A month had flown by on the swift wings of Summer. Already a crispness in the air heralded in Dame Autumn; with her rainbow-hued cloak trailing golds and reds, glittering with the diamonds strewn by the first hoar frost, as she passed.
At Worthing the beach marked the change of seasons. The bathing tents were folded up, the deck chairs had departed. Loving couples no longer lay stretched out on the warm pebbles, their faces hidden by handkerchiefs or the folds of a comic paper, in the fond belief—like the proverbial ostrich—that the rest of them (hands locked together or arms clinging around waists) was invisible to the critical public. The motor char-à-bancs ceased running, all save one that still plied on that straight white road that leads to Brighton, over the long bridge guarded by lions and past the little settlements of clustering bungalows.
In the back of that conveyance, on this particular sunny day, a single occupant was exposed to the keen breeze, protected by a motor veil of dark blue chiffon that obscured the outline of her face. The wide inviting stretch of sea with its curling waves, ivory tipped, was lost to her, and the silvery gleam of gulls dipping to the water. In the blue arch of the sky above, clouds of dazzling white were driven by the east wind, massed together to salute the great golden sun.
It was not only the heavy veil that shut the vision from her sight. For Mrs. Uniacke was not, in any sense, an observant woman. Beauty as beauty left her untouched or filled her with a faint distress. There was so much "to be done in life"—this was her strenuous daily creed—that to pause by the way and enjoy God's gifts became a sinful waste of the fleeting moments, destined to work.
Her restlessness of body and mind forbade that pleasant state in which the spirit frees itself from more material cares to absorb Nature's picture, utterly soothed by a sense of colour or light or of exquisite proportion.
Yet, for all her unconsciousness of the birth of a new season on Earth, a similar awakening stirred in the depths of her woman's heart. For the object of her journey was a meeting with Stephen Somerfield; her thoughts were full of that young man to the exclusion of all else.
The delicate flush on her bird-like face and the soft excitement in her eyes betrayed the emotions that warred within, self-accusing, yet triumphant. At the end of a long spell of silence Stephen had written a clever letter explaining away his neglect of Jill and throwing himself on the mother's mercy.
He had placed the blame on the girl's shoulders with a brief account of her attitude vis-à-vis to himself, her rebellious disregard of his wishes, her flat refusal to take his advice.
"I can quite understand how you feel"—he wrote with apparent candour—"I can find no excuse for my conduct. But you must see how difficult it was for me to force myself on such a plainly unwilling companion—one, moreover, who had not scrupled to openly show her dislike to me.
"I was there in a semi-official position. I had my own work to do—not militant, it is true, but important in its lesser way. On my arrival the night before I found a mass of correspondence—the trouble incident to the fire, police reports, etc., etc.—and had I not known your keen desire that Jill should be left in my charge, I should not have gone to the meeting at all, but acted as I eventually did.
"I see now that I was wrong to stay away, but—to speak plainly—Jill had beensorude to me that my pride at last rose in arms.
"I knew she was with some excellent women, two of whom were your personal friends, and, of course, I hadn't the faintest idea there was likely to be serious trouble.
"Believe me, dear Mrs. Uniacke, I am more grieved than I can express..." the letter became personal, dealing with the break in their friendship, begged humbly for forgiveness and craved a "final interview" at Brighton, where he awaited her answer.
Luckily for the young man's object, his apology had been well timed, arriving at Worthing late one evening at the close of a stormy family scene.
Mrs. Uniacke's displeasure had fallen heavily on Jill. For Roddy, at last, had summoned courage to approach his mother on the subject of the profession to which he aspired; to be met with immediate opposition, rendered more galling by contempt. "Become an Artist!" The soldier's widow stared at the boy's excited face. "Whoever heard of such nonsense? You'll go to Sandhurst if I can afford it—that was what your father planned."
Jill had plunged into the fray, backing up the youthful rebel, had lost her temper and spoken strongly, stirred by her own College traditions, on the liberty due to the new generation.
Mrs. Uniacke, whose strength did not lie in argument, claimed that until he came of age Roddy owed her unswerving obedience.
Jill had actually laughed at this.
"You can't expect it—not on a subject as serious as his whole future. He's a human being—just like you!—Why can't he have a voice in the matter? He's not fitted for a soldier—he's an artist to his finger tips. Well!—you can try and send him to Sandhurst but you can'tmakehim pass his Exams!"
