying profession and where was the money to come from for it?
Her mother—a typical soldier's wife—held a curious contempt for the artist class. She wanted Roddy to go to Sandhurst, if means permitted, with the idea of the Indian Army in the future.
How would she take this new departure?
"D'you remember," said Roddy suddenly, "that old fellow up at Whitby we used to see painting near the harbour?"
"Who took you up with him on the moors, that moonlight night, to the Abbey?—Yes—why?" She sat down, leaning her elbows on the table.
"Well—he taught me an awful lot. Not exactly painting, you know, but to use my eyes. I can't explain! Values of light and shade—such as the sea, with its colour merely a question of depth and reflection ... not dyed water! I showed him, at last, some of my sketches and—Jill——" the boy looked up wistfully, struggling with a sudden shyness—"he said ... he thought—well, I'd got it in me."
"Iknowyou have." Jill nodded. Into her thoughtful eyes there came a look of strong determination. "And I'll do all I can—you know that, Roddy."
"You always were a brick," said the boy.
He stared ahead through the open window.
"There's such an awful lot to learn—and I want to begin—youmuststart young. I remember he said to me one day—I've never forgotten it, somehow—'I've been painting now for fifty years—and I'm just beginning to master my art. I know that my hand is one with my brain and the long apprenticeship is past. And now'—he looked so awfully sad—'there are just a few years left and then I shall die—and it's all over'!"
"But he'd had the keen joy of the fight." Jill had a horror of morbidity. "And he'd won through—that must feel fine!" A warm colour flushed her cheek.
"Yes—but it seemed so awfully hard, that just as life was worth living, all that labour and knowledge must go, with everything else ... I call it rotten!"
"I don't believe it does," said Jill. "Peter doesn't, either," she added. "We were talking of that the day we drove to Henley and stopped at the Fair. I think all real effort survives—somehow—somewhere—that nothing's lost. Or else the struggle—to say nothing of failure!—would be too cruel—just sheer waste! Think of all the pioneers—Cecil Rhodes—Gordon—Scott? I can't believe that their energy and heroism doesn't go on... You remember Moses and his death? How he onlylookedon the promised land. It always seemed to me so unfair until one day when I was reading of the Transfiguration on the Mount—when Moses and Elijah appeared—(in their earthly forms, remember that!—) and there he was—inthe promised land. Moses, I mean—centuries later. He'd got there, you see,afterdeath."
"That's jolly fine," said the schoolboy—"I never thought of it that way."
The speech sank into his memory. Years ahead, in his hour of need—one of those moods of black despair which creative art brings to a man who strains up to a high ideal—he would see before him Jill's clear eyes, the oval face, slightly flushed, and illumined by an inner light which seemed to rise from her brave young soul.
She glanced now up at the clock. "I must go, Roddy—there's Mother's soup—and in half an hour we'll have tea. Down in the kitchen, it's easier."
"All right. I'll make some toast. I'll just finish this and come. Have you got any anchovy paste, old girl? If so, I'll do you some 'devilled biscuits.'"
"I'm afraid not." Jill laughed. It sounded a hot entertainment for the sultry summer afternoon. "You might keep an eye on the front door. Lizzie's upstairs, sewing, by Mother."
"I'll answer it—don't you worry."
He flung an arm about the girl and gave her a sudden boisterous kiss. Jill responded eagerly. Roddy was not demonstrative and she knew the value of the caress, hungry herself for a little love. Then, with a bright face, she departed into the depths of the basement, picking her way with careful feet and a keen look-out for black beetles.
Roddy sat where she had left him. Through the window he saw the scattered trees on Primrose Hill and the grass still green on account of the long wet season. A heavy bank of thunder clouds, lined with a pale coppery light, hung suspended against the blue and the boy was lost in a dream of colour.
Suddenly he gave a start. An angry look came into his eyes. He got up hurriedly, left the room and on noiseless feet crossed the hall.
Carefully he opened the door.
"Don't ring!" he checked the caller. "What do you want? Mother's asleep." He looked back with defiance at Stephen.
"I've come round to inquire for her."
Somerfield coolly passed the boy, hung up his hat on the stand, straightening his tie in the glass, with a smile at his languid reflexion.
"Don't make a row then," Roddy whispered. "I suppose you'd better come into the dining-room——" He closed the door softly behind them.
"How is Mrs. Uniacke?"
