A month passed quickly away. Almost every day McTaggart's car drew up at the house near Primrose Hill, and Jill and Roddy joyfully mounted in it, with an occasional fourth in the shape of Aunt Elizabeth. Then off they went out of London into the cooler country air, a trio of gay explorers armed with maps and a pic-nic hamper.
Suchcakes! For Mrs. Belsey had fallen a victim to Roddy's charms, his wheedling voice and jolly laugh and "Cookie—justonejam-puff?"
Miss Uniacke, too, had thoroughly enjoyed what she was pleased to call her "bounden duty."
From attic to cellar the musty old house had been turned literally inside out. For the invalid had improved at a surprisingly quick rate. No longer the household moved on tiptoe. Good food and the sense of all responsibility shelved on to the shoulders of the capable little old maid; her careful nursing and cheerful common sense had gone far to hasten the cure.
With her two devoted well-trained servants and a charwoman (forbidden "chatter!") Aunt Elizabeth had probed into every hole and corner.
The episode of the dead mouse (in a disused cupboard under the stairs) had proved the culminating point in her campaign against disorder.
Jill had been summoned to find her Aunt, rigid, holding between finger and thumb the tail of the moral offender: not unlike a small rodent herself, with her sharp nose and pointed chin framed in a grey check duster.
Her brown fringe was frankly awry, her grey eyes had steely points.
"Look atthat!—I've a great mind to take it straight to your Mother. I wonder you haven't all had typhoid! That's what comes of a dirty house!"—she scoffed—"she reallyoughtto know."
"Oh, Aunt Elizabeth,don't!" cried Jill. "Mother's afraid of mice."
"Hm..." Miss Uniacke snorted at this—"and calls herself a militant suffragette! I'm really ashamed for the servants to see it. Take it away and bury it—and I only hope it will be a lesson!"
Inwardly she was rejoicing. Jill, obediently, received the corpse and departed toward the garden. On the way she met Roddy—who promptly proposed to skin it!—but the gruesome project was abandoned and a small grave dug instead, with an ornamental tombstone.
As soon as the house was thoroughly cleaned the reformer turned her attention to the domestic education of her niece. For Mrs. Uniacke was up, on a long chair in her room, and required but little nursing now.
Every morning after breakfast Aunt Elizabeth donned a hat of plaited straw, tied with a ribbon under her pointed chin, not unlike the kind worn by a careful horse during a heat wave—so Jill thought—and only needing two holes and a pair of ears!
She and Jill would adjourn to the garden, where a pantry table and chairs were arranged on the swept path under a sycamore.
Here they mended the long-neglected household linen and the older woman preached; taking for her text the decadence of the present age, as compared to that of her early youth.
"Inmyyoung days"—she would start with a sniff—"we took a pride in our homes. We hadn't time for discontent and to dabble in men's affairs. Look at this darn..." she held it out. "I'd like to see amando that!"
Contempt was in her shrill voice. She went on, more gently:
"I remember we used once a week to meet at my Mother's house—your Grandmamma, Jill, my dear, but you don't remember her—my two cousins and my sister and a girl friend, and have a Sewing Bee. You think it sounds dull?—I assure you it wasn't! We took it in turns to read aloud—Wilkie Collins was coming out in a weekly journal—most exciting! We fixed the day on which it appeared, and no one was allowed to peep inside. Edward used to take it in. He was always so full of fun—and one afternoon he pretended it hadn't come. We were so vexed and then my cousin Jean found it pushed carefully into a stocking ready to darn! How we laughed!" She glanced up, smiling, at Jill—"You're very like your Father, my dear, his hair and eyes—and dark brows."
"Am I?—I'm so glad." The girl checked a sudden sigh. "You can't think how we missed him!"—her voice was low—"it seemed, somehow ... like the end of everything."
For a space silence fell between them, charged with memories, sweet and sad. Then Aunt Elizabeth stirred, took off her glasses, wiped them aggressively, and in a sharp, business-like voice:
"Now—let me see." She held out her hand—"Algebra and Euclid and Greek and she can't hem a tablecloth! That's the modern education ... Look at that line—d'you call that straight? Girls brought up to think of nothing but dress and pleasure—pampered by maids!—And they proceed to fall in love!—(an eloquent sniff) with some young fool without a penny to his name—marry in haste—and can't even teach the cook to make a milk pudding!
"Then you pick up the newspaper one day and find—'What to Do with Our Girls?'" she sneered, "and 'Is Marriage Really a Failure?'—'Should Mother Dance the Tango?' I've no patience with the women—empty dolls or else unsexed!"
She bit her cotton with sharp teeth and went on with her homily.
"Inmyyoung days"—Jill dared to smile—"we were not ashamed of women's work—we took a pride in it, my dear. Why, your Grandmother Uniacke lived in the depths of the country, fifteen miles from a town and no railway station either! No shops—no chemist. She had her own store-room of drugs and dispensed them as well as any doctor. Once a week the villagers came and explained their ailments and Mamma used to prescribe—in all but the most dangerous cases. She was the squire's wife, you see, and this was expected then. We made our own butter and cheese—bread, of course—and home-brewed ale and cured our own bacon too. Everywhere my mother presided. She was like a little queen; in a kingdom of her own! There was no time, I can tell you, to discuss Woman's Rights—we took that for granted inmyyoung days. And if a girl couldn't sew it was considered a disgrace! She very soon had to learn—and dairy work and plain cooking."
She broke off abruptly—with a sharp glance at Jill.
"Now—measure it with your card. Don't you get that hem too wide. I sometimes think sewing machines were the invention of the Devil! God knew when He made woman the soothing effect of needlework. And directly Eve ate the apple and filled her brain with education she had to set about an apron! Not only as a covering but to occupy her idle hands. There's nothing beats it, to my mind, as a sedative for the nerves. When you're worried with puzzling questions, take a bit of plain sewing and you'll find the 'stitch ... stitch' brings its own peace. With no noise and clatter like working a machine or that other abomination—a typewriter. I'd as soon be in a factory, and I verily believe we've never had the same health since the advent of machinery.
