CHAPTER XXXII
"Wave, Peter—oh, do wave! Poor little Roddy!..."
Jill leaned over the steamer rail, watching the pier slowly recede, and, far away, a tiny figure against the sky, arm aloft. Then, as it grew to a black speck and blurred into the distant view, she turned sharply, tears in her eyes.
"I can't bear leaving him!" she cried.
"It's not for long," said McTaggart gently. He ran a hand through the girl's arm. "Won't it be jolly after a bit to have him in Rome, living with us?"
"Yes." Jill swallowed hard. "You think we shall work it?—I'm rather doubtful."
"I'm not," said McTaggart stoutly. "I know Stephen. He's 'no proud!' The economy's sure to appeal to him. And Aunt Elizabeth's sworn to help. She's a brick, that old lady! Oh, by the bye, I'm to give you this."
He handed his wife an envelope, directed to her and carefully sealed.
"She said you were not to lose it, Jill." Then he laughed suddenly.
"Guess what her last words to me were?"
"Can't." Jill was beginning to smile, a rather wan little attempt, half her mind still with Roddy.
"I thought she was going to reveal to me some awful secret in your past. She led me aside on the pier with an air of mystery and whispered—
"'I've put some galoshes in the Hold-all—a new pair. I know Jill. She'll be marching about in those thin shoes from sheer vanity—catching cold—and I'm sure you're not fit to nurse her. A pair of babies!' Here she snorted. 'You look after her, young man.' This was her parting benediction!"
Jill laughed. "Just like her! I wonder what she's written here."
"Come along into the cabin and read it in peace. Oh, by the way—my servant's there—Mario. You must say something nice to him. He's off his head with excitement. He's been with me the last three years—an awfully decent chap, you know. He understands English all right—speaks it a little. Here we are..."
He led her into the deck cabin where Mario was unstrapping some rugs. He stood up, tall and eager, as the young couple crossed the threshold.
"This is my wife, Mario."
No mistaking the proud note in his master's voice! The dark eyes glowed, the white teeth flashed into a smile as Jill greeted him rather shyly.
Mario had prepared his speech.
"My felicitations to her. And to him. Blessed be the day! Long life and happiness—And many children," he concluded.
The colour flamed in her cheeks.
"Grazie tante," she responded...
Up went Mario's hands, surprised, full of joy and admiration. But McTaggart broke in on the flow of Italian that followed the gesture.
"Basta! Basta!"—he drove him out. "You can come back when we get near land."
Mario carefully closed the door. He smiled to himself rapturously.
"Ahi!—l'amore..." He kissed the tips of his fingers to the sky above. Then he glanced down at the waves.
"You stay quiet!" he said to them.
Meanwhile, Jill, in the cabin, was looking round, with curious eyes.
"Isn't it snug? I'm so excited! You know, I've never travelled before. Oh!—Peter...."
For McTaggart had caught her eagerly in his arms. "Take off that veil—for goodness' sake! ... Ah! ... I've been simply dying for that!"
Jill, breathless, escaped from him, cheeks flushed, her eyes brilliant.
"Peter—you brute!" she straightened her hat.
"That's a nice thing to say"—he laughed back—"to your lord and master."
"You're not!" she mocked, teasing him, "I never said 'obey,' you know."
"No wonder the Bishop looked so grave. We'll have to be married over again..." He broke off, his hand to his collar, wriggling his neck. "Confound that boy! I've got rice all down my back."
"Good old Roddy—I saw him do it! In the car, coming over the Downs. No ... no!" she stamped her foot.... "Be quiet now, I want to read."
She tore open the envelope directed by Aunt Elizabeth. It held another, tightly sealed, and a letter in the pointed hand.
"My dear Jill," so it ran, "I've asked Peter to give you this, and I only hope you won't lose it, with your usual carelessness. I'd better tell you at once, there's money enclosed—in five-pound notes. I understand that even in Italy English notes are respected.
"You needn't trouble to thank me for it. You'd have had it some day anyhow. Also the cheque I've placed with Cook's—in Rome—to your account there.
