The Man with the Double Heart Part 8

"You blessed child," said McTaggart in his heart.

CHAPTER V

McTaggart lay in bed, his eyes half-closed, watching the gray light spread from under the blind. His head ached and he felt unusually tired and heavy, bound down to his pillow by invisible chains.

From the sitting-room beyond came the clatter of plates, boards creaking in the wake of his housekeeper's step, and through the open window stole a m.u.f.fled steady hum--the day-song of the London streets.

A door banged loudly, and blessed silence followed. He drew the bed-clothes tighter under his chin. But now sleep had fled and into his brain thoughts rushed swiftly as though against his will; a baffling succession of events and surmises, throwing up pictures before his closed eyes.

He reached out a hand in search of his watch and found that the hour was close upon ten. A vast dissatisfaction settled down upon him.

"Another day to be lived through?" it whispered in his ear. He felt a sick disgust for this business of life.

His eyes, from under their heavy lids, roaming about the room, marked on his dressing-table, without exultation, the little heap of silver and gold and crinkled bank-notes, thrown among his brushes from overnight.

In his fastidious mood the sight brought no joy, merely a memory of the long hot hours, with their inevitable accompaniment of frequent drinks.

For the gambler's instinct was not his. He played carelessly, more as a means to pa.s.s the time than from any feverish attraction for the game.

And Fortune, that fickle jade, had stood by his side, tempting his indifference with a long run of luck.

He wondered as he lay there how Fantine could stand the life, night after night watch the same sordid scene, with that slightly aloof and mocking air of hers that warred with the welcome he read in her eyes.

He wondered, drearily, if the game could pay? He wondered what was to be the end of it all? It was not a woman's work, the strain was too great. For he knew the risks that underlay the affair.

He knew that she lived in fear of the police. What a horrible atmosphere! He shivered in his bed. He wished now he had not won.

That heap of money there seemed to prolong the struggle of her days.

How pretty she was! He stirred restlessly, conjuring up her picture against the dark blind. With something beyond beauty, that inexpressible charm of the subtle Parisian, conscious of her power.

Something hyper-feminine set her apart from the women of that other world in which he moved. Delicately rounded, with tiny hands and feet, witty, provocative, dangerously sweet, she showed a curious contrast to the modern English girl with her sporting instincts and brusque, boyish speech.

Soft? That was the adjective--fragrant and warm, made for a strong man to love and protect. So few women nowadays held this appeal, meeting men on equal terms, half-ashamed of s.e.x.

And all McTaggart's vanity and young virile pride were stirred by her silent call to his knight-errantry.

How he would like to s.n.a.t.c.h her away from her present feverish life!

He braced himself between the sheets at the sudden stirring thought.

And then, with perplexing speed, another vision rose. He saw the face of Cydonia, with her childish smile. That was the right setting for a young girl, he decided, that cultured, shrine-like home, locked from the world outside.

For man still clings fondly to feudal memories. His reason may force him to approve the great stride of woman to the foreground of intellectual power, but his instinct still whispers that the woman he loves should be guarded from evil and from too curious eyes.

Some day this may fade away, swept aside in the course of the growing cry for freedom, but with it will pa.s.s a hidden safeguard to the s.e.x, a human note divine--that tenderness towards the weak, purifying pa.s.sion.

Well--it was all a mystery! McTaggart yawned and stretched. Almost as bewildering as his own curious case. He fell to thinking again about his double heart, Cydonia and Fantine at the back of his mind.

"It might lead to bigamy." He recalled the doctor's words--not without a certain youthful complacency! He dallied with the notion of possible married life, attracted by the novelty but mistrustful of the tie.

And here Romance was rudely a.s.sailed by an interruption from the world without and he became conscious of a knocking, loud and long, on the further door of his sitting-room.

McTaggart cursed the invisible one. Struggling out of bed he threw on a dressing-gown and blinking at the light made his way through the folding-doors to where his breakfast lay and called an exasperated, husky "Come in."

"Hullo, Peter!" a cheery voice replied--"hope I didn't wake you from your beauty sleep?"

In the open doorway stood a thick-set man, rendered still more bulky by a tweed overcoat, with merry dark eyes under s.h.a.ggy brows, gleaming out of his pale, square face.

"Just off shooting," he explained hurriedly--"and run out of whiskey"--he held up a flask--"no time to get it in, so I thought as I pa.s.sed your door I'd try and cadge some from you, old man."

McTaggart seized the decanter from off the sideboard, his face relaxing into a smile.

"Help yourself--confound yon! I was half asleep, after a somewhat late night."

"Sorry." The visitor grinned as he spoke. "Better for you, sonnie, up with the dawn. How doth the busy little bee--or rather how _did_ he sacrifice to the G.o.ds his heritage of sleep?"

"In a silly game that's called chemin-de-fer, varied by supper and fifth-rate fizz."

"Any luck?" Bethune carefully filled the flask. "How's that for a steady hand?" He screwed in the stopper.

"More than mine is! Yes, I won--forty pounds odd--as far as I remember."

"The devil you did!" Bethune stared--"you wouldn't like to lend me a fiver, would you?"

"D'you mean it?" McTaggart turned toward his room, but his visitor caught him by the arm.

"Don't be an a.s.s! I was only rotting. Nice stuff that----" he fingered the dressing-gown--"lapped in luxury--and wins forty pounds!"

His brown eyes rested for a second affectionately on his friend's weary face.

"Pity, all the same," he said abruptly. "Do you an almighty good to work. No--I mean it..." as McTaggart laughed--"a slack life's all wrong for a fellow like you. Now here I am, at it hard, every blessed day in the week. And what's the result? When I get a Sat.u.r.day clear for a day's shoot or golf, you've no idea how I enjoy it. I'm like a school-boy at a bean-feast!"

"Bless you, my child," McTaggart mocked. "I don't grudge you your virtuous pleasure--go and paddle and make mud-pies--it keeps you nice and young--_and_ fat!"

"Shut up!" Bethune made for the door--"Oh, by the way, would you like the car? If so ring up Central 609, and one of the men will bring it round. Any time before two o'clock, but you'll have to take it back yourself. It's half-day at the works, you know."

"Right-o! Hope you'll have good sport."

He watched Bethune clamber down the narrow staircase out of sight, with his broad shoulders and thick brown coat, not unlike an enormous b.u.mble-bee.

Then, closing his door, he poured out a cup of tepid coffee and drank it thirstily. He lifted the cover off the dish that flanked the battered rack of toast. Spread-eagled, gray and cold, a mackerel met his disgusted gaze.

"Looks dead," said McTaggart thoughtfully. He replaced the cover rather quickly, played with some toast upon his plate and gathered up his pile of letters.

Three bills, a stockbroker's list and an invitation to a dance. Then, with a slight awakening of interest, he found a letter in Jill's round hand.

"DEAR PETER,