in the study if Mr Carthew or any one calls for me. But I don't want
to be disturbed at present."
A minute later he opened the door of the apartment, half library, half
smoking-room, which he called his study. It was in darkness, but for
the cheerful glow of the fire.
As Juggernaut closed the door behind him and felt for the
electric-light switch, there came a rustling from the depths of a
great oak settle which formed a right-angle with the projecting
mantelpiece; and a slim straight figure stood suddenly upright,
silhouetted against the ruddy glare.
"Daphne!"
"Yes--me!" replied an extremely small voice.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
THE CANDLE LIT.
There is no more disagreeable sensation in this world than that
furnished by a sudden encounter with some one with whom we are on
"awkward" terms. Most people know what it is to cross the street to
avoid an old friend, or to dodge into a shop in order to escape the
necessity of inflicting or receiving the cut direct. Very often the
origin of the quarrel has been forgotten or ceased to be of real
moment, but the awkwardness endures. Oftener still a reconciliation
would be welcomed on both sides; but pride, pride, pride intervenes.
Now the best solvent of stubborn obstinacy is a sense of humour. As
Juggernaut stood in the darkness, surveying the embarrassed little
figure before him--in his eyes Daphne, five feet seven in her
stockings, was always "little"--and feeling acutely conscious on his
own part of an irresistible desire to shuffle with his feet, he
suddenly and most providentially broke into one of his rare laughs--a
laugh of quiet and unforced enjoyment.
Apparently this was not quite what Daphne expected.
"What is the matter?" she inquired. Her voice quavered pathetically,
for she was highly wrought.
"I couldn't help thinking," said her husband, "of an episode in the
history of two old friends of mine. They had been engaged for about
three months, when they quarrelled--severely. They parted company for
ever, and whenever he or she saw the other upon the horizon, he or she
fled. However, after about six weeks of this sort of thing they were
taken by surprise. One day the man saw the girl advancing straight
upon him down the street, quite oblivious of his proximity. He dived
into the nearest shop, which happened to be a baby-linen
establishment--"
Daphne gave a sudden gurgle of laughter.
"--And when the girl walked in, two minutes later," concluded
Juggernaut, "to match some silk, she found her late beloved diligently
sampling Berlin wool. That did it! The sense of humour of that young
couple came to their rescue, Daphne, and they walked out of the shop
hand-in-hand, not caring a dump for anybody. To my knowledge they have
never had a quarrel since. You see the reason why I laughed just
now?"
Daphne sighed comfortably.
"Yes," she said. The tension of the situation was relaxed.
"I want to--to talk to you, Jack," she continued, considerably
heartened.
"Certainly," replied Juggernaut, with a slight return of his
board-room air. "I'll turn the light on."
"Please don't," said Daphne hastily. "I would rather talk in the dark.
Will you sit down on the settle?"
Juggernaut obeyed silently. The firelight played upon his face,
showing the clear-cut lines of his mouth and his tired eyes. Daphne
stood erect before him, keeping her face in the shadow. She had
removed her hat and furs, and her thick hair caught the light
fantastically.
"Jack," she began, industriously scrutinising the vista of the room
reflected by an ancient convex mirror hanging on the far wall, "I want
to say something. I want to say that I am sorry. I have done you an
injustice. I always thought you were a hard man, and I have discovered
that you are not. In fact," she continued with a flicker of a smile,
"I have found out that you are very much the other thing." She
paused.
"May I ask for chapter and verse?" said Juggernaut.
"_Yes!_" The old Daphne flashed forth. "Here are you, fighting all
these men with one hand, giving no quarter, and all that sort of
thing--" Juggernaut stirred suddenly in his seat--"and feeding the
women and children with the other! Aren't you, now?" She pointed an
accusing finger.
"Since you tax me with it--yes," said her husband.
Daphne turned upon him impulsively, with the firelight full on her
face.
"Jack," she said softly, "it was splendid of you!"
He looked up and saw that her eyes were glowing. She came a step
nearer, and her head drooped prettily. "And I'm sorry if I have been
unfair to you, Jack," she continued. "I--I thought you were just a
feelingless sort of man, whose work was his world, and who cared for
nothing but himself and what he had in view, and regarded women as
merely useful things to keep house, and have babies, and so on. But
now I _know_ that I was wrong. There is more of you than that. Being
me, I had to tell you."
