The lawless words of the old Folk Song brought a smile to his lips. The beautiful chords of the Hungarian composer rippled smoothly under Jill's touch and again her voice rang out, filled with the youthful pride of the verse:
"My brown boy is mighty and strong.Nine armed sheriffs can't hold him long!But when my voice, so soft he hearsHis proud head droops, bowed down with tears..."
Now he stood under the shadow of the wall. Through the open window he could see the girl, her clear profile, and the slim moving hands. He dared not yet break in upon her—he leaned back, holding his breath.
"Then I whisper, softly and low'Give me thy love, 'ere thou dost go....Pretty am I, faithful am IOnly wayward, wayward am I...!'"
A note of defiance rang through the words, typical of her independent nature.
It stirred in McTaggart an answering throb of youth. Here was no easy conquest before him. Sweet would be the mastery to hold her in his arms—this young rebel, tamed at last...
"Jill!" he stepped forward out of the shadows, tall and eager, in the clear white light.
He saw wonder and swift joy pass across her face as she wheeled round; then a curious look of repression.
"Hullo, Peter!" she answered him coolly. "What a surprise!—Have you dropped from the moon?"
"I found your letter at my Club," McTaggart explained, "on my way home. So I thought I'd just run down and see how you and Roddy were getting on."
He avoided a more direct allusion to Mrs. Uniacke's crowning folly, though he longed to express his sympathy. He knew, of old, Jill's pride.
"Roddy's out," said the girl, "he's gone to the theatre with a school friend. He didn'twantto, but I told him he must! He's awfully cut up about it all. But it's no good crying over spilt milk"—she smiled bravely—"is it, Peter? It'sdonenow. That's the worst of marriage—it's for always." She checked a sigh.
As his eyes drank in the pretty face McTaggart decided to himself it might be also "the best of it!" But out aloud he responded quickly, glad she had broken the ice herself.
"I'mawfullysorry. I can't tell you how I feel about the whole affair. It's ... the limit!" his face was wrathful. "I'd like to have Stephen to myself for a little ... active argument. Gloves off—you understand?"
"Rather!" her face warmed at the thought. "It's odd you should say that, though. I once dreamed I saw you both fighting a duel. I believe I told you—that day in the car—how I woke up before the end, not knowing which side had won."
McTaggart smiled somewhat grimly.
"It's going to happen. In real life," he watched the girl. "But I can't win, Jill, without your help—that's certain!"
She looked up, surprised at his words.
"Of course I'll help—if I possibly can. But what do you mean? Have you really something against Stephen?" A shadow fell on her eager face as she went on, in a burst of confidence.
"It's so awful, Peter, to think that he is, legally, you know, our stepfather. It's all right for me because I'm grown up and can hold my own—but there's poor old Roddy! He's only a boy—that's where Stephen gets the pull. And just now——" she broke off—"I don't think I told you—in my letters, I mean—but there's been a thundering row at home.
"Roddy's told Mother he wants to be an artist and she's simply furious! She's set her heart on his going into the Army. She doesn't see that, without private means, it's frightfully hard on any man. It would be, of course, the Indian Service, and I can't bear to think of Roddy going abroad for the rest of his life. For it comes to that, practically. Besides, he hates the whole idea. He's not fitted for a soldier. I'm sure if Father were alive he'd agree with me. Iknowhe would!"
She leaned back on the music stool, her hands clasped around her knees. The moonlight fell full on her face, showing the shadows under her eyes and the traces of recent suffering.
McTaggart longed to gather her up in his arms and comfort her like a child.
Never, he thought, had she looked so sweet! To him her faded gown of blue—bound about the slender waist with a narrow ribbon of black velvet, and cut open at her throat, showing, too, the rounded arms bare to the elbow—so plainly shabby, was the prettiest dress in all the world.
In her dark hair, forgotten, there lay a single pale nasturtium, gathered earlier in the garden, and it shone among the ruffled curls like a star in the shadow of a cloud.
"Roddyisan artist—now." Jill went on defiantly, unconscious of the admiration in McTaggart's blue eyes. "And I don't see why his whole life should be ruined—just to please Mother! I told her so. And I tried, too, to show her that boys nowadays are allowed to choose their own professions. That it's prehistoric to say that until he's twenty-oneshe'knows best'—He's a human being, like herself—and he's only got one life to live!
"Supposing Granny had said to Mother: 'My dear child, youmustbe an active Anti-Suffragette—that's my wish.Iknow best—I'm older than you,' d'you think she'd have stood it? Rather not! But, of course, Stephen will take her part—unless——" she laughed, a sudden mischief breaking through the gravity of her young face—"he thinks Sandhurst too expensive! That might save it—happy thought! I'll find out exactly what it costs and talk to Stephen—you do, too, whenever you see him, won't you, Peter?"
"I'll do any mortal thing you ask!"
Something in his earnest voice startled Jill. She glanced sharply in his direction through the shadows that were filling the corners of the room.
"Then that's settled," she said coolly. "I think, perhaps, I'll light the lamp. It's getting almost dark in here."
But he checked her.
