The sun was shining high in the heavens as McTaggart crossed the
station yard to the Railway Inn of the little town that lay in the
trough of the crumpled hills.
The straggling street, with its poor shops, curving away to the left,
was void of life. Not a soul stirred; it might have been a deserted
village.
He walked briskly into the bar, where a man in shirt sleeves dozed on a
stool behind the counter and woke up with a sudden start at the sight
of a stranger.
"Are you the landlord?" asked McTaggart.
"No"--the man stared at him--"he's away, gone to the meeting."
"Well--I want a conveyance at once. I see you keep a livery stable."
"Can't be done," said the man slowly--"there's no carriages left,
whatever."
McTaggart frowned. "Where can I get one?"
"Nowheres"--the other smiled sourly. He seemed to enjoy the stranger's
plight. "Everything's gone over to Cluar--even the carts--you'd best
walk. It's only a mile or two, whatever."
He relapsed again, his arms on the counter, with an air of dismissing
the visitor.
McTaggart glanced up at the clock and saw there was no time to lose.
He decided to take the barman's advice, but had yet to learn by
experience the elastic properties of a mile in Wales by local
measurement.
"Which is the nearest way?" he asked, drawing a shilling out of his
pocket.
The man sprang up as if worked by a spring. "I'll show you, sir"--his
manner had changed. "Indeed to goodness I'm sorry, sir, we've got no
carriage in just now, but you'll cut off a corner across the fields if
you'll come through here..." he led McTaggart down a grimy passage that
smelt of beer out on to greasy cobblestones where they were faced by a
tumble-down building advertising "Excellent Garage."
But as they crossed the stable yard McTaggart heard the note of a horn,
and turned to see a motor car, covered with dust, pass through the arch
and draw up throbbing in their rear.
"Morning, David"--the chauffeur called out. He sprang down. "I've
come for the petrol."
"Whose car?" asked McTaggart quickly.
"Mister Llewellyn's," the barman replied, "from Cluarside. That's your
way sir"--he opened the gate--"keep straight on, down that path, until
you come to the cross roads. Then to the right and up the hill. Thank
you, sir." He clutched the coin. "Coming, Charlie..." and was off to
the visibly impatient chauffeur.
A sudden thought struck McTaggart. As the barman vanished into the
house, he turned back into the yard, with a quick glance at the
powerful car.
"Look here..." he addressed the driver. "Could you give me a lift to
the meeting?" He felt in his pocket and drew out a sovereign--"I'd
make it well worth your while."
The man stared at him, surprised.
"D'you know Mr. Llewellyn, sir?"
McTaggart smiled.
"I'm afraid not. But I've got to get at once to Cluar--and I can't
find any other conveyance." He saw the chauffeur's greedy eyes fixed
on his hand, and lowering his voice:
"If you can take me there, _now_," he added, "wait a few minutes and
get me back to the station, it's ... five pounds in your pocket."
The man gave a little gasp. McTaggart went on steadily. "I've got to
deliver a certain message"--(it seemed the best excuse on the
moment)--"then catch the London train (with Jill"--he said to
himself--"but that can come later.")
"Mr. Llewellyn's gone to town"--the chauffeur was thinking aloud--"I
_must_ get this petrol first..." he glanced back over his shoulder
nervously at the barman, who reappeared dragging two tins from under
the low stone archway.
"I daren't take you in here, sir," he stooped down as he spoke,
pretending to examine a tyre, "but if you'd go across the fields, I'd
pick you up at the cross roads."
"All right--that's settled." McTaggart again raised his voice. "A
nice car--I wasn't sure who the maker was. Thanks. Good day."
Off he went with a careless nod. The sun poured down on his head,
which ached from his long night journey. The stony path felt hot to
his feet, adding to his sense of fatigue.
For sleep had been impossible. With every throb of the rocking train
he had seemed to hear Bethune's voice and recall scattered, angry
phrases.
"I thought ... you meant ... the straight ... game!" This was one of
the refrains. The wheels had pounded out the words with the scanded
beat of a Greek chorus. Well?--so he did--Bethune was mad! He tried
to thrust the thought aside that blame could be attached to him: that,
through any carelessness of his, Jill might have suffered. But still
it rankled.