Roddy, white lipped and deeply hurt, had caught his sister's eye and chuckled.
"That's a sound idea," he said. "Thank you, Jill—I won't forget."
At this point Mrs. Uniacke had fallen back on her last resource—tears; and, her handkerchief to her eyes, had ordered her children up to bed.
"Just as if we still wore socks!" Jill, rebellious, had whispered as they climbed up the dingy stairs of the tiny furnished house by the sea. "Never mind, old boy—youshan'tbe a soldier. I'll see to that. In a few years' time I'll have my money that Father left me. She can't touch that! I believe Aunt Elizabeth would help if it came to a pinch..." she broke off as "Rat-tat"—down below came the postman's knock.
She leaned over the banisters and called to the servant in the hall.
"Anything for me, Ada?"
"No, miss—one for your mother."
A shadow fell across Jill's face. She longed for a letter from McTaggart, now staying with the Leasons. Then she smiled back at her brother.
"Let's hope it's not from Stephen!"
"Pity she doesn't makehima soldier. He'd get the V.C.——" said the boy. At this they both laughed aloud.
Mrs. Uniacke, in the drawing-room, heard the sound and hardened her heart. With trembling fingers she tore the envelope open and hastily read the contents.
She had quarrelled with Stephen on Jill's behalf ... The simple fact in her present mood was magnified into sacrifice of her own happiness for her daughter.
A lonely woman—so she judged herself, plaintively—she had severed the link that bound her to her truest friend ... Her thoughts ran on tumultuously.
Obeying a sudden powerful impulse, she sat down, then and there, and wrote an answer to the man, agreeing to an interview.
The next morning she had a wire begging her to come to lunch at the little hotel where he stayed. Defiance of her children's opinion had spurred her into a prompt acceptance and here she was, embarked on adventure, without their faintest suspicion of it.
She had advanced, as her excuse for the journey, a day's shopping at Brighton, salving her conscience with the thought of several commissions she might do. Jill, still in heavy disgrace, had breathed an inward sigh of relief, little guessing the real cause for the outing was the hated Stephen.
Now, as the heavy char-à-banc churned along the dusty road, Mrs. Uniacke's mind was bent on the approaching interview. She would not acknowledge to herself how much the man meant in her life. With resolutely blind-fold eyes she called herself his "Second Mother."
But, in truth, a new feeling had crept into their intercourse of late, a hint of sentiment veiled in respect, that held no trace of maternal love. He ruled her under the smiling mask of a fellow worker—a willing slave! And for this delicate, middle-aged lady an Indian Summer tide of love had dawned unrealized: a love that was none the less perilous for its comfortable cloak of friendship.
For little Mrs. Uniacke, that ardent champion of Woman's Rights, was a slave herself—to convention. She knew to an inch what was "proper" and appropriate to "her dignity." He was young enough to be her son. That placed the intimacy to her simple mind on a decorous footing. She could exert a motherly "influence" over his life.
The char-à-banc put her down opposite the Aquarium. She had but a few steps to walk up the Old Steine to find the Hotel facing the narrow side street and advertising "superb sea view."
A German waiter greeted her, struggling into his tail-coat.
"Ach yes! By hier, Madame. Mizter Zomerfield, 'e waits..."
He threw open a dingy door marked "Private." For the first time Mrs. Uniacke felt a slight sense of embarrassment—the shrinking that a stranger knows on landing in an unknown country.
But the next moment she stood inside a small sitting-room, neatly furnished, with a luncheon table, gay with flowers, laid for two. She was alone.
As the door closed she turned to the glass and threw back her veil with a sigh of relief.
In the gray light filtering through the somewhat heavily curtained window her face looked surprisingly youthful. The delicate colour in her cheeks, the bright eyes and soft hair were framed by the floating folds of chiffon; her figure, still slender, was almost girlish in the coat and skirt of navy serge that opened over a white silk blouse, with its narrow tie of mauve ribbon.
And, for a moment, she felt startled. What was she doing in this place? She thrust away the faint scruple, conscious of its absurdity. Many a time had she and Stephen stayed together in hotels, engaged on their suffrage work, without the slightest self-consciousness.
Yet this was different...
Her colour heightened as she asked herself the reason why? Then she heard his step in the hall and turned quickly away from the glass.