Stephen sauntered to the sideboard, opened a box standing there and helped himself to a cigarette.
Roddy watched him with a scowl.
"Anything else you'd like?" he asked.
"Thanks—a small whiskey and soda." Stephen's smile was insolent.
"Help yourself." Roddy saw too late the loop-hole that he had offered. "Mother's just about the same. The doctor came again this morning."
"What did he say?" Stephen filled his glass and lolled back in the armchair.
"Nothing good—her heart's weak and she's all nerves—doesn't sleep. Of course, she can't touch solids yet—that forcible feeding nearly killed her." The boy winced as he spoke.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Stephen. For once a ring of genuine feeling sounded in his high voice. "I'd like to see this government—wiped out!——" he clenched his hands.
"Not much good—there'd be another." Roddy was practical—"you see, if you go and break laws you've got to pay—whoever you are! It's the fault of the Suffrage leaders themselves—they're just 'agitators'——" he paused—"I'd have my knife intothem! They don't carewhosuffers."
"Well—you seem to take it pretty coolly considering your Mother is the victim?"
The boy shot him an angry glance.
"She wouldn't be—except for you!"
A stormy silence followed the words.
Stephen was preparing for battle when Roddy suddenly raised his head, malice in his hazel eyes.
"Oh, by the way, I quite forgot. There's been a young woman here to-day asking for you—awfully keen. There's no accounting for people's tastes!"
Stephen sat up with a start.
"A young woman?—what name? And why on earth does she come here?"
"Thought it was your house, perhaps—(One back"—he smiled to himself.) "She wouldn't give any name—Said you'd know——" the schoolboy grinned. "A short girl—rather fat—with a touzled mop of fair hair."
Somerfield's face went a shade pale.
("It's Letty——" he thought—"oh! confound it!") but out aloud——
"I think I know. She works for our branch of the League."
"That's all right, then——" Roddy was cheerful—"I gave her your new address, you see. I wrote it down to make sure and she went away quite jolly."
Stephen looked venomous.
"I wish you'd mind your own affairs and leave me to settle mine."
The schoolboy was hugging himself. Here was a rise out of his foe! He was not as simple as he looked, and although the full tragedy of Letty's desperate hunt for Stephen had quite escaped his young eyes, he was charmed to put a spoke in the wheel of the flirtation he suspicioned.
"I'm sorry if I've done wrong——" his mischievous face belied the words—"but you say she's working for the Cause, so hasn't she a right to see you?"
Stephen silently rose to his feet. He thought of Letty at his lodgings and of his carefully covered tracks since he left the ones near Primrose Hill. And now this interfering schoolboy had undone the work of weeks. He could hardly restrain himself.
"I'm off." He made for the door.
"Wait a second. I'll see you out—I don't want the Mater disturbed."
"Please tell her that I called."
"I will—when she's well enough. And, look here, it's no good writing—the doctor won't allow her letters. Unless you'd like Jill to read them and give her an occasional message?"
But this kindly thought was lost. Stephen vouchsafed no answer.
Roddy stood there for a moment—the door held back with his foot—watching his visitor walk away, his coat clipped in to his figure, his boots new, and the latest hat.
"What a rotter the fellow is! I'm rather sorry for that young woman—but whatdoesshe see in him?" He turned it over in his mind.
"Silly fools, girls," he said. He spoke the verdict out aloud, with the conscious superiority of a man in the making.
"Why, Roddy—you've grown a cynic!"
He turned with a sudden cry of joy.
"Peter!"
McTaggart's smiling face, bronzed and handsome, met his eyes.
"May I come in?—I just called round to ask how Mrs. Uniacke was."
"Rather! My hat!—it's jolly fine to see you back," he danced on the steps. "I say—we'll have to go quiet——" (the boy remembered)—"Mother's asleep."
They stole through the dingy hall and into the dining-room beyond. McTaggart glanced round with a smile at the bare, familiar place.
"You've grown, Roddy. Where's Jill? Hope she can spare me a minute. I suppose she's busy nursing your Mother?"
"Yes." Roddy's smile faded—"she's getting done up, I'm afraid. Sitting up all night, you know. The Mater can't be left alone."
"As bad as that? I'm awfully grieved. Poor old Jill!—and it's rough on you ... Never mind—we must cheer her up. Do tell her that I'm here."
"I'll go now." Roddy paused—"Look here, Peter, I shan't let on that it's you—what a lark! Won't it be a surprise for her." He was off, his eyes shining with fun.
