CHAPTER XXII
McTaggart walked to St. John's Wood station absorbed in thought, his face grave.
For the memory of his little friend with the tired circles round her eyes haunted each step of the lonely road, shadowed by its belt of trees.
He saw that Jill was worn out with nursing and anxiety, that the long nights of vigil were bought at the expense of her nerves. He guessed, moreover, the strained resources of the shabby house he had left. He would have given much for the right to ease the position with a cheque!
But this was plainly impossible. He smiled to himself at the bare idea, striding along oblivious of the heavy thunder drops that fell.
At last a scheme presented itself. When he reached the Underground, after a moment's hesitation, he took a ticket for Kensington and, in due course, with two changes, alighted at the High Street station. Here, with an anxious glance at the clock, he turned to the left and, winding about, arrived at last at a large block of flats in a quiet street.
He studied the list of names in the hall, entered the lift and was carried up to the fourth floor and Flat G, where he rang the bell, feeling a shade nervous.
Miss Elizabeth Uniacke was "at home." He handed the maid his card—a neat elderly woman in an old-fashioned cap and apron—and followed her into a small drawing-room, crowded with little tables and chairs and occupied by a large black cat, asleep on a cushion, and a grey parrot.
The door closed and he looked around him. Early Victorian furniture, bright chintzes, modern china, photo frames, frilled cushions and a quantity of Benares work.
Over the draped chimney-piece a rosewood overmantel obtruded with carved cubicles, enclosing each a simpering statuette. The walls, buff with knots of roses, were dotted with plates, plush brackets and amateurish water colours, but the room was airy and spotlessly clean, with a certain homelike sense of comfort.
The parrot eyed him wickedly, his grey head on one side, and the black cat yawned in his face, red tongue curled, with sleepy disdain.
McTaggart's nervousness increased. Then he heard a brisk step, the door opened and in there came a trim, upright little figure in a blue "foulard" dress.
He gathered his wits and advanced to meet her. "I'm afraid you won't remember me—I must really apologize for coming..."
"Oh, yes, I do——" she cut him short—"quite well"—and held out her hand.
"I met you at my sister-in-law's—Won't you sit down?" He found himself on the chintz-covered sofa facing his hostess.
Clear eyes, grey like Jill's, met his gaze, beneath a fringe, plainly false, of a brownish hue, safely secured by a band of black velvet. Beyond this line her natural hair, pepper and salt, seemed to proclaim, with emphasis, the honesty of the subterfuge and her intentions.
Her nose was sharp, her lips tight, her figure angular and spare, but he noticed she had beautiful hands on which gleamed some fine old rings.
"I was staying there when you lunched one day and took the children for a drive." She seemed to guess that he was nervous and set him at ease with well-bred tact.
"It's really about your niece I've called—I hope you will forgive the intrusion." He hesitated, finding it harder even than he had guessed it would be.
"Mrs. Uniacke's frightfully ill—but, of course, you know all about it?"
Her smile faded instantly; she drew herself up, very erect. "I haven't the slightest pity for her." Her voice was cold and definite. "Her conduct is inexcusable!"
McTaggart saw how the land lay and decided to be diplomatic.
"I rather agree with you," he said, "my sympathy is all for Jill."
"Disgraceful," the little lady continued, "my brother's name dragged in the dust. I think Mary must be mad!—And I hope this illness will be a lesson."
"You haven't seen her, I suppose?"
"And I don't intend to!" Her mouth snapped. "It's quite bad enough to think of Edward's wife in a common prison."
"I understand how you feel," McTaggart nodded his head gravely—"but the worst of it is it's killing Jill."
The little old maid started at this.
"Jill? What's that child got to do with it?"
"Everything"—McTaggart frowned—"nurse her mother, help with the cooking, and sit up, besides, night after night. She can't go on—she's bound to break down—and nobody seems to care in the least." He saw a shade of anxiety settle on the thin face. ("It's all right"—he said to himself—"she's fond of her niece.") His courage rose. "That's why I've come to you, I feel so awfully sorry for Jill—and Mrs. Uniacke's no good—I really thought you ought to know."
"You did quite right. I'd no idea." Her grey eyes flashed as she spoke. "Mary's not fit to have children!"