Stephen, slim and elegant, in his grey flannels, stood before her, hand outstretched, a welcoming light in the long lashed green eyes.
"H'are you?" He held in his clasp her fingers that, despite her will, trembled slightly, and gazed down at the pretty flushed face.
"This is good of you, dear lady,"—his voice was low and sentimental. "More than I deserve, you know."
Carefully he closed the door as she murmured something in reply and came back to her side.
"I never saw you look so well! It's just too ... nice to have you here—and I'm goin' to ask a further favour——" he gave her a beseeching glance—"Just to postpone our ... business talk—and lunch first—without a word of all that painful Cluar affair.Dobe kind and say you will? I promise to listen afterwards——" boyishly he added the words—"to all that you have to say to me. I know you feel awfully vexed—but just—for a little—let's forget it."
Inwardly Mrs. Uniacke felt relieved at the postponement of the lecture she had prepared.
Still—there was her "dignity." She must uphold that at any cost.
"I should prefer to discuss it first. That was my object in coming here, as I wrote in my letter, Stephen."
"Ah—don't be hard on me," he broke in quickly, seeing her waver. "I've been through such a bad time." He gave a sigh that was genuine, aware of a new financial crisis. To quarrel with the woman before him was the last thing he desired. He owed her now a considerable sum of money, far more than he could repay. As friends this state of indebtedness could drift on indefinitely, but if it came to a real rupture? He shrank from the thought of a settlement.
Far better, he said to himself, to plunge deeper and make her his wife. And why not? It would mean a home and a certain settled future for him. He could lead his own life as before, with a little care for "appearances." The very fact of the years between them should make her indulgent to the faults of youth.
This was at the back of his mind, as he went on in a pleading voice: "And I'm notaltogetherto blame ... so do grant me this last favour." He glanced sideways at the table and his face brightened. In its pail of ice stood a large bottle, the neck wreathed in gold foil. This would help!
"Well—it's a bargain?"—he smiled at her—"no real business till after lunch—it will be like old times!—And then—you shall scold me as much as you wish!"
Mrs. Uniacke gave way, conscious of the familiar charm. Stephen, inwardly amused, rang the bell and they sat down.
The meal had been ordered with special care. Few women, accustomed daily to study the tastes of their men at home before their own choice of dishes, can resist the subtle appeal of a menu, ordered by one of the opposite sex, in which each item shows an unselfish effort to please the invited guest.
Mrs. Uniacke ate lobster and crisp salad (which she loved)—grouse (sternly forbidden at home on the score of extravagance) and confessed gaily to greediness when a chocolate soufflé was laid before her followed up by hothouse peaches and a fragrant cup of coffee. Even her favourite "marrons glacés" graced the narrow luncheon table and the air was sweet with the scent of roses in their last glory of second bloom.
"What a banquet! My dear boy—I'm afraid you've ruined yourself for me. But I really have enjoyed it so!" (The champagne had done its work. Like all women who suffer from nerves alcohol took immediate effect, to be followed, however, by a reaction almost as quick, and lachrymose.)
Stephen knew this and decided to burn his boats without delay.
"Nothing's good enough for you!" He left his seat and handed her a cigarette with a smile.
But she laughed it away, her eyes bright.
"I never smoke—you know that, Stephen."
"Try one. I think you'd look prettier still..." he checked himself. "Sorry—it slipped out!—I forgot you always hated compliments."
"You forget I'm an old woman!" She caught at the phrase in self-defence. "Old enough to be your mother."
"You...?"—he stooped over her—"I ... sometimes ... almost wish you were!"
"Stephen!"—she drew away, startled. "You mustn't talk like that!" But she felt a curious exultation, a sudden throb of fear and pride. For oh! Youth is sweet to hold and sad to lose; and a woman clings to the delusion for long years after grey hairs appear.
"Well—I do. You're too ... sweet! Don't you know what it means to me? Have you neverevenguessed?" He broke off, his eyes dilated.
Mrs. Uniacke shrank back.
"Don't—you mustn't. Stephen!—you're mad!" ... For the man was on his knees by her side; her hands were caught, she could feel his lips, smooth and young, pressed upon them.
"I can't help it!—You knownow. Of course you'll send me out of your life. But, this once, I've got to tell you—I love you so!"—the words were out.
