CHAPTER XII
"I dreamed last night," said Jill, "that you and Stephen were having a fencing match. The worst of it was"—she sighed—-"I woke before the end!"
She settled herself back more firmly in her corner as the car swept them down a steep incline between high hedges bared of leaves, gathering impetus for the upward hill beyond. Roddy sat in front, his cap pulled down to his eyes, his back like a ramrod, every muscle braced. He was deeply engrossed in watching Bethune drive, pouring questions into his new friend's ear.
McTaggart pulled the rug higher about the girl as the keen wind smote them with its frosty breath. "You don't feel cold, Jill?" His blue eyes rested affectionately on the glowing face beside him.
"Not a bit! I love it." She returned to her dream. "Wasn't it annoying to wake like that?"
"Which side were you backing?" McTaggart gave a chuckle at her indignant:
"Why—you—of course! Fancy backing Stephen! I forgot to tell you, Peter. We had a real row the other night. And the worst of it is he told Mother something. He's such a sneak!—and now she's cross with me."
"Poor old girl!" McTaggart groped for her hand under the heavy rug; and the girl, contentedly, let it lie in his warm clasp with a child's confidence.
"Dreams are funny things," she went on happily, conscious of his sympathy, her eyes fixed ahead on the long line of trees fringing the country road, gaunt against the sky, warmed by the sunset hour. "D'you ever dream the same one over and over again?"
"I don't think so," said Peter. "I can't remember them—not distinctly, I mean, when I'm awake."
"I do." Jill turned to him with a far-away expression, "and there's one dream returns and seems to haunt me. A cluster of white towers that rise up on a hill against a deep blue sky and glitter in the sunshine. It's all so vivid!—I can see it now. Just that—those high white towers with a darker one among them. It seems to have a little cap—like a chimney pot—snow white ... And, although I've never been there, it's like a memory. I know it sounds absurd, but it feels"—she paused for words—"like coming home ... And then, I wake up."
"How odd! Perhaps it's part of another life. You know"—his face was thoughtful—"I think we've lived before. I can't believe that this is the whole of my existence; that all those centuries back bold no trace of me. Any more than I can think, as lots of fellows do, that we're snuffed out when we die like a row of little candles!"
"Of course not." Jill spoke with the certainty of youth—"though Heaven always sounds such a dreadfully dull place! That 'Heaven' I mean of the 'goody-goody' people, with no work to do but only eternal rest. I don't see the use of all we learn here if spiritual experience dies with the body. It's such a waste of power and so unlike Nature. Why—even the trees, you know, after centuries, turn into coal!" She drew a deep breath. "That's always so comforting! When I get the blues and feel afraid of death I like to look at the fire and believe that nothing's lost ... it all goes on, forward in the Scheme."
"That's true." McTaggart's hand tightened on hers. "Bethune—over there"—he lowered his voice—"was talking the other day—we're great pals, you know—he's a chap you can talk to, awfully sane—and we'd got on to religion and how it's broken up into rival camps and endless confusion—and he said: 'I haven't any particular creed and I don't go to Church, but ... it's just like this. I've always felt the Almighty's been so awfully good to me—he's cast my lot in very pleasant places, and given me health and strength and a jolly good time. It seems a dirty trick to doubt what He's planned, when He sees fit to shift me from this old Earth.'"
"I like that. How nice!" Jill nodded her head. "It does sound rather like ingratitude; and, now one comes to think of it, it is cheek to question the future after this lovely world. Look at that sky there and those little pink clouds!"
She spoke simply, with no lack of reverence, but rather that deeper one needing no outward show.
Silence fell between the pair as the car scudded on: that truest proof of minds in perfect sympathy.
The distant hills were veiling themselves in a violet haze, and in the high hedgerows the birds were still. Away to the right a deep blue line showed the river flowing along to London and the sea.
Jill broke the spell first, with a little sign to attract his attention.
"I'm sure I hear music—a long way off. There!" She bent her head, straining forward. "It's a band down in the valley. How funny at this hour!—and right away from everywhere!"
"Territorials, perhaps."
McTaggart listened too.
"We're about midway, I should say, between Henley and town."
For Jill's letter with the news of Roddy's return—the school having broken up through a sudden epidemic—had suggested this outing in Bethune's car on one of his rare Saturdays of holiday. They had gone to see the Cambridge crew practice for the boat race and lunched at Henley, a merry quartette.
Jill's letter!—McTaggart's mind swung off at a tangent. He felt a new-born gratitude to his schoolgirl friend. Had it not been for this and Fantine's want of tact—(he could see her now holding the letter to her breast)—he must have stumbled headlong into the trap.
He felt again heart-sore at the betrayal.
"We're getting nearer," said Jill. "I don't think it's a band."
The car swerved round a bend and lights flashed out, pale in the twilight like glow-worms on the green.
