The Man with the Double Heart Part 68

Over the smooth curve of the hills a crescent moon was s.h.i.+ning clear.

The hushed Earth lay beneath, bathed in the silvery light ...

And, suddenly, a memory stirred in the young man's heart, filled with tender dreams of the girl he loved--the echo of long forgotten words.

"It's under the heavy cloud you stand ... the cloud of a lie ... but it clears ... it clears..."

McTaggart started at the thought. Why--by Heaven! she had been right.

His "double heart?"

It _was_ a lie. He tried to recall the gypsy's speech, the end of the curious prophecy. What was it she had said of the Moon? and the Tide...? He stared out into the night and slowly it returned to him, with the jingle of bangles, the noise of the Fair.

"Between two fires you will burn and burn--And then ... the light fades ... on the turn of the Tide ... there's the Lucky Moon and the Dream of your life...!"

The dream of his life?--Why, that meant Jill!

At Worthing he found a single cab, with a driver, elderly, garrulous.

He sat sideways on the box in order to point out local features of interest; the reins loose in his hands, throwing remarks back to McTaggart.

"Town 'All!" he waved his whip, a worn-out stump without a lash, toward that imposing structure. "The Picture Palace!--'Old up, me la.s.s!" The ancient mare between the shafts responded coquettishly to the call, aware of the subtle compliment, tossing her venerable head.

"The Pier, sir--as was washed in 'alf in the big gale--a crool business. Cost the Corporation no end--This 'ere's the Promenade..."

McTaggart woke from his dream of Jill to gaze at the wide stretch of water.

The beach, white under the moon, shelved down to the smooth sand, dove-grey and broken by rocks low and black, where silver pools lay fringed with sea weed and emerald samphire.

It crept out, like an endless scroll, till it touched the dark line of sea and was met by a single crested wave that broke upon it, noiselessly.

"The tide is very low to-night?" McTaggart spoke at last to the driver.

"Yessir----" the man followed his gaze. "It 'ud be now just on the turn. Woodford Road, I think you said?"

"Yes. There's no number--it's called 'Rose Mount'!"

"Right, sir--I know the 'ouse." They turned abruptly from the sea, up a narrow road in the old town, pa.s.sed a Terrace and came to a gate, open, that showed a curving alley between hedges, neatly clipped, of Euonymus, thick with dust.

The cab drew up and the man descended.

"An orkard place," he said, "with luggage. There's two cottages up there--'Sea-view' and 'Rose Mount.' The one you want is the last, on the right. Shall I carry yer bag, sir? The 'orse won't move."

"No--I'm not staying here," McTaggart hastily explained--"just going in to see some friends. I shall want you to wait--perhaps some time..."

He glanced up the road as he spoke and saw that a little public house stood at the end of the empty street.

"You'd better go and have a drink. But keep an eye on my suit-case."

He handed the smiling driver a s.h.i.+lling.

"Right, sir--thank ye. I'll be 'ere."

He took the coin, pocketed it, gazing up at the sky.

"Turning my money," he explained. "A new moon, sir--it brings luck."

"I hope so," said McTaggart. He felt oddly nervous now as he pa.s.sed down the dusty path with its clipped hedge on either side.

A green door ended it, with a gaping crack, through which he peered and he saw a sun dried little garden where a few nasturtiums still straggled in a bed bordered with c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.ls.

He lifted the latch and walked in.

A cottage with a French window, wide open on the sc.r.a.p of lawn, was before him, rendered picturesque by the magic light of the moon. Over the porch the last white rose of September hung, already withered but triumphant witness to the fact that the little dwelling had earned its name.

Someone was singing. The clear young voice reached McTaggart where he stood and a sudden rush of blood to his heart testified to its being Jill.

How he loved her! The very sound of her voice brought his secret home to him and he stole nearer to the house, tip-toe across the gra.s.s.

"My brown boy is hiding away, For he stole a horse, so they say.

The county's men after him ride.

My boy mocks them, safe by my side..."

The lawless words of the old Folk Song brought a smile to his lips.

The beautiful chords of the Hungarian composer rippled smoothly under Jill's touch and again her voice rang out, filled with the youthful pride of the verse:

"My brown boy is mighty and strong.

Nine armed sheriffs can't hold him long!

But when my voice, so soft he hears His proud head droops, bowed down with tears..."

Now he stood under the shadow of the wall. Through the open window he could see the girl, her clear profile, and the slim moving hands. He dared not yet break in upon her--he leaned back, holding his breath.

"Then I whisper, softly and low 'Give me thy love, 'ere thou dost go....

Pretty am I, faithful am I Only wayward, wayward am I...!'"

A note of defiance rang through the words, typical of her independent nature.

It stirred in McTaggart an answering throb of youth. Here was no easy conquest before him. Sweet would be the mastery to hold her in his arms--this young rebel, tamed at last...

"Jill!" he stepped forward out of the shadows, tall and eager, in the clear white light.

He saw wonder and swift joy pa.s.s across her face as she wheeled round; then a curious look of repression.

"Hullo, Peter!" she answered him coolly. "What a surprise!--Have you dropped from the moon?"

CHAPTER x.x.x