And, indeed, a spark of truth lay in the declaration. This lover's scene, carefully rehearsed by him, found him amazed at the strength of his own desire. He stood upon the brink of passion. For habit plays queer tricks, and the daily intercourse of years had flowered unseen. This was the fruit.
All that was good in Somerfield went out toward the loving woman who had played the part of mother to him, a lonely man through his own folly. And all that was base prompted him to take this chance that life still offered: a home, the tender care of a wife in the midst of financial ruin.
He had staked on the last deal of the cards. The costly lunch, the private room, the wine, the flowers ... his own youth ... thrown down with a gambler's hand.
But to the woman sitting there no such sordid picture rose. She was lost in a glory that dazzled her—this wonderful new gift of love!
Tears stole into her eyes over the bent head pressed to her hands—the thick, fair hair with its youthful gloss, the supple shoulders that breathed of strength. Could she—dare she live out the dream? For she knew, at last, that she loved Stephen; that this Indian Summer of life could be hers, a swift thrusting away of age.
No more need she face the lonely years.
Jill would marry. Roddy go forth to fight his battle with the world—to disappoint her cherished hopes. What was left her? The tears ran down.
"Stephen..."
He raised his eyes to hers, bewildered himself by his own emotion.
"I know——" a sudden despair gripped him. "Your children?" He watched her moodily, trying to define her thoughts. Then, as across some silent pool, a mischievous breeze sends an answering ripple, he saw a wave of resentment pass over her tense and delicate face.
"Jill!" The name slipped from her lips. The old rancour against the child who had outgrown her, forming views on life apart from the mother's standard and held to them, strong, rebellious, rose up, flooding her with a painful sense of helplessness.
She did not see that her Suffrage work had interfered with that of her home, that her own involuntary neglect of her children had sapped her influence.
"I should not ask forJill'sadvice!—What does she ever care for mine? She will go her own way—to the end!—And so shall I."—Her voice rang with a new imperious note. Stephen saw he had gained the day.
"Mary!"—his arms were around her. "You will...? Youdo... care a little?"
Triumph flamed in his face but the fond woman saw only love.
"Wait——" she drew back, timid again. "I must think first. It's too serious. I can't answer you like this..." But the man held her still closer.
"You can—youshall!" He knew his power—"I want you. You shan't go from here—except as my promised wife! It's eitherthat—or good-bye." He felt her quiver at the word. "I can't stand it any more—this playing at friendship—it's not fair! Say you love me—say it, Mary?" There came a desperate little pause.
Mrs. Uniacke felt the room spinning round before her eyes. In a mist she saw her lover's face, heard the ardent, pleading voice...
And the sense of a dream returned to her—a dream too sweet to relinquish. She must not—couldnot wake again!
With a stifled cry she kissed Stephen.
McTaggart, when he left the Leasons, broke his long journey home by a week's stay at North Berwick with a college friend, addicted to golf.
From thence he drifted down to Rugby, visiting his old school with the somewhat wistful pleasure that lies in conjuring up boyhood's days.
But all the time he was keenly aware of the magnet that drew him to the South. Each careless, friendly letter of Jill's increased his desire to see her. In Scotland he had met Cydonia, through a mischievous trick of Lady Leason's. But his old infatuation was dead. He could find no lingering charm about her.
Marriage had changed her whole outlook. For, with it, ambition seemed to have flowered, a late but very vigorous plant, to the absorption of her nature. More serious, more composed, she had that solid wedded look which marks a certain type of blonde, even in girlhood statuesque.
She ordered her little husband about with a regal calm, and entertained loftily her numerous guests, among whom the clergy were freely sprinkled. McTaggart found her heavy and dull and refused her pressing invitation to a week-end party, with a smile, realizing that he owed it alone to the change in his fortunes.
In the background of the historic Castle that the Flemmings had taken for the Summer Mrs. Cadell hovered, restless; superintending domestic details with a stern eye on her husband, when he turned up from time to time, a social trial to the guests.
Euan Flemming reminded McTaggart of the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
With his nervous manner and neat dress he seemed to exist in perpetual fear of offending those useful political props whom Cydonia collected on his behalf.
"Euan," she told her mother one day, "always talks to the wrong people. So now I have invented a sign which he understands and when I use it he moves on to another guest. It's really very tiresome of him! At the party I gave for the Premier he was lost to view for over an hour and I found him in the library showing his books to a struggling author and discussing a new method of binding!"
