Читать книгу The Man with the Double Heart - Muriel Hine - Страница 10

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Jill herself opened the door.

"Come in and have some coffee," her eyes passed from McTaggart to the big gray car. "Doesn't it look jolly! I'm longing to go in it, but I'm rather bothered too—I'll tell you why..."

She led the way through the hall into the dining-room, where the remains of a frugal lunch on a much-darned cloth were scattered around a dying fern in a tarnished brass pot, sole ornament of the long bare table.

The room had a forlorn look, with its dingy, crooked blinds, the mantel-piece littered with circulars above the feeble gas fire. It had the unhomelike air one associates with lodgings—a place to be used, not loved, and shunned when meals were over.

"Now don't say you can't come." McTaggart frowned severely—"because I mean to carry you off whether you like it or not. I've got the car for the day, and we'll go right into the country and have tea somewhere—at a little village pub!"

"Lovely!" Jill clapped her hands. She poured out a brimming cup of a thin and cloudy mixture from a chipped coffee-pot. "There you are!—Sugar? The only thing is I'd promised to go and see the baker's wife."

McTaggart laughed at her serious face.

"Oh, bother the baker's wife! Surely for one day you might relax your ... social efforts. Think of poor me."

"Poor you!" Jill mocked—"I shall have to go there first if we can fit it in. She's been so ill—it's rather a sad story, but I'll tell you if you like."

"Nothing infectious, I hope?" McTaggart stirred his muddy coffee; then, manfully, took a great gulp.

"Oh, dear, no." Jill's voice was calm. "She's had a baby, that's all." There came a little pause.

"It's dead too," the girl went on in clear, steady tones. "That's the cruel part. It needn't have been."

"No?" McTaggart felt somewhat at a loss. But Jill was plainly absorbed in the simple tragedy. She leaned towards him, elbows planted on the table, her chin propped on her hands, her eyes far away.

"She was such a nice little thing!—I've known her for years. She used to come with her grandmother, who did upholstery work, on Saturday afternoons and give her a hand. She, herself, was employed at a laundry and engaged to the baker even then.

"For five long years they saved all they could and at last they were married and took a tiny house next door to where our charwoman lives. It's not the baker himself, you know, but one of his employés who makes the bread—he's the head man. They were so happy, and then—all this trouble came!

"The 'bakers' went out on strike—d'you remember it?—and, bit by bit, all their savings melted away. The husband was worried out of his life. He couldn't go back on his pals, you see, or find any other job to do; and so at last his wife returned to the laundry and begged for some employment again.

"There happened to be a vacancy in the ironing room just then—far too heavy work for a delicate woman!—but the rate of pay is higher there, so, pluckily, she took it on. She kept this a secret from her husband and gave the latter to understand it was just a matter of light mending, without dangerous exertion. And in this way she earned enough to keep them afloat to the end of the strike. Then she collapsed—broke down utterly!—and her baby was born, before its time. The baker nearly went off his head when the true story leaked out. To think of her, with those heavy irons, on her feet all day in the heat and steam! ... I call her a real heroine." Jill's gray eyes flashed as she spoke, then softened as she added, sadly:

"But the baby died. It hadn't a chance, so the doctor said, and she was so ill. Now she's simply broken-hearted at losing it and can't pick up. I heard about it from our charwoman and promised to go and see her to-day. I must, Peter." Her voice was firm. "You won't mind if I call there first?"

"Of course not——" said McTaggart gravely. He felt a trifle taken aback by this pitiful, sordid chapter of life from the lips of his little friend: a man's discomfort, too, at the thought of her youthful knowledge of matters he deemed better kept from her awhile. He realised with sudden force the outlook, purely practical, of the growing generation of girls. Healthy, but somewhat startling too, this determination to face the facts of life in defiance of old traditions.

Jill still sat there, chin on hands, absorbed in the problem offered to her by this contrast in the life of the poor with that of the well-to-do around him.

Serenely devoid of self-consciousness she looked up suddenly at McTaggart, meeting the kindly blue eyes with a faint trouble in their depths.

"I wish these strikes could be avoided. They seem to bring such misery. I can't understand life at all!—the hopeless suffering involved..." Her voice held a note of rebellion.

"Everyone seems to be fighting hard, not for the present but the future—for something they'll never live to see!—ruining their own lives meanwhile. Supposing these strikers get their way—higher wages and all that—" she waved her hand with a broad gesture—"D'you think the generations ahead will be contented in their turn? Or will they be fighting for more, too? I don't see any end to it!"