"It's changed even the social side. Inmyyoung days the people with means were the landed gentry and the nobility. But now all the fine old places are being sold up to the rich manufacturers"—she sighed with real chagrin. "Everywhere, instead of good work and durability, it's cheap clothes trimmed with imitation lace. And women with idle hands, discontented and neurotic.
"If every woman did the work she leaves to her lady's maid and saw to good old-fashioned food and unadulterated bread, we shouldn't hear of these cases of 'nervous breakdown' everywhere. It's the unnatural life we lead, turning night into day, eating unwholesome kickshaws and poisoning ourselves with doctored wines!"
"But don't you think..." Jill got her chance at last as Aunt Elizabeth paused for breath—"that the present education is broadening women's minds? Think of the frightful superstition—the narrow moral point of view—the bigoted creeds of the centuries past. When girls talked of nothing but sentiment and fainted and screamed..."
"Hm...." Miss Uniacke interrupted. "I don't see very much improvement. They shriek now on public platforms—instead of in their own parlours. It's a less decent form of hysteria, tomymind!"
Jill laughed aloud.
"All the same—I think they've more self-respect nowadays. They don't go running after men..."
"Don'tthey?" snapped her Aunt. "Just read a few cases of breach of promise and divorce! That will show you how far the modern woman respects herself!
"Nine times out of ten it's idleness breeds sin. If they tubbed their own babies they'd have less leisure for such mischief. But babies are out of fashion now..." the intrepid old maid stole a glance at Jill's calm face and proceeded—"Mind you, I don't say I consider it's right to bring a lot of children into the world if you haven't the means to support them. But you'll notice if you look around it's the people who could well afford it who generally shirk that duty! A baby's a handicap, you see, in a life of pleasure.—It means self-denial—and besides this, the young generation shrink from any form of pain!...
"When you marry, Jill, my dear," her thoughts swerved to McTaggart—"make up your mind to be wife and mother—instead of a well-dressed, idle doll! You'll be far happier—mark my words—it's what the Almighty planned for women."
"I shan't marry." Jill's dark head was bent in shadow over her work.
"All young girlssaythat." Aunt Elizabeth smiled to herself. "And some of us stick to it," she added with a touch of grim honesty.
"There you are!" cried Jill. But the moment the words had passed her lips she regretted them. For the thin old face was a trifle wistful. She went on quickly.
"I'd far rather be like you, with all your liberty, Aunt Elizabeth. For, after all, though onedoeshear of happy marriages"—she paused—"they're rather rare, aren't they? And if one marries for love ... it's that—ornothing!" Her face was grave. "How can one tell it's going to last?"
For once her Aunt found no reply.
So the mornings would pass away in work and argument, strangely happy, followed by long afternoons in the open air with McTaggart.
Jill looked the picture of health, with sunburnt cheeks and healthy nerves.
For the summer had triumphed over the rain and a long spell of drought succeeded.
London was clearing fast of its smart crowd, and the streets and parks seemed to draw a breath of relief, freed from the daily whirl. Few people lingered in town, save the workers, and, here and there, a scattered fragment of society detained by some passing need.
Among the bright birds of passage was Lady Leason. McTaggart met her one July morning coming briskly forth from her tailor's.
"Well—thisisnice!" He stopped and shook hands. "I thought you and Dick had gone to Cowes?"
"No—I'm a lone widow"—she smiled. "I'm off next week to join him in Scotland. I've been trying on some shooting clothes"—she produced a pattern—"How d'you like it?"
"Heather mixture—nice stuff," he fingered it with approval. "It's simply ages since I've seen you—I've only been back a little time and meant to call, but heard you had gone. Shall you be at home next Sunday?"
"What are you doing this evening? Come and dine—that would be better. I've got Bertram staying with me—my cousin. He's up for the Church Congress."
"I'd love to. Is that the Bishop?" and as she nodded—"at eight o'clock?"
"Yes—as usual. We'll have a chat—just ourselves—that will be nice. You haven't missed much this season—everything spoilt by rain. Ascot was like the Flood and I didn't get a single winner!"
"Hard luck!" said McTaggart. He saw her into a taxi and stood for a moment leaning on the door.
"I don't know what you'll get to eat"—the pretty grey-haired woman smiled—"half the servants have gone to Scotland—Bertram and I lead the simple life!"
"I'm not particular"—he laughed—"so long as you don't give me rabbit!"
This was an old joke between them. Once they had stayed in a country house where the hostess was noted for frugality and rabbit had figured on the menu to an alarming extent. Beginning with cold pie at breakfast, a curry (with suspicious bones) had proved the hot dish at lunch and a "chicken cream" figured at dinner in which McTaggart had found a shot!
So he declared. And ever after the hostess in private had been named "Bunny" in Lady Leason's set. McTaggart smiled at the recollection.
He was going that afternoon to take Miss Uniacke for a final drive, with Jill and Roddy; for on the morrow she was leaving her sister-in-law.
With the quick recuperative power that many nervous women possess the invalid had cast off the yoke of her recent illness rapidly.
Already keen to return to work, despite Aunt Elizabeth's many lectures, the very fact of her late ordeal had fired her vivid imagination.
She held that her public demonstration had given her at last the right to consider herself not only a martyr but a worthy Champion of the Cause.
But behind her desire for active work lay dormant the thought of Stephen's friendship. She had suffered from the enforced estrangement, yet was shrewdly aware of the reason.
She knew that Miss Uniacke did not approve of the intimacy, but imagined too that the little old maid was no lover of the opposite sex. She had been honestly amazed at her attitude toward McTaggart. It never occurred to her that Jill was the link between the curious pair. Nor could she realize in the girl a charm that would warrant the supposition.