"Oh, Peter—look!" Jill clapped her hands. "It's a Village Fair—how lovely!—with merry-go-rounds!"
"So it is." Peter smiled as Roddy twisted round, his boy's face alight, with an eager request.
"Can't we stop, Peter?—and have one turn ... My hat! there's a cocoanut shy! Oh, do pull up..."
McTaggart leaned forward and consulted the driver. "Have you time, old man? These kids are awfully keen."
"Rather," Bethune laughed good-naturedly. "We'll run the car first into the Inn yard. Can't leave it here—the road's too narrow."
They skirted the crowd slowly at the end of the village street, the horn (worked by Roddy) vying with the strains of the cracked "Steam Band," and, handing over the rugs to the care of the ostler, proceeded on foot to the scene of the fun.
It was hardly a fair, but one of those travelling shows that wander across the country with a handful of caravans.
Dark gypsy faces, the hoarse cry of the showmen, the flaring petroleum jets and the noisy metallic music were blent in a scene garish and crude but strangely exciting after the lonely roads.
"The merry-go-rounds first," Jill declared. "I choose the piebald horse—you take the black!" McTaggart swarmed up, infected by her mood, Roddy in front of them, with a roar of delight as Bethune settled his bulky form on a wooden donkey.
"Off we go!—Houp-là! ..." They whirled round and round.
"Two to one on the rat-tailed mare!" McTaggart's voice rang out.
Jill, clinging to the piebald's neck, with a fine show of ankles, her dark hair streaming back, looked like a Bacchante.
"Isn't it ripping?" Her motor veil swung loose, her fur cap slid back, and about her glowing face the straying curls blew. Her gray eyes like stars met McTaggart's open smile. Joy was in her heart.
The machine ran down. Panting, they descended.
"Now—the cocoanuts!" Roddy led the way to where a narrow screen of sacking protected the crowd of village folks from too violent an onslaught.
A hoarse voice greeted them:
"This way—guv'nor! Six sticks a penny! All-the-fun-o'-the-fair! Now then—young sir—move on ... Hi!—Don't shove the lidy!—Six sticks a penny!" They found themselves in the centre of the firing line.
"Got 'im!" Bethune shouted his approval. "Bravo, Miss Uniacke!" as Roddy with a yell captured the cocoanut his sister had dislodged.
The crowd pressed round them, and McTaggart found himself suddenly isolated from his own party.
"Cross the gypsy's 'and, my fine gentleman..." A coaxing voice chanted in his ear.
"There's fortune for you, dearie; I see it in your face—it's coming over the seas—with a golden crown..."
Peter turned quickly. In the dim half light he looked back into a pair of glowing dark eyes: a gypsy woman's face with glossy black hair and long coral earrings hanging on each side.
He was going to draw back when he felt his hand caught; held by dark fingers, supple and strong, the palm turned upward as the husky voice went on with its curious crooning lilt, its patter of words.
"It's under the cloud you stand, my fine gentleman; the cloud of a lie ... but it clears ... it clears.... There's a far-off journey and castle walls ... and love all the time—hidden—by your side...."
She bent her head lower, tracing the lines with a forefinger stiff with a broad gold ring. The light of the flares fell on her bare neck and the bright Paisley shawl, crossed on her full bosom.
"Beware of a dark woman!—she's playing you false. Between two fires you will burn and burn ... And then, when the light fades ... on the turn of the tide ... there's the Lucky Moon and the Dream of your life...!"
Her voice sank away. She straightened herself, with a clink of silver bangles, and let his hand fall. Her lips were still muttering and her eyes, opened wide, were like pools of ink as McTaggart stared at her.
"And what about the golden crown?" He felt in his pocket. With an effort he spoke lightly to break the uncanny charm.
"It will come, my fine gentleman—before the year is dead."
"Peter!" He heard Jill calling to him. "Peter! where are you?" The coin changed hands.
"A blessing on your head—the gypsy's blessing, sir. The eyes that see and the ears that hear ... And through the dark clouds the sun shining bright—with love coming swiftly ... love by your side..."
"Peter!" Impatiently Jill caught his arm—"we thought we had lost you."
He turned with a start.
"Hullo, Jill!" He felt a trifle dazed. "I've been listening to a gypsy—having my fortune told."
"No?—what fun! What did she tell you?"
He glanced behind him, but the woman had gone.
"All sorts of things. I'm to have a golden crown—and a castle somewhere. In Spain, I should think!"
"Well, come along now—they've gone to the swings."
He slipped a hand through his little friend's arm. "Let me carry that cocoanut. Did you win it, Jill?" But the girl refused, guarding her treasure.
They crossed the trodden grass, damp with the dew, to where a row of booths with poisonous-looking sweets, cheap ribands and laces and ginger-bread "snaps" had attracted the usual pairs of village lovers.
