Читать книгу The Man with the Double Heart - Muriel Hine - Страница 5

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McTaggart walked down Harley Street, his blue eyes full of light, still hugging the consciousness of a new lease of life.

High above him an orange sun was swung in the misty heavens, putting to shame the wistful gleam of the pale lamps below, with their air of straggling revellers caught by the dawn. A carriage rolled down the street and was met by a passing taxi, and then, as he moved forward rejoicing to himself, into the foggy calm came a sudden stir of life: the sound of young voices, of laughter and light feet.

From under a gloomy portico a crowd of girls swept forth, gathered in groups of twos and threes and dissolved into the fog, chattering and linking arms, swinging bags of books, north and south they scattered with a sweet note of youth.

And at the sight McTaggart came to a sudden halt, conscious that he had received the answer to his prayer; that steadily growing wish for the presence of a friend to share in the new-born exuberance of his mood.

He crossed the street quickly and joined in the crowd, receiving demure glances of studied unconcern and here and there a frown from elderly duennas whose acid displeasure added to his amusement. But cool, and imperturbable, he proceeded to run the gauntlet until on the steps of the College itself he saw a lonely figure busily engaged in tightening the strap that held together exercises and books.

His hand was already midway to his hat when the girl raised a pair of dark-fringed gray eyes and favoured him with a cold glance of non-recognition. For a second McTaggart stared, clearly taken aback. Then, with an impatient gesture, he walked straight past, recrossed the road and turned up a side street. Here he slackened his pace, and, smiling to himself, was presently rewarded by the sound of hurrying steps; but, conscious of former warnings, refrained from looking back until a breathless voice sounded in his ear.

"Peter!"

He walked on with mischievous intention,

"Peter—it's me!" He felt a touch on his arm.

"Hullo!" He wheeled round. "Why, it's Jill!—what a surprise!"

The gray-eyed girl looked up at him with a reproving frown, at his handsome, laughing face and unrepentant air.

"I wish you'd remember!" She stood there, slim and straight; as it seemed to him, a-quiver with the miracle of life. For not all the shabby clothes she wore, from the little squirrel cap which, with the tie about her throat, had seen better days, to the short tweed skirt revealing mended boots, could mar the spring-like radiance of her golden youth.

"You're a prim little school miss," said McTaggart teasingly.

"I'm not." She drew back, her head very high, the thick plait of dark hair swinging with the movement.

"You don't understand, you really are dense! I've told you heaps of times, not in Harley Street."

He gave a happy chuckle, warming to the fray. "Now, don't stand there quarrelling, but give me your books. I'll walk home with you if you're a good girl."

Unresisted he took the strap from her, with its tightly wedged pencil case above the school primers. For her thoughts were far away, her dark brows drawn together as she went on steadily in her own defence.

"I hate being cross with you—but it's not fair play! You wouldn't like it yourself if you were me, Peter. It didn't matter last year when I was in the Juniors, but now I'm a First Senior" ... pride lay in the words ... "it's quite a different thing. We think it jolly bad form in my set, you know."

Instinctively in talking she had fallen into his step. McTaggart glanced sideways, as they turned up Portland Place, at the pretty, flushed face with its dark frame of hair under the little furry cap, pulled close about her ears.

"All right, Jill. I won't do it again. I'll admit I was tempted, being sorely in need of a pal. I'd just been through a bad half hour, you see, and was weakly yearning for a little sympathy."

She looked up quickly with affectionate concern; for he knew the royal road to her instant forgiveness.

"Bills?" He laughed aloud at the laconic suggestion. Then a shade of pity seized the man. Despite her youthful years she spoke from experience.

"Not this time." On the verge of confidence, he checked himself, moved by a sudden reticence.

"Do you think your mother would give me some lunch? Or, better still, will you come and lunch with me?"

He halted as he spoke. "There's Pagani's now, it's not far from here,—in Great Portland Street."

She shook her head. "I'd love to"—her voice was regretful—"but I must get back. I've promised Roddy. He's home for his exeat and we're going to the Zoo. You'd better lunch with us if you don't mind pot luck. But we mustn't be late; we've got a new cook."

"Another?" McTaggart laughed. It seemed a familiar joke.

"The fourth since the Summer," the girl answered dryly. "But Stephen found this one, so she ought to be perfect!"

They turned up the Broad Walk where the fog still hung, white and shadowy over the sodden grass. Here and there a nurse moved with steady intention, children trotting beside her, homeward to lunch; and upon a damp bench, oblivious of the weather, a loving couple lingered, speechlessly hand in hand.

"And how is the great Stephen? I haven't seen him for years."

"Oh, he's just the same." The girl's voice was weary. She stared straight ahead as they swung along together, and a short silence followed that both understood. For they met here on the grounds of a common mistrust, and a hatred shared is a stronger link than even that of love. At the turnstile McTaggart paused, watching her thoughtful face.

"Let's go by the Inner Circle, it's a much nicer way."

"All right." The words were husky, and, as she passed through, the dark lashes hid from him her downcast eyes. But not before McTaggart had seen what she tried to disguise—the tears standing there in their clear gray depths.

