The Man with the Double Heart Part 61

Utterly ignoring him and his hasty, incoherent excuses, McTaggart had induced Jill to take some food, collected her luggage and hurried her out and up to the station, without a word to the inwardly scared object of his deep contempt.

One good thing had resulted from Jill's painful adventure in Wales; a distinct rupture between her mother and the weak and unscrupulous young man.

In a long letter to McTaggart, Jill had conveyed the glad news.

"Isn't it splendid?"--she wrote gayly. "Roddy's off his head with joy!

He's painted a picture of Saint Stephen being stoned by the Suffragettes; with mauve socks and a mauve tie--it really is _exactly_ like him!--and a big bottle of champagne with 'Mumm's the word!' on a banner.

"I do hope your head's all right?--that cut, I mean? I'm very fit and I can't think why I caved in. You were a _brick_ to fly to the rescue!

We're off on Thursday for a month at Worthing. Can't you come and say good-bye? I want to thank you properly--and Roddy too--so do turn up.

"It's lovely to feel free of Stephen and have Mother to ourselves.

She's coming to the Zoo to-day and she's promised Roddy some painting lessons--think of that! He's so happy. Stephen used to laugh at him and call him the 'Infant Raphael' ... I'd like to see _Stephen_ do some of Roddy's clever sketches!..."

So the simple letter ran. Full of slang, but, to the lover, a priceless pearl of composition. He read her nature between the lines: that strong loving heart of hers, scorning all hypocrisy, protective toward the weak, breathing a sweet unselfishness.

Nevertheless he stayed away, faithful to his secret vow. He sent the girl a book she craved and a big box of sweets for Roddy. Then, as an afterthought, he added a neat little painter's outfit. He smiled at his own craftiness, knowing the road to Jill's heart. And a plan rose in his mind--if all went as he hoped--to arrange that this much beloved brother should study abroad at his expense and enter the Art schools at Rome.

Now, in the dim light of the Park, he was lost in a day-dream of the future. His cigarette, smouldering unheeded, scorched his fingers and, with a start, he came back to his surroundings.

A young couple pa.s.sed, arm in arm, and somewhere behind him, out of the dark, rose a whispering, and a girl's laugh that told its own simple story.

For even in the deserted town the Summer night was filled with love; like a br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup held to the lips of youth by the wise old hand of Nature.

The lonely figure of a woman emerged from under the long white arch at Hyde Park Corner and moved across the dusty road toward the trees.

McTaggart watched her absently. Something about her graceful walk, the a.s.sured carriage of her head, stirred his latent speculation.

"I wouldn't mind betting that she's French." He lit another cigarette and pondered upon the distinctive touch that sets the Gallic race apart.

The object of his scrutiny reached at last the slight incline beneath the Achilles statue and paused, shaken by a fit of coughing.

McTaggart's face went suddenly grave as he watched the slender, graceful figure struggling with the sudden spasm.

"Poor soul!" he said to himself. For he guessed that the scourge of civilization, Consumption, had marked her for a victim. And suddenly the thought of Death, in a world renewed for him by love, sent a shiver down his spine. Some day he and Jill must part....

The woman pa.s.sed her handkerchief across her lips, lowered her veil and breasted the slope wearily. Arrived at the edge of the gra.s.s, with a neat movement of her skirt, she stepped over the low rail, avoiding the dusty gravel path.

When she came to the chair where he sat, she glanced sideways at McTaggart, who stiffened a little at her approach, and the odour of scent wafted from her.

To his further annoyance she hesitated, peering down into his face through the lace veil that obscured her features.

"Pierrot!--Is it really you?" He was on his feet with a sudden start.

The memory of dead days rose up, bewildering him.

"Fantine!" He stared at her, amazed.

"Mais oui!" She held out her hand--"You do not remember me?--And I----? Ma foi!--I thought you must be dead!" ...

"Au contraire!" he tried to collect his thoughts. "Very much in the flesh, as you see."

He remembered quickly there had been no scene, no definite break in their friendship; only his silence since that night when he had probed her treachery. He felt at a loss to find, now, an excuse for avoiding her company.

"I've been abroad," he explained lamely, "for two years. I'm off to-morrow to shoot in Scotland. London's beastly. Even my Club's shut against me!"

Fantine smiled, then she sighed.

"Lucky Pierrot!" She sank down on the nearest chair and with a gesture invited him to the one beside it. "You will like that--to shoot, hein?" Again a fit of coughing seized her.

She looked thin, McTaggart thought. He could not harden his heart against her, with that shadow of death that seemed to hang like a cloud over her old brilliancy.

"How's the world been treating you?" He spoke gently. It seemed to him a page torn from a past life, this unexpected meeting with her; the whole hateful episode a story skimmed through and forgotten.

"The world, mon cher?"--she shrugged her shoulders, "Why, mon Dieu--as it always treats those whose luck has turned against them!" She gave a light and mocking laugh.

"I'm sorry." He paused. "Would you care to tell me?"

She gave him a quick grateful glance. Then with a gesture, unconsciously tinged with a touch of drama, threw back her veil.

McTaggart stared, taken aback.

"Ah! ... you see?" she nodded her head. "I am getting old"--her voice shook--"and so tired..." the painted lips twisted themselves into a smile more pitiful than any tears in the thin but still piquante face.

"It's the life, mon cher--this ... gay life! I have burnt the candle in the middle. No!--you say 'at both wicks'"--her words ended in a cough.

"You've got a frightful cold, Fantine. Do you think it's prudent sitting here?"

"Yes--the fresh air does me good--and it can't hurt me ... now, Pierrot. It's not a cold--it's my chest. I had pneumonia in the Spring and the wet season completed the trouble. The doctor says I ought to live in a dry climate--but," she laughed--"I have to earn the money first--and London is the easiest place."

A silence fell between the pair. McTaggart saw that her neat dress was shabby, that the hat she wore owed its smartness to the veil and the way it was posed at the right angle. But, faithful to her ancient creed, her boots and gloves were immaculate, her dark hair glossy and waved, and her face delicately painted.

Yet something was gone: the note of youth, the joyous, half-defiant charm. This was a woman, middle-aged, broken in health but still proud.

"Per'aps you did not learn my trouble? No?"--she glanced up at him--"The flat was raided by the police. I had to pay a heavy fine.

It was not mine to keep or let; it belonged to a certain ... Monsieur.

But in my name, you understan'? I to take all the risk. And when it failed he vanished--pouf!" she threw out her hands mockingly--"into thin air, as you say. And I was left ... dans le potage!

"It was not soup you could drink, Pierrot, like Monsieur Auguste's 'pot-au-feu'--and ... one eats to live--or at least those do who can't afford to live to eat! An' so I had to start again, with a very slim capital--the furniture ... a few jewels..."

She stared moodily before her.

"That's where the devil comes in, Pierrot,--and mocks at all the saints in Heaven! ... Not that I wish to become a saint"--she shot him an amused glance with one of her old mocking smiles--"Dieu merci! I love life--an' pretty frocks and a good cuisine. You remember our last evening together? The--music? ... ah!" she clasped her hands and a curious look came into her eyes. "I am glad," she added beneath her breath--"that nothing spoilt that memory."

Little she guessed that the man beside her caught the full meaning of the words: that his last rancour vanished with it as he guessed the truth underlying the speech.

The face in the photograph rose up, with its evil eyes and its ruthless mouth; that "certain ... Monsieur" called "Gustave"--the treacherous master-mind.

Poor little woman!--In such bad hands--deserted too in her hour of need...