"Buy yer lidy a fairing!" A shrill voice hailed them—"a pretty brooch now—a bracelet?—a ring? Come now, young sir—yer 'and in yer pocket!—there's yer sweet'art waitin' ... the price of a kiss!"
McTaggart laughed back with a side glance at Jill.
"Would you like a fairing?" His eyes ran over the stall.
"Have a ring with 'Mizpah'?—Let's buy one for Stephen."
But the girl shook her head, with a gesture of annoyance.
"Come now, dearie"—the woman entreated—"choose a pretty keepsake—the gen'leman 'ull pay."
McTaggart bent forward, searching for a gift, suddenly obstinate.
"You'll have to have something!"
"Hullo! what's this?" From the tray of tawdry jewellery, he picked up a locket with a smile to himself.
Two little hearts in bright red glass, with a true lover's knot joining them together.
Cheap and meretricious, the toy was saved from vulgarity by the colour which glowed like a pigeon-blood ruby.
It reminded McTaggart of his own curious case—the Double Heart—surely a symbol!
"There, Jill! Never say I'm not a generous man."
He tossed a shilling across to the woman—and with due solemnity made his offering.
"Thanks awfully." Jill's grey eyes were hidden by the dark fringe of lashes, sweeping down on to her cheeks. "I'll keep it for Court ... or wear it on my sleeve. Thank you, Peter."
She slipped it in her pocket.
"Hi! McTaggart!" Bethune from afar was waving to them. "Time we were off!" He shouted the warning as they hastened toward him where he stood with Roddy, still breathless from the swings.
"It's awfully late..." he added apologetically. "I'm sorry to rush you—but I think we'd better start."
They made for the Inn, Bethune by his friend, Roddy hanging onto his sister's arm.
"We'll have to go slow when we get to Hounslow—those beastly trams spoil the run. Here we are!" He babbled on—"now, bundle in..."
But Jill checked her brother, with one foot on the step. "I think I'd rather like to ride in front. D'you mind, Mr. Bethune?" She smiled up at him.
"Mind? I should think not." The man looked pleased, but McTaggart's face fell at the words.
"Going to desert me? You little turn-coat!—After that lovely fairing too."
But Jill was settling herself beside the driver.
"Rather rough on Roddy!" was all she said.
The schoolboy laughed. He produced a bag, brimming over with highly coloured sweets.
"Have a suck?" he said, and diving into it drew out a sugar stick, striped pink and yellow.
"Thanks—no. Not just now." McTaggart's face was eloquent.
"All right," said Roddy with happy unconcern. "You just tell me when you feel like it."
The car trundled out between the narrow posts, and, avoiding the crowd, turned to the right; then, as the road, devoid of life, stretched straight ahead, took on speed.
The noisy music faded away into darkness and silence and the rustling breeze. McTaggart drowsily closed his eyes, as the stars began to peer out of the heavens. His head sank lower, his thoughts became involved ... Then with a flash he came back to life. Awoke to find the lamps glowing about him, the hum of the traffic, the busy London streets, and, against the light, Bethune's broad back and the girl's clear profile like a silhouette.
Jill was chattering, plainly absorbed.
Every now and then, her companion would lean to catch a sentence broken by the wind, and a laugh would float back with the hearty ring that seemed a part of the man's honest nature.
McTaggart watched them in a moody silence, still slightly piqued by Jill's desertion.
Roddy, surfeited, with a nearly empty bag, was rolled up in the corner like a happy dormouse.
They turned more slowly into dimly lighted roads, and the trees of Regent's Park came into sight.
Jill was giving directions now to Bethune. "It's the turning before Primrose Hill," McTaggart heard her say.
Then the car slackened, mounted the slight hill and they were in front of the terrace of gloomy little houses.
Stiff and pleasantly tired, they stepped down on the pavement, Bethune's strong arm for a moment supporting Jill.
Hurried adieux and thanks and the pair were off again, McTaggart now in the corner, still warm, where the girl had sat beside the driver on the long ride home.
A sudden silence had fallen between them, each engrossed in his own train of thought.
Bethune broke it first.
"Shall I drop you at the Club? I've got to take the car home—it's on our way."
"Thanks." McTaggart roused himself. "Can't you come back and dine with me?—or we'll have a grill somewhere—if you prefer it?"
"Sorry—I can't. I've promised to meet a man—it's a business matter. Otherwise I would."
"Well—some other night." He felt a shade relieved. "It's very good of you to have given us this run. Those kids will talk of it till Kingdom Come—it's a great treat for them."
Bethune grunted.
"Oh—as to that—I enjoyed it myself. That's a nice boy..." there came a little pause—"and Miss Uniacke's ... perfectly ripping!—pretty too." He nodded his head.
"Think so?" McTaggart's voice was coolly indifferent.
"Of course," he added, "she's only a child."