The Man with the Double Heart Part 10

"Will these do for you?" McTaggart bought a bunch and laid them in Jill's lap; the heavy golden heads on their long pale stems preserving their subtle and Eastern charm, as though a secret lay beneath the curled petals in each still and exquisite flower heart.

They twisted through mean streets until they came to a row of little houses behind the Circus Road.

"It's number 36," directed Jill; but as the car stopped before the door it was opened from within and a woman emerged, old and bent, shrouded in a shawl.

Jill got down and spoke to her, and after a few words returned to McTaggart's side.

"She's fast asleep"--her voice was hushed--"so I won't go in and wake her up." The woman, with suspicious eyes, stared at the young man in the car, as Jill took the flowers and held them out.

"Give her these, please, and say I'll come again. I'm so glad she's getting on. Thank you--good-bye."

McTaggart was amused at the lack of grat.i.tude. For the woman took the offering without another word. He guessed shrewdly that the sight of the car--the outward sign of luxury--had roused the deep slumbering resentment of the poor, their latent fear of being patronized.

"Charming old lady," he suggested. But Jill seemed unconscious of the slight.

"That's her Aunt," she informed him with a sigh, spelling relief at a duty done. "She's come from Stratford to look after her. So now we can have a lovely drive."

She turned a smiling face toward him, cheeks rosy with the air, keen and crisp, of the winter day, and drew the shabby fur tighter round her throat as the car backed slowly out of the narrow road.

"Where are we going?"

"That's for you to decide. But I think through Hampstead, now we've come this way. Sure you're warm enough? I put in my other coat--so burrow into that if the wind gets keen."

He turned the car up the long hilly road leading to Swiss Cottage and leaned back easily.

"How's school going?" He smiled at her with pride. She looked so pretty with her childish, flushed cheeks.

"College, d'you mean?" Jill corrected him. "Nothing exciting since the row over ancient history. I'm working rather hard for the Exams now."

"I don't think you told me that. Let's hear about it."

"Well, it's rather a long story----" she settled herself back with her cold hands thrust beneath the fur rug. "So if you get bored, please say so at once."

"Fire away," McTaggart observed.

"You remember that unholy fuss last Boat Race day? When I and the other Cambridge girls held the Bun Shop against Oxford?"

"No--not exactly. What Bun Shop?"

McTaggart saw fun ahead, for Jill's gray eyes were full of mischief beneath their dark lashes. He noticed, for the first time, how long and thick they were, curling back in a rippling line that cast a faint shadow when she lowered the lids.

"Oh, the Bun Shop is a little room in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the college where old Mother Griggs sells all sorts of cakes, sticks of chocolate and hot coffee--for 'Elevens' or lunch, you know. It's at the end of a long pa.s.sage, quite by itself, with just a counter across it and a dim religious sort of light from a top-window into the area. There Mother Griggs sits and barters--rather like a grim old idol--and in between she grumbles and knits socks. She must have knitted hundreds by now!

Well, on boat race day we all wear colors--I'm Cambridge, of course, because Uncle was at King's. And some Oxford girl had a wonderful cousin who was rowing in the boat. So she simply 'sw.a.n.ked,' you know, and swore Oxford was sure to win. The end of it was _we_ got riled.

So we formed up into the Bun Shop--all of us Cambridge girls--and we held the place against Oxford right through the mid-day hour---- We wouldn't let a single Dark Blue pa.s.s. It _was_ fun!--a gorgeous scrimmage. Until some sneak went up and told, and down came the Princ.i.p.al. As luck would have it, she fell on me. So I got put in the Black Book."

She paused for breath as they crossed FitzJohn's Parade and started on the steep climb to Hampstead.

McTaggart glanced at her and laughed.

"What does that mean?" he inquired.

"The very worst." Her voice was tragic. "It's the only punishment we get. You see, it's not like any school. It's run on University lines.

Just lectures you're supposed to attend and if you don't it's your lookout--you get ploughed in the Exams. But for any serious, big offence your name is written in the Black Book. And after a third entry (which rarely happens) you're 'sent down'--that is, expelled."

"Phew...!" McTaggart whistled. "May I ask how many times you've managed to get yourself inscribed?"

"Twice." The girl's face was grave. "It's bad luck, isn't it? And the other day at ancient history I very nearly was nabbed again!"

She paused for a moment to turn the collar of her coat up round her ears. Her eyes above the gray fur shone like stars in the frosty air.

"We got a new Professor last term; rather young, just down from Oxford.

I don't think..." she smiled mischievously--"he _quite_ understands girls. It isn't like a school, you see. We're rather keen on that idea. We don't mind hard work or a man who insists on our attention.

But the Professor thought it funny to--well, to patronize, you know.

He used to be satirical and make allowance for female brains. Just as if we weren't as sharp--and sharper, too, than a pack of boys! He had bright ginger hair and a brand-new cap and gown--rather a 'nut'!"--McTaggart roared--"with a drawly sort of 'superior' voice.

Well, Judy Seton----" Jill broke off--"she's a pal of mine--a splendid girl, always up to sport--arrived one day just before his lecture and handed round envelopes. Inside was a card and st.i.tched to it was a little curl cut off a door-mat--one of those ginger ones, you know.

It's woolly stuff, but exactly the shade of the Professor's t.i.tian glory!

"Underneath it she had written--'In fond memory'--and below--'R.I.P.

The Oxford man--ah!'

"We were all in the cla.s.s-room ready for lecture and some girl had a box of pins. So it ended in our fastening the love-locks over our hearts!

"Well, presently my Lord arrives, in his brand-new cap and gown with his sheaf of notes, and mounts the platform, very suave and very bored.

"And the first thing that he did--you'd never believe it!--was to run his hand smoothly across his head.

"'He's missing them!' Judy whispered, and, of course, we all went off at that. We daren't laugh out aloud, but there we were, giggling hopelessly, while the Professor glared at us.

"He started in his most sarcastic voice:

"'A little less amus.e.m.e.nt, ladies. I can understand that it is difficult for youth to stoop to serious subjects...' And then he stopped with a little gasp and we knew he had seen the red curls! Just at that moment the door opened and in came a lady visitor. You know they're sort of inquisitors, very often 'old girls'--who can walk into any cla.s.s-room and sit there to hear a lecture. Judy calls them 'Propriety Pills,' and, although some are really nice, here and there you get a Tartar who carries stories to the Princ.i.p.al.

"This one was a Mrs. Bevis--we'd nicknamed her 'The Beaver.' She really was rather like that animal, with a snub-nosed, anxious face, and she always wore a black mantle and waddled as she walked.

Well--you're sure you're not bored?"

"Sure." McTaggart's voice was hearty. This sidelight on a school for girls was entertaining and unexpected.

"Go on. What happened then?"

"The Professor gave the Beaver a chair by the fire, facing the room.

We'd hurriedly removed the curls during their polite palaver. This is the idiotic part. I'd put mine into a book that lay with others on my desk. I didn't notice at the time that it was an 'Ancient History.'

As it happened, that day I was sitting just beneath the platform. We were, all of us, solemn as owls under the Beaver's sharp black eyes.

For she's about the worst of the pack for nosing out any trouble.

"The Professor lent her his primer and started on the lecture, still looking a little flushed, while we were busy taking notes. As luck would have it, midway, some date tripped him up and before I could collect my wits he asked me for my 'Ancient History.'"

"Where the curl was?" McTaggart suggested.

"Exactly." Jill's voice was tragic. "He leaned down from the platform and picked it up off my desk. Of course, it opened at _the_ page!