"Don't!—The moon's so lovely. It would be a shame to shut it out."
In the low chair where he sat, half hidden, his back to the light, he felt he had a certain advantage over the girl facing the window. He could watch her to his heart's content, gaze up into those fearless eyes, with their long and curving sweep of lashes.
"I've got a plan of my own, Jill. I came down to talk it over." He drew his chair a shade nearer, at her feet now—lightly crossed, the slender ankles visible under the shrunk washing frock.
"I think we can get a rise out of Stephen—if we work together, you and I."
"How?" She was watching him doubtfully. Again he felt that hint of repression, as though she stood upon her guard.
"I'll tell you about Roddy first—a scheme I have for his future. To take him right away from Stephen—kidnap him!" he laughed at her—"and give him a thorough training abroad. I thought of the Art schools at Rome. Let him have the best masters from the beginning. If he likes it he's in the right atmosphere. It's a wonderful place, to my mind, Rome ... It's not like a Public School, of course. At one time I used to think that ...everything! But now that I've knocked about a bit I believe that there's nothing half so good as travel for an Englishman—we're too insular by far!
"He's jolly clever—those sketches of his show he has talent—if not genius. I honestly think—with a proper chance—he'll make a name for himself one day."
"Doyou?" She beamed whole-heartedly on the speaker, self-forgetful again. "I think it soundstoolovely!—If only——" she sighed—"it could be done. But Mother would never hear of it. Besides, if she did, we're not rich. Think of what it means, Peter. Why, the journeys alone, from here to Italy and back again for the holidays, would cost a perfect little fortune—let alone his other expenses."
"He needn't return to England at all—once he's there," said McTaggart quickly—"that is, not if you agree to thewholeplan." His voice changed. A pleading note crept into it, his eyes watched her anxiously.
"He could come—for the holidays ... tous!"
There came a pause, silent, but full.
"Jill—little Jill—don't you understand? Don't you know what Iwant—what I'm trying to say?"
From the low chair where he sat he reached up and tried to capture the hands clasped round her knees. But, with a swift movement, she drew them away, her head high, her face proud.
"Tous!..." she repeated his words slowly. "Are you asking me to ...marryyou, Peter?"
The words were jerky. Her gray eyes were fixed still on the garden ahead as though she dared not look at him.
"Yes," he said simply—"I love you, Jill."
But she sat like a maiden turned to stone, untouched, unresponsive.
The cold hand of fear crept round his heart as he watched her face.
Was she going to refuse him? Could it be—after all—Bethune!
"Jill—" his voice was very low—"Aren't you going to answer me?" He bent closer—"Don't you ... care?"
She stirred restlessly under his eyes, her own averted. Then she spoke.
"Why should you think ... I cared for you?" Unconsciously her hand stole to her throat, feeling for the chain that hung concealed by the lace of her collar; and, noting the gesture, McTaggart divined her secret thought.
Light poured in, dispelling his fears. That scene at Cluar ... the "double heart!" that lay upon her girlish breast.
"I don't!" he caught her up quickly. "I only wish to Heaven I did. You've never given the slightest sign—I know myself ... but notyou."
He saw her face clear at his words. She threw him a furtive, sidelong glance and the long lashes trembled and fell, casting a shadow on her cheek.
Then she raised her head again with a faintly malicious smile.
"I don't understand yet, Peter. I always thought we were just friends! Don't you remember when you returned home from abroad, only this Summer—you said you wanted me to feel that you were ... well—an 'elder brother.'" (McTaggart winced at the memory. It was true: those were his words.) "And now—you're going back on that. Isn't it a pity, rather—to spoil it all by this new idea?"
"It's not a new idea to me!" his voice was hot, faintly indignant. "I've loved you for ages past..." She turned on him with a sudden gesture that checked the rest of his ardent speech.
"Then why do you tell me this to-night—for the first time? Why not before?" She was on her feet facing him, her face defiant, her eyes ablaze.
"I know. You needn't answer me. It's because of Stephen and Mother—there! You think that I shall have a rotten life at home—and you'resorry—that's all! If youhadcared all this time there was nothing to stop your telling me. And I don't choose," she stamped her foot, carried away by a gust of pride, "to be married from a sense of pity! I can make my own life for myself. I've got Roddy ... and heaps of friends. I daresay you think it's very kind..."
But McTaggart was at the end of his patience. "Howdareyou say that to me?" He caught her firmly by the shoulders, his blue eyes full of anger. "Look at me!" he compelled her gaze. "Now—don't you know that I'm in earnest?"
He could feel her, rigid, under his touch, but the very warmth of her young body, through the thin summer dress she wore, fired his blood and he went on, with an ominous break in his voice.
"I see what it is!—I've left it too late. I ought to have spoken weeks ago! But I did it, Jill—foryoursake..."
"Did what?" She bit her lip, fighting against the magnetism of his youth and her own answering passion.
"Held my tongue," said Peter grimly.
His hands fell away from her. He turned and stared out of the window.
"Some other fellow, I suppose?" He addressed the moon-lit patch of garden.
"No." Rather quickly, Jill sat down. She felt her limbs trembling beneath her.