"Well, I wouldn't worry if I were you," McTaggart nodded his head wisely. "I expect it's always been the same. It's what we're pleased to call 'Progress'.

"I think your plan's the best, my dear. To help and comfort where you can; and leave the larger questions alone for those who have really studied the matter.

"We'll go and see the baker's wife, and—can't we take her something, Jill? Food—or money? what d'you think?"

"Not money!" Jill winced. "They aren't really paupers, you know. It's so easy to hurt the pride of the poor—the working poor. We might get her some flowers."

"Well, come along then. Thanks for my coffee." He rose to his feet. "You'll want a thick coat, old girl, the wind's in the North—but a good blow will do you good—scatter the cobwebs."

As they passed into the hall he asked after Mrs. Uniacke.

"She's not very well." Jill still looked troubled. "She's gone to Reading for a suffrage meeting."

"I say—did you tell her about the baker's wife?" He tucked the rug closely around her as she settled herself in the car.

"Oh, yes." She gave him a comical glance, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Can't you guess what she said?"

But Peter was winding up the engine. He sprang back into his seat and the girl went on, raising her voice above the noisy throbbing note.

"She said—'You must try and win her at once to the Cause. Of course when we get the vote, all this will be put to rights.' They always think of the mass, you see, never of the individual. I suppose there's some truth in it." She paused doubtfully—"I wonder?"

"Well, I don't!" said McTaggart shortly. "I'm not very keen on present day politics, but I think when women are allowed to add a new party it will be a case of confusion worse confounded! So don't you go and get involved, Jill. You keep an open mind. I'd hate to see you in any way mixed up in this militant folly."

"Well—I wish Mother weren't. It's simply killing her. She hasn't the nerve for these perpetual scenes."

They slowed down at a corner where a flower-woman stood with a basket of yellow chrysanthemums.

"Will these do for you?" McTaggart bought a bunch and laid them in Jill's lap; the heavy golden heads on their long pale stems preserving their subtle and Eastern charm, as though a secret lay beneath the curled petals in each still and exquisite flower heart.

They twisted through mean streets until they came to a row of little houses behind the Circus Road.

"It's number 36," directed Jill; but as the car stopped before the door it was opened from within and a woman emerged, old and bent, shrouded in a shawl.

Jill got down and spoke to her, and after a few words returned to McTaggart's side.

"She's fast asleep"—her voice was hushed—"so I won't go in and wake her up." The woman, with suspicious eyes, stared at the young man in the car, as Jill took the flowers and held them out.

"Give her these, please, and say I'll come again. I'm so glad she's getting on. Thank you—good-bye."

McTaggart was amused at the lack of gratitude. For the woman took the offering without another word. He guessed shrewdly that the sight of the car—the outward sign of luxury—had roused the deep slumbering resentment of the poor, their latent fear of being patronized.

"Charming old lady," he suggested. But Jill seemed unconscious of the slight.

"That's her Aunt," she informed him with a sigh, spelling relief at a duty done. "She's come from Stratford to look after her. So now we can have a lovely drive."

She turned a smiling face toward him, cheeks rosy with the air, keen and crisp, of the winter day, and drew the shabby fur tighter round her throat as the car backed slowly out of the narrow road.

"Where are we going?"

"That's for you to decide. But I think through Hampstead, now we've come this way. Sure you're warm enough? I put in my other coat—so burrow into that if the wind gets keen."

He turned the car up the long hilly road leading to Swiss Cottage and leaned back easily.

"How's school going?" He smiled at her with pride. She looked so pretty with her childish, flushed cheeks.

"College, d'you mean?" Jill corrected him. "Nothing exciting since the row over ancient history. I'm working rather hard for the Exams now."

"I don't think you told me that. Let's hear about it."

"Well, it's rather a long story——" she settled herself back with her cold hands thrust beneath the fur rug. "So if you get bored, please say so at once."

"Fire away," McTaggart observed.

"You remember that unholy fuss last Boat Race day? When I and the other Cambridge girls held the Bun Shop against Oxford?"

"No—not exactly. What Bun Shop?"

McTaggart saw fun ahead, for Jill's gray eyes were full of mischief beneath their dark lashes. He noticed, for the first time, how long and thick they were, curling back in a rippling line that cast a faint shadow when she lowered the lids.