When he compared Cydonia with Jill at the luncheon party to which Lady Leason had invited the Flemmings during his visit, McTaggart wondered not a little at this love affair of his youth.
Even during the dinner that followed at the Castle, in all the magnificence of her surroundings, Cydonia left him shrewdly amused and indifferent.
He told himself that here again was a proof of the depths of his love for Jill.
Neither Fantine nor Mrs. Flemming could add a beat to his steady pulse.
At North Berwick a new temptation awaited him in his host's sister, one of the most beautiful girls he had seen for many a long year.
But, although daily opportunities for flirtation offered themselves to the pair, McTaggart reaped no advantage from them. They parted in firm but simple friendship.
Surely he knew his heart at last?—that vagrant double heart of his! No other woman could reign in it, side by side with his little Jill.
He loved her. And he felt afraid—a new experience for McTaggart! He began to fear that the sunny weeks by the sea might hold some dangerous rival; procrastination prove his undoing.
Jill herself, young, impulsive, might weary of such a tardy wooing; and he searched her letters anxiously, striving in vain to find some sign that the girl's heart was indeed his.
For they corresponded regularly. But the simple, almost boyish epistles rang with no note but friendliness, showed no desire for his return.
When he learned in a hurried line that Bethune had reappeared on the scene with his motor, taking the girl for a drive, it scattered his last remaining scruple. He left for London one bright day in late September, resolute to put an end to his "probation," seek out Jill and learn his fate.
On his way from St. Pancras he called at the Club on the chance of a letter, and a sudden memory assailed him of that other message found there, summoning him to Italy. It had changed the whole course of his life.
He recalled to mind his arrival at Siena; his interview with his new Aunt and his first faint doubts regarding a marriage with Cydonia.
Once more, in imagination, he stood in the long gallery lined with pictures—those faces of his ancestors which seemed to frown at the thought of Cadell!
A sudden wave of exultation went to his heart as he thought of Jill taking her place in that noble throng. Surely they would welcome her? Jill, with her frank simplicity—that truest mark of good descent—with her clean-cut, proud young face, her clever brain and fine courage.
As he turned over the pile of letters handed him by the Club porter, his thoughts were anxious. Yes—here it was! Bless the child! He hastened back to his waiting taxi with a feeling that no profane eyes must watch his face as he read her letter.
But at the first opening lines he frowned with an exclamation of disgust, aware that here was grave trouble, that the girl he loved faced despair.
"Damn the chap!"
He could hardly believe the astounding news. He bit his lip. Mrs. Uniacke had married Stephen! Why—it was incredible!
Secretly—at a Registry—in Brighton—the day before. No wonder Jill had always held such deep distrust of the "parasite!"
Mrs. Uniacke—and Stephen...
This was the end of the long "platonic" friendship between the curious pair, the "motherly interest" of the woman!—McTaggart sneered, his face hard.
"I don't know what to do with Roddy." Jill wrote from the depths of her heart. "I never saw him so cut up. Oh, Peter—isn't itdreadful? They've gone off on their honeymoon—for a fortnight, so Mother writes—and then Stephen's coming back—tolivewith us ... inFather'splace!"
McTaggart could hardly restrain his wrath.
"What a fool the woman must be! A dirty trick too—this secrecy—with her own children. Oh—damn the man. He's feathered his nest—you bet he has! Well——" he read the letter through—"that settles it—my affair! Jill shan't live for a day with Stephen as a stepfather. I'll see to that!—Hurry up!" he called to the driver and went on, forming his plans. "I'll go down to Worthing to-night. Those poor children—all alone! ... I call it a most cruel trick—suddenly springing her marriage upon them."
Mario was already there when he reached his rooms, busy unpacking.
McTaggart checked him.
"Look here—leave all that and throw some things into a bag. Enough for the night—I'm off in another hour to Worthing."
"Sissignore." The man's quick eyes fell on the letter McTaggart still held and he smiled to himself. He knew the writing well by now and the eager look it brought to his young master's face.
Here was "l'amore..."—(postmark Worthing!) The sooner the marriage came off the better. This was the valet's private thought. He hated these dingy, narrow rooms and longed for a better establishment. But out aloud he merely asked if McTaggart would need his services.