Deeply annoyed at this sudden weakness, she went on, in a careful voice.
"Don't let's quarrel over it, Peter. It's ... just a mistake. Let's forget it."
To this he deigned no reply, still silent by the window.
She could see his profile against the sky—the well remembered set of his head on his broad shoulders; his hands were clasped in a hard grip behind his back.
"Peter?" a faint appeal sounded, against her will.
McTaggart turned, hesitated, then threw himself into his old seat facing her.
"I'm going to tell you ... everything. It's not a very pretty story—in parts, you know. It's just life—a man's life." His voice was hard.
Jill stirred restlessly. She nodded her head, reclasping her hands in her old attitude round her knees as though it, somehow, nerved her to listen.
So he began. At the very beginning; with his interview in Harley Street and the mystery of his "double heart."
Jill's grey eyes went wide with wonder.
But he went on without a break. He told her of Fantine and Cydonia; of his brief engagement with the latter, and his subsequent disillusion.
For a certain reason of his own he cut out both the time and place, avoiding mention of his inheritance, merely stating that he had been jilted.
Had he been watching Jill's face and seen her indignation rise, flooding the clear skin with colour, his story might have been abridged.
But he still stared out of the window, far from the girl's secret thought. ("How dared this creature throw him over! a silly, brainless..." Jill choked.)
For now he came to a harder part: that year of light adventures abroad. But he forged through it ruthlessly, hurting himself and her. This threatened Jill's ideals, dragging him out of his secret shrine. Peter, no longer her childish idol, but a man, made of baser metal.
Still, she sat without movement, rather white, her lips compressed. She did him the justice in her heart to respect him for his honesty. But it made a difference even then; though later it strengthened the reason why, loving her, he had bound himself to silence for a term of probation.
It accounted, too, for his withdrawal from her society since the day he had rescued her and brought her from Cluar. And her secret fear was slain for good. The fear that had haunted her proud spirit that, during her brief unconsciousness, the disarray of her torn dress had betrayed the little "double heart!" That gift of his, carelessly offered, lightly accepted, which had lain, day after day, and night after night, on the faithful living heart beneath...
So at last he came to the end; his strange experience in the train and the doctor's verdict; the second one, that had overthrown its shadowy rival. That bogey was dead for good. Jill breathed a sigh of relief. It was like a page from a Fairy book, the curse some malignant witch had laid.
"So I haven't a double heart at all..." McTaggart smiled wearily, "not even one I can call my own. It's yours, now—what's left of it!"
He stole a glance at the girl before him. Her face was pale; her hands, still clasped, suggested that she held herself, by a strong effort, cool and apart.
"That's what seems so hard," said Jill. "We give ...allto the man we love—and he gives us ... 'what's left.'"
McTaggart was stung by the truth of the words. "Don't!" there was real pain in his voice. "It hurts awfully," he paused. "If only you understood men," he went on miserably—"if you knew...! We're rotters I'll own. Young and old—but until a fellow'sreallyin love it doesn't seem to matter much. It's just ... well, ordinary life. And, Jill——" his eyes were beseeching now—"I think, all the time, it's been reallyyou—though I didn't guess it at the first!
"I've always come back to you—to that dear child's face of yours—those grey eyes..." he stopped, stung by the fear of the years ahead without her.
Jill's dark lashes were lowered now. He tried in vain to probe her thought, to catch some faint sign of hope.
"I've always come back," he said again, "I always shall. It'slovethis time. It's the woman a man returns to, you know, who holds his heart in her hands. Those other ... affairs were mere passion. I see it now—now it's too late! What a fool I've been...!" his head sank down for a moment on his clenched fists.
Then he raised it and faced Jill, a new light in the blue eyes.
"I love you so," his voice rang, "that, if I thought it were better for you to go away right out of your life, I believenowI could do it, Jill. But I don't. IknowI'd make you happy!"
He saw a quiver cross her face, and breathlessly he leaned toward her.
"Don'tyou care? Tell me, Jill. Couldn't you learn to care ... a little?"
Slowly the girl raised her eyes. He saw that they were wet with tears.
"I've loved you all my life," she said.
A cry broke from him. He slipped down on his knees before her, arms outstretched.
"Jill! ... My darling! What do you mean?"
Into the beautiful childish face came a tenderness he had never known—the dream come true ... the "dream of his life."
"I suppose—I must marry you," said Jill.
Miss Elizabeth Uniacke wore an aggressive air.
She stood in front of the mirror, her gray eyes critical, studying the effect of her newly made gown.
On her knees beside her a stout dressmaker waited, in mute suspense, her mouth full of pins. Her attitude was that of profound admiration, but in her heart she quailed, foreseeing the verdict.
"Too tight round the ankles," said Aunt Elizabeth.
Mrs. Crouch, between the pins, bleated her dismay. She assured "Meddam" it was the latest fashion: that to alter it by a "hair-breadth" was to "ruin the cut!"
"I can't help that——" Miss Uniacke scowled—"I've told you before—I won't be trussed like a fowl. I don't care what frights other women make of themselves! I've my own style, and I shall keep to it."
