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 can _just_ do 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 with _you_?"
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--you
_said_ you 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....
"Then _you_ turned 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 I _do_ know 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 know _you_..." 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--"I _ought_ to know your way with women! And it's not fair on
a girl like Jill--she's out and away too fine for you--to _marry_ a 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 you _quite_ finished?" 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 aside _your_ idea of _my_ conduct," 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 marry _you_? 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--from _my_
experience!"
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.