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 _dread_ful! 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."