She placed her pretty hands to either side of her waist, tightly confined by a broad Petersham belt, and with a little wriggle of her angular body seemed to shoot up like a crocus on its stem.
Mrs. Crouch swallowed a heavy sigh—a somewhat difficult and precarious performance!
Pins still sprouted from between her lips and she gathered up the scissors with a tragic gesture. Slowly she unpicked the two side seams.
"That's better!" Miss Uniacke gave an unexpected movement, followed by an ominous rending sound.
"Ha!" she cried triumphantly. "You see for yourself!—I can't walk a step. It's ridiculous!"
Mrs. Crouch sighed.
"Wemight..." she suggested, "leave one side open. With—perhaps—a button?"
"And show my legs!" At the wrath in her client's voice the dressmaker breathed a hurried:
"Oh, Meddam!—Indeed, Meddam, I had no intention—I was going to suggest a fold ... underneath..."
"Not at all!" The irate lady snapped. "You've plenty of turnings. Let it out. That's better ... Now, pin it ... There!——" Again she took a step forward. "I can move at last. I'm sure I don't know what we're coming to! You'll be asking me next to dye my hair blue! Inmyyoung days..."
There came a low tap at the door, breaking through the current of her memories.
"Come in!—What is it?" She wheeled round, displeased.
"If you please, Mum." The parlour maid stood there, gaunt and prim.
"It's Mr. McTaggart asking to see you."
"Shut that door!—Now, what do you mean, Maria? You know I'm engaged. Tell him I'm out."
But the elderly servant stood her ground. "He's in the drawing-room, if you please, Mum. I told him you was h'occupied—but he said he could wait." She cast an openly inquisitive glance at her mistress' dress. The new Autumn gown was an "event" in that quiet household.
"Indeed." Aunt Elizabeth's voice was acid. "Well, hecanwait, then! You'd no business, Maria, to let him in at all. You take too much on yourself."
"I'm sorry, Mum. But the card in the hall said 'h'In,' not 'h'Out,' so 'ow was I to tell?" She tossed her head with an air of injured innocence.
"That will do." Miss Uniacke's eyes had wandered back to the mirror, irresistibly attracted.
It certainlywassmart ... The colour suited her.
"Perhaps I'd better go and get it over," she said. "If these pins will hold?" She addressed the kneeling figure.
"I'll make sure, Meddam." Mrs. Crouch smiled. She came to work "by the day" and was not at all averse to a spell of idleness reaped from the occasion.
But Aunt Elizabeth guessed her secret thought. "You can have your tea now, instead of later on. That will save time." Mrs. Crouch sighed.
"Yes, Meddam." She drove a pin upward with the amiable desire that Miss Uniacke should risk, when she sat down, a reminder of the fact!
The unconscious victim rustled through the hall. That, she decided, was the best of taffetas. It had a distinctive and aristocratic note. Her temper was soothed by the gentle frou-frou.
McTaggart was standing talking to the parrot who, after the manner of those wayward birds, received his advances with a stony silence, and sharpened, at intervals, his beak on the perch.
"How do you do?" Her guest wheeled round quickly at Miss Uniacke's voice, his face eager. "This is good of you! I heard you were engaged and was prepared to wait for hours! Polly refused to take pity upon me," he added as they shook hands.
"Silly fool!" said the parrot explosively, the moment McTaggart turned his back.
Aunt Elizabeth, fearing that worse might follow, picked up the baize cover and blotted the bird out effectually.
"He gets so tiresome," she explained. "Won't you sit here?" and was settling herself on the sofa facing her visitor when she rose with a startled look of pain.
"Silly fool!" came from the cage in muffled accents. "Ha ... ha ... ha!"
"A pin!" said Aunt Elizabeth, gingerly sinking down again. "The fact is I was being fitted on with a new dress when you arrived. I didn't like to keep you waiting, so I came as I was—pins and all!"
"It's a very pretty one," said McTaggart—"suits you, too. Such a jolly colour."
"You think so?" The little old lady was pleased and a slight flush warmed her face.
"I suppose," said McTaggart as the pause prolonged itself and he felt she was waiting to gather the object of his visit; "I suppose you've heard about ... Mrs. Uniacke?"
The moment the words had passed his lips he knew he had made a tactless start.
For his hostess bristled visibly.
"If you've called to plead for Mary," she said and her voice was short—"I had better tell you that I wash my hands of that affair! I've finished with them—the whole family!"
"Jill?" ...
"Yes——" she caught him up. "Jill,andRoddy—They might have guessed. They ought to have warned me long ago! It's their own fault—and I've done with them."
"Oh, no!" McTaggart's blue eyes were eloquent. "You don'tmeanit? You couldn't just now when they want you so." He saw a slight quiver cross her face. "AndIwant you—all your help! We can't get on without it, you know—Jill and I..."
She gave a start at the coupling together of the names.
"I don't understand," she said drily.
"No?—I'm afraid I'm explaining myself rather badly. I thought you'd guess ... The fact is, Aunt Elizabeth," he smiled at her affectionately, "I'm hoping you'll let me become, you know, arealnephew of yours, one day."