She ended with a little catch in her voice. She had made her effort.
She had humbled herself, and in so doing she had laid herself open to
the cruellest of rebuffs. She waited tremulously. A hard word, a
scornful smile, even silence now--and two lives would fall asunder for
ever.
But the wheels of Juggernaut had never passed over a woman.
"Will you sit down?" said Sir John gently.
He made room for her, and she sank down beside him, leaning her head
against the high back of the settle and gazing unwinkingly into the
fire. She was conscious now that this man was overflowing with
tenderness towards her, but she would not look him in the face yet.
"How did you find out about the rations to the women?" he enquired
presently.
Daphne told him.
"But you mustn't blame Jim Carthew," she said in conclusion. "He
simply _had_ to tell me."
"Where did you see him?"
"Last week, in Algiers. In fact, he brought me home; but I made him
promise not to tell you I was in London. He _is_ a good sort!" she
added irrelevantly.
"In what way?" asked her husband curiously.
Daphne turned and surveyed him.
"Would you be angry if I told you--jealous, I mean?"
"What right have I to be angry or jealous?" said Juggernaut simply.
"In what way," he repeated, "has Carthew been showing that he is a
good sort?"
"Well, in bringing me his troubles. That always makes a conquest of
any woman, you know. And in letting me take my troubles to him. A
woman always _has_ to take a trouble to a man, Jack, when all is said
and done--even if he is only the family solicitor!" she concluded
hurriedly. She had suddenly skated on to thin ice, and she knew it.
The man to whom she should have taken her troubles had not been there
to receive them.
"So Jim Carthew has his troubles like the rest of us?" said
Juggernaut.
"Yes, and I never suspected how he felt about them," said Daphne. "He
is fearfully reserved about the things he really feels, although he
babbles enough about the things he doesn't. So, when I was in
trouble----"
"What was your trouble?"
"I was lonely," said the girl.
Juggernaut drew his breath sharply.
"I am glad you had some one to be kind to you," he said.
Then came a long pause--the sort of pause which either brings a
discussion to an end or begets another, longer and more intimate. We
all know them.
Finally Daphne braced herself.
"Jack," she said, "I want to say something more. I didn't mean to: I
have said all I came here to say. But I must say this too--now or
never. I--I--I was wrong to marry you, Jack. I didn't love you, but I
thought it didn't matter. I felt how divine it would be to be able to
help the boys and Dad. That was all I considered. Then, when I began
to go about, and meet new people, and make comparisons, I--found
myself criticising you! _Me--you!_"
"I wouldn't be too indignant about it if I were you," said her
husband.
He reached out deliberately for her hand, and continued his
contemplation of the fire.
"Go on," he said.
Daphne, foolishly uplifted, continued--
"I used to think you rough and hard and unsympathetic. I began to
prefer the men who buzzed round and murmured things in my ear. And
when people began to pity me as a neglected wife, I--I encouraged
them. I let women say catty things about you, and I let men make love
to me. That sort of thing has been going on ever since the
time"--Daphne's grip of her husband's hand tightened--"when you and I
decided--to go our own ways. I don't mind telling you now that it was
a pill for me, Jack. My pride----"
"It was a brutal act on my part," blazed out Juggernaut with sudden
passion.
"No it _wasn't_: it was what I deserved!" insisted Daphne, whose
nature did not permit her to be repentant by halves. "Well, anyhow, I
determined to flirt in real earnest now. So I began to carry on in an
experimental fashion. But I can't say it was much fun. Finally I did
fall in love with a man, in a sort of way--don't hurt my hand, dear;
it was only in a sort of way--and I let him see it. Well, I got a
facer over _him_. One night, under the moon, I tried to flirt with
him; and he--well, Jack, he fairly put me in my place!"
"What did he do?"
"He made me feel ashamed of myself."
"What did he say?"
"Not much that we need talk of now, except one thing."
"What was that?"
"He told me to go back to you."
"Why?"
"Because he said"--Daphne's voice dropped low--"that you loved me."
There was a long silence, until a live coal subsided in the grate.
Then Juggernaut said--
"It was Carthew, I suppose."