He found Jill in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, her face flushed, leaning over the hot fire, patiently skimming mutton broth.
"You'll have to leave that for a minute. There's someone called and wants to see you. On business, I think," he choked back a laugh.
"Bother," said Jill, "I can't come now."
"Sorry—but I'm no earthly use. Hurry up, there's a good girl."
Jill, with an impatient sigh, pushed the soup to the side of the stove.
"It won't hurt to simmer there." She wiped her hands on a cloth and with her rounded arms bare, an apron over her drill skirt, followed Roddy up the stairs, a frown on her pretty face.
After the gloom of the basement the light dazed her for a second as she walked into the dining-room and saw a tall man standing there.
"Well, Jill?"
At Peter's voice she gave a sadden breathless cry. She caught at the back of a chair and swayed...
"Good Lord! I've startled you."
His arm went out, supporting her. "I'm awfully sorry." He felt her stiffen. For Jill had recovered herself.
"You made me jump—How are you, Peter?" She forced a shaky little laugh. "I'm all right—it's nothing ... really." She drew back, her face red—"it's the hot kitchen. I'm rather tired—but awfully glad to see you again."
"You do look a bit played out." His blue eyes ran over her, conscious of a subtle change. This was not his schoolgirl friend of the short skirts and swinging plait.
Her hair was wound round her head in glossy coils, from beneath which little tendrils curled away, dark against her white forehead.
Her throat and arms, bare and dimpled, were softly curved and the low bosom that rose and fell with her quick breath had lost its narrow, boyish look.
But the grey eyes were the same, pure and fearless, though shadowed now with faint circles of violet that added to their natural size; and the pretty face, flushed from the fire, had the clear skin of the child he loved, the rather large and humorous mouth.
Her long skirt, tightly bound with the narrow apron, showed the curve of her slender hips and beneath he saw her high-arched, supple feet.
She looked a thoroughbred—he thought—with a sudden thrill of friendly pride—from the poise of her well-shaped head to the smooth, pointed finger tips.
"It'ssonice to see you again—I'm awfully glad." He beamed at her.
"I, too——" she laughed back—"we thought you had really gone for good. And you never said in your letter you were coming home, not a word!"
"I wanted it to be a surprise."
"It was!" She caught her brother's arm. "Roddy—you little wretch!"—for she guessed his share in the trick—"just run down and put on the kettle—and then we'll have tea together. D'you mind a picnic in the kitchen?"—she turned to the visitor, "Lizzie's upstairs with the invalid."
"I'd love it," McTaggart declared. "I've got such lots of things to tell you. But first of all—how's your Mother?"
"Better." Jill smiled bravely. "But it's beendreadful! Poor darling—she came home an utter wreck——" Her lips quivered as she spoke.
"Well—you'll soon get her right, my dear—good nursing and perfect rest." Peter's voice was soothing now; he was inwardly shocked at the strain he guessed. "And then we'll take her out for drives—I've ordered a car from Tommy Bethune."
"Oh!—I'm so glad. He'ssucha dear! You don't know how good he's been. He arranged everything for Mother—even to the ambulance."
Peter's face was very grave. It was all very well, he said to himself to read of these things in the papers, but the thought of Mrs. Uniacke—that delicate, frail little creature—in a prison, forcibly fed! This was bringing it home with a vengeance. And a new respect seized the man. Whatever his views on the Suffrage question might be, he marvelled in his heart at the courage displayed by those thousands of women banded together to fight or die.
"She's asleep now," went on Jill—"that's been the most serious trouble—that and her heart, which is very weak. And, of course, her digestion's all to pieces—and she's suffered frightfully in her throat ... Well, we won't talk any more about it. Come down and have some tea."
They crossed the hall with bated breath, Jill's finger to her lips. As they went down the dark stairs Peter slipped a hand through her arm.
"Steady, Jill. Don't take a header ... 'Steep is the descent to' ... Tea! Here we are. Any black beetles?"
Jill shivered involuntarily.
"It's cowardly—but I hate them, Peter! Sometimes when I come down at night the floor's simply black with them. I'd far sooner find burglars!"
McTaggart's laugh steadied her nerves. He checked her in the narrow passage and lowered his voice, with a glance at Roddy beyond them, busy in the kitchen.