The scorn of the unmarried sounded.
"I'm so relieved." McTaggart smiled. "I felt it was no business of mine and wondered how you would receive me. But now—since you're so kind—I want to make a certain suggestion. It seems they won't hear of a nurse——" the young man went a trifle red—"Of course—they must have a lot of expenses—education and all that, and I want to be allowed to help.
"As it happens I've been left ... rather a large fortune lately and I don't know what to do with the money—it's a fact, I assure you..." he hurried on—"and if you agree to it, I thought I'd see about a good trained nurse—for night work—to relieve Jill. We're such old friends——" his voice pleaded—"only you see she's awfully proud, so I thought if I might use your name Jill need never know about it. I suppose you'll think it awful cheek," boyishly he added the clause—"for a stranger to come and suggest this—but I've known Jill all my life."
There followed an embarrassing pause. He could feel the keen grey eyes upon him and looked away, his gaze fixed on a goblet of Bohemian glass with "Grüss!" inscribed in gilt upon it.
Over Miss Uniacke's wrinkled face a grim smile began to steal.
"Hm ... I see. You want to indulge in philanthropy—at the expense of my conscience?"
McTaggart, glancing up, caught a twinkle in her eyes.
"Exactly—we can both afford it!—I knew, somehow, you'd be kind."
"Did you?" She chuckled, inwardly pleased. "You seem to take a lot for granted. May I ask the reason why?"
"Well—if you want to know..." he smiled. "No—I'd better not." He checked himself mischievously, studying her face.
"Jill, I suppose, or, perhaps, Roddy?—I sent that young rascal a hamper lately—I expect he's been deceiving you! I only do it because, as it happens, Mrs. Belsey likes cooking. And I don't eat cakes myself—so it pleases her—and I hate waste!"
"No. Roddy's been most discreet!" He paused, then risked it, laughing.
"I guessed it from your beautiful hands! There's such a lot of character to be learnt from hands——" he went on calmly, enjoying her indignant surprise. "I always judge people by them, and I'm never very far wrong!"
"You're a very impertinent young man!"
The smile she could no longer repress robbed the words of their sting—"Now before I answer your ... rigmarole—I want to think."
McTaggart nodded. He was well pleased with his mission and he felt a personal interest in this singular new acquaintance, with her sharp tongue and kind eyes.
Absently, from a black silk bag, Miss Uniacke drew a bundle of wool and began to knit rapidly, thinking aloud, between the stitches.
"Three, four, five, purl—the woman's an utter fool—always told Edward so!—seven, eight, drop one. But there's the girl to consider—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—dirty house, no management—nineteen, twenty, knit one, turn..."
Silence fell in the darkening room.
Then from behind the sofa came the startling sound of a noisy kiss.
McTaggart wheeled round in wonder.
"Pret-ty Polly—give-us-a-kiss!" followed by a grave "A-men." The grey parrot, upside down, clinging to his narrow perch, let out a mocking laugh. Miss Uniacke knitted on.
"Seven, eight—strong soup—nine, purl—some good old port—ridiculous! a child of that age—ten, eleven, wants air—drop one—and nine hours sleep. Pity they let her out of prison—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, turn—If I had my way I'd shave their heads. Soon cure this Suffrage nonsense—Three, four——"
McTaggart felt a wild desire to laugh aloud, as from the window the parrot indulged in a hoarse and fervent "Damn!"
"Oh!" Miss Uniacke rose to her feet. "You bad bird. You shall go to bed——" She seized a green baize cloth and threw it nimbly over the cage. "I can't think where he learns these words."
At the shocked note in her voice McTaggart straightened his face.
"I expect he lived with a Suffragette before he came to you," he suggested—"and once they get the fever, you know, it's all up with their morals. He'll be out breaking windows next!"
Miss Uniacke chuckled grimly.
"Well——" she laid her knitting down and folded her slim white hands. "I've made up my mind, Mr. McTaggart. I can't allow Jill to suffer. I'm much obliged for your kind offer but there's a better way by far. I shall go and look after Mary myself."
She said it with an air of triumph.