"She's only a child..." he said to himself. "She understands.
Bethune's an ass! ... And as to 'Aunt Elizabeth'..."
Back it came with hammering force:
"I thought ... you meant ... the straight ... game! ... I thought ...
you meant..." He swore aloud.
As the dawn stole in through the windows, wan over the misty hills, the
words suddenly changed to these:
"Jill's--not the girl--to love--twice."
They brought a new throb of pain and the man stirred restlessly.
If, after all, Bethune were right? What then...?
He shrank from the thought. Jill to suffer because of him!--Little
Jill ... the child he loved....
"Hardly a child!" Bethune had said. On went the wheels, merciless.
"Jill's--not the girl--to love--twice..."
McTaggart remembered suddenly how she had looked on his return when
Roddy had played his innocent trick. He could see her sway and clutch
the chair.
"Peter!" He heard again the note, strange and emotional in her voice.
And then at the Fair, two years ago, her face when he offered his
tawdry gift--the double heart--and the way she had left him, driving
home in front with Bethune.
Had he been blind? _Did_ she care?
If so--his face was white and grave--the only decent thing to do was to
go away out of her life.
And at the thought he stopped aghast, his whole world upside down.
"I can't do it!"--the words broke from him with a ring of genuine
consternation, echoing in the empty carriage that penned him in like a
prison cell. For a space he sat, his head bowed down between his
hands, blotting out the light, rosy now on a dewy land, heralding in
the newborn day.
Then, slowly he looked up, a great wonder on his face.
The rays of the sun were dim beside the white truth that poured in on
him.
"Jill ... little Jill..." he whispered her name, conjuring up the grey
eyes under their dark curling lashes, and the frank gaze that met his
own.
Jill, with her courage and endurance, clever brain and heart of a
child. For a moment he held her in his arms--his to teach the meaning
of love...
Then--with a sigh--he put her away. For the first time for long years
he placed another's happiness before his own. Was it fair to her?
Was he _fit_ to marry Jill? A new-born sense of unworthiness swept
aside his desire.
His past life rose up, his old mistrust of himself, the mystery of his
"double heart" ... his light and pleasure-loving nature.
He thought of Fantine and Cydonia, of many a pretty woman's face; of
this last year in Italy with its careless sequence of adventures.
Could he be faithful to the end?
"Yes!" cried his heart. "Wait," said his brain.
Reason warred with emotion; he stood at the crossroads of his life.
And the stronger, cleaner side of the man rose up in his soul's defence.
He must prove himself, _know_ himself before Jill could become his wife.
He took a vow then and there to pass through a period of probation.
But Jill was worth waiting for.
If she cared? ... A doubt stabbed him and he set his teeth, his face
dogged.
He _would_ win her--come what may! His thoughts forged fast ahead, he
felt the keen thrill of pursuit.
And then the figure of his friend, square set, with honest eyes--that
other lover of Jill's--flashed up into the foreground of the picture.
He felt ashamed. He thought of Bethune with a sudden new
understanding; the deep sincerity of the man, the meaning of his last
words...
Here was love at its highest, purged from all mere passion--a love
based on unselfishness, its one object Jill's happiness.
He saw a hard fight ahead, not only with his own desire, but to keep
his vow in the knowledge that the girl might suffer through his silence.
Nevertheless, a few hours later, as he crossed the fields, impatience
stirred, a longing he had never known for the sight of a loved woman's
face. And as he climbed the last stile and found at the meeting of the
roads the powerful car awaiting him he hailed the chauffeur with
delight.
"There you are!"--he clambered up, seating himself by the driver--"let
her go." They were off, the dust in a whirling cloud behind them.
They wound between high rocks, jutting out over the road, through a
barren land--it seemed to McTaggart--of lonely hills and sombre
valleys; crossed a bridge of crumbling stone over a river shallow and
brown, turned a corner, sharp as a knife, and heard the roar of rushing
water.
"Falls of Ghyll," said the chauffeur.
Far above them, out of the crags that seemed to pierce the sapphire
sky, poured a stream dazzling white, wreathed in spray, mad to escape;
leaping down like a storm spirit to kiss the river, that laughed below,
with a rippling note of sheer delight, under the golden shafts of
sunshine.
