CHAPTER XXVII
The night was close and sultry. A sudden longing for air drove McTaggart into the deserted Park. His luggage was packed, and early next day he would start for the North and his round of visits there.
The Uniackes were at Worthing, and McTaggart's thoughts instinctively turned to Jill as he left the path and took a chair in an empty row beyond the Achilles Statue.
The girl's initial venture as a Militant Suffragette had left no lasting trace physically. But mentally it had marked a definite turning point in her views on the subject that engrossed her home.
She had gone to Cluar expecting resistance from the law and possible rough treatment at the hands of men; but the sight of fellow-women, losing all control, violently turning against their own sex, and the utter absence of that esprit de corps—so strong a feature of her college life—had astounded and revolted her to the depths of her soul.
She argued thus: If a movement that held as its primary cause the advancement of women produced not only a breach with the opposite sex but civil war among themselves, what would be the state of a government where the rival factions each held the vote and in which the fighting element despised the prevailing laws of the land?
Was Arson a slight weapon of offence? Or Assassination, risked by bombs?
It was Anarchy none the less, the offenders being mere women.
The present scheme of government might be open to various abuses, but at least it was a rule of order, upholding the laws it sought to enforce and the safety of the citizen.
In the long journey home, Jill had threshed out in this fashion the pros and cons of Woman's Suffrage with McTaggart; and needless to say the man had approved the conclusion she reached at last. She turned her back on the "Cause."
Now as he sat in the shadows thrown by the high trees over the grass, hearing the leaves, already falling, rustle faintly overhead, he smiled as he conjured up her face with its indignant wide gray eyes.
They had reached her home late that night, and, for the first time, McTaggart had realized that Mrs. Uniacke cared deeply for her child. The instincts of motherhood had risen supreme over her ardour for the Cause. She had cried aloud at the sight of Jill with her bruised arms and tattered clothes.
Bitterly, too, she had blamed Stephen for deserting the girl in the hour of danger.
She had placed her daughter in his care and the story, tersely told by McTaggart, of their meeting with that prudent person in the coffee-room of the Commercial Hotel, placidly eating an excellent lunch, had roused her genuine indignation.
For Stephen had been "caught out"! The sight of McTaggart, dusty, blood-stained, the cut on his forehead hastily plastered by the local chemist, escorting Jill, herself still white, bruised and shaken, her dress in ribbons, without a hat, standing in the narrow doorway, had shattered that young man's calm assurance.
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 passed, 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 brimming 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 assured 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 passed her handkerchief across her lips, lowered her veil and breasted the slope wearily. Arrived at the edge of the grass, 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...
"What did you do?" he asked gently. "I'd no idea of all this worry. I'm really awfully sorry, Fantine," he laid a hand over hers.
She gave him a sudden brilliant smile.
"The same Pierrot..." her voice was tender. Then she drew herself together, her fingers lightly clasped in his, a faint colour in her thin cheeks.
"You remember Archie Thesiger?"
"Yes." He knew what was coming.
"He offered me his ... protection." Fantine's eyes were enigmatic. "It seemed ... the best thing to do. I was very happy—for a time. He took a little flat in Brighton and—you will laugh!"—she smiled herself—"I am domestic in my tastes—But yes!—and excellent manager. I made Archie quite content. You think because I love my clothes I should be helpless in a kitchen? There you are wrong. One day I will come and make you," she paused—"such an omelette! ... But of course I knew it couldn't last. That is the drawback to ... ce métier. He fell in love—with a young girl. Il faut se ranger—I understood. And there it was!—to begin again. The next time I was not so lucky. Rich, yes. But a 'mauvais sujet.' And then I find that he is married! Madame arrives ... Dieu, quelle scène! She seem to think I love her Reuben! Yes—a Jew ... that too! But I tell her, smiling, to her face, that it was purely business with me. My faith, she did not care for it. I agreed it was not suitable—ce ménage—lowering for a woman such as I am, with brains and looks—that money is not everything! He drank too—and she knew that!"
At her mischievous sidelong glance McTaggart gave a grim laugh, conjuring up the unequal duel between this strange, dissimilar pair.
"I give her then some good advice,"—Fantine was enjoying her story, the topaz eyes keen and bright, lips curved in a mocking smile. "I say: 'You are a good woman, with babies, per'aps, and a linen press. But that is not all a man wants. Learn to talk ... and walk ... an' dress! Marriage—what is it? A legal tie. But a clever wife must charm to hold ... You catch my point?—I am ver' glad. I could teach you ... yes, many things. But my cab waits—Adieu, Madame!'" ...