"Look here, Jill—now I'm back—I hope you're going to make use of me? I don't want to cut out Bethune——" he smiled, watching her thoughtful face—-"but he's busy and I'm not—I'm game for any odd job. And I want to help—awfully. You see, I came home for that."
"Did you?" The girl looked at him. Her eyes in the gloom shone like stars under their heavy curling lashes.
"Honour bright! Your letter did it. I couldn't bear to think of you in all this trouble without a man. Although I knew you'd the pluck to face it. So it's a bargain—settled between us—I'm to be a sort of handy ... brother?"
"That's it," said Jill steadily. "I won't forget. Thank you, Peter."
McTaggart walked to St. John's Wood station absorbed in thought, his face grave.
For the memory of his little friend with the tired circles round her eyes haunted each step of the lonely road, shadowed by its belt of trees.
He saw that Jill was worn out with nursing and anxiety, that the long nights of vigil were bought at the expense of her nerves. He guessed, moreover, the strained resources of the shabby house he had left. He would have given much for the right to ease the position with a cheque!
But this was plainly impossible. He smiled to himself at the bare idea, striding along oblivious of the heavy thunder drops that fell.
At last a scheme presented itself. When he reached the Underground, after a moment's hesitation, he took a ticket for Kensington and, in due course, with two changes, alighted at the High Street station. Here, with an anxious glance at the clock, he turned to the left and, winding about, arrived at last at a large block of flats in a quiet street.
He studied the list of names in the hall, entered the lift and was carried up to the fourth floor and Flat G, where he rang the bell, feeling a shade nervous.
Miss Elizabeth Uniacke was "at home." He handed the maid his card—a neat elderly woman in an old-fashioned cap and apron—and followed her into a small drawing-room, crowded with little tables and chairs and occupied by a large black cat, asleep on a cushion, and a grey parrot.
The door closed and he looked around him. Early Victorian furniture, bright chintzes, modern china, photo frames, frilled cushions and a quantity of Benares work.
Over the draped chimney-piece a rosewood overmantel obtruded with carved cubicles, enclosing each a simpering statuette. The walls, buff with knots of roses, were dotted with plates, plush brackets and amateurish water colours, but the room was airy and spotlessly clean, with a certain homelike sense of comfort.
The parrot eyed him wickedly, his grey head on one side, and the black cat yawned in his face, red tongue curled, with sleepy disdain.
McTaggart's nervousness increased. Then he heard a brisk step, the door opened and in there came a trim, upright little figure in a blue "foulard" dress.
He gathered his wits and advanced to meet her. "I'm afraid you won't remember me—I must really apologize for coming..."
"Oh, yes, I do——" she cut him short—"quitewell"—and held out her hand.
"I met you at my sister-in-law's—Won't you sit down?" He found himself on the chintz-covered sofa facing his hostess.
Clear eyes, grey like Jill's, met his gaze, beneath a fringe, plainly false, of a brownish hue, safely secured by a band of black velvet. Beyond this line her natural hair, pepper and salt, seemed to proclaim, with emphasis, the honesty of the subterfuge and her intentions.
Her nose was sharp, her lips tight, her figure angular and spare, but he noticed she had beautiful hands on which gleamed some fine old rings.
"I was staying there when you lunched one day and took the children for a drive." She seemed to guess that he was nervous and set him at ease with well-bred tact.
"It's really about your niece I've called—I hope you will forgive the intrusion." He hesitated, finding it harder even than he had guessed it would be.
"Mrs. Uniacke's frightfully ill—but, of course, you know all about it?"
Her smile faded instantly; she drew herself up, very erect. "I haven't the slightest pity for her." Her voice was cold and definite. "Her conduct is inexcusable!"
McTaggart saw how the land lay and decided to be diplomatic.
"I rather agree with you," he said, "my sympathy is all for Jill."
"Disgraceful," the little lady continued, "my brother's name dragged in the dust. I think Mary must be mad!—And I hope this illness will be a lesson."
"You haven't seen her, I suppose?"
"And I don't intend to!" Her mouth snapped. "It's quite bad enough to think of Edward's wife in a common prison."
"I understand how you feel," McTaggart nodded his head gravely—"but the worst of it is it's killing Jill."
The little old maid started at this.
"Jill? What's that child got to do with it?"
