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 metier. 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 scene! 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 menage--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 metier!--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. 'Tres sporting.' That is chic
in the suburbs--always gaiters, pique 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 metier! 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!"