"Good Lord!—So you went. And then?"
Fantine made a wry grimace.
"I became companion to a lady. (Of men, you see, I had had enough!) Also rich, mais une femme du peuple! Archie gave me a written reference. His uncle is a baronet and that was quite sufficient to her. I learned there how to wash a dog and make petticoats for the poor. Not flannel—you understan'?—but flannelette—most dangerous—but good enough for Charity! (McTaggart chuckled, watching her.) And what a 'real lady' could do and what a 'real lady' could not!
"It's a ... sale métier!—to my mind—hardly as moral as the other—so uncharitable"—she frowned.
"Have you ever lived in the suburbs?—No?—Then don't, my dear Pierrot. It's to ... exist in hourly fear of gossip, one eye on each neighbour. To call and flatter, peer and pry and pick their characters to ribbons. What a life!" she shrugged her shoulders. "One of my duties was to teach my new employer a little French. That amused me enormously! She was as stupid as a goose—so I stuffed her"—Fantine laughed—"with some good spicy words. When she travels to Paris, mon Dieu!—she will surprise the chambermaid! Unluckily"—she ran on—"there was a nephew." Her cough stopped her. She battled with it for a moment, caught her breath and smiled bravely. "Un horreur de petit bonhomme!—dressed like a little groom. 'Très sporting.' That is chic in the suburbs—always gaiters, piqué necktie and no horse! You know the type, hein, Pierrot?
"'Bertie'—that was the youth's name—took a fancy to poor me!—Condescended to express it—even helped to wash the dog. That was fun—he did get wet!" She laughed at the recollection. "Then, one day, Madame guessed. Actually she accused me of a wish to marry him!" Up went Fantine's hands in horror. "Moi, Fantine!"
McTaggart roared.
"I said I had no use for 'Bertie.' It was not my fault if he cared for me!—That it nearly gave me 'mal au coeur' to sit facing him at dinner! That I boxed his ears at many times—and that was true!—but she would not believe. She said: 'One can see you are no lady.' So I replied that she could not tell. Impossible! I knew, mon cher, she had started life as a kitchen maid and married her master through a trick and I added: 'I am quite ready to learn any hint regarding cooking, but of my birth you are no judge—I go to my equals to decide.' The servants were all in the hall and Bertie as red as a turkey-cock—and they laughed! I heard them. Then I packed and got away as soon as I could, with all the neighbours' noses glued to the windows.
"Virtue did not seem a success—it hides, you see, so much meanness. I tried in vain to find Gustave"—(the name slipped out unconsciously)—"but all my letters were returned—'not known' at the old address.
"Then I thought of the Stage. Chorus per'aps?—I sing a little. That began and ended too with a heavy fee to an agent. I got a cold one snowy day and fell ill. Then doctor's bills and the little money I had saved melted away—and so, you see ... here I am!" She finished gaily—"Open—how do you make the phrase?—to any pleasant salaried post!"
She glanced sideways at the man, noting the pity on his face.
"You wouldn't like...?" Her meaning was plain.
"No," said McTaggart, very gently.
"Tant pis! You cared once..." She sighed, then coughed. "I can live," she whispered, "on ve-ry little ... also cook..."
"Don't!" he quivered on the word. "It's horrible!—to think that you..." He swallowed hard, remembering the pretty flat, with the Fantine of old, proud and brilliant—and now ... this!
"I'm going to be married," he said quickly—"At least I hope so. But that's no reason why I shouldn't help an old friend."
Fantine drew herself up erect.
"If I choose to take——" her voice was sharp—"I give too! That is honest, I think. I have never asked for charity. But ... oh, mon Dieu!" she broke down under McTaggart's pitiful glance. "Life is hard. C'est un sale métier! And I can't sink—I can't ... I can't ..." a sob broke from the painted lips—"not to ... that!"
She pointed straight to the lights beyond the silvery arch, to Piccadilly, broad and smooth.
McTaggart felt suddenly humbled. He thought for a moment painfully of the lives of those other women, placed for ever outside the pale, sacrificed to man's desire...
Then he spoke.
"Look here, Fantine. I think you're a splendid little woman! I'd feel proud to be your friend. The pluck of you!"—(he meant it, too). "I wouldn't dream of insulting you by—well—by offering financial help without any equivalent. But there's something you can do for me—if you will?—and it's not too dull?"