"Everything"—McTaggart frowned—"nurse her mother, help with the cooking, and sit up, besides, night after night. She can't go on—she's bound to break down—and nobody seems to care in the least." He saw a shade of anxiety settle on the thin face. ("It's all right"—he said to himself—"she's fond of her niece.") His courage rose. "That's why I've come to you, I feel so awfully sorry for Jill—and Mrs. Uniacke's no good—I really thought you ought to know."
"You did quite right. I'd no idea." Her grey eyes flashed as she spoke. "Mary's not fit to have children!"
The scorn of the unmarried sounded.
"I'm so relieved." McTaggart smiled. "I felt it was no business of mine and wondered how you would receive me. But now—since you're so kind—I want to make a certain suggestion. It seems they won't hear of a nurse——" the young man went a trifle red—"Of course—they must have a lot of expenses—education and all that, and I want to be allowed to help.
"As it happens I've been left ... rather a large fortune lately and I don't know what to do with the money—it's a fact, I assure you..." he hurried on—"and if you agree to it, I thought I'd see about a good trained nurse—for night work—to relieve Jill. We're such old friends——" his voice pleaded—"only you see she's awfully proud, so I thought if I might use your name Jill need never know about it. I suppose you'll think it awful cheek," boyishly he added the clause—"for a stranger to come and suggest this—but I've known Jill all my life."
There followed an embarrassing pause. He could feel the keen grey eyes upon him and looked away, his gaze fixed on a goblet of Bohemian glass with "Grüss!" inscribed in gilt upon it.
Over Miss Uniacke's wrinkled face a grim smile began to steal.
"Hm ... I see. You want to indulge in philanthropy—at the expense of my conscience?"
McTaggart, glancing up, caught a twinkle in her eyes.
"Exactly—we can both afford it!—I knew, somehow, you'd be kind."
"Did you?" She chuckled, inwardly pleased. "You seem to take a lot for granted. May I ask the reason why?"
"Well—if you want to know..." he smiled. "No—I'd better not." He checked himself mischievously, studying her face.
"Jill, I suppose, or, perhaps, Roddy?—I sent that young rascal a hamper lately—I expect he's been deceiving you! I only do it because, as it happens, Mrs. Belsey likes cooking. And I don't eat cakes myself—so it pleases her—and I hate waste!"
"No. Roddy's been most discreet!" He paused, then risked it, laughing.
"I guessed it from your beautiful hands! There's such a lot of character to be learnt from hands——" he went on calmly, enjoying her indignant surprise. "I always judge people by them, and I'm never very far wrong!"
"You're a very impertinent young man!"
The smile she could no longer repress robbed the words of their sting—"Now before I answer your ... rigmarole—I want to think."
McTaggart nodded. He was well pleased with his mission and he felt a personal interest in this singular new acquaintance, with her sharp tongue and kind eyes.
Absently, from a black silk bag, Miss Uniacke drew a bundle of wool and began to knit rapidly, thinking aloud, between the stitches.
"Three, four, five, purl—the woman's an utter fool—always told Edward so!—seven, eight, drop one. But there's the girl to consider—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—dirty house, no management—nineteen, twenty, knit one, turn..."
Silence fell in the darkening room.
Then from behind the sofa came the startling sound of a noisy kiss.
McTaggart wheeled round in wonder.
"Pret-ty Polly—give-us-a-kiss!" followed by a grave "A-men." The grey parrot, upside down, clinging to his narrow perch, let out a mocking laugh. Miss Uniacke knitted on.
"Seven, eight—strong soup—nine, purl—some good old port—ridiculous! a child of that age—ten, eleven, wants air—drop one—and nine hours sleep. Pity they let her out of prison—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, turn—If I had my way I'd shave their heads. Soon cure this Suffrage nonsense—Three, four——"
McTaggart felt a wild desire to laugh aloud, as from the window the parrot indulged in a hoarse and fervent "Damn!"
"Oh!" Miss Uniacke rose to her feet. "Youbadbird. You shall go to bed——" She seized a green baize cloth and threw it nimbly over the cage. "I can'tthinkwhere he learns these words."
At the shocked note in her voice McTaggart straightened his face.
"I expect he lived with a Suffragette before he came to you," he suggested—"and once they get the fever, you know, it's all up with their morals. He'll be out breaking windows next!"
Miss Uniacke chuckled grimly.
"Well——" she laid her knitting down and folded her slim white hands. "I've made up my mind, Mr. McTaggart. I can't allow Jill to suffer. I'm much obliged for your kind offer but there's a better way by far. I shall go and look after Mary myself."
