CHAPTER XXX
"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't want to, 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's done now. 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'm awfully sorry. 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. I know he 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.
"Roddy is an 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-one she '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, you must be an active Anti-Suffragette—that's my wish. I know 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."
"Do you?" She beamed whole-heartedly on the speaker, self-forgetful again. "I think it sounds too lovely!—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 the whole plan." His voice changed. A pleading note crept into it, his eyes watched her anxiously.
"He could come—for the holidays ... to us!"
There came a pause, silent, but full.
"Jill—little Jill—don't you understand? Don't you know what I want—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.
"To us!..." she repeated his words slowly. "Are you asking me to ... marry you, 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 not you."
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're sorry—that's all! If you had cared 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. "How dare you 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—for your sake..."
"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 ... all to 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's really in 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 really you—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's love this 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 believe now I could do it, Jill. But I don't. I know I'd make you happy!"
He saw a quiver cross her face, and breathlessly he leaned toward her.
"Don't you 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.