The Man with the Double Heart Part 3

"It makes Roddy furious! Of course he's only a boy, but he's such an old dear,"--her love for her brother was plain. "If only Stephen would let him alone instead of teasing him! He treats him like a kid, with a 'Run away and play!' And no boy will stand that--in his own home too!

And of course there are rows, and Mother takes _his_ side."

"What--Stephen's?" McTaggart stared in surprise.

"Rather! He can't do wrong--'poor dear Stephen'! And it's no good chiming in, it only makes things worse. For if I do Mother says it's because ... I'm jealous."

The little break in her voice showed how deep the shaft had sped.

"Poor old girl"--McTaggart pressed her arm. "It's jolly rough on you--I'd like to kick the chap! He's a regular parasite; he can't support himself, and he's always hanging around sponging on his friends."

But Jill was following out her own line of thought.

"And I'm not jealous, Peter--not in that mean way. But since Father died I've got to think of Roddy. It's not that Mother isn't really fond of him, but she doesn't understand or see he's growing up. She's always so busy with all this Suffrage work, and Stephen eggs her on.

She's no time for home. We never seem to have her now for a second to ourselves without Stephen in the background like a sort of household spy!"

"What excuse does he give for haunting the place? He's no relation of yours, by any chance?"

"Thank Heaven, no!" She gave a shaky laugh. "Why, we only know him since Father died. He was Secretary to a branch of the Woman's Suffrage League. Mrs. Braid, you know, took Mother to a meeting, and then she got keen on the movement herself. I was pleased at the time because it seemed to rouse her. She simply collapsed after Father's death, and anything seemed better than to see her lying there, caring for nothing, utterly crushed.

"I never thought then she'd become a Suffragette. Militant too!--it's so unlike Mother. She's always been so gentle and hated publicity--the very thought of a crowd would keep her at home. But when she took it up she went quite mad about it. That's where Stephen came in--he was Secretary, you see. Mother's no earthly good at any sort of business--she always depended on Father for everything. And of course she missed him frightfully, and Roddy's only a boy. So Stephen used to come and explain things to her."

They turned into the open park where the wet asphalt path cut across the empty gra.s.s like a tight-drawn wire. "Where does Stephen live?"

McTaggart's voice was hard. This child-friend of his was very dear to him.

"Just round the corner, but, like the poor, you know, he's 'with us always'--it's practically his home. Mother found him new digs up by Primrose Hill. She thought West Kensington air too depressing!--that Stephen looked pale, was inclined to be anaemic."

McTaggart smiled at her rueful grimace.

"So now he nurses his failing strength under your Mother's eye?"

"She gives him rum and milk and warm Winter socks!--which by the way I was once asked to darn. I did strike at that! I don't mind mending Roddy's, but Stephen's?--No thanks!"

Her clear young laugh rang out as she caught McTaggart's eye.

"He's a somewhat spoilt young man, from all accounts. D'you think..."

he paused a moment, then risked the question ... "d'you think your Mother's really ... a bit ... fond of him?"

"No." Her tone was definite--"not ... like that." A faint colour stole up into her childish face, but loyally she went on, resenting the imputation. "Mother never flirts, you know. She hates that sort of thing. She's awfully down on other people too. That Mrs. Molineux, d'you remember the gossip? Mother cuts her now whenever they meet."

McTaggart looked amused.

"Funny, isn't it? Because, I suppose people ... talk! It's not everyone who'd understand Stephen."

"Don't!" The girl's hand slipped from his arm. Then at his quick:

"Oh--I don't mean _that_!--Of course I know your mother--she's one of the best--I didn't mean anything--don't be vexed, Jill. It's only that outsiders might be rather dense"--her face relaxed and she turned impulsively, grat.i.tude s.h.i.+ning in the gray eyes.