"Why, Jill!—why, my dear, whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing." She bit her under lip, furious with herself.

The fog swallowed them up again in the narrow hedged-in road, and McTaggart tucked a hand through his companion's arm.

"Tell me all about it," he said persuasively, "a worry only grows by being bottled up."

She gave him a swift look from under her wet lashes, tempted by the sympathy which rang in his voice.

"It's Stephen. That's all."

"I thought so," his face was dark; "what's he been doing now? What a rotter the fellow is!"

"It's not so much what he does," she pulled herself together and with a defiant gesture passed a hand across her eyes. "It's the fact of his being there, all day long ... it's difficult to explain. But I can't bear to see him, sitting in Father's chair, as if it were his by right, as though he were the master..."

She broke off indignantly, her tears dried by anger, her smooth cheeks flushed, her hand unconsciously tightening on his arm.

"It makes Roddy furious! Of course he's only a boy, but he's such an old dear,"—her love for her brother was plain. "If only Stephen would let him alone instead of teasing him! He treats him like a kid, with a 'Run away and play!' And no boy will stand that—in his own home too! And of course there are rows, and Mother takes his side."

"What—Stephen's?" McTaggart stared in surprise.

"Rather! He can't do wrong—'poor dear Stephen'! And it's no good chiming in, it only makes things worse. For if I do Mother says it's because ... I'm jealous."

The little break in her voice showed how deep the shaft had sped.

"Poor old girl"—McTaggart pressed her arm. "It's jolly rough on you—I'd like to kick the chap! He's a regular parasite; he can't support himself, and he's always hanging around sponging on his friends."

But Jill was following out her own line of thought.

"And I'm not jealous, Peter—not in that mean way. But since Father died I've got to think of Roddy. It's not that Mother isn't really fond of him, but she doesn't understand or see he's growing up. She's always so busy with all this Suffrage work, and Stephen eggs her on. She's no time for home. We never seem to have her now for a second to ourselves without Stephen in the background like a sort of household spy!"

"What excuse does he give for haunting the place? He's no relation of yours, by any chance?"

"Thank Heaven, no!" She gave a shaky laugh. "Why, we only know him since Father died. He was Secretary to a branch of the Woman's Suffrage League. Mrs. Braid, you know, took Mother to a meeting, and then she got keen on the movement herself. I was pleased at the time because it seemed to rouse her. She simply collapsed after Father's death, and anything seemed better than to see her lying there, caring for nothing, utterly crushed.

"I never thought then she'd become a Suffragette. Militant too!—it's so unlike Mother. She's always been so gentle and hated publicity—the very thought of a crowd would keep her at home. But when she took it up she went quite mad about it. That's where Stephen came in—he was Secretary, you see. Mother's no earthly good at any sort of business—she always depended on Father for everything. And of course she missed him frightfully, and Roddy's only a boy. So Stephen used to come and explain things to her."

They turned into the open park where the wet asphalt path cut across the empty grass like a tight-drawn wire. "Where does Stephen live?" McTaggart's voice was hard. This child-friend of his was very dear to him.

"Just round the corner, but, like the poor, you know, he's 'with us always'—it's practically his home. Mother found him new digs up by Primrose Hill. She thought West Kensington air too depressing!—that Stephen looked pale, was inclined to be anæmic."

McTaggart smiled at her rueful grimace.

"So now he nurses his failing strength under your Mother's eye?"

"She gives him rum and milk and warm Winter socks!—which by the way I was once asked to darn. I did strike at that! I don't mind mending Roddy's, but Stephen's?—No thanks!"

Her clear young laugh rang out as she caught McTaggart's eye.

"He's a somewhat spoilt young man, from all accounts. D'you think..." he paused a moment, then risked the question ... "d'you think your Mother's really ... a bit ... fond of him?"

"No." Her tone was definite—"not ... like that." A faint colour stole up into her childish face, but loyally she went on, resenting the imputation. "Mother never flirts, you know. She hates that sort of thing. She's awfully down on other people too. That Mrs. Molineux, d'you remember the gossip? Mother cuts her now whenever they meet."

McTaggart looked amused.

"Funny, isn't it? Because, I suppose people ... talk! It's not everyone who'd understand Stephen."

"Don't!" The girl's hand slipped from his arm. Then at his quick:

"Oh—I don't mean that!—Of course I know your mother—she's one of the best—I didn't mean anything—don't be vexed, Jill. It's only that outsiders might be rather dense"—her face relaxed and she turned impulsively, gratitude shining in the gray eyes.

"That's just what hurts most—to have her misjudged. When one knows ... it's Mother!—that she couldn't stoop..." The hot blood surged up into her face. "To think that people can say nasty, mean things—that she gives them the chance! It makes me wild. And Mother all the time doesn't see it a bit. She thinks because it's her" (vehemence ousted grammar) "that everyone must know it's bound to be all right. And she goes to all sorts of places, lecturing, you know, and takes Stephen with her and stays away for days. Only yesterday"—her words poured on—"Aunt Elizabeth came to tea and the first thing she said was: 'I hear you were at Folkestone, staying at the Grand?—and Mr. Somerville?' And Mother answered calmly: 'Yes—I took Stephen. He's such a help, you know. I couldn't do without him.' And Aunt Elizabeth gave such a nasty little laugh and said—'Really, Mary, I think I must get a Stephen!'