The little old lady gave a gasp. "Iknewit!" she cried triumphantly. "You and Jill?—Ha!" she laughed. "You can't deceive an old woman like me!"
"I don't want to!" McTaggart sprang up, his hand outstretched to meet her own, his face so radiant with happiness that her old heart softened at the sight.
"But I must haveyourpermission first. I don't care a hang what her mother says!—She's placed herself outside the affair. Gone off and left those two children..." he checked himself, his voice indignant. "But you're her father's sister, you see—his favourite one. And we both think you've as good a right as any one ... to give her away."
He stopped abruptly.
"Give her away?Jill, you mean?" she stared at him, obviously amazed. "What are you talking about, young man? You're not going to marry herto-morrow?"
"No," he amended, "to-morrow week."
He laughed at her startled exclamation, and went on, still holding her hand—unconsciously abandoned to him—with subtle persuasion in his voice.
"I don't want you—exactly—to 'give her away.' In any sense!——" he laughed again—"but you simplymustcome to the wedding. We've both of us set our hearts on that."
"I never heard such utter nonsense in all my life!" she protested stoutly—"and don't imagine I shall allow it!" But, as she looked at his resolute face, inwardly she commended his spirit.
"Of all the ridiculous notions..." she fumed; but McTaggart guessed she was wavering.
"Tell me, first, you're pleased about it?Dosay you think I'll make Jill happy?"
"Well——" she paused—"I'll admit you'lltry! She's a bit of a handful—that young woman."
Her grey eyes began to twinkle. Jill, she thought, had found her master.
"Yes—I'm glad. Though I shan't hear..."
He checked the protest audaciously. Before she could gather his intention he had stooped and kissed her faded cheek.
"Thank you, Aunt Elizabeth. On Tuesday week I'll take another—In the vestry!"
He chuckled gaily.
"Well—I never...!" Miss Uniacke gasped. For once her sharp tongue was silenced. Her face was flushed and, helplessly, she straightened the crooked brown fringe.
"Now——" McTaggart sat down, uninvited, by her side ... "I think we ought to talk business and fix up a few plans. I've got the license—that's all right. And to-night I'm going down to Oxton. The Bishop is my friend, you know, and I want him to come and marry us. Mrs. Uniacke's honeymoon—I mean Mrs. Somerfield——" her sister-in-law winced slightly and he went on hurriedly—"Well, she doesn't get back to Worthing till Wednesday. So, if you could manage to run down and stay with Jill until we're married ... You see my idea?" his face went red—"It would stop any silly talk, you know. But, perhaps, you could come to the lawyers first and fix up the settlements? I want to make that all square; for Jill's sake, you understand?"
Miss Uniacke caught him up sharply. "I hope you're not under the delusion that my niece has anything of her own?" Purposely she withheld from him the knowledge of the modest sum left the girl by her Father.
"My dear Aunt Elizabeth!" McTaggart looked taken aback. "I meantmymoney, of course. I'd better tell you all about it."
He proceeded forthwith to enlighten her on the subject of his inheritance.
Miss Uniacke's gray eyes slowly widened with amazement.
"You mean to say," she said at last, "that Jill will be a marchioness?"
"Well, that's thrown in!" McTaggart laughed—"Won't she make a pretty one! I think she'll just love Siena—and Rome too—it's a ripping place! You'll have to come and stay with us. Oh, I forgot—about Roddy." He went on with his plans for the latter, his handsome face alight with pleasure. Miss Uniacke guessed in every word the depths of his love for the boy's sister.
"It's like a fairy tale!" she said.
"It is a fairy tale——" his voice was lowered now with a touch of awe.
"All true love is that, I think. It's outside this work-a-day world. Something too fine to be measured—like a beautiful vision seen in a dream..."
He glanced up shyly at his listener and in her worn and serious face caught a look of longing, oddly pathetic, but full of genuine sympathy. For a moment their thoughtful eyes met—the old, saddened ones, knowing life, and those of youth, bright with hope: met and wondered, across the gulf.
Then McTaggart broke the silence.
"I don't want Jill to know yet. About my inheritance, I mean. I want it to come as a huge surprise!—on our arrival in Siena. She knows I've got some property there—I fancy she thinks it's just a farm!—but I've always kept it rather dark from everybody. It's like this——" he fidgeted, under the gaze of her shrewd grey eyes, hunting for words.
"Although my mother was Italian I've alwaysfeltan Englishman. Really, deep down in myself, I'd sooner be English, any day. But, on the other hand, you see, I admit a certain responsibility. My mother was treated abominably"—a hard look came into his face—"just because she married my father! They practically cut her adrift.
"Now, by an odd stroke of luck, I have come into all that my mother lost. And I feel it's up to me to show that she was right, after all. She married for love, and so shall I. An English wife ... my little Jill! But we'll have to live in Italy half the year—be Maramonte as well as McTaggart—not for ourselves but because I believe thatshewould have wished it."
His eyes had a curious far away look. Then he seemed to come back to the present.
"All the same I've felt, somehow, that a foreign title, over here, wouldn't do—rather snobbish..." He laughed with a shade of nervousness.