McTaggart's blue eyes drank it in. The picture blent with his own
mood. So, he would carry Jill away, borne on the flood tide of his
love.
"Over that hill, sir," said the chauffeur--"is where the fire was--Miss
Morgan's house--the Suffragettes, at it again--I expect you saw it in
the papers?"
"Yes--confound them!" said McTaggart.
The man nodded, approving the sentiment.
"They say, sir, they're up to mischief to-day--going to upset the
speech-making. I don't envy them if they does!"
The note in his voice spurred McTaggart's fears.
"A rough lot about here?"
"There'll be murder done," said the man grimly. "They don't stop at
much when they're roused."
"Are we nearly there?"
The chauffeur nodded. "In five minutes. Just over the rise and down
to the valley. The meeting's held on the football ground in Cluar
itself. I passed it as I came along. When we get there, sir, I'd best
drop you, a bit before, and then run by, turn and come back and wait
for you at the foot of the hill, if that will do?"
"Sounds all right--keep the engine going. I shan't be long if I can
help it." He swallowed down his anxiety as they started to mount the
incline.
Up and up ... Then, with a sense of open space 'neath the roof of
heaven, a panorama spread before them like a vast sea of green and gray.
The swelling curves of the mighty Earth, patched with woods and
blackened crags, rolled up in giant waves that broke on the sky line,
blurred with heat.
Purple mountains, silvery vales; and above, like a scroll of parchment
drawn to an endless length across the world and worked on by some
long-dead monk in azure and gold illumination, the veil of the sky was
stretched, superb, shutting out the face of God.
"What a view!" McTaggart sighed.
Below in the valley he saw grey roofs, like stones carelessly pitched
downhill, tiny fields and a gleam of blue where the river glided in and
out.
Now they were hovering like a bird over the village; then, as the road,
steep and winding, swept them down, the cottages rose all about them.
They passed a church, a school, a bridge, and slackened speed.
"Here we are. It's through that gate on the right, sir," the chauffeur
pointed down the road.
They could see a field packed with people about an erection of wooden
planks, and as the engine ceased to throb McTaggart caught another
sound--once heard, never forgotten--the snarling note of an angry crowd.
"Up to mischief," said the chauffeur.
But McTaggart was out, cutting along as hard as his long legs would go,
a sick fear in his heart. Where was Jill in this turmoil?
He sprang through a torn gap in the hedge and pushed his way
determinedly through the loose fringe of the crowd that surged round
the high platform. All around him people were shouting; the mob moved
in little rushes, swaying forward, beaten back from the moving centre
of disturbance.
Then above the angry hum a shriek rose, shrill with fear. McTaggart
saw, for a moment, a figure raised above the heads. A young girl with
a bleeding face, hair streaming on the breeze, one shoulder bare and
white where the tattered dress had fallen away.
"Down her!" "Duck her!" "To the river..." Wild cries in uncouth Welsh.
McTaggart swore out aloud. He was fighting his way, using his fists,
forcing a path mercilessly.
Again he caught a glimpse of the girl. Thank God! it was _not_ Jill.
As he paused to get his breath, an old hag with an evil face sprang up
toward the victim and clutched at a streaming lock of hair. With a
coarse laugh she tore at it, the claw-like fingers with their trophy
waved aloft, as again a scream rent the air and the crowd cheered.
McTaggart's blood went cold at the sight. It was horrible enough for
men to lay their rough hands on a girl, but a fellow-woman, a mother,
perhaps? He felt physically sick.
For a moment, wedged in and powerless, his brain flashed up another
picture, that of the French Revolution and the foul women of the
Halles, pressing round the guillotine to dip their hands in the blood
of the victims. Was this what Woman's Rights involved?--this civil war
among themselves?
And then above the angry hum a clear and brave young voice rang out:
"Votes for Women!"
McTaggart groaned, pride and agony in his heart.
"Jill!"--he shouted with all his strength--"Jill! where are you?"
He felt the serried ranks slacken as the crowd swung back to this new
offender.
"Votes for Women!"
Again it rang.
"Votes for..." the voice choked on the word.
McTaggart went fighting mad. He was in the thick of it, charging
through, giving and taking blow for blow. Men and women scattered
before him.