"No—I'll wire if I want you, Mario. Hurry, now—And put in that suit the tailor sent before we left. The blue serge—and some decent shirts. I haven't time to change now."
He picked up the A.B.C.—studied it and his face cleared.
"You'll have to meet me at Victoria—the Brighton line—seven-forty. Get me a first-class return—here's some money. I'm off to dine. You understand? And don't be late."
"The Signore can count on me." Mario's black eyes flashed. He revelled in this love affair.
"And good fortune go with you—long life—and many children!" he added softly to himself as the door closed with a bang. Then, with his quick, careful hands, he folded a pale grey tie that appealed to him—it looked bridal!—and thought tenderly of Lucia...
McTaggart bolted a hurried meal at Victoria, one eye on the clock. He caught up aGlobeas he passed the book stall and found his man in the front part of the long train, cool and collected, keeping the seat with his suit-case.
"Change at Brighton," said the guard. "You'll have twenty minutes to wait. Thank you, sir—there's no stop." He waved his arms—they were off.
The carriage held another man. McTaggart gave him a careless glance as they puffed out of the dark station and leaned back in his corner.
The stranger opened a narrow bag beside him and hunted for a cap. Unconsciously watching him, McTaggart saw that a stethoscope lay on the top of the littered contents.
"A doctor," he decided as his companion rose to his feet, and carefully placed his top-hat on the rack, then turned to McTaggart.
"D'you mind this window down?" he asked.
"Not at all—I should prefer it. It's close to-night."
The stranger nodded.
"I generally find it so in town—after Brighton, where I live."
McTaggart drew a breath of relief as the air circulated freely. His face was flushed from his hurried meal, his blue eyes bright with excitement.
"I expect you do." He opened his paper, not in the mood for conversation, carelessly skimming down the news, his mind partially abstracted.
But suddenly an exclamation broke, unconsciously, from his lips. He bent forward so that the light fell full on the sheet before him.
For a paragraph had caught his attention.
"Tragic Fate of a Harley Street Doctor." The headline was in leaded type. He read it through with amazement.
It could not be...? Yes—it was! The specialist he had consulted about his heart four years ago. The great man was insane! The paper danced before his eyes...
He steadied it and read on. The tragic scene was given in full where his confrères, hastily called in, had borne him off to an Asylum, their suspicions roused for some time past.
A series of grave mistakes, of "strange and eccentric diagnoses," had led up to the final lapse of self-control.
They had found him surrounded by his flowers, the room littered with fresh plants, playing like a little child—planning a garden on the floor.
Beyond, in the dingy dining-room, were patients waiting and wondering. The horrible pathos of the affair shocked McTaggart as he read.
But the memory of the doctor's words and his own curious case rose up, blotting out all other thoughts, as a strange conviction grew upon him.
His "double heart"...? Was it possible that this was one of the "grave mistakes?"—a fantastic theory born of that diseased, already failing brain.
He felt suddenly overcome. Tired from his earlier journey, with the bad news concerning Jill, and the hurry of the last hour, this fresh excitement was the climax. The colour faded from his cheeks. He leaned back and closed his eyes, unaware that the stranger opposite was watching him with grave attention.
Roused by his sharp exclamation, the doctor's professional interest was stirred by the sudden pallor following the feverish flush on the young man's face. He had marked the brilliance of the eyes and the strained air of excitement about him, the attentive care of his valet, and now this sudden look of prostration.
A wave of telepathy must have warned McTaggart of his scrutiny. He roused himself and glanced up, fired with an instantaneous resolve.
"Are you a doctor?" he asked abruptly.
So carried away was he by his thoughts that the strangeness of the sudden question did not occur to him at the moment.
The other showed no sign of surprise. "Yes." He moved quickly nearer.
"D'you feel seedy?" His voice was soothing.
"Good Lord, no!" McTaggart laughed, slightly ashamed, collecting his wits. "You must forgive me—the fact is I've just read some astounding news that bowled me over—in this paper—perhaps you've seen it?"——
He handed theGlobeacross, a finger that trembled slightly marking the famous paragraph.
"About the specialist? Yes—that's it," as the doctor gave it his attention. "It's an odd thing—I consulted the man a few years since about my heart. I'm wondering now if his verdict was wrong?"
The doctor's face went graver still. He guessed that the young man before him had suffered the dread of all heart patients and now this further anxiety had been added, with a sense of shock.