"Oh, the Bun Shop is a little room in the basement of the college where old Mother Griggs sells all sorts of cakes, sticks of chocolate and hot coffee—for 'Elevens' or lunch, you know. It's at the end of a long passage, quite by itself, with just a counter across it and a dim religious sort of light from a top-window into the area. There Mother Griggs sits and barters—rather like a grim old idol—and in between she grumbles and knits socks. She must have knitted hundreds by now! Well, on boat race day we all wear colors—I'm Cambridge, of course, because Uncle was at King's. And some Oxford girl had a wonderful cousin who was rowing in the boat. So she simply 'swanked,' you know, and swore Oxford was sure to win. The end of it was we got riled. So we formed up into the Bun Shop—all of us Cambridge girls—and we held the place against Oxford right through the mid-day hour—— We wouldn't let a single Dark Blue pass. It was fun!—a gorgeous scrimmage. Until some sneak went up and told, and down came the Principal. As luck would have it, she fell on me. So I got put in the Black Book."

She paused for breath as they crossed FitzJohn's Parade and started on the steep climb to Hampstead.

McTaggart glanced at her and laughed.

"What does that mean?" he inquired.

"The very worst." Her voice was tragic. "It's the only punishment we get. You see, it's not like any school. It's run on University lines. Just lectures you're supposed to attend and if you don't it's your lookout—you get ploughed in the Exams. But for any serious, big offence your name is written in the Black Book. And after a third entry (which rarely happens) you're 'sent down'—that is, expelled."

"Phew...!" McTaggart whistled. "May I ask how many times you've managed to get yourself inscribed?"

"Twice." The girl's face was grave. "It's bad luck, isn't it? And the other day at ancient history I very nearly was nabbed again!"

She paused for a moment to turn the collar of her coat up round her ears. Her eyes above the gray fur shone like stars in the frosty air.

"We got a new Professor last term; rather young, just down from Oxford. I don't think..." she smiled mischievously—"he quite understands girls. It isn't like a school, you see. We're rather keen on that idea. We don't mind hard work or a man who insists on our attention. But the Professor thought it funny to—well, to patronize, you know. He used to be satirical and make allowance for female brains. Just as if we weren't as sharp—and sharper, too, than a pack of boys! He had bright ginger hair and a brand-new cap and gown—rather a 'nut'!"—McTaggart roared—"with a drawly sort of 'superior' voice. Well, Judy Seton——" Jill broke off—"she's a pal of mine—a splendid girl, always up to sport—arrived one day just before his lecture and handed round envelopes. Inside was a card and stitched to it was a little curl cut off a door-mat—one of those ginger ones, you know. It's woolly stuff, but exactly the shade of the Professor's Titian glory!

"Underneath it she had written—'In fond memory'—and below—'R.I.P. The Oxford man—ah!'

"We were all in the class-room ready for lecture and some girl had a box of pins. So it ended in our fastening the love-locks over our hearts!

"Well, presently my Lord arrives, in his brand-new cap and gown with his sheaf of notes, and mounts the platform, very suave and very bored.

"And the first thing that he did—you'd never believe it!—was to run his hand smoothly across his head.

"'He's missing them!' Judy whispered, and, of course, we all went off at that. We daren't laugh out aloud, but there we were, giggling hopelessly, while the Professor glared at us.

"He started in his most sarcastic voice:

"'A little less amusement, ladies. I can understand that it is difficult for youth to stoop to serious subjects...' And then he stopped with a little gasp and we knew he had seen the red curls! Just at that moment the door opened and in came a lady visitor. You know they're sort of inquisitors, very often 'old girls'—who can walk into any class-room and sit there to hear a lecture. Judy calls them 'Propriety Pills,' and, although some are really nice, here and there you get a Tartar who carries stories to the Principal.

"This one was a Mrs. Bevis—we'd nicknamed her 'The Beaver.' She really was rather like that animal, with a snub-nosed, anxious face, and she always wore a black mantle and waddled as she walked. Well—you're sure you're not bored?"

"Sure." McTaggart's voice was hearty. This sidelight on a school for girls was entertaining and unexpected.

"Go on. What happened then?"

"The Professor gave the Beaver a chair by the fire, facing the room. We'd hurriedly removed the curls during their polite palaver. This is the idiotic part. I'd put mine into a book that lay with others on my desk. I didn't notice at the time that it was an 'Ancient History.' As it happened, that day I was sitting just beneath the platform. We were, all of us, solemn as owls under the Beaver's sharp black eyes. For she's about the worst of the pack for nosing out any trouble.