Daphne nodded.
"Jack," she said, "Jim Carthew is the best friend that you and I
possess."
"I know it."
They were silent again, until irrelevant Daphne enquired suddenly--
"Jack, what made you do that unpractical thing? The tea and sugar, I
mean. It was only prolonging the strike: even _I_ can see that."
"It didn't prolong the strike to any particular extent," said
Juggernaut with decision. "Not that I care," he added with unusual
inconsequence, "if it did. It made things no easier for the men; and
it is with the men that the decision lies in cases of this kind."
"But it was so _unlike_ you," persisted Daphne.
Her husband turned and regarded her quizzically.
"Was it?" he said, smiling. "We all have our weaknesses," he added.
"Mine are women and children. I think," he went on with great
deliberation, "that there is only one woman in this wide world who has
ever suffered ill at my hands."
"And she is----"
"My wife! Listen," he continued rapidly, "while I make confession. You
have spoken your piece bravely, Daphne. Now hear me mine."
He rose in his turn, and stood before his wife.
"I never knew or cared very much about women," he said. "I do not
remember my mother, and I had no sisters, which probably accounts for
a good deal. Also, I was brought up by a man among men, and I learned
to read men and handle men to the exclusion of all else. I was given
to understand that women did not matter. I was trained to regard them
as a sort of inferior and unreliable variety of the male sex. So I
confined my dealings to men, and I found so much joy in handling and
mastering men that my eyes became closed to the fact that life could
offer me anything else."
"But didn't you miss female society? Most men can't get on without
_some_," said experienced Daphne.
"You can't miss what you have never had, little girl. Perhaps if I had
encountered female society early in life----"
"But didn't you sometimes instinctively long for a woman to come and
take charge of you? Most men are so helpless and messy by themselves."
"Sometimes," admitted Juggernaut almost reluctantly, "I did. But I put
the notion from me."
"Shall I tell you why?" said Daphne quietly.
"I suppose it was because I didn't want to yield to a weakness."
"It was nothing of the kind," said Daphne with immense decision. "It
was because you were _afraid_!"
"Afraid?"
"Yes--afraid! You would have nothing to do with women, because you
told yourself you despised them. We were a waste of time, you said--an
encumbrance! The real reason was that you feared us. Yes--feared!
Success was the breath of life to you. You had always had your own way
wherever you went. You were the great Sir John Carr--the strong
man--Juggernaut! You had never been beaten. Why? Because you had never
had the pluck to try conclusions with a woman. Your excuse was that
you were a woman-hater, when all the time you were a woman-lover. You
have just admitted it, impostor! You were afraid that where every man
had failed to turn you from your own hard selfish way of life, a woman
might succeed. And so you ran away, and you have been running ever
since. There, my strong man, there's the truth for you!"
For once in his life Sir John Carr, the terror of deputations, the
scourge of unsound logicians, the respectfully avoided of hecklers,
had no answer ready. The reason was obvious: no answer was possible.
The victory lay with Daphne. She leaned back in the settle and looked
fearlessly up into her husband's face. For the first time in her life
she felt maternal towards this man--twenty-two years her senior--just
as old Mrs Carfrae had predicted. She was utterly and absolutely
happy, too, for she had just realised that she and her husband had
come together at last. They were one flesh. The time for tactful
diplomacy and mutual accommodation and making allowances was
over-past. No need now to guard the flame from sudden gusts and
cross-winds. The candle was safely lighted, and, please God, it should
burn steadily to its socket. The Safety Match had accomplished its
task after all.
Then she gave a happy little sigh, for her husband's great arm was
around her shoulders.
"All my life, Daphne," said his deep voice, "I have thought that the
sweetest thing in this world was victory. Now I have just received my
first defeat--you routed me, hip and thigh--and I am happier than I
have ever been. Why?"
"Think!" commanded a muffled voice in the neighbourhood of his
waistcoat.
Juggernaut obeyed. Then he continued, and his grip round Daphne grew
stronger--
"I think I see. I married you because I wanted some one to keep my
house in order and bear me a son. (That point of view did not endure
long, I may say, for I fell in love with you on our honeymoon, and I
have loved you ever since; but it was my point of view when I asked
you to marry me.) I thought then that it would be a fair bargain if I
gave you money and position in return for these things. We could not
help living contentedly together, I considered, under the terms of
such a logical and business-like contract as that. Well, I did not
know then, what I know now, that logic and business are utterly
valueless as a foundation for any contract between a man and a woman.