"Jill! ... Jill!" It was a war cry.
High above them on the platform a puppet of Government waved his arms
like an excited marionette, in a shrill voice, urging more "moderation"!
Just as McTaggart reached Jill's side a burly miner caught the girl by
the frail collar of her blouse. The thin stuff ripped down to her
waist.
"Out you go, you ---- ----!" But the last foul word went down his
throat under McTaggart's clenched fist, and the man fell back, stunned
and bleeding.
"Now--Jill--get behind--quick! Hold onto my coat."
He heard her breathless "Peter!--_You_!" as they started the perilous
retreat.
Once again she cried his name, and, wheeling round, he rescued her from
the clutches of two angry women and on again, fighting his way.
Once too he laughed aloud and stepped across a fallen body.
"Look out, Jill!" he shouted back and felt her stumble, dragging his
coat.
So at last they cleared the crowd. As he swung her through the hedge
something sharp struck his brow. He felt no pain, but a warm, wet
stream that ran down, and he brushed it aside impatiently out of his
eyes.
More stones whizzed about them. With one arm through Jill's, he
started to run, but she gasped:
"I can't ... _You_ go!"
He laughed, happy.
"Now, then..." stooping down, he picked her up in his arms. Her
loosened hair fell about him, her bruised hands clasped his neck.
He felt then he could have started and fought the battle through again.
He sheltered her, as best he could, striding along toward the car.
The chauffeur, with a white face, helped her in and sprang to his place.
"Now drive like Hell!" said McTaggart.
The man needed no second bidding.
Off they swept, past the church, up and up towards the sky.
McTaggart leaned back with a sigh as the shouts died away behind them.
Jill was there--safe--beside him. He thanked God for the fact. Also
for a good fight, as he looked down at his bleeding knuckles.
"Well--Jill?" he turned to her. "You all right?"
But she started up, with a shrill cry:
"Peter--your _face_!..."
Her grey eyes were wide with fear. She gave a little gasp, relaxed,
and fell back in a dead faint. For her brave spirit had failed her at
last. The sight of the blood still trickling down from the open cut on
his smeared cheek had finished the strain on her overwrought nerves.
Nature, outraged, had claimed her due, sending oblivion to the spirit
in the interest of the taxed flesh.
"Jill--what is it?" McTaggart, frightened, bent over her white face.
Mechanically he wiped his own, conscious at last of his injury.
The chauffeur turned his head at the cry.
"The lady ill? I don't wonder! I expect she's only fainted, sir. A
nasty business for any man, let alone a woman, sir."
He felt somewhat a hero himself for the part he had played, true to
promise.
"Another chap would 'ave driven off"--he soliloquized--"but there ... I
couldn't!
"A deep one?--that 'e is!--never a word about 'is girl. But Lor'--'e
can use 'is fists. 'E gave Ap Jones a fair knock-out--Serve 'im right
too for mauling a lady--not that I hold with this Suffrage business,
still"--he switched on the brake--"a lady's a lady, when all's said."
Then out aloud, as the car shot down into sight of the rock-bound
valley:
"We'll be coming soon to the Falls of Ghyll. Some water may revive
'er, sir."
Meanwhile McTaggart propped her up, an arm around the limp shoulders.
Never had she seemed so dear ... He felt a lump rise in his throat.
"Jill?" He whispered the appeal, but the girl was out of the reach of
his voice, far away in those dark lands, whereof no man knows the
boundary.
Tenderly he drew together the torn folds of her blouse which showed
beneath it a white slip threaded with a narrow ribbon.
He felt a chivalrous pity to see the disorder of her simple dress, and,
drawing the pin out of his tie, he tried clumsily, to repair it.
But as he did so he gave a start, a new fear gripping him.
For something red gleamed beneath the thin and tattered material. It
looked like a great drop of blood against the fairness of her skin!
He set his teeth. Deliberately, but with unconscious reverence, he
drew down the frill of lace where the ribbon held the folds together.
Then he gave a gasp of relief. Into his blue eyes came the light of
love victorious; infinite wonder flooded his soul with tenderness.
For there it lay, in the soft hollow between the delicate curves of her
breast, in ruby glass with its lover's knot, his "fairing"--the little
"double heart"!