Although she loved her only daughter and was secretly proud of her own offspring, she would have been greatly surprised had an outsider pointed out the fact of Jill's attraction to men.
The girl was so unlike herself!
It is a curious human trait that a mother can rarely appreciate a different type in her daughter. And yet some hidden law of Nature presiding at the children's birth most frequently endows a girl with the characteristics of the father. Jill was the picture of Colonel Uniacke. Roddy, with his bright colour, high cheek bones, and bird-like glance, was far more like the mother, though a stronger edition, in miniature.
But Jill, tall, gracefully formed, was rounded too; with wide grey eyes and her father's well-shaped hands and feet. Her mouth was a shade too large for beauty, but full of character, fresh and curved, with the deep corners that spell humour, and her chin held a note of obstinacy.
She had her father's clear judgment, sense of proportion and of balance, his strong vitality, warm heart and an almost passionate love of justice. Her greatest stumbling block was pride.
Many a time as a tiny child had she wept in secret over a fault, but refused to apologize. She was 'sent to Coventry' once for a week for some unwise rebellious speech, but at the end of the punishment the little girl was still stubborn.
"I'm sorry that I hurt you, Mother—Iamsorry"—the tears rolled down—"but I meant every word I said—and I do still—I can't help it!"
Colonel Uniacke was called, prompted by his indignant wife.
He took Jill on his knee.
"Now, then, child—out with it!"
"I said"—her arms went round his neck—"I simply hated Miss Bellew" ... (she referred to the new governess). "She's a perfect sneak and she hit Roddy—I know I'm naughty"—she wailed aloud—"but Idohate her—she's a beast! and I won't 'kiss and make friends'—not to please anybody!..."
"All right, then, you needn't." The child stared with wide eyes. "But while she's in authority you'll treat her with a proper respect. If she's a foe you're still bound—more than ever bound in honour—to show her every courtesy. And now go and kiss your mother."
Jill slid down, her sobs checked. This was a new point of view. Her father watched her thoughtfully.
"Of course," he said, "it's rather hard on Miss Bellew, when you think of it. She's paid to teach you—it's her living—she doesn't do it out of pleasure. You are the daughter of the house. She's my guest..." He shrugged his shoulders.
Jill turned without a word, and went back into the schoolroom.
From the passage outside, her parents heard her explain the matter.
"Miss Bellew"—she stood there in her crumpled pinafore, stiff and forlorn, tears still on her cheeks. "I'm sorry I was rude to you. I'm sorry I said you were a beast. But you hit Roddy—that finished it—and I don't like you—I never shall! But I won't call you names again. No—I don'twantto be kissed ... but I'm going to be a good girl ... as long (sniff) ... as you're Father's guest."
She kept her word. Weeks later she explained the truce to Colonel Uniacke.
"We're 'honourable foes,' you see—like Coeur de Lion and Saladin."
The story had become a classic, and in the quiet garden one evening Aunt Elizabeth repeated it to the much-amused McTaggart.
"It's just like Jill"—he commented—"she's got a man's code of honour. I've never met a girl like her ... it's a character in a thousand."
Aunt Elizabeth looked up slyly—and caught the light in the blue eyes.
"I think we're both of us fond of Jill," she said, letting the words sink in. Then started briskly to talk of Mrs. Uniacke's improvement, drifting off into her pet aversion—Woman's Suffrage and Militant ways.
But her stray shot had missed the mark. The purely brotherly terms on which McTaggart met his girl friend were still untouched by sentiment.
He hardly knew how much he cared; content with a sense of friendship so totally distinct from all his other dealings with her sex.
He knew that Jill liked him. Not for a moment did he guess the presence of a deeper feeling. She supplied the want he had keenly felt in his own lack of home life. It was good to know that in one house he was always a welcome guest without the fear of intrigue or wearisome social convention.
For during the long months abroad many traps had been laid for him, and it bred a shrewd distrust of girls, based on more than vanity.
Now as he strolled slowly along toward his club through the Mayfair streets his thoughts ran back to Cydonia.
He walked past the Cadells' door. The blinds were down, the shutters fixed. Obedient to the decree of fashion they had moved on with the social tide.
But a feeling of thankfulness possessed him. He knew well that he had escaped a life with a woman who would have bored him, chained to the "obvious orthodox"!
And he wondered...
Was there a way of love that could survive monotony? Could he ever rely on himself to recognize the "one woman"?
Had his "double heart" been the cause of the indecision that beset him?—these swift passions that burned out like straw. Would he ever know the sacred flame?
And suddenly the gypsy's words rose up into his mind.
"Between two fires you shall burn and burn." ... He felt a thrill of superstition.
She had foretold his "golden crown," the fortune "coming over-seas" ... What was it she had prophesied later? He knit his brows, searching his memory.
Like a head on a coin, clear and raised, he saw again the swarthy face; he heard the strange pattering voice, felt her warm touch on his hand.
"When 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"? He shook himself as though to break the uncanny spell.
"What nonsense it is! I expect she tells the same tale to every man." But he knew in his heart he was not unmoved. There was magic in the chosen words.
The Dream of his life...?
With wistful eyes he tried in vain to pierce the veil, knowing behind a vision lay, sweet—unguessed—the face of Love.
"Now—what do you think of my Roof Garden?"
Lady Leason turned to McTaggart with a conscious air of triumph.
"Isn't it nice?—and I planned it myself!" She was like a child with a new toy, her still young face eager and bright under her soft gray hair.
"I think itperfect," said McTaggart, warmly. He glanced around him as he spoke at the awning, striped with green, the basket chairs, gay red cushions, and the coarse rush matting beneath his feet.