The only thing that is the slightest use for the purpose is the most
illogical and unbusiness-like thing in the whole wide world. And"--his
iron features relaxed into a smile of rare sweetness--"I believe, I
believe, _cara mia_, that you and I have found that thing--together."
His voice dropped lower. "Have we, Daphne--my wife?"
Daphne raised her head, and looked her man full in the face.
"We have found it, O my husband," she said gravely--"at last!"
* * * * *
The door flew open suddenly. There was a gleam of electric light.
Graves, the imperturbable, inclined respectfully before them.
"You are wanted outside, sir," he said, "badly!"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
ATHANASIUS CONTRA MUNDUM.
A confused medley of men and women--not to mention the inevitable
small boy element--was pouring up the road from Belton Pit in the
direction of the Hall, which lay beyond the brow of the hill in a
green hollow as yet unsullied by winding-wheels and waste-heaps.
People who have made up their minds to do evil are usually in a hurry
to get it over. Consequently our friends were advancing at a high rate
of speed, keeping up their courage by giving forth unmelodious noises.
Juggernaut's prophecy had come true. The rebellion had been damped
down by sheer starvation; and now that starvation was over-past, the
rebellion was flaming out again with tenfold vigour. That fine
unreasoning human instinct which under a certain degree of pressure
bids logic and argument go hang, and impels us to go forth and break
some one else's windows, held the reins that evening. As the
night-shift assembled at the pit-head, what time the day-shift was
being disgorged, a cageful at a time, from the depths below, a great
and magnificent project suddenly hatched itself in the fertile brain
of Mr Tom Winch, who had been haunting the neighbourhood on business
connected with the propaganda of his own particular revolutionary
organisation for the past six weeks. Now was his chance. Evil
passions, hitherto dimmed by hunger and privation, were reviving. The
men were ripe for any mischief. What they were asking for, reflected
Mr Winch, was blood, or its equivalent, and a man to lead them to it.
Mr Winch was, to do him justice, a master of his own furtive trade. In
five minutes his project was circulating through the throng. In
fifteen the crowd had pledged itself to do something really big; and
in half an hour most of the windows of the pit offices had been broken
as a guarantee of good faith.
Having whetted its appetite on this _hors-d'oeuvre_, the mob listened
readily to Mr Winch's suggestion of a brisk walk to Belton Hall and a
personal interview with its proprietor. The notion ran through the
excited mass of humanity like fire through dry grass; and presently,
as if from one spontaneous impulse, the advance on Belton Hall began.
No one quite knew what he proposed to do when he got there, but the
possibilities of the expedition were great. It was a picturesque
procession, for every man carried a safety-lamp in one hand and a
missile in the other. It was probably owing to the multiplicity of the
twinkling points of light thus produced that no one observed the
flickering halo of a solitary bicycle-lamp, as the machine which bore
it slipped out from the side-door of the pit offices and silently
stole away through the darkness, carrying a frightened messenger over
the hill to Belton Hall.
It may here be noted that Mr Tom Winch, having despatched his avenging
host upon its way, remained behind at headquarters--doubtless to
superintend the subsequent operations with that degree of perspective
which is so necessary to a good general. Mr Killick, an old
acquaintance of ours, supported by his friend Mr Brash, led the
procession.
"Supposin' the lodge gates is locked--what then?" enquired Mr
Brash--ever a better critic than creator of an enterprise--as they
trudged along the muddy road.
"We shall trample them down," replied Mr Killick, ever contemptuous of
irritating detail.
But the lodge gates stood hospitably open. The lodge itself was
shuttered and silent; and the procession, pausing momentarily to
deliver a hilarious and irregular volley of small coal, proceeded on
its way.
Up the long avenue they tramped. There were electric lamps at
intervals, intended for the guidance of strange coachmen on
dinner-party nights. These were all ablaze. Evidently Juggernaut was
expecting friends.
Five minutes later our glorious company of apostles rounded the last
turn in the avenue, and the broad Elizabethan _facade_ of Belton Hall
loomed up before them. Every window was alight.