"Your husband may be all you think. Time alone will prove this—('Oh, Peter—isn't she lovely?'—Jill chuckled with delight.) But I don't like to think of you in a foreign land, without credit. It's lowering for a woman, too, to go to her husband for every penny. Besides, though I've done all I could, your trousseau is an utter farce. You ought to have twelve of everything. And marked, don't forget that! ..."
"Not twelve husbands, let us hope!" McTaggart leaned over her shoulder, as they sat on the narrow berth, side by side, in the dim-lit cabin, reading the letter.
"How shall I be 'marked,' Jill? I hope it doesn't mean hot irons?"
"Like this!" Jill pinched him. "Be quiet now—Listen, Peter. Isn't she an old dear?
"You'll find notes for fifty pounds. Don't go and spend it all at once in a present for your worthless husband! ... And don't spoil him. From the start, hold your own. I know men!"
"Oh! Aunt Elizabeth!" McTaggart rocked with mirth. "It's hardly respectable, is it, Jill? I'm afraid she's had a shocking 'Past.'"
"Anyhow, her Present's all right!" said Jill neatly, folding the letter. "She is good"—her face went grave. "D'you think I really ought to take it?"
"You must. She'd be most awfully hurt."
He nodded his head wisely at Jill. "We'll make it up to her one day—give her a topping good time and ... oh, I say?" He shifted a little in order to see his wife's face.
"I've got to confess something, Jill. Something I did before I left. Promise you won't be cross with me?"
"So have I," said Jill quickly. "I quite forgot ... Let's get it over. You first." Absently, she handed across the wad of notes.
McTaggart smiled.
"No—they're yours. You must guard them from the 'worthless husband.'"
"I daren't. I shall lose them," she declared. "Do take them, Peter dear."
"All right." He placed them away in his pocketbook, with secret amusement.
"It's about your mother," he went on. Jill gave a little start. "I felt so bothered last night—I suppose you'll think me a thorough turn-coat—but I couldn't sleep, thinking of it. She's been so awfully kind to me. And at last I got up and wrote a letter—a nice one"—he glanced at Jill nervously, but she simply nodded. "I tried to show her why we'd done this. And then ... I added"—he broke off—"I hope you won't be angry, Jill, I ought to have told you—discussed it first. But I went out and posted it—on the impulse. To Worthing, you know. She'll find it when she returns to-morrow..."
"What did you add?" Jill was impatient. "Do go on." She shook his arm.
"Well. I said..." he began to stammer a little. "I s-said I hoped she'd stay with us—our first vi-visitor, you know. Don't be cross..."
But Jill's answer swiftly dispelled the man's doubts. For she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him, her face radiant.
"So have I! I mean I wrote to Mother myself yesterday. Isn't it funny? I gave it to Roddy to hand to her the moment she gets home to-morrow! That's my secret"—she drew back, her eyes thoughtful—"You see, I felt ... it was rather mean—I was so happy—to leave her out. D'you understand?"
"Same here." McTaggart nodded. "I'm glad you have. It will pave the way to better relations bye and bye. She must come to us whenever she can."
There fell a little pause between them. Jill's thoughts had turned back to her old life and her brother. Her grey eyes grew wistful.
McTaggart saw this. He rose to his feet.
"Look here, Jill—come outside. We'll have a turn up and down the deck. It will do you good before the train."
"All right. Where's my ulster?"
"Here." McTaggart reached up, unhooked a pale grey coat beside his own and handed it with a mischievous smile to his wife.
"That's not mine." Jill stared.
"Yes, it is. Try it on."
"Peter!" Jill passed a hand lovingly over the rich fur, the beautiful collar of chinchilla and sumptuous lining—warm and soft.
"It's a little present. I had it made. Aunt Elizabeth got the measures. D'you like it?"
Jill's face answered him. She could not speak, for very wonder.
"Really mine?" she said at last. "I never saw such lovely fur! Oh, Peter! how extravagant. You mustn't spoil me like this..."
"I expect payment—of a kind!" He took it—(with interest.) "Now, slip it on. There—that's fine! You look like a little Teddy bear." He opened the door and the bright light swept in, dazzling them. Blue sky and blue sea and a fresh wind, salt and keen.