"The Professor lent her his primer and started on the lecture, still looking a little flushed, while we were busy taking notes. As luck would have it, midway, some date tripped him up and before I could collect my wits he asked me for my 'Ancient History.'"

"Where the curl was?" McTaggart suggested.

"Exactly." Jill's voice was tragic. "He leaned down from the platform and picked it up off my desk. Of course, it opened at the page! There was the red lock—the card as well!

"You can just imagine how I felt and I heard Judy Seton gasp. Luckily the Beaver missed it. The Professor never said a word, but his face was like a thunder-cloud. He hunted up the date he wanted, closed the book with a snap and put it down on his desk. At the end of the lecture he handed it back with a curt word of thanks and went off with the 'lady visitor,' talking fourteen to the dozen."

"That's not the end?" McTaggart saw by the girl's face there was more to follow.

"No—of course not. All that morning I simply sat on thorns, expecting between every lecture to be sent for by the Principal. But nothing happened. At five o'clock I went down from my last lecture and passed by the Professors' room, where the door was wide open. Inside was Mr. Jackson—the Professor—you know—writing hard. So, then, I had an inspiration. I knocked and said: 'May I speak to you, sir?' And he wheeled round, looked surprised and said in a chilly voice:

"'Certainly. What do you want?'

"It was no good mincing matters, so I asked, outright:

"'Are you going to report me, sir?'

"He didn't answer for a moment. He seemed to be thinking hard. Then, in the same cold, absent manner——

"'No.' Just that and nothing more."

Jill stopped, her attention caught by the first glimpse of the open heath as the car breasted the last rise, and the wind came blustering in their teeth.

"Oh, isn't it lovely here!" She drew a deep breath of content.

"Straight across?" McTaggart asked. She nodded her head, her eyes fixed on the far-away vista of trees, bare but shrouded in a violet haze.

Over Hendon a misty sun was veiled in banks of gray clouds, but high in the sky a wide streak showed of a pale and tender bird's egg blue.

"Well—what happened next?" McTaggart brought her, with a sudden drop, back to earth.

"Oh ... I felt so relieved I just rushed ahead, you know. I told him he was a regular brick! And then, as he seemed a bit surprised, I explained about the Black Book—how a third entry now might end in my being sent down for good.'

"'Good Heavens!' he said, 'I'd no idea,' and, really, he looked sympathetic. So I said I was awfully sorry that we'd all of us played the goat. Well, what d'you think he said then? quite simply—without 'side.'

"'It's partly my own fault, too ... I'm not popular, I know—I can't get the atmosphere...'

"You might have knocked me down with a feather!"

"I'll bet anything you explained it!" McTaggart smiled to himself.

"Why, of course I did." Jill stared at him. "I felt so awfully sorry. I said:

"'Look here, sir, we'd like you all right if only you'd treat us more like men. It's not a girl's school, it's a college. And lots of us are working hard to earn our own living when we leave. So, perhaps, we think a good deal of the ... usefulness of our work. We like to feel the Professors know it, and help and ... respect us—just like men. In the senior lectures most of us, too, are in our third year course, you know, and you treat us exactly like the juniors! It's all wrong, sir, don't you see?'"

"Bravo you! ..." McTaggart cried. "How did he take your ... candid help?"

"He said: 'Thank you—I see the point—you aren't Freshers any more. And, perhaps ... Yes—the manner's wrong.' Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. 'The Oxford man—ah! eh, Miss Uniacke?'

"I felt rather a fool then, Peter."

Irrelevantly, she added: "He's got nice eyes when he laughs."

"Oh ... Jill, Jill!" McTaggart's glance swerved from the steering wheel aside to find his little friend's face flushed beyond the excuse of the breeze.

"Anyhow, we shook hands," Jill went on hurriedly, "and he said, 'Well I hope at the next lecture I shall find a more attentive class.'"

"So I told him I'd see to that! and I went downstairs and talked to the girls. And the next Friday we were good. You could hear a pin fall," Jill laughed.

"I must say he looked nervous but, when the lecture was over and he stood on the platform ready to leave, Judy got up and gave the signal—'Three Cheers for Mr. Jackson.'

"We let it rip—such a row! He looked rather taken aback but awfully pleased, said 'Thank you, ladies,' and then simply did a bolt."

"Well, I'm blessed!" McTaggart roared—"but glad I'm not a Professor for girls."

"We thought him such a brick, you see, for not reporting the whole matter. And, after all," Jill smiled—"he can't help his red hair."

"Nor his 'nice eyes'?" Peter added.

But Jill refused to be drawn.