For the leaded roof of the smoking-room, that was built out into the garden, had been transformed, with the help of green lattice work and great tubs filled with geraniums and daisies, into a sort of lounge, protected by the striped tent cloth.
"I'm growing golden hops in this box at the edge to twine up the supports and along the lattices, and in the Spring I'm going to have no end of bulbs and turn that horrid bank down there into a rockery."
She pointed to the patch of discolored grass below them, where a dingy wall completed her small domain. Above it one caught a glimpse of the trees, in the distant Park, and the evening sky, where stars already were beginning to steal out, one by one.
"Sit down—both of you"—she turned to her guests. "And talk while I make you some Turkish coffee. Here are some cigarettes—those are cigars..."
They settled themselves in the basket chairs, watching their hostess turn up the flame, under the bright copper pan, and measure out the coffee, which filled the air with its fragrance, delicate and refreshing.
"Have you seen Mrs. Fleming lately?" The Bishop addressed McTaggart. "I think the last time I met you was at the Cadells' house."
"Not for many months," the other replied—"I've been abroad, travelling about. What sort of man is Euan Fleming?"
Lady Leason looked up quickly.
"Take care what you say, Bertram. Don't make Peter jealous! I thought"—she added mischievously—"that it was a casethere..."
At her merry gesture toward him McTaggart laughed.
"Only a mild calf-love affair! But I always imagined she'd marry a title."
"Well," said the Bishop, "I rather believe it will come to that in the end. Ihear—but it's quite between ourselves—that he's down on the next list of Birthday honours."
"Indeed? A useful man to the party?"
McTaggart saw a twinkle come into the prominent short-sighted eyes.
"Hardly as a speaker perhaps. But he has a valuable gift—of silence! Very necessary on occasions."
Lady Leason smiled subtly. "And, of course," proceeded the Bishop hurriedly—"the Cadells are very wealthy people. With his father-in-law to finance him, and a beautiful wife, he stands a chance of being Lord Fleming some day—of a mythical Castle like Laura's friends ... I forget the name."
"D'you mean 'the Crumpets?'"
The hostess laughed, mischief in her hazel eyes.
"Peter—haven't you heard?——it's too quaint!—I must tell you." She stirred the coffee again, then started with her story.
"I don't know if you ever met a dark, excitable little woman, the wife of a big engineer called Crumpe? She always came to my parties, frightfully overdressed and hung round with pearls like a Tecla advertisement. You surely must remember her? Well, this year he was made a peer. He'd given a park somewhere to the people and was a large subscriber to party funds.
"Little Mrs. Crumpe was in her glory! She cut all her old friends, drawing a strict line round Belgravia and Mayfair. And what d'you imagine they took for a name? We'd always called them 'the Crumpets,' you know—it seemed to suit them. He had such a 'buttery' manner! And now they're Lord and Lady Quinningborough of Castle Normantayne"—she choked.
Tears of mirth stood in her eyes as she leaned, still laughing, toward McTaggart.
"It sounds like feudal towers, and a moat, and a drawbridge. But itisn't—that's the pure joy! It's not a house at all, it seems, but the name of a tiny village where Crumpet's father owned a farm!"
McTaggart roared, and the Bishop's charity was not proof against the infection of her mirth.
"Really, it is remarkable, the modern mania for a title." He took off his glasses and wiped them, still faintly shaken with laughter.
McTaggart inwardly congratulated himself (and not for the first time) on his determination to drop his foreign honours on landing in England.
("A fine ass I should look now, posing as an Italian Marquis among friends who have known me since college days as Peter McTaggart"—he smiled at the thought.)
His principal trouble had been with Mario, but the latter's ignorance of the English tongue and the knowledge that if he talked it would mean his dismissal had made him obedient, albeit sulkily.
The fear of a slip had dissuaded McTaggart himself from much talk with Jill on his Sienese inheritance. She knew he had some property there, but, beyond this, very little. Bethune was the only man wholly in the secret. Luckily for McTaggart, it had escaped the papers, filled at that period with a royal marriage. The Scotch side of his character, cautious and reserved, stood him in good stead, and besides this he had a horror of snobism, somewhat rare in these days.
"It seems a pity," he said now, "that honours are so frequent—or rather, I should say, so easily earned. So many splendid men in the past have won them by deeds of heroism, for fine administration and solid work done in the interests of the Empire. MenworthyI mean, without any question of £s.d.
"Of course one knows lots of people—dear people too—who deserve them, every inch—like the Cheltenhams... But when a title's frankly bought, it seems to take away from the dignity of those others and the men to come. There should be a special kind of distinction to mean money—We talk of 'Law Lords'—for instance—why not Finance Lords? And Lords of Silence"—he smiled—"like Fleming. Not the 'Golden Fleece' but the 'Golden Tongue'!"
Lady Leason nodded her head approvingly, engrossed just then with the final process of the coffee.
McTaggart turned to the Bishop.
"By the way," he said, "talking of money, how's that company of yours? I looked up Schliff's record as far as I could, and—as I wrote you—it was hardly reassuring, though I didn't care to say too much in my letter."
"I quite understood"—the Bishop sighed—"in these days it doesn't do. But I wasmostgrateful. I'm afraid the matter is going from bad to worse. I hear privately they're contemplating a call on the shares—five shillings; despite an optimistic speech packed with promises made by Schliff at the General Meeting. And—would you believe it?—only yesterday I came across an old friend I hadn't seen for years—up for this Congress from the North of England—and he'd been buying shares attwo pounds apiece! Why, it's simply infamous! Of course he'd taken them from Schliff himself onhisadvice and they're selling now on the Stock Exchange for nine and sixpence!"
"I can quite believe it." McTaggart smiled. "After all, it's in the interests of the company. You've got to raise money somehow to save it—so the new shareholders are sacrificed for the old."
