CHAPTER XXV
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.