"They say there," went on McTaggart, "that his brain has been failing for some years—that he made mistakes—you see the line—'strange and eccentric diagnoses'—I wonder ... do you mind if I tell you?"
He hesitated, but the other answered: "Please do"—realizing that the strain might be lessened by a confidence.
"He said I had a double heart." McTaggart laughed nervously, as he saw the doctor's incredulous face, that went quickly blank again. "He said my circulation was good—that it didn't affect my health in the least. But there it was—a double heart—a separate organ on either side! It sounds mad—I'll admit that. But I never dreamed he could be mistaken—a man with a reputation like his!"
"Of course." The doctor nodded his head. "I believe therehavebeen cases on record. But I've never met anyone who had come across it—professionally or otherwise. It's quite unique."
"No?" McTaggart smiled back, relieved anew by the words. "I didn't bother much about it. There was no danger, so he said. But it's been ... I can't exactly explain—a sort of perpetual discomfort to me."
"I can quite understand that," said the other and his voice was full of sympathy. He had seen, at ambulance lectures, strong men faint at the sight of diagrams explaining the dangers that menaced the heart.
He knew the fear that underlay any weakness of that organ and he felt, too, a curious interest in the living case before his eyes.
McTaggart liked his new friend's face and the quiet courtesy of the man. He was urged anew by the first impulse that had moved him to confide in a stranger.
"Look here——" his voice was abrupt out of sheer nervousness. "I'm going to make an odd suggestion—I hope you won't be offended by it? The fact is—just now—it's rather important that I should know where I stand—and get to the bottom of this! I want to marry——" his colour rose under the bronze of his skin, but he went on doggedly, "I'd like to be quite sure—first. That I'm sound, you know—and all that ... I'm going down—to see her—to-night..."
The doctor's eyes began to twinkle as McTaggart laughed boyishly; then, gravely, he answered him.
"You're quite right—I wish more men would take that view of marriage! It's the sane one, theonlyone that's going to do any good to the race."
Quite unconsciously McTaggart had started him on his hobby, Eugenics. He felt drawn to the young fellow, with his frank speech and handsome face.
"I want you now, if you'll be so kind," McTaggart persisted—"to examine my heart. We're alone—it's a non-stop train—as private as any consulting room. But, of course, I know it's an odd request..." he stammered a little, hunting for words—"unprofessional, perhaps..." he broke off, finding it impossible to suggest a fee in the way he wished.
"Certainly," said his new friend, "if you really wish it. The only thing against it is the noise of the train. I should have preferred to wait until we reached Brighton. We shall get there very shortly and then if you would come back home with me I could make a thorough examination."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," said McTaggart. "I'm going straight on to Worthing. There wouldn't be time..." his face had dropped and the doctor, seeing it, made up his mind.
"Very well—we'll do it now. Luckily I've my stethoscope with me——" he opened his bag as he spoke. "I've been up to town to see a patient."
McTaggart stood up and took off his coat, then his waistcoat.
"It's awfully good of you—I'm really tremendously obliged..." he went on with his undressing.
But the doctor was almost as keen as himself to investigate this curious case. He said so—tactfully—to set his new patient at ease.
In a few minutes it was over.
"I can't find anything wrong with you. Your heart seems perfectly sound to me. The beat is a little fast just now, probably through excitement—but steady and strong. It ought to take you comfortably into your nineties!"
He smiled as he spoke, holding out his hand.
"I congratulate you—sound as a rock!"
McTaggart wrung it in speechless gratitude. Then he struggled into his clothes.
"Well—I'm glad that nightmare's over! My double heart—Good Lord!" His laugh hid more than the doctor guessed—those long years of indecision, of weakness in the hands of women...
What a fool he had been! He saw now how often he had excused himself in the past on the score of his physical peculiarity for what was merely lack of control.
They chatted for a little time. Then McTaggart, rather red, drew out his sovereign purse, but the doctor checked him with a gesture.
"No—I won't hear of it! It's been a pleasure—honestly. If you feel at all indebted to me—you might ask me to your wedding."
"I will. But I wish ... Look here, sir—there must be some Hospital you're interested in at Brighton. Perhaps you would give it ... this—from me?"
His new friend laughed.
"Well ... all right——" the coins changed hands. "You're a loser any way, you know. You've just got rid of an extra heart."