"That's just what hurts most--to have her misjudged. When one knows ... it's _Mother_!--that she _couldn't_ stoop..." The hot blood surged up into her face. "To think that people can say nasty, mean things--that she gives them the chance! It makes me wild. And Mother all the time doesn't see it a bit. She thinks because it's _her_"

(vehemence ousted grammar) "that everyone must know it's bound to be all right. And she goes to all sorts of places, lecturing, you know, and takes Stephen with her and stays away for days. Only yesterday"--her words poured on--"Aunt Elizabeth came to tea and the first thing she said was: 'I hear you were at Folkestone, staying at the Grand?--_and_ Mr. Somerville?' And Mother answered calmly: 'Yes--I took Stephen. He's such a help, you know. I couldn't do without him.'

And Aunt Elizabeth gave such a nasty little laugh and said--'Really, Mary, I think _I_ must get a Stephen!'

"But Mother didn't see it." She gave an impatient sigh.

"She's a law unto herself," McTaggart suggested. "I vote we drown Stephen. Some dark night--in the Regent's Park Ca.n.a.l. And here it is; let's choose the spot."

He paused as he spoke on the little iron bridge that spans the narrow stream, where the barges come and go; slowly drifting along the still line of water, a mute protest against the feverish haste of the age.

"The worst of it is," said Jill, ignoring his suggestion to remove the enemy into a better world, "that Stephen eggs her on in all this militant work. And Mother isn't strong; she's not fit for it. Why, last year she was ill for weeks after that trouble when the windows were smashed in Regent Street. And her name was in the papers. Roddy got so ragged. All the boys at school were pulling his leg. And he's so proud of Mother!--it nearly broke his heart--to think of her being taken off to a common police station. Why! ..."

She stopped short, leaning over the bridge,--"There he is, on the foot path, with his fis.h.i.+ng rod."

She put her hands to her mouth and called in her clear voice, "Rod-dy!"

"Hullo!" came an answering hail. "You up there, Jill?"

There came a scrambling in the bushes that fringed the waterway, and, with a noise of snapping twigs at the summit of the bank, a leg and an arm shot out, then a laughing boy's face, with a great black smudge neatly bisecting it.

"Hullo, Peter!" The pair shook hands.

"Had any sport?" said McTaggart gravely.

"No such luck," replied that ardent fisherman. "I wonder what the time is?--it _feels_ like lunch."

"You'd better cut home and wash"--his sister smiled at him--"You look as if you'd spent the morning sweeping chimneys."

"I think I'll slip in with you," the schoolboy winked, "there's a new cook to-day and I'm warned off the area. Stephen's about." He tucked a hand through her arm, and the three moved on over the bridge.

"Look here, old girl, you're coming to the Zoo? Half past two sharp.

I've bought a bag of nuts."

"Rather," said his sister. She turned to McTaggart. "You come too?"

"I will." Peter decided.

"Good biz," said Roddy, "he can carry the bread." He sniffed up the air as they mounted the slope. "Jolly smell the fog has!" and, as the others laughed, proceeded to explain his singular predilection. "It smells of holidays, of good old town. You know what I mean--a sort of smell of its own. I can tell you I long for it sometimes at school.

Talk about 'clear air' and 'Yorks.h.i.+re moors.' Give me London any blessed day."

They left the Park behind, and skirting Primrose Hill came to a terrace facing the North. At the third porch Jill produced a key, and fitting it in the lock, noiselessly opened the door.

"In you go, Roddy, the coast's quite clear..."

The boy slipped past and up the narrow stairs.

Then she turned to Peter with a sudden hesitation. "If you don't mind waiting here I'll go and find Mother."

McTaggart stood in the gloomy hall, watching the girl, as she walked down the pa.s.sage with her long, boyish step, opened a door beyond and closed it behind her and a sound of voices drifted across to him.

He was just beginning to regret his sudden impulse when the door was reopened and a man appeared. Tall and very blond, dressed with studied care in a coat that curved in to his narrow waist, the light from above fell on his face, weakly good-looking, with a loose under lip and sentimental eyes of a pale greenish hue, thickly shadowed by long fair lashes.