"Robbing Peter to pay Paul?" the Bishop suggested. "I heartily disapprove of it, and I warned my friend. He's going to see Schliff this afternoon, and I don't envy the latter. He'll meet his match."
"I doubt it—he's pretty thick-skinned! This isn't the first of his financial ventures."
"What are you two talking about?" Lady Leason broke in. "Here's your coffee." She handed the dainty cups in their egg-shell china and filigree stands. "And now, Peter"—she leaned back with a sigh—"I want to hear all about your year in Italy."
"Rather a tall order!—Where shall I start?"
"At the beginning." She looked at him curiously. "Tell us first why you deserted London?"
"To nurse my broken heart, of course. You seem to forget Cydonia."
"My dear Peter!"—she laughed back. "I don't believe that. I knew you were only flirting. She's pretty of course, but oh! sodull—and think of Cadell! What a father-in-law."
The Bishop frowned.
"I assure you they're excellent people, Laura. I've the greatest respect for Mrs. Cadell."
"She's got a good cook," said his cousin wickedly.
McTaggart threw himself into the pause that followed.
"Well—I went the usual round—Rome, Florence, Siena"—he laughed—"and Venice of course—and Naples." Here he paused, checked by some memory, evidently funny, smiling to himself.
"Out with it!" Lady Leason was watching his handsome face. "I feel a distinct 'pricking in my thumbs.' Oh, Bertram won't mind"—as she saw him glance at the Bishop—"I'll answer for him—he's never shocked!"
"Really, Laura!" her cousin protested.
"Man of the world—and a darling too." She gave him a look of real affection.
The Bishop blinked—"Well, Mr. McTaggart?"
"I was thinking of an adventure there"—Peter admitted—"nothing 'trés moutarde' ... but perhaps ... I'd better not."
"Do." Lady Leason drew the liqueurs nearer. "Some old brandy might give you courage?"
McTaggart was tempted. He saw in his mind a way of wrapping up the weak point in the story.
"Well—I'll risk it!" He emptied the glass, crossed his long legs and faced his audience.
"It happened on my first visit to Naples—I was yachting with some Roman friends, the Vivianis. The party consisted of my host and hostess and a man called Bellanti, his sister and myself. We touched there one evening to get supplies on our way back from Sicily, about nine o'clock. I remember Scirocco had blown all day—it was frightfully hot—we were all pretty limp. Viviani wouldn't stir and the Countess wanted bridge. They were four with Bellanti, so I thought I'd go ashore.
"I must say they did their best to dissuade me, and, of course, I'd heard no end of yarns about Naples at night, but I thought they were just travellers' stories! We lay a good way out in the Bay. It's awfully smelly right in the harbour. But I rowed in with four of the crew, who were to wait and bring me back.
"Well, I wandered about until I was tired. The town didn't much appeal to me, and then suddenly I remembered an address a naval friend had given me—of a sort of dancing-place—rather like the 'Bal Tabarin,' you know."
"Bertram doesn't know," said Lady Leason gravely.
"Yes, I do, my dear," said the Bishop unexpectedly. "Warleigh's youngest son mentioned it one day. He told me it was a Dancing Academy."
"Well ... something like it"—McTaggart chuckled. "Anyway, I went there. But it wasn't up to much. Just a bare hall, with a crowd of men and women and the usual 'Tarantella,' which I'd grown heartily sick of! But there was one girl who danced beautifully—pretty as paint—very dark, you know. I never saw such eyes in my life..."
"Oh, Peter!" Lady Leason laughed—"was this how you set about curing your broken heart?"
"Perhaps." His smile was enigmatic. "We danced together several times—the room was as hot as an oven and the wine the worst I ever have tasted. So when she suggested we should go outside and hunt up a cousin of hers who kept a bar—somewhere quite near—with decent drinks, like a fool, I forgot Viviani's warnings, she fetched a wrap and we started out.
"Well—it seemed a bit further than she thought. We passed through a lot of narrow streets, up some steps and into an alley and came at last to a sort of tavern, where some sailors were drinking and playing cards.
"We crossed the room and went up some stairs, and I was beginning to feel doubtful when she opened a door into a dingy room, almost dark, with a flickering wick burning in a saucer of oil. 'I'll fetch the wine,' said my little friend—'and a lamp—sit down.' She disappeared—I heard the door close, then the click of a key being turned in the lock from outside.
"I sprang toward it, caught the handle, and the next thing I knew the light was extinguished and a man's voice said in English:
"'Hands up!'" ... He glanced at his audience.
"Good Heavens!" Lady Leason gasped. The Bishop's round, short-sighted eyes were still more prominent, his mouth open.
"How very unpleasant!" he observed.
"Itwas." McTaggart's voice was emphatic. "I saw at once it was a trap. Nobody knew where I was, and I hadn't the faintest idea myself. I stood there with my back to the door, trying to keep my wits about me.
"Then from the other side of the room came a second voice, also a man's. He said slowly, in Italian:
"'If you move an inch—you're a dead man.' So there were two of them!—That settled it. I guessed that both of them were armed, and there I was, in evening dress without so much as a pocket knife!
"'Take off your clothes, one by one,' said the first voice in broken English—'and lay them before you on the floor—together with your money and watch.'
"Well—I did it!" McTaggart scowled—the memory still had power to rouse him. "No earthly good showing fight—it was pitch dark and they knew where I stood.
"'You can keep your boots'—the speaker laughed—'and here's a paper'—he pitched it across—'it's a warm night—you won't catch cold!'
"Hope returned to me at that. For I didn't expect to get out alive. Well—after a minute a match flared, and was promptly blown out. I caught a glimpse of dark figures to right and left and then I felt a hand grip my arm.