She stared at him wonderingly. A faint glimmer of hope shone in the tragic depths of her topaz eyes. The reddened lips parted a little. "Eh bien?"
He felt the strain in her voice and hurried on, full of compassion.
"It's like this. I've been left a villa—a wee place abroad near the sea. I stayed there for a few weeks before my return—and was bored to death! I don't want to shut it up and I have a dislike to letting it. It occurred to me to find some one, as a sort of caretaker," he paused, his eyes fixed on the grass at his feet. "It's in Italy, not far from Spezzia—a pretty place with lovely air and fairly gay in the Summer time—but in the Winter months——" he laughed—"about as lonely as the Pole. So that's what I am up against—to find someone I can trust to live there and keep it aired. There's an old woman who does odd jobs—I daresay she could cook a bit—and her son who gardens, cleans windows and all that—but it's not enough. I want some one—a different class—to keep an eye on the pair. But I warn you—it's awfully dull—but healthy—the air comes over the snows. Now as you're feeling a bit run down, would you like to try it?" He broke off sharply.
"Fantine, my dear! Oh, you poor little soul!..."
She was sobbing sharply, her head in her hands. The breeze rustled through the trees and far away, in wave on wave, came the noise of the traffic, London's voice, not unlike the swell of the sea.
Beside him, cast up on the tide, this wreck and flotsam of life's storms, battered and broken, but still lit by the flickering lamp of the human soul.
"Fantine—don't feel hurt, my dear. I mean what I say—it's give and take—fair play, I give you my word."
She raised a streaming, haggard face.
"You don't know ... oh, mon Dieu! Listen——"
she caught him by the arm. "I tried to ruin you," she cried—"that last evening—at the flat!"
"Nonsense!—it's all ... part of the game——" his voice was rough through sheer discomfort. "If you had, I deserved it, Fantine—a young ass—that's all right. I'd have ruined you without a thought—in another way, but it's just as bad. There isn't a penny to choose between us. Besides, I knew—when I left you that night. I saw your husband come up the stairs—and—afterwards—I guessed the truth. You were driven to it—it wasn't your fault."
He paused a moment, his face grim.
"A jolly good lesson," he said slowly, "it taught me to be ... less of a fool. So don't let that worry you, but help me now—with this damned villa!"
The very depth of his pity for her made him brusque and he ran on jerkily.
"So that's settled. I want your answer. D'you think you could stand it? It's jolly dull—but with no pet dogs or flannel petticoats! Could a 'real lady' become a caretaker?"
She nodded her head, unable to speak, shaken by a fit of coughing. A chilliness was in the air. McTaggart rose to his feet.
"Come along—it's getting damp. We'll go back to my rooms—I'd like to fix this up to-night as I'm off to Scotland early to-morrow."
He held out his hand with a boyish laugh. "Like old times, eh, Fantine?" and helped her up on to her feet, his own eyes suspiciously bright.
With trembling fingers she lowered her veil and shook out the folds of her shabby dress as McTaggart still rattled on, giving her time to recover.
"I want you to travel to Viareggio as soon as you can. It's a long journey—d'you mind that?"
"No"—she laughed shakily—"one goes through France?" Her voice was wistful.
"Yes—I'll write to-night to Cook's—get you a berth. Would you like to stay for a night in Paris on your way? that would be wiser——" he guessed her thought.
"I'm awfully glad you like the idea—it's really luck my meeting you. I've got a place in Siena, you know, and a flat in Rome, so I daresay I shall look in sometimes—break my journey to see that you're behaving yourself."
They walked along the narrow strip of grass that fringed the row of chairs. But when they came out on to the path Fantine glanced to the right and paused, looking up at the huge statue, its shield aloft against the sky.
"Well—are you making a fresh conquest?"
"Yes—and no!" she laughed softly. "I say good-bye to my friend, Achille—it's just a politeness of mine, Pierrot."
For a moment she stood there, eyes raised.
McTaggart, pitiful, guessed her thought. He saw that the post, invented for her, was not for long as he watched her face.
And something of the old glamour, the memory of the days that were, brought a sharp pain to his heart. He tried in vain to conceal his fear.
But Fantine knew. She nodded her head.
"In case," she murmured, "I don't return."
Then, gaily, to the statue.
"Au revoir, cher Monsieur!"