CHAPTER XXI
Jill crept downstairs on tiptoe.
Inside the dining-room Roddy was leaning over the table, a sketch-block and paints before him. He looked up as his sister appeared with an anxious, inquiring glance that seemed oddly out of place on his round, boyish face.
"Well?"
"She's asleep. At last!" Jill sighed—"Lizzie's sitting in the room, so I stole away to you."
She flung herself into the armchair and curled her feet up under her, arms clasped behind her head, dark shadows round her eyes.
"Tired, old girl?" Roddy's voice was tender. He saw that the long nights of vigil were leaving their mark on the fresh young face that began to look white and strained.
"Just a bit——" Jill smiled bravely. "But I think she's improving. She's more like herself. If only she'd stay in bed for a month and give it a chance—get really strong before she begins to think of work."
Roddy nodded and turned to his task. A silence fell in the bare room, broken by the buzz of a blue-bottle blundering round the chandelier and the sound of water stirred in the glass as the boy washed his paint brushes.
"What are you doing, Roddy?" Jill asked lazily.
"Oh—a ship. It's rotten!" his voice was full of despair. "I can't get the sea—it looks thick and flat—like a blooming table-cloth! Think I shall tear it up..." he paused gloomily, sucking his brush.
"No—don't." With a quick movement Jill rose to her feet. She bent over her brother, an arm thrown round his shoulder.
"It's jolly good. Really, old boy—the ship, I mean. Though the sea's all wrong," she added honestly. "But there's something I like—most awfully—" her grey eyes narrowed, criticizing.
"What?" Roddy lifted a wistful face, with that longing for praise peculiar to the artist, which has nothing to do with vanity but the deeper need for encouragement in the long up-hill fight of creative work.
"It's the way the ship's moving before the wind. It's alive, somehow, and one feels the struggle. It isn't just chased along—it's up against the strong tide—and the slap of the waves..."
"Of course it is." He smiled. "It's getting the full swell round the headland. The drawing's all right—it's the colour that's wrong. I do want some painting lessons!"
"Well, perhaps we'll manage it by-and-bye—next summer holidays. You'd like to go in for Art, wouldn't you, Roddy?"
"Yes." The boy's voice was gruff. He felt too deeply for easy speech.
Jill looked anxious. Long since she had guessed the secret hope in the schoolboy's heart. But she knew it was not a paying profession and where was the money to come from for it?
Her mother—a typical soldier's wife—held a curious contempt for the artist class. She wanted Roddy to go to Sandhurst, if means permitted, with the idea of the Indian Army in the future.
How would she take this new departure?
"D'you remember," said Roddy suddenly, "that old fellow up at Whitby we used to see painting near the harbour?"
"Who took you up with him on the moors, that moonlight night, to the Abbey?—Yes—why?" She sat down, leaning her elbows on the table.
"Well—he taught me an awful lot. Not exactly painting, you know, but to use my eyes. I can't explain! Values of light and shade—such as the sea, with its colour merely a question of depth and reflection ... not dyed water! I showed him, at last, some of my sketches and—Jill——" the boy looked up wistfully, struggling with a sudden shyness—"he said ... he thought—well, I'd got it in me."
"I know you have." Jill nodded. Into her thoughtful eyes there came a look of strong determination. "And I'll do all I can—you know that, Roddy."
"You always were a brick," said the boy.
He stared ahead through the open window.
"There's such an awful lot to learn—and I want to begin—you must start young. I remember he said to me one day—I've never forgotten it, somehow—'I've been painting now for fifty years—and I'm just beginning to master my art. I know that my hand is one with my brain and the long apprenticeship is past. And now'—he looked so awfully sad—'there are just a few years left and then I shall die—and it's all over'!"
"But he'd had the keen joy of the fight." Jill had a horror of morbidity. "And he'd won through—that must feel fine!" A warm colour flushed her cheek.
"Yes—but it seemed so awfully hard, that just as life was worth living, all that labour and knowledge must go, with everything else ... I call it rotten!"