"Thank goodness!" McTaggart laughed—"I find one quite sufficient." His mind swerved aside to Jill, his face softening as he spoke.
The doctor guessed the trend of his thoughts and picked up the fallen paper.
"Will you lend me this for a few minutes?" He settled himself behind the folds, a smile on his rather stern face as the lover gazed out of the window.
They had come to that picturesque bridge of stone spanning the valley below the Downs and already the air was sharp and sweet with the first breath of the sea beyond.
Over the smooth curve of the hills a crescent moon was shining clear. The hushed Earth lay beneath, bathed in the silvery light ...
And, suddenly, a memory stirred in the young man's heart, filled with tender dreams of the girl he loved—the echo of long forgotten words.
"It's under the heavy cloud you stand ... the cloud of a lie ... but it clears ... it clears..."
McTaggart started at the thought. Why—by Heaven! she had been right. His "double heart?"
Itwasa lie. He tried to recall the gypsy's speech, the end of the curious prophecy. What was it she had said of the Moon? and the Tide...? He stared out into the night and slowly it returned to him, with the jingle of bangles, the noise of the Fair.
"Between two fires you will burn and burn—And then ... the light fades ... on the turn of the Tide ... there's the Lucky Moon and the Dream of your life...!"
The dream of his life?—Why, that meant Jill!
*****
At Worthing he found a single cab, with a driver, elderly, garrulous. He sat sideways on the box in order to point out local features of interest; the reins loose in his hands, throwing remarks back to McTaggart.
"Town 'All!" he waved his whip, a worn-out stump without a lash, toward that imposing structure. "The Picture Palace!—'Old up, me lass!" The ancient mare between the shafts responded coquettishly to the call, aware of the subtle compliment, tossing her venerable head.
"The Pier, sir—as was washed in 'alf in the big gale—a crool business. Cost the Corporation no end—This 'ere's the Promenade..."
McTaggart woke from his dream of Jill to gaze at the wide stretch of water.
The beach, white under the moon, shelved down to the smooth sand, dove-grey and broken by rocks low and black, where silver pools lay fringed with sea weed and emerald samphire.
It crept out, like an endless scroll, till it touched the dark line of sea and was met by a single crested wave that broke upon it, noiselessly.
"The tide is very low to-night?" McTaggart spoke at last to the driver.
"Yessir——" the man followed his gaze. "It 'ud be now just on the turn. Woodford Road, I think you said?"
"Yes. There's no number—it's called 'Rose Mount'!"
"Right, sir—I know the 'ouse." They turned abruptly from the sea, up a narrow road in the old town, passed a Terrace and came to a gate, open, that showed a curving alley between hedges, neatly clipped, of Euonymus, thick with dust.
The cab drew up and the man descended.
"An orkard place," he said, "with luggage. There's two cottages up there—'Sea-view' and 'Rose Mount.' The one you want is the last, on the right. Shall I carry yer bag, sir? The 'orse won't move."
"No—I'm not staying here," McTaggart hastily explained—"just going in to see some friends. I shall want you to wait—perhaps some time..." He glanced up the road as he spoke and saw that a little public house stood at the end of the empty street.
"You'd better go and have a drink. But keep an eye on my suit-case." He handed the smiling driver a shilling.
"Right, sir—thank ye. I'll be 'ere."
He took the coin, pocketed it, gazing up at the sky.
"Turning my money," he explained. "A new moon, sir—it brings luck."
"I hope so," said McTaggart. He felt oddly nervous now as he passed down the dusty path with its clipped hedge on either side.
A green door ended it, with a gaping crack, through which he peered and he saw a sun dried little garden where a few nasturtiums still straggled in a bed bordered with cockle shells.
He lifted the latch and walked in.
A cottage with a French window, wide open on the scrap of lawn, was before him, rendered picturesque by the magic light of the moon. Over the porch the last white rose of September hung, already withered but triumphant witness to the fact that the little dwelling had earned its name.
Someone was singing. The clear young voice reached McTaggart where he stood and a sudden rush of blood to his heart testified to its being Jill.
How he loved her! The very sound of her voice brought his secret home to him and he stole nearer to the house, tip-toe across the grass.
"My brown boy is hiding away,For he stole a horse, so they say.The county's men after him ride.My boy mocks them, safe by my side..."