"Quite right." Miss Uniacke nodded. She liked the man more and more. But, despite her careless attitude toward the secret he shared with her, her old heart warmed at the thought of this splendid match for the girl she loved.
"You won't tell her? You'll keep it dark!"
"Of course—it's your affair, not mine."
She smiled the harshness out of the words.
"All the same," she went on, "I think you ought to tell her mother. I don't approve of Mary myself—I think her conduct to her children simply shocking——" she frowned again—"the secrecy—and this sudden marriage! Still, she brought Jill into the world—it'sherdaughter, not mine. It's paying her back in her own coin ... but IknowI ought to stop this folly!"
"But you won't?" His voice was very earnest. "Look here, Miss Uniacke. She's never given a thought to Jill—or Roddy either, latterly. She's bringing a penniless, idle chap into her home to live with her children. She'll have to support him—you know that? At their expense! For, after all, it's Colonel Uniacke's money, you know, that she holds in trust for the next generation. It means a cruel time for them under the thumb of that rotter, Stephen. On a slender income, deprived of their rights and shadowed by this Suffrage nonsense.
"Think of Jill, living with Stephen?—and Roddy—a schoolboy, inhishands...!
"Instead of which, here am I—luckily a rich man; able to give the boy a chance, and Jill ... pretty well all she wants!
"I'd just like you to see some pearls I've got for her in the Roman bank"—he threw his head back and laughed boyishly, with a note of triumph—"They'd make Stephen's mouth water—damn the chap!—I beg your pardon!"
But Miss Uniacke smiled grimly; forgetful of the listening parrot.
McTaggart, encouraged, started again.
"I can't bear to think of Jill for a day in the house with that man. That's why I'm doing this, entirely, to get her away before he returns. Can't you guess what it will save her? The bitterness of seeing him there, ruling in her father's place, in the old home, where he lived..."
"Stop!" Miss Uniacke grasped his arm—"I can't stand it!—It's not fair. Edward..." She choked on the name.
McTaggart took her hands in his.
"Tell me now, honestly"—his blue eyes were keen and anxious as he gazed into her moved face. "D'you think, if your brother were alive, he'd give me Jill?"
There came a pause. It seemed to them both that, somewhere near, a shadow hovered, watching them, with a love that had survived the grave.
Then, at last, Miss Uniacke spoke.
"Yes," she answered solemnly—"I think he would. And so will I."
"Wave, Peter—oh,dowave! Poor little Roddy!..."
Jill leaned over the steamer rail, watching the pier slowly recede, and, far away, a tiny figure against the sky, arm aloft. Then, as it grew to a black speck and blurred into the distant view, she turned sharply, tears in her eyes.
"I can'tbearleaving him!" she cried.
"It's not for long," said McTaggart gently. He ran a hand through the girl's arm. "Won't it be jolly after a bit to have him in Rome, living with us?"
"Yes." Jill swallowed hard. "You think we shall work it?—I'm rather doubtful."
"I'm not," said McTaggart stoutly. "I know Stephen. He's 'no proud!' The economy's sure to appeal to him. And Aunt Elizabeth's sworn to help. She's a brick, that old lady! Oh, by the bye, I'm to give you this."
He handed his wife an envelope, directed to her and carefully sealed.
"She said you were not to lose it, Jill." Then he laughed suddenly.
"Guess what her last words to me were?"
"Can't." Jill was beginning to smile, a rather wan little attempt, half her mind still with Roddy.
"I thought she was going to reveal to me some awful secret in your past. She led me aside on the pier with an air of mystery and whispered—
"'I've put some galoshes in the Hold-all—a new pair. I know Jill. She'll be marching about in those thin shoes from sheer vanity—catching cold—and I'm sureyou'renot fit to nurse her. A pair of babies!' Here she snorted. 'You look after her, young man.' This was her parting benediction!"
Jill laughed. "Just like her! I wonder what she's written here."
"Come along into the cabin and read it in peace. Oh, by the way—my servant's there—Mario. You must say something nice to him. He's off his head with excitement. He's been with me the last three years—an awfully decent chap, you know. He understands English all right—speaks it a little. Here we are..."
He led her into the deck cabin where Mario was unstrapping some rugs. He stood up, tall and eager, as the young couple crossed the threshold.
"This is my wife, Mario."
No mistaking the proud note in his master's voice! The dark eyes glowed, the white teeth flashed into a smile as Jill greeted him rather shyly.
Mario had prepared his speech.
"My felicitations to her. And to him. Blessed be the day! Long life and happiness—And many children," he concluded.
The colour flamed in her cheeks.
"Grazie tante," she responded...
Up went Mario's hands, surprised, full of joy and admiration. But McTaggart broke in on the flow of Italian that followed the gesture.
"Basta! Basta!"—he drove him out. "You can come back when we get near land."
Mario carefully closed the door. He smiled to himself rapturously.
"Ahi!—l'amore..." He kissed the tips of his fingers to the sky above. Then he glanced down at the waves.
"You stay quiet!" he said to them.
Meanwhile, Jill, in the cabin, was looking round, with curious eyes.