"'Straight ahead'—We crossed the room, and this was the hardest part of all! I was simply dying to go for the brute, but the odds were more than two to one. So I set my teeth and swore to myself—feeling—well—rathera fool! He opened a door—not the one we had come by—and said:
"'Ten steps—count them—down—You'll find the handle on your left. Good night 'e buon' riposo!' and I heard their steps receding behind me. Well—I stumbled down those confounded stairs, fumbled about, found the door and was outside in the night—thanking my stars for such an escape. I didn't waste much time, you can guess—but crossed the court yard at the double, found an alley and bolted down it and out into an empty street. It led into a wider one, and there, by luck, was a passing cab. Mercifully, it was dark and not another soul about. You should have seen the driver's face! I was clad in a torn newspaper with, far below, my patent shoes and a pair of violet silk socks."
He glanced at the Bishop guiltily, and was relieved to see his broad smile and hear Lady Leason's laugh ring out merrily at the picture.
"I bolted into that cab like a hare, crouched down and found a rug—it was open, you see—the usual 'vettura'—and offered the driver untold wealth to gallop straight to the landing stage. Of course, once I reached the boat, the crew paid him and found me some clothes—a coat and a tarpaulin, and in this costume I reached the yacht. My one hope now was to get to my cabin before my friends were aware of my plight. Luckily they were playing bridge under an awning on the deck.
"We were very quiet and all went well. I dressed quickly and rejoined them, having bought the silence of the crew, who happened to be decent fellows."
"But didn't you tell them?" The Bishop stared. "I'd have gone straight to the British Consul. A most disgraceful state of things!"
"Not I!" McTaggart laughed. "What was the use? To begin with, I'd no idea of the address. Naples is like a rabbit-warren—and besides they'd have chaffed me out of my life."
"What an adventure!" His hostess shuddered. She thought for a moment.
"What became of the girl? You never saw her again, I suppose. She must have been a paid decoy?"
"Looks like it." McTaggart agreed. He lit up a cigarette. "That's how I mended my broken heart. But promise you won't tell Mrs. Fleming!"
"I shouldn't dream of it," said the Bishop in a shocked voice. The others laughed.
"The luckiest part to my mind was getting past the Vivianis'—I can see them now, very absorbed. Bellanti had doubled 'no trumps.' That saved it, I believe—and the story from getting all over Rome."
They talked for a little longer, then McTaggart rose to his feet.
"It's getting late, I'm afraid." He shook hands with Lady Leason. "Thank you so much for a happy evening"—and turned to the Bishop, who detained him.
"I'm going back to Oxton to-morrow," he blinked for a moment, hesitating.
"I wonder now—would you care to come and spend a quiet week-end with us? Do you know that part of the country at all? It's very pleasant in the summer."
"It's awfully kind of you," said McTaggart. He thought quickly through his engagements—"d'you meanthisweek-end?" he asked—"if so, I shall be delighted."
"Then that's settled"—the Bishop smiled—"we might travel down together to-morrow—I'm going by the three-fifteen. Would that suit you?"
"Splendidly."
Lady Leason watched the pair, a twinkle in her hazel eyes.
"Well—no Neapolitan adventures." Mischievously she shook a finger at the younger man standing there. For no reason, apparently, McTaggart went a trifle red.
"Oh—I've turned over a new leaf."
The Bishop beamed at his cousin.
"It wasn't his fault, Laura, my dear."
"Of course not." She caught McTaggart's eye. "Though I don'tquiteunderstand ... Oh, never mind!" She laughed aloud. "But don't demoralize Bertram."
"I couldn't," said McTaggart, smiling.
McTaggart's week-end visit prolonged itself. For on Monday the Bishop drove him over to lunch at Rustall, Lord Warleigh's fine old Tudor mansion near Oxton. Here he found again a friend of college days, Gilbert Crewkerne, a nephew of the house, and received an unexpected invitation to move on to Rustall and take part in a cricket match fixed for the following Saturday.
The Territorials, camping in the neighborhood, were sending an eleven to play against the house party. Unfortunately one of Lord Warleigh's guests had sprained his ankle and Crewkerne saw in McTaggart's visit to Oxton the kindly finger of Providence.
Mario was delighted with the change of plans, approving this beautiful country house, with its vast rooms and fine old park. He had been dismayed by his London quarters, so poor a setting for his young master's rank, and the only flaw in the present scheme was the fact of McTaggart's strict prohibition. He would have liked to proclaim aloud the secret of the former's inheritance, and was not a little pained to find how little McTaggart valued his title.
It lowered too his own sense of importance in the servants' hall, where each man took rank according to his master. He resented the butler's distant patronage, but his loyalty was proof against the strong temptation that beset him.
A chance remark of his disclosed the fact to McTaggart one evening as he dressed for dinner.
"Never mind, Mario. We'll go back to Rome for the winter months." He saw the olive face brighten and felt a sudden touch of pity.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? I expect you find it lonely in England—though you're picking up the language fast. Have you heard lately from Lucia?"
He added the question with a smile. Lucia was the Principessa's maid and lived in a fine old Roman palace not far from his own flat.
"Sissignore—a letter last week. They are still at Viareggio. The Poet was taken very ill and Don Cesare has fought a duel."
"Never!—who with?" McTaggart laughed—"And why?"
Mario spread out his hands. "Chi lo sa?—They talk of a lady ... it was with the young Count Guido Chigi."
"He's starting young," McTaggart decided. "Lucia must have had her hands full. I shouldn't care to nurse the Poet. I should think he would keep her pretty busy!"
"And a good thing too," said Mario shrewdly. He did not approve of idleness for his betrothed during his absence.
McTaggart smiled at his valet's voice. He took an interest in his servants, and was not one of those modern masters who consider good wages their only duty toward the men they employ.
Without reasoning out the matter his quick intuition showed him the cause of much of the present-day trouble in domestic service in this country. He realized that a good servant will rarely take a base advantage of his master's kindness if he respects him, and without being socialistic he broke through conventional barriers, appreciating the fact that money alone will not buy fidelity.
