The Man with the Double Heart Part 45

He stopped on the word with a little start.

For the first time for many weeks a memory returned to him of his visit to Harley Street and the problem of his "double" heart.

What was it he had laughingly said? (How long ago that day seemed ...

The era of Fantine and Cydonia.)

Yes--"porridge" it was, and "Chianti!"

He glanced up at the mantelpiece as Bethune, hearing steps outside, trundled away to give instructions to the bewildered Mario.

"No change?" he heard him say. "All right--I'll see to it."

A face smiled down at McTaggart out of a tarnished silver frame.

Cydonia in a big black hat, white furs around her throat--with her childish mouth and wide eyes. He took it down and gazed at it.

Cydonia!--the girl he had loved.

Deliberately he placed the verb in the past tense. For it was true.

Nothing of his pa.s.sion remained, but a mild, wondering affection!

Absence and time had achieved the cure. _One_ broken heart at least was mended! And Fantine...? At the name he felt a sudden stab of regret.

How strange were life and life's emotions! Although her picture was destroyed--(he had done it in anger that fatal night) her image rose clear in his mind.

Of the two women he missed her most--in the flood-tide of his return.

Her stronger personality, the power of wit and imagination that blent with her careless scorn of men, her nameless, utterly feminine charm, had survived that other disillusion.

He put Cydonia's portrait back quickly as Bethune re-entered the room.

Then, conscious that his hasty action had not escaped his friend's eyes, in an indifferent voice, he asked:

"Ever hear anything of the Cadells?"

"Yes--no!" Bethune turned to the sideboard, horribly at a loss. He coughed, then started with a plunge to get his unwelcome news over.

"Met 'Jinks' the other day--remember 'Jinks' of Trinity?--got his blue for Rugger--Well, he knows Miss Cadell--that was."

"What?" McTaggart's voice was sharp.

Bethune, fidgeting with the syphon, his back turned to his friend, received a sudden baptism, stinging and cold, of soda water.

"Oh, d.a.m.n!--now I've spilled it. Yes, that's it--She's married, you know. A chap called Euan Flemming--an M.P. for ... G.o.d knows where!"

"Well--I'm blessed!" McTaggart laughed; a little sourly, truth to tell. Despite the conclusion arrived at earlier he felt somewhat taken aback.

"Cheer up," he addressed the broad shoulders of his still perturbed friend. "You mixed the news with soda water but I could have stood it neat."

Bethune wheeled round, his face red. "I'm jolly glad--I've been funking it." He met McTaggart's amused eyes and beamed all over his honest face.

"That's over," said McTaggart--"long ago. What about dinner?--I'll just go and have a wash and be with you--if you're ready."

"I should think I am!--half famished--I've been down at Brooklands with a new car. Hurry up!"

He dropped into a chair as McTaggart called through the folding doors.

"D'you ever see Jill now? It's a bad business about her mother."

"I was there yesterday--to inquire. They let her out at the end of the week--but she's been awfully ill since. It was pretty nearly touch and go..."

There came a sound of splas.h.i.+ng water; then McTaggart's voice again:

"I'm glad she's home at any rate. What's become of the priceless Stephen?"

"Dont's ask me. I bar the chap. D'you remember old Charlie Mason?

Well, he managed at last to get a billet with Hensley and Benton, the big wine people. He dropped in to see me, last night, full of trouble.

It seems that Somerfield had let him in for a big order for himself and several pals of his. And now they say they can't stump up--it sounds like a regular plant! Awfully hard lines on Charlie--the firm have given him the sack."

"You don't say so. Bad luck! I always thought Stephen a wrong 'un.

How's Jill herself?"

A pause.

"Oh--all right," but Bethune frowned. "Jolly plucky about it all. I fancy they're rather in low water. It's between ourselves, you understand. But she's left College for good now and it seems to me she's taken on most of the house work at home. They only keep one servant."

"What a shame!" came from McTaggart, busily brus.h.i.+ng back his hair.

"It's a thousand pities her mother gives up all her time to Suffrage work. She might consider her family. I can't understand the attraction. Seems to me it's like drink--when a woman really takes to it there's no earthly stopping her!"

"I quite agree," said Bethune, "I'm sorry for Jill. And the boy, too,"

he added somewhat hastily. His pale face was slightly flushed. "You ready?"

He picked up his hat as his friend reappeared. "It's stopped raining----" he glanced at the window. "We've had an awfully wet season--nothing like it since the Flood. I nearly started a motor boat--cheap trips in Piccadilly!"

They clattered downstairs together and out on to the s.h.i.+ning pavement.

"We'd better take a bus, I suppose," said McTaggart--"how long has this strike been on?"

"About a fortnight----" Bethune laughed. "I expect you're glad to get back to England?"

But the other answered seriously. "Well--I _am_. It's an odd thing----" he sniffed up the air, damp and smoky, and smiled to himself, his eyes bright. "But there's something about London, you know..."

He left the sentence incomplete

CHAPTER XXI

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.