"Isn't it snug? I'msoexcited! You know, I've never travelled before. Oh!—Peter...."
For McTaggart had caught her eagerly in his arms. "Take off that veil—for goodness' sake! ... Ah! ... I've been simply dying for that!"
Jill, breathless, escaped from him, cheeks flushed, her eyes brilliant.
"Peter—you brute!" she straightened her hat.
"That's a nice thing to say"—he laughed back—"to your lord and master."
"You're not!" she mocked, teasing him, "I never said 'obey,' you know."
"No wonder the Bishop looked so grave. We'll have to be married over again..." He broke off, his hand to his collar, wriggling his neck. "Confound that boy! I've got rice all down my back."
"Good old Roddy—I saw him do it! In the car, coming over the Downs. No ... no!" she stamped her foot.... "Be quiet now, I want to read."
She tore open the envelope directed by Aunt Elizabeth. It held another, tightly sealed, and a letter in the pointed hand.
"My dear Jill," so it ran, "I've asked Peter to give you this, and I only hope you won't lose it, with your usual carelessness. I'd better tell you at once, there's money enclosed—in five-pound notes. I understand that even in Italy English notes are respected.
"You needn't trouble to thank me for it. You'd have had it some day anyhow. Also the cheque I've placed with Cook's—in Rome—to your account there.
"Your husband may be all you think. Time alone will prove this—('Oh, Peter—isn't she lovely?'—Jill chuckled with delight.) But I don't like to think of you in a foreign land, without credit. It's lowering for a woman, too, to go to her husband for every penny. Besides, though I've done all I could, your trousseau is an utter farce. You ought to have twelve of everything. Andmarked, don't forget that! ..."
"Not twelve husbands, let us hope!" McTaggart leaned over her shoulder, as they sat on the narrow berth, side by side, in the dim-lit cabin, reading the letter.
"How shall I be 'marked,' Jill? I hope it doesn't mean hot irons?"
"Like this!" Jill pinched him. "Be quiet now—Listen, Peter. Isn't she an olddear?
"You'll find notes for fifty pounds. Don't go and spend it all at once in a present for your worthless husband! ... Anddon't spoil him. From the start, hold your own. I know men!"
"Oh! Aunt Elizabeth!" McTaggart rocked with mirth. "It's hardly respectable, is it, Jill? I'm afraid she's had a shocking 'Past.'"
"Anyhow, her Present's all right!" said Jill neatly, folding the letter. "She is good"—her face went grave. "D'you think I really ought to take it?"
"You must. She'd be most awfully hurt."
He nodded his head wisely at Jill. "We'll make it up to her one day—give her a topping good time and ... oh, I say?" He shifted a little in order to see his wife's face.
"I've got to confess something, Jill. Something I did before I left. Promise you won't be cross with me?"
"So have I," said Jill quickly. "I quite forgot ... Let's get it over. You first." Absently, she handed across the wad of notes.
McTaggart smiled.
"No—they're yours. You must guard them from the 'worthless husband.'"
"I daren't. I shall lose them," she declared. "Do take them, Peter dear."
"All right." He placed them away in his pocketbook, with secret amusement.
"It's about your mother," he went on. Jill gave a little start. "I felt so bothered last night—I suppose you'll think me a thorough turn-coat—but I couldn't sleep, thinking of it. She's been so awfully kind to me. And at last I got up and wrote a letter—a nice one"—he glanced at Jill nervously, but she simply nodded. "I tried to show her why we'd done this. And then ... I added"—he broke off—"I hope you won't be angry, Jill, I ought to have told you—discussed it first. But I went out and posted it—on the impulse. To Worthing, you know. She'll find it when she returns to-morrow..."
"Whatdid you add?" Jill was impatient. "Do go on." She shook his arm.
"Well. I said..." he began to stammer a little. "I s-said I hoped she'd stay with us—our first vi-visitor, you know.Don'tbe cross..."
But Jill's answer swiftly dispelled the man's doubts. For she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him, her face radiant.
"So have I! I mean I wrote to Mother myself yesterday. Isn't it funny? I gave it to Roddy to hand to her the moment she gets home to-morrow! That's my secret"—she drew back, her eyes thoughtful—"You see, I felt ... it was rather mean—I was so happy—to leave her out. D'you understand?"
"Same here." McTaggart nodded. "I'm glad you have. It will pave the way to better relations bye and bye. She must come to us whenever she can."
There fell a little pause between them. Jill's thoughts had turned back to her old life and her brother. Her grey eyes grew wistful.
McTaggart saw this. He rose to his feet.
"Look here, Jill—come outside. We'll have a turn up and down the deck. It will do you good before the train."
"All right. Where's my ulster?"
"Here." McTaggart reached up, unhooked a pale grey coat beside his own and handed it with a mischievous smile to his wife.
"That's not mine." Jill stared.
"Yes, it is. Try it on."
"Peter!" Jill passed a hand lovingly over the rich fur, the beautiful collar of chinchilla and sumptuous lining—warm and soft.
"It's a little present. I had it made. Aunt Elizabeth got the measures. D'you like it?"