"But Mother didn't see it." She gave an impatient sigh.

"She's a law unto herself," McTaggart suggested. "I vote we drown Stephen. Some dark night—in the Regent's Park Canal. And here it is; let's choose the spot."

He paused as he spoke on the little iron bridge that spans the narrow stream, where the barges come and go; slowly drifting along the still line of water, a mute protest against the feverish haste of the age.

"The worst of it is," said Jill, ignoring his suggestion to remove the enemy into a better world, "that Stephen eggs her on in all this militant work. And Mother isn't strong; she's not fit for it. Why, last year she was ill for weeks after that trouble when the windows were smashed in Regent Street. And her name was in the papers. Roddy got so ragged. All the boys at school were pulling his leg. And he's so proud of Mother!—it nearly broke his heart—to think of her being taken off to a common police station. Why! ..."

She stopped short, leaning over the bridge,—"There he is, on the foot path, with his fishing rod."

She put her hands to her mouth and called in her clear voice, "Rod-dy!"

"Hullo!" came an answering hail. "You up there, Jill?"

There came a scrambling in the bushes that fringed the waterway, and, with a noise of snapping twigs at the summit of the bank, a leg and an arm shot out, then a laughing boy's face, with a great black smudge neatly bisecting it.

"Hullo, Peter!" The pair shook hands.

"Had any sport?" said McTaggart gravely.

"No such luck," replied that ardent fisherman. "I wonder what the time is?—it feels like lunch."

"You'd better cut home and wash"—his sister smiled at him—"You look as if you'd spent the morning sweeping chimneys."

"I think I'll slip in with you," the schoolboy winked, "there's a new cook to-day and I'm warned off the area. Stephen's about." He tucked a hand through her arm, and the three moved on over the bridge.

"Look here, old girl, you're coming to the Zoo? Half past two sharp. I've bought a bag of nuts."

"Rather," said his sister. She turned to McTaggart. "You come too?"

"I will." Peter decided.

"Good biz," said Roddy, "he can carry the bread." He sniffed up the air as they mounted the slope. "Jolly smell the fog has!" and, as the others laughed, proceeded to explain his singular predilection. "It smells of holidays, of good old town. You know what I mean—a sort of smell of its own. I can tell you I long for it sometimes at school. Talk about 'clear air' and 'Yorkshire moors.' Give me London any blessed day."

They left the Park behind, and skirting Primrose Hill came to a terrace facing the North. At the third porch Jill produced a key, and fitting it in the lock, noiselessly opened the door.

"In you go, Roddy, the coast's quite clear..."

The boy slipped past and up the narrow stairs.

Then she turned to Peter with a sudden hesitation. "If you don't mind waiting here I'll go and find Mother."

McTaggart stood in the gloomy hall, watching the girl, as she walked down the passage with her long, boyish step, opened a door beyond and closed it behind her and a sound of voices drifted across to him.

He was just beginning to regret his sudden impulse when the door was reopened and a man appeared. Tall and very blond, dressed with studied care in a coat that curved in to his narrow waist, the light from above fell on his face, weakly good-looking, with a loose under lip and sentimental eyes of a pale greenish hue, thickly shadowed by long fair lashes.

"H'are you, McTaggart." He drawled out the greeting in a thin, light voice that somehow matched his hair. He held out a limp hand with carefully tended nails. McTaggart shook it like a terrier with a rat.

"You'll find Mrs. Uniacke in he-are," he went on. McTaggart silently following in his wake experienced a sudden tingling in his toes.

Within the little study that faced on a strip of garden suggestive of cats a lady was seated before a littered desk, piled up with pamphlets which she was directing.

She rose as he entered, and came forward quickly—passing her tall daughter—with outstretched hand.

Slight and fragile, with wide dark eyes, something bird-like in the eager poise of the head—reminded McTaggart instinctively of a linnet—the last type imaginable of the "Militant Suffragette."

"I'm so glad to see you," her voice was sweet and low. "You're quite a stranger, Peter!—And only yesterday Stephen was saying he thought you had left town."

"I have been away," McTaggart replied—"down in Devonshire—and when I met Jill near Regent's Park, I was tempted to walk across and look you up. Especially," he added with his sunny smile, "when I heard my friend Roddy would be at home."

"Very much at home," Stephen interposed, conscious of Jill's swift glance of disgust—"the window, you observe, bears silent witness to it." He pointed a slender finger at the broken pane. Then went on smoothly: "You'll stay to lunch, of course." But Peter ignored him, his eyes on his hostess.

"Of course he will," Mrs. Uniacke echoed the words, "and there goes the gong." She pushed her papers together with a regretful glance at the unfinished work, as Roddy, his face shining with its hurried ablutions, slipped in noiselessly and joined the little group.

"It's very kind of you," McTaggart replied, "and I'd simply love to lunch with you and the kids."

As they passed through the hall Jill heard her friend say politely to Somerville:

"You lunching too?"