His utter lack of snobism showed him there could be no loss of dignity in quiet friendship with a man whose very dependence upon himself arose from an accident of birth, and whose inobtrusive, steady attention formed one of the luxuries of life.
Possibly his Italian blood had something to do with his convictions; for in that old land there is more freedom of intercourse between master and man. It is less swayed by the rule of wealth.
In England, at present, a new type has quickly swung into power, without a material alteration in the status of those it employs. Hence confusion. For inherited prejudice points out the weakness of brand-new dignity to men and women accustomed for centuries to respect good breeding above money.
And there is no class on earth so shrewd as the servant class to appreciate Caste.
Although one hears endless complaints showered upon it nowadays, one meets constantly with cases of faithful and devoted service, where gentle folk of reduced means, living on their slender incomes and debarred from offering adequate wages, find loyal friends in their servants. Old traditions die hard, and although estates pass away, squires are ruined by taxation and money seems the only god, in the heart of the people lingers yet a deep-set love for the old stock.
Had McTaggart lost his wealth or been debarred by a sorry chance of his title and Italian property, Mario would have openly grumbled but stayed on through adverse fortune, using his nimble wits to find a means of serving his young master.
It was, however, with deep regret that he packed up the latter's clothes and left Rustall for the train that carried them back to the London rooms.
Long ago he had decided that marriage would solve the present difficulties. He could not picture a young Marchesa in anything but fitting surroundings.
Unaware of the thoughts of his man, and that Mario himself had joined in the general conspiracy against him, McTaggart at last reached home.
London was stuffy, white with dust, after the green countryside, and as they drove through deserted streets he was planning already his next departure. Lord Warleigh had asked him up to Scotland to shoot for the last week in August, and this would fit in well with his plans to spend a few days with the Leasons. The Uniackes, he knew, were off shortly for a month at Worthing, and McTaggart had a hazy idea of a motor trip in his new car on the south coast to fill the gap before he should start for the North.
He wondered if Bethune would care to join him; conscious, with a touch of remorse, that of late he had neglected the latter, absorbed in his own friendship with Jill.
And as if in answer to the question he found Bethune awaiting him.
But the first glance at his visitor's face drove away all minor thoughts.
For trouble was plainly written there.
"That you, McTaggart?" His voice was curt, without its usual hearty ring.
"I want to speak to you a moment." He closed the door carefully.
"Hullo—Bethune—you're quite a stranger! What's up?" said McTaggart lightly. He did not quite like his reception, feeling an odd premonition. "Nothing wrong, I hope?" he added.
"Everything. I've bad news. Trouble again—at the Uniackes—I've been waiting for you over an hour."
"Not Jill?" said McTaggart quickly. He stared at his friend's changed face, the brown eyes deeply shadowed, strong jawbone prominent.
"Yes." Bethune dragged up a chair and sat down, facing the other across the narrow dining table, with a certain studied deliberation.
"It's like this. I'll tell you quickly. It's this damnable Suffrage business and Mrs. Uniacke again—just when we thought it all over! ... It seems there's to be a political meeting in Wales to-morrow—some big guns airing their views on Home Rule—and the Suffragettes mean mischief. The leaders are already there. They burned down a house last night—by way of endearing themselves to the natives!—and to-morrow they mean to gather in force and upset all the speech-making. Mrs. Uniacke planned to go—secretly," his face darkened—"without telling Jill a word—but Roddy got it out of Stephen. I think that woman's really mad!—She's hardly out of bed, you know, and Jill was nearly worried to death—begged and implored her to give it up."
"I never heard such damned nonsense!" McTaggart broke out at this—"she ought to be put in an asylum. No wonder Jill never wrote..."
Bethune gave him an odd glance.
"It was only found out yesterday. But that's not the worst of it. Jill's gone in her place."
"What?" McTaggart sprang to his feet.
"Sit down," said Bethune grimly. "You've got another couple of hours." He glanced up at the clock. "I went there this afternoon—to enquire for Mrs. Uniacke. Lucky I did!—I found Roddy and he poured out the whole story. It seems that Jill, to save her mother, offered at last to go instead. She's only to yell 'Votes for Women'—or some such infernal nonsense. But think of her in that mob—already savage about the fire. Welsh miners—you know what they are?"
"Good Lord!" McTaggart looked stunned. "And you mean her mother let her go?—a child like that..."
"She's hardly a child." Bethune took him up sharply. "I suppose she thought it would force her to join—become a suffragette herself. Anyhow it's a dirty trick."
He pushed the open time-table across. "There's a train at midnight. You get to D—— in time for breakfast—two hours to wait—and then by a branch line to L——. The meeting's a few miles out. It's fixed for twelve o'clock sharp. You canjustdo it—that's all. Will you go?" He stared across at McTaggart, his pale face twitching a little.
"Of course! Why? What d'you think?" He paused for a moment, digesting the news, then glanced up at Bethune with a puzzled look after a quick survey of the time-table. "I wonder you didn't go yourself—follow at once by the five train. You might have stopped her before the meeting. Why on earth did you wait for me?"
There came a curious little silence. Then Bethune rose to his feet, with a restless movement, and walked across to the open window. He pulled up the blind and stared out, his back to McTaggart.
"I couldn't." His voice was hoarse and strained. "She wouldn't have thanked me for coming."
"Nonsense!—Jill isn't like that. Besides—she likes you awfully—she's told me so, heaps of times, and the way you helped in that prison business."
But Bethune made no reply.
Something about the man's attitude struck a note of discouragement, and McTaggart—full of impatience—let fall a vexed:
"Well?"
"If you want to know," said Bethune at last, "I suppose you'd better ... anyhow! I asked Jill to marry me—some days ago. That's why."
Sheer amazement seized McTaggart. Then, from no apparent cause, anger stirred: a faint disgust, tempered by a grim amusement.