Jill's face answered him. She could not speak, for very wonder.
"Really mine?" she said at last. "I never saw such lovely fur! Oh, Peter! how extravagant. You mustn't spoil me like this..."
"I expect payment—of a kind!" He took it—(with interest.) "Now, slip it on. There—that's fine! You look like a little Teddy bear." He opened the door and the bright light swept in, dazzling them. Blue sky and blue sea and a fresh wind, salt and keen.
Far behind them lay the coast, the broad waves rolling along to the French shore and that new life they faced with the confidence of youth.
"The first time," said McTaggart—"that I really knew how pretty you were, you had on a little grey fur cap. That's why I chose chinchilla for you."
"But that was Rabbit!" Jill laughed. "I've never had anygoodclothes. Until my trousseau," she said proudly and glanced down at her simple dress.
McTaggart smiled in his heart, as, following up the train of thought, Jill proceeded, somewhat gravely, to hold forth on economy.
"I shan't cost you very much. I can make lots of things myself. And I expect, in a place like Siena, it doesn't matter what one wears. Oh, do tell me about your house?—or is it a flat?"
"Not exactly. I hope you won't be disappointed. It's rather a cheerless sort of place."
"I don't care if it's a barn!" The breeze had brought a bright colour into her cheeks, as they paced along, arm in arm, and she laughed aloud. "I don't care about anything! I'm just too glad to be alive. I'm awfully strong—I can learn to cook..." McTaggart hugged himself for joy.
"Oh, I hope it won't come to that. Mario might object."
Jill stopped suddenly, overwhelmed by a new thought.
"I say, Peter—what is he? Exactly, I mean. Is he ... your valet?"
"Yes—you know—over there—-wages are a mere trifle. And he's handy, in all sorts of ways."
"I see. Would he clean the windows?"
"Knives and boots?..." McTaggart choked. "I dare say—if you asked him."
"Hm...." Jill looked a little doubtful. The fur coat had made her think. She mustn't let Peter ruin himself—even on their honeymoon.
In her practical mind she decided to say nothing more till they reached Siena and then take up the reins of the house, with a careful eye on the exchequer.
But all these thoughts were swept aside by the novelty of her arrival on the French coast, the foreign tongue, the stir and bustle of the Customs.
Then came dinner in the train, with strange wine, strange dishes, and their "doll's house" quarters for the night. She revelled in the unexpected.
Slowly the dark swept down, blotting out the sleeping earth, as they rocked along, happily tired, in the warm coup, side by side.
"Time for bed..." said McTaggart at last. "I'm not going to let you chatter all through the night, old lady. It's close upon eleven o'clock!"
"I'm not sleepy a bit," said Jill.
Something in her quick glance roused McTaggart's chivalry—a childish touch of helplessness.
"Look here..." he leaned closer and whispered softly in her ear. For a moment Jill clung to him, her face hidden from his eyes.
"You've got a long journey before you," he went on in a careless voice. "So just turn in and get to sleep. I'm going outside for a last smoke. Pull that shade over the lamp when you're ready. I shan't want the light. I'll be as quiet as a mouse. We'll say good night—here—now."
"Peter ... youarea darling!" The whisper barely reached his ears. He held her closely for a moment—kissed her quickly and stood up.
"Happy dreams! And take your time. I shan't turn in for another hour." He opened the door and went out, his face rather white and set. "Another test..." he said to himself. "Hang it all! She's such a child! It's the straight game." And at the words he thought instinctively of Bethune. "I'm glad I've had it out with him."
For the two men had parted friends. Perhaps, in the long years ahead, Jill would no longer stand between them.
McTaggart hoped so fervently. He paced up and down the corridor; steady action that soothed his nerves, smoking, with an absent mind, cigarette after cigarette.
The stars came out in the heavens, and he thought once more of that other night, when he stood and watched them, three years back, and pondered on his "double heart."
What a blind fool he had been! He realized how well the excuse had served to screen the follies due to the hot impulses of youth. His "double heart"...! He smiled grimly, as the truth slowly dawned on him: the dual nature of all men: the daily battle waged between human weakness and spiritual strength.
The night air blew in, sharp with an early Autumn frost, cooling his brow and bringing peace, the hushed silence that Nature loves.
And at last he paused before his door, opened it, inch by inch, and stole through, with a quick glance at the lower berth. Jill was asleep!
In the dim light of the shaded lamp he could see the dark cloud of her hair, her childish profile, pure and sweet, and the long lashes on her cheek.
For a moment he stood and gazed at her, a great longing in his heart.
"Only ... to kiss her!" he said to himself, then, sternly, turned away.
And with the action, all unknown, he broke the insidious habit of years; the indecision of boyhood days changed to the firm control of the man.
The train rocked on....
In his berth above, McTaggart, restless, watched till the dawn filtered in between the blinds, pale shafts of primrose light.
He had only to lean and call her name to see those grey eyes open wide, filled with love—the love of a wife! But he fought it out, hour by hour. And as the sun stole over the edge of the long plains, white with frost, he turned on his pillow with a smile and was gathered in the arms of sleep.