A flagged and balustraded terrace ran along the whole frontage of the
Hall. In the middle of the balustrade was a gap, where a broad flight
of shallow stone steps led down to a velvety lawn three hundred years
old. Most of the crowd knew that lawn and terrace well. The grounds at
Belton were constantly and freely granted for miners' _fetes_,
political demonstrations, and the like. On these occasions a band was
nearly always playing upon the terrace, and not infrequently
post-prandial orations were outpoured from the rostrum formed by the
stone steps upon the heads of a gorged and tolerant audience on the
grass below.
To-night no band was playing; but at the head of the
steps--motionless, upright, inflexible--stood a solitary figure. It
was the master of the house, waiting to receive his guests--one
against four hundred.
But to one who knew, the odds were not overwhelming. In fact, provided
that the crowd possessed no resolute leader, the chances were
slightly in favour of the figure on the steps. One man with his wits
about him has two great advantages over a crowd. In the first place,
he knows exactly what he is going to do, and, in the second, he knows
exactly what the crowd is going to do. The crowd knows neither. It is
impossible to foretell how a single individual will behave upon
emergency: the human temperament varies too widely. But there is
nothing in the world so normal or conventional as a crowd. Mankind in
the lump is a mere puppet in the hands of the law of averages. Given,
as noted above, a resolute leader, the conditions are changed. The
leader imbues the crowd with a portion of his own spirit, and creates
an instinct of unanimity. Then the odds are once more in favour of the
crowd; for now it is a resolute will, all alone, pitted against a
resolute will with force behind it.
Sir John Carr knew all this. He had studied men all his life; and as
he stood silent and observant, surveying the surging multitude at his
feet--it had flowed to the base of the steps now--he noted that there
was no leader in particular. The crowd were acting under the influence
of blind impulse, and, if properly handled, could be swayed about and
sent home.
Presently the hubbub ceased, and the men stood gazing upward,
fingering lumps of coal and waiting for some one to fire the first
shot.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," observed Juggernaut. [The
ladies, be it noted, constituted the front row of the assemblage,
their cavaliers having modestly retired a few paces under their
employer's passionless scrutiny.] "If you have come to serenade me, I
shall have pleasure presently in sending you out some refreshment. If
you have merely come to burn the house down, I strongly advise you to
go home and think twice about it."
The recipients of this piece of advice were undoubtedly a little taken
aback. Playful badinage was the last thing they had expected. They
murmured uneasily one to another, debating suitable retorts. Presently
a shrill female voice opened fire.
"Tyrant!"
"Money-grubber!" corroborated another voice.
"Who starves women and children?" shrieked a third.
"Yah! Booh!" roared the crowd, taking heart.
"Chuck some of his own coals at 'im!" was the frantic adjuration of a
foolish virgin who had already expended all her ammunition against the
shutters of the gate-lodge.
A lump of something black and crystalline sang past Juggernaut's head,
and struck a richly glowing stained-glass window twenty feet behind
him. There was a sharp crash and a silvery tinkle, followed by a
little gasp from the crowd. The first shot had been fired. Juggernaut
knew well that a broadside was imminent, and countered swiftly. In the
startled silence which succeeded the destruction of the great
window--it had lighted the staircase at Belton for generations--his
voice rang out like a trumpet.
"Listen to me!" he cried. "You have a grievance. You have come up here
to square accounts with me. You think you have right on your side: I
think it is on mine. Both of us are spoiling for a fight. In our
present frame of mind nothing else will satisfy us. Now here is a fair
offer. Send up any two men you like out of that multitude down there,
and I will take them on, both together or one after the other, as you
please. I am rising forty-seven, but if I fail to drop either of your
representatives over this balustrade, back where he came from, inside
of five minutes, I promise to remit the dues on that odd hundredweight
that you are making all this to do about. Is it a bargain, gentlemen?"
He had struck the right note. The low, angry murmuring suddenly
ceased, and a great wave of Homeric laughter rolled over the crowd.
The British collier has his faults, but within his limits he is a
sportsman. He appreciates pluck.
"Good lad!" roared a voice out of the darkness. Then there fell
another silence.
"I am waiting, gentlemen," said Juggernaut presently.