She said it with an air of triumph.
"It will be an excellent opportunity to break her of this Suffrage nonsense." She caught McTaggart's look of alarm. "Don't be afraid—I'm a capital nurse—I mean, of course, when she's convalescent. What she wants now is rest and sleep—and good food. Did you say they hadn't a cook?"
"I don't think so—I understand she left, furious, on the day Mrs. Uniacke went to prison."
"I don't blame her." The silk dress rustled. "Then there's only that slatternly housemaid left to help Jill?"
"So I gather—unless Stephen condescends to black the boots!"
"Ha!" The little lady snorted—"Sohe'sabout still, is he?"
McTaggart was conscious of a slip. He wished he hadn't mentioned the man.
"I can't say. I know he's at large. I don't fancy prison fare appeals to him—he's rather dainty."
"Not a friend of yours, I see."
Miss Uniacke's bright eyes surveyed him almost lovingly—"Well—he won't enter that house while I'm there," she decided tartly.
"Now, to business"—she went on, after a pause, "I'll shut up the flat as soon as I can. I always do for the Summer months and it's only a few weeks earlier—and take both my maids with me. Anyhow, until I can get the house in order and find a cook for Mary. Maria's a good nurse. She's been with me eighteen years and Mrs. Belsey understands invalid soups—she's an excellent woman and a strict teetotaller. So you can set your mind at rest—about Jill, I mean." She smiled as McTaggart rose to his feet. "Come and see us when you like. I'm very much obliged to you. It's not often nowadays you find young men with any sense. The world's all upside down, with feeble boys and manly women!"
McTaggart held her pretty hand in his beyond the orthodox time.
"Perhaps," he asked, "you'd come for a spin now and then in my car?"
"And chaperone my niece—eh?"
The speech was not without malice. She saw his slightly guilty look and laughed outright.
"I understand—I was young once myself, you see."
"Aunt Elizabeth—you're a brick!" He dared the familiarity with his charming smile.
"Well—of all the impertinence!" her thin cheeks flushed a little. "We'll see. I make no rash promises. I shall try and get to Mary on Friday."
Her face suddenly clouded over.
"I'm glad now poor Edward's gone. It's a bad business for the children."
McTaggart felt immensely sorry. He saw she took it keenly to heart.
"I suppose"—his voice was very gentle—"you wouldn't care..." he hesitated—"to come and dine with me to-night—if you're disengaged—have nothing better? I'm only just back from abroad and find so many friends away. Won't you take pity on my loneliness?"
The little lady was inwardly flattered, but she laughed aside the invitation.
"Nonsense!—it's very kind, I'm sure ... but you don't want an old woman like me!"
"I do"—he smiled back at her. "Say you will?" He saw her glance furtively at the clock beyond. "There's loads of time—I'll change and return to fetch you. What about a theatre?"
Aunt Elizabeth was tempted.
"Well ... then—some quiet place without a band. As it happens I have a good ear for music and I won't risk my digestion by swallowing to Tango time! And—Marie Tempest, for choice—there's no nonsense about her!"
Her voice was brisk. "I'm tired of having sermons preached at me from the stage, or so-called 'Comedies'—which are nothing but an excuse for extravagant dress. I want to be amused, you see, not stunned by mere colour and light, and rows of common, simpering girls advertising for a husband."
With a characteristic gesture she straightened the wayward brown fringe.
"Inmyyoung days we went to the play to see people reallyact. But now everyone's attention is riveted on the production! A sort of marionette show in which the performers seem to count as auxiliaries to the epigrams parcelled out by the author. You don't hear people praise the art of the actor. Oh, dear, no. It's: 'Isn't it well put on?' or 'Aren't the dresses simplysweet?'"
McTaggart laughed heartily.
"There's a great deal in what you say. Well, I'll be back within the hour. I'm so glad you can come." He foresaw that the evening might prove a quaint experience in the company of his new friend with her sharp eyes and caustic tongue.
The little old maid smiled at him.
"You'll find me quite ready," she replied, "and looking forward to my treat."
But in her heart she was saying: "I believe the boy's fond of Jill. And Mary's such an utter fool! I must see into this myself. Edward, I know, would thank me for it. He seems a nice, manly fellow..."
Little McTaggart guessed her thoughts, nor the impulse prompting her to accept.
As he left the room he heard the parrot, shrouded and sulky, drawing corks!