"I don't believe it does," said Jill. "Peter doesn't, either," she added. "We were talking of that the day we drove to Henley and stopped at the Fair. I think all real effort survives—somehow—somewhere—that nothing's lost. Or else the struggle—to say nothing of failure!—would be too cruel—just sheer waste! Think of all the pioneers—Cecil Rhodes—Gordon—Scott? I can't believe that their energy and heroism doesn't go on... You remember Moses and his death? How he only looked on the promised land. It always seemed to me so unfair until one day when I was reading of the Transfiguration on the Mount—when Moses and Elijah appeared—(in their earthly forms, remember that!—) and there he was—in the promised land. Moses, I mean—centuries later. He'd got there, you see, after death."
"That's jolly fine," said the schoolboy—"I never thought of it that way."
The speech sank into his memory. Years ahead, in his hour of need—one of those moods of black despair which creative art brings to a man who strains up to a high ideal—he would see before him Jill's clear eyes, the oval face, slightly flushed, and illumined by an inner light which seemed to rise from her brave young soul.
She glanced now up at the clock. "I must go, Roddy—there's Mother's soup—and in half an hour we'll have tea. Down in the kitchen, it's easier."
"All right. I'll make some toast. I'll just finish this and come. Have you got any anchovy paste, old girl? If so, I'll do you some 'devilled biscuits.'"
"I'm afraid not." Jill laughed. It sounded a hot entertainment for the sultry summer afternoon. "You might keep an eye on the front door. Lizzie's upstairs, sewing, by Mother."
"I'll answer it—don't you worry."
He flung an arm about the girl and gave her a sudden boisterous kiss. Jill responded eagerly. Roddy was not demonstrative and she knew the value of the caress, hungry herself for a little love. Then, with a bright face, she departed into the depths of the basement, picking her way with careful feet and a keen look-out for black beetles.
Roddy sat where she had left him. Through the window he saw the scattered trees on Primrose Hill and the grass still green on account of the long wet season. A heavy bank of thunder clouds, lined with a pale coppery light, hung suspended against the blue and the boy was lost in a dream of colour.
Suddenly he gave a start. An angry look came into his eyes. He got up hurriedly, left the room and on noiseless feet crossed the hall.
Carefully he opened the door.
"Don't ring!" he checked the caller. "What do you want? Mother's asleep." He looked back with defiance at Stephen.
"I've come round to inquire for her."
Somerfield coolly passed the boy, hung up his hat on the stand, straightening his tie in the glass, with a smile at his languid reflexion.
"Don't make a row then," Roddy whispered. "I suppose you'd better come into the dining-room——" He closed the door softly behind them.
"How is Mrs. Uniacke?"
Stephen sauntered to the sideboard, opened a box standing there and helped himself to a cigarette.
Roddy watched him with a scowl.
"Anything else you'd like?" he asked.
"Thanks—a small whiskey and soda." Stephen's smile was insolent.
"Help yourself." Roddy saw too late the loop-hole that he had offered. "Mother's just about the same. The doctor came again this morning."
"What did he say?" Stephen filled his glass and lolled back in the armchair.
"Nothing good—her heart's weak and she's all nerves—doesn't sleep. Of course, she can't touch solids yet—that forcible feeding nearly killed her." The boy winced as he spoke.
"I'm awfully sorry," said Stephen. For once a ring of genuine feeling sounded in his high voice. "I'd like to see this government—wiped out!——" he clenched his hands.
"Not much good—there'd be another." Roddy was practical—"you see, if you go and break laws you've got to pay—whoever you are! It's the fault of the Suffrage leaders themselves—they're just 'agitators'——" he paused—"I'd have my knife into them! They don't care who suffers."
"Well—you seem to take it pretty coolly considering your Mother is the victim?"
The boy shot him an angry glance.
"She wouldn't be—except for you!"
A stormy silence followed the words.
Stephen was preparing for battle when Roddy suddenly raised his head, malice in his hazel eyes.
"Oh, by the way, I quite forgot. There's been a young woman here to-day asking for you—awfully keen. There's no accounting for people's tastes!"