"It will be an excellent opportunity to break her of this Suffrage nonsense." She caught McTaggart's look of alarm. "Don't be afraid—I'm a capital nurse—I mean, of course, when she's convalescent. What she wants now is rest and sleep—and good food. Did you say they hadn't a cook?"
"I don't think so—I understand she left, furious, on the day Mrs. Uniacke went to prison."
"I don't blame her." The silk dress rustled. "Then there's only that slatternly housemaid left to help Jill?"
"So I gather—unless Stephen condescends to black the boots!"
"Ha!" The little lady snorted—"So he's about still, is he?"
McTaggart was conscious of a slip. He wished he hadn't mentioned the man.
"I can't say. I know he's at large. I don't fancy prison fare appeals to him—he's rather dainty."
"Not a friend of yours, I see."
Miss Uniacke's bright eyes surveyed him almost lovingly—"Well—he won't enter that house while I'm there," she decided tartly.
"Now, to business"—she went on, after a pause, "I'll shut up the flat as soon as I can. I always do for the Summer months and it's only a few weeks earlier—and take both my maids with me. Anyhow, until I can get the house in order and find a cook for Mary. Maria's a good nurse. She's been with me eighteen years and Mrs. Belsey understands invalid soups—she's an excellent woman and a strict teetotaller. So you can set your mind at rest—about Jill, I mean." She smiled as McTaggart rose to his feet. "Come and see us when you like. I'm very much obliged to you. It's not often nowadays you find young men with any sense. The world's all upside down, with feeble boys and manly women!"
McTaggart held her pretty hand in his beyond the orthodox time.
"Perhaps," he asked, "you'd come for a spin now and then in my car?"
"And chaperone my niece—eh?"
The speech was not without malice. She saw his slightly guilty look and laughed outright.
"I understand—I was young once myself, you see."
"Aunt Elizabeth—you're a brick!" He dared the familiarity with his charming smile.
"Well—of all the impertinence!" her thin cheeks flushed a little. "We'll see. I make no rash promises. I shall try and get to Mary on Friday."
Her face suddenly clouded over.
"I'm glad now poor Edward's gone. It's a bad business for the children."
McTaggart felt immensely sorry. He saw she took it keenly to heart.
"I suppose"—his voice was very gentle—"you wouldn't care..." he hesitated—"to come and dine with me to-night—if you're disengaged—have nothing better? I'm only just back from abroad and find so many friends away. Won't you take pity on my loneliness?"
The little lady was inwardly flattered, but she laughed aside the invitation.
"Nonsense!—it's very kind, I'm sure ... but you don't want an old woman like me!"
"I do"—he smiled back at her. "Say you will?" He saw her glance furtively at the clock beyond. "There's loads of time—I'll change and return to fetch you. What about a theatre?"
Aunt Elizabeth was tempted.
"Well ... then—some quiet place without a band. As it happens I have a good ear for music and I won't risk my digestion by swallowing to Tango time! And—Marie Tempest, for choice—there's no nonsense about her!"
Her voice was brisk. "I'm tired of having sermons preached at me from the stage, or so-called 'Comedies'—which are nothing but an excuse for extravagant dress. I want to be amused, you see, not stunned by mere colour and light, and rows of common, simpering girls advertising for a husband."
With a characteristic gesture she straightened the wayward brown fringe.
"In my young days we went to the play to see people really act. But now everyone's attention is riveted on the production! A sort of marionette show in which the performers seem to count as auxiliaries to the epigrams parcelled out by the author. You don't hear people praise the art of the actor. Oh, dear, no. It's: 'Isn't it well put on?' or 'Aren't the dresses simply sweet?'"
McTaggart laughed heartily.
"There's a great deal in what you say. Well, I'll be back within the hour. I'm so glad you can come." He foresaw that the evening might prove a quaint experience in the company of his new friend with her sharp eyes and caustic tongue.
The little old maid smiled at him.
"You'll find me quite ready," she replied, "and looking forward to my treat."
But in her heart she was saying: "I believe the boy's fond of Jill. And Mary's such an utter fool! I must see into this myself. Edward, I know, would thank me for it. He seems a nice, manly fellow..."
Little McTaggart guessed her thoughts, nor the impulse prompting her to accept.
As he left the room he heard the parrot, shrouded and sulky, drawing corks!