"You asked ... Jill ... to marry you?"
"Why not?" ... At the sound of his voice the other wheeled round suddenly—"What's it got to do withyou?"
And in a flash the friendship of years crumbled up—here were rivals! They faced each other, primitive men, ready to fight for the sake of a woman.
"Look here—McTaggart"—Bethune came back to where the former still sat, elbows resting on the table, one hand gripping the "A.B.C."—"There's no need to speak like that! I've played fair. By God—I have!"
His square face was livid with passion. A steady accumulation of wrath—the slow and deadly anger that lurks under strong control in a man of his type—was surging up and breaking bounds. "You've got to listen. It's my turn now. By heavens, I've been patient enough..."
"Go on." McTaggart was watching him, his mouth hard. It was a challenge.
Bethune's stormy eyes flashed at the faint contempt in the words.
"I will." He stood there, very erect, a curious dignity about him that added to the suggestion of power in the strong, heavily built figure.
"You went away, out of England—an engaged man—so I understood—intending to marry Miss Cadell." His gaze never left McTaggart.
"Well—it's no earthly business of mine whether you meant it—yousaidyou did. But you never gave a thought to Jill—or any of us left behind. For months and months—save a few cards to tell me where to forward your letters! And I got—somehow—into the way of seeing a lot of ... the Uniackes. They were—all of them—awfully kind. And when this last trouble came—this Suffrage business with the Mother—it was to me Jill turned—and I helped her ... well, all I could. I was up there most evenings while Mrs. Uniacke was in prison"—he paused for a second and went on huskily—"I thought ... Jill ... liked me a bit....
"Thenyouturned up ... and took it over ... got Miss Uniacke to help. Yes—I know all about that—The old lady told me herself.
"Jill was your friend before mine—and don't you think I ever forgot it!" his voice rose threateningly. "I stood aside and gave you your chance.
"You can't say that I've troubled you with much of my company these last weeks ... (McTaggart stirred impatiently). But I thought you meant the straight game."
"What the devil d'you mean by that?" The other's blue eyes were ablaze—"you'd better look out what you're saying..." He caught himself in hand again.
"Go on ... It's ... interesting."
Bethune needed no second bidding. Whipped by the sneer in McTaggart's voice, he turned on him savagely.
"That's just it—the difference! I'm not a Society man, thank God! and I don't understand Society ways—nor the lies they act all day long. But Idoknow what's fair to a woman. Any fool could have understood what your return meant to Jill..."
To his surprise McTaggart started. "I saw at once I hadn't a chance—not the ghost of one!" he caught his breath—"but I wanted—to see—Jill happy. Where I was wrong was I didn't knowyou..." He struck his fist on the table. "I thought you really meant business. I might have learned from the past"—his voice was full of grim disgust—"Ioughtto know your way with women! And it's not fair on a girl like Jill—she's out and away too fine for you—tomarrya man like you, I mean—let alone mere flirtation. Why—what d'you suppose that Aunt thought? with you hanging around all day long. She fairly played into your hands—any ass could have seen that!"
"Have youquitefinished?" said McTaggart. "Because, if so, I've a question to ask."
He spoke slowly, for his anger, past a certain phase, touched the danger mark at freezing point. He had reached it now.
"We will set asideyouridea ofmyconduct," he smiled grimly—"or the reason you choose to set yourself up as a judge. What I can't quite gather from your talk is why—if you were so damned sure"—a slight flush rose to his face—"that Jill was ... well, fond of me—you promptly asked her to marryyou? It's a little confused—your argument."
Bethune drew back sharply. Across his white, angry face a look of pain and perplexity shot. He saw that McTaggart's nimble mind had caught at the first obvious excuse, and yet with all his honest heart he knew the purity of his intentions.
"I didn't mean to," he blurted it out. "But I found her crying—and lost my head. The servant showed me in by mistake. She was sitting there in that back room, her head buried in her hands—and I couldn't stand it—damn it all!" At the memory, unconsciously, the tears rose in his brown eyes. "You'd gone away, without a word—and—loving her ... I understood.
"I knew she thought she had lost you again—that you'd gone back to your London life. She's pretty plucky—but, after all, she's only a girl!" his voice softened. "It must be precious lonely there—boxed up with that Suffragette mother—and so"—the colour flooded his face, creeping up to the roots of his hair—"I thought perhaps—it might ... comfort a bit—to know what one man thought of her."
A short silence fell between them.
"And she refused you?" McTaggart, white and tight-lipped, thrust aside a momentary twinge of shame that cut across his secret triumph.
Cruelly he went on:
"Women generally know what they want. You can take that—frommyexperience!"
Bethune winced at the stab. But his anger had spent itself. Now he felt old and tired, oddly ashamed for his friend.
"Yes," he answered quietly. "Jill's not a girl to love twice." And in this simple sentence he showed the depth of his respect for her.
But the words, unintentionally uttered, stung McTaggart to the quick.
"Unlike myself!" he said with a sneer.
Bethune moved toward the door. On the threshold he turned and passed a hand wearily over his brow.
"You're going to her?" He jerked his head with a warning gesture to the clock.
"Yes."
McTaggart never turned, but Bethune still hesitated.
He was fighting hard against himself—a bitter battle of wounded pride; the picture of Jill in his mind, her grey eyes wet with tears.
Suddenly he wheeled round.
"For God's sake, Peter," he cried—(the old familiar name slipped out, for habit is hard to break)—"if you care for her—tell her so!"
The door slammed behind his back. McTaggart sat as if turned to stone, elbows propped upon the table, staring out into space.
His blue eyes were hard and bright; bitter resentment was in his heart. He could not see through the veil of anger that clear flame of sacrifice. For Bethune had gained those lonely heights where human love meets the divine. He had offered Jill his greatest gift—voluntary renunciation.