Stephen sat up with a start.
"A young woman?—what name? And why on earth does she come here?"
"Thought it was your house, perhaps—(One back"—he smiled to himself.) "She wouldn't give any name—Said you'd know——" the schoolboy grinned. "A short girl—rather fat—with a touzled mop of fair hair."
Somerfield's face went a shade pale.
("It's Letty——" he thought—"oh! confound it!") but out aloud——
"I think I know. She works for our branch of the League."
"That's all right, then——" Roddy was cheerful—"I gave her your new address, you see. I wrote it down to make sure and she went away quite jolly."
Stephen looked venomous.
"I wish you'd mind your own affairs and leave me to settle mine."
The schoolboy was hugging himself. Here was a rise out of his foe! He was not as simple as he looked, and although the full tragedy of Letty's desperate hunt for Stephen had quite escaped his young eyes, he was charmed to put a spoke in the wheel of the flirtation he suspicioned.
"I'm sorry if I've done wrong——" his mischievous face belied the words—"but you say she's working for the Cause, so hasn't she a right to see you?"
Stephen silently rose to his feet. He thought of Letty at his lodgings and of his carefully covered tracks since he left the ones near Primrose Hill. And now this interfering schoolboy had undone the work of weeks. He could hardly restrain himself.
"I'm off." He made for the door.
"Wait a second. I'll see you out—I don't want the Mater disturbed."
"Please tell her that I called."
"I will—when she's well enough. And, look here, it's no good writing—the doctor won't allow her letters. Unless you'd like Jill to read them and give her an occasional message?"
But this kindly thought was lost. Stephen vouchsafed no answer.
Roddy stood there for a moment—the door held back with his foot—watching his visitor walk away, his coat clipped in to his figure, his boots new, and the latest hat.
"What a rotter the fellow is! I'm rather sorry for that young woman—but what does she see in him?" He turned it over in his mind.
"Silly fools, girls," he said. He spoke the verdict out aloud, with the conscious superiority of a man in the making.
"Why, Roddy—you've grown a cynic!"
He turned with a sudden cry of joy.
"Peter!"
McTaggart's smiling face, bronzed and handsome, met his eyes.
"May I come in?—I just called round to ask how Mrs. Uniacke was."
"Rather! My hat!—it's jolly fine to see you back," he danced on the steps. "I say—we'll have to go quiet——" (the boy remembered)—"Mother's asleep."
They stole through the dingy hall and into the dining-room beyond. McTaggart glanced round with a smile at the bare, familiar place.
"You've grown, Roddy. Where's Jill? Hope she can spare me a minute. I suppose she's busy nursing your Mother?"
"Yes." Roddy's smile faded—"she's getting done up, I'm afraid. Sitting up all night, you know. The Mater can't be left alone."
"As bad as that? I'm awfully grieved. Poor old Jill!—and it's rough on you ... Never mind—we must cheer her up. Do tell her that I'm here."
"I'll go now." Roddy paused—"Look here, Peter, I shan't let on that it's you—what a lark! Won't it be a surprise for her." He was off, his eyes shining with fun.
He found Jill in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, her face flushed, leaning over the hot fire, patiently skimming mutton broth.
"You'll have to leave that for a minute. There's someone called and wants to see you. On business, I think," he choked back a laugh.
"Bother," said Jill, "I can't come now."
"Sorry—but I'm no earthly use. Hurry up, there's a good girl."
Jill, with an impatient sigh, pushed the soup to the side of the stove.
"It won't hurt to simmer there." She wiped her hands on a cloth and with her rounded arms bare, an apron over her drill skirt, followed Roddy up the stairs, a frown on her pretty face.
After the gloom of the basement the light dazed her for a second as she walked into the dining-room and saw a tall man standing there.
"Well, Jill?"
At Peter's voice she gave a sadden breathless cry. She caught at the back of a chair and swayed...
"Good Lord! I've startled you."
His arm went out, supporting her. "I'm awfully sorry." He felt her stiffen. For Jill had recovered herself.
"You made me jump—How are you, Peter?" She forced a shaky little laugh. "I'm all right—it's nothing ... really." She drew back, her face red—"it's the hot kitchen. I'm rather tired—but awfully glad to see you again."
"You do look a bit played out." His blue eyes ran over her, conscious of a subtle change. This was not his schoolgirl friend of the short skirts and swinging plait.
Her hair was wound round her head in glossy coils, from beneath which little tendrils curled away, dark against her white forehead.
Her throat and arms, bare and dimpled, were softly curved and the low bosom that rose and fell with her quick breath had lost its narrow, boyish look.
But the grey eyes were the same, pure and fearless, though shadowed now with faint circles of violet that added to their natural size; and the pretty face, flushed from the fire, had the clear skin of the child he loved, the rather large and humorous mouth.
Her long skirt, tightly bound with the narrow apron, showed the curve of her slender hips and beneath he saw her high-arched, supple feet.
She looked a thoroughbred—he thought—with a sudden thrill of friendly pride—from the poise of her well-shaped head to the smooth, pointed finger tips.
"It's so nice to see you again—I'm awfully glad." He beamed at her.
"I, too——" she laughed back—"we thought you had really gone for good. And you never said in your letter you were coming home, not a word!"
"I wanted it to be a surprise."
"It was!" She caught her brother's arm. "Roddy—you little wretch!"—for she guessed his share in the trick—"just run down and put on the kettle—and then we'll have tea together. D'you mind a picnic in the kitchen?"—she turned to the visitor, "Lizzie's upstairs with the invalid."
"I'd love it," McTaggart declared. "I've got such lots of things to tell you. But first of all—how's your Mother?"
"Better." Jill smiled bravely. "But it's been dreadful! Poor darling—she came home an utter wreck——" Her lips quivered as she spoke.
"Well—you'll soon get her right, my dear—good nursing and perfect rest." Peter's voice was soothing now; he was inwardly shocked at the strain he guessed. "And then we'll take her out for drives—I've ordered a car from Tommy Bethune."
"Oh!—I'm so glad. He's such a dear! You don't know how good he's been. He arranged everything for Mother—even to the ambulance."
Peter's face was very grave. It was all very well, he said to himself to read of these things in the papers, but the thought of Mrs. Uniacke—that delicate, frail little creature—in a prison, forcibly fed! This was bringing it home with a vengeance. And a new respect seized the man. Whatever his views on the Suffrage question might be, he marvelled in his heart at the courage displayed by those thousands of women banded together to fight or die.
"She's asleep now," went on Jill—"that's been the most serious trouble—that and her heart, which is very weak. And, of course, her digestion's all to pieces—and she's suffered frightfully in her throat ... Well, we won't talk any more about it. Come down and have some tea."
They crossed the hall with bated breath, Jill's finger to her lips. As they went down the dark stairs Peter slipped a hand through her arm.
"Steady, Jill. Don't take a header ... 'Steep is the descent to' ... Tea! Here we are. Any black beetles?"
Jill shivered involuntarily.
"It's cowardly—but I hate them, Peter! Sometimes when I come down at night the floor's simply black with them. I'd far sooner find burglars!"
McTaggart's laugh steadied her nerves. He checked her in the narrow passage and lowered his voice, with a glance at Roddy beyond them, busy in the kitchen.
"Look here, Jill—now I'm back—I hope you're going to make use of me? I don't want to cut out Bethune——" he smiled, watching her thoughtful face—-"but he's busy and I'm not—I'm game for any odd job. And I want to help—awfully. You see, I came home for that."
"Did you?" The girl looked at him. Her eyes in the gloom shone like stars under their heavy curling lashes.
"Honour bright! Your letter did it. I couldn't bear to think of you in all this trouble without a man. Although I knew you'd the pluck to face it. So it's a bargain—settled between us—I'm to be a sort of handy ... brother?"
"That's it," said Jill steadily. "I won't forget. Thank you, Peter."