Far behind them lay the coast, the broad waves rolling along to the French shore and that new life they faced with the confidence of youth.
"The first time," said McTaggart—"that I really knew how pretty you were, you had on a little grey fur cap. That's why I chose chinchilla for you."
"But that was Rabbit!" Jill laughed. "I've never had any good clothes. Until my trousseau," she said proudly and glanced down at her simple dress.
McTaggart smiled in his heart, as, following up the train of thought, Jill proceeded, somewhat gravely, to hold forth on economy.
"I shan't cost you very much. I can make lots of things myself. And I expect, in a place like Siena, it doesn't matter what one wears. Oh, do tell me about your house?—or is it a flat?"
"Not exactly. I hope you won't be disappointed. It's rather a cheerless sort of place."
"I don't care if it's a barn!" The breeze had brought a bright colour into her cheeks, as they paced along, arm in arm, and she laughed aloud. "I don't care about anything! I'm just too glad to be alive. I'm awfully strong—I can learn to cook..." McTaggart hugged himself for joy.
"Oh, I hope it won't come to that. Mario might object."
Jill stopped suddenly, overwhelmed by a new thought.
"I say, Peter—what is he? Exactly, I mean. Is he ... your valet?"
"Yes—you know—over there—-wages are a mere trifle. And he's handy, in all sorts of ways."
"I see. Would he clean the windows?"
"Knives and boots?..." McTaggart choked. "I dare say—if you asked him."
"Hm...." Jill looked a little doubtful. The fur coat had made her think. She mustn't let Peter ruin himself—even on their honeymoon.
In her practical mind she decided to say nothing more till they reached Siena and then take up the reins of the house, with a careful eye on the exchequer.
But all these thoughts were swept aside by the novelty of her arrival on the French coast, the foreign tongue, the stir and bustle of the Customs.
Then came dinner in the train, with strange wine, strange dishes, and their "doll's house" quarters for the night. She revelled in the unexpected.
Slowly the dark swept down, blotting out the sleeping earth, as they rocked along, happily tired, in the warm coup, side by side.
"Time for bed..." said McTaggart at last. "I'm not going to let you chatter all through the night, old lady. It's close upon eleven o'clock!"
"I'm not sleepy a bit," said Jill.
Something in her quick glance roused McTaggart's chivalry—a childish touch of helplessness.
"Look here..." he leaned closer and whispered softly in her ear. For a moment Jill clung to him, her face hidden from his eyes.
"You've got a long journey before you," he went on in a careless voice. "So just turn in and get to sleep. I'm going outside for a last smoke. Pull that shade over the lamp when you're ready. I shan't want the light. I'll be as quiet as a mouse. We'll say good night—here—now."
"Peter ... you are a darling!" The whisper barely reached his ears. He held her closely for a moment—kissed her quickly and stood up.
"Happy dreams! And take your time. I shan't turn in for another hour." He opened the door and went out, his face rather white and set. "Another test..." he said to himself. "Hang it all! She's such a child! It's the straight game." And at the words he thought instinctively of Bethune. "I'm glad I've had it out with him."
For the two men had parted friends. Perhaps, in the long years ahead, Jill would no longer stand between them.
McTaggart hoped so fervently. He paced up and down the corridor; steady action that soothed his nerves, smoking, with an absent mind, cigarette after cigarette.
The stars came out in the heavens, and he thought once more of that other night, when he stood and watched them, three years back, and pondered on his "double heart."
What a blind fool he had been! He realized how well the excuse had served to screen the follies due to the hot impulses of youth. His "double heart"...! He smiled grimly, as the truth slowly dawned on him: the dual nature of all men: the daily battle waged between human weakness and spiritual strength.
The night air blew in, sharp with an early Autumn frost, cooling his brow and bringing peace, the hushed silence that Nature loves.
And at last he paused before his door, opened it, inch by inch, and stole through, with a quick glance at the lower berth. Jill was asleep!
In the dim light of the shaded lamp he could see the dark cloud of her hair, her childish profile, pure and sweet, and the long lashes on her cheek.
For a moment he stood and gazed at her, a great longing in his heart.
"Only ... to kiss her!" he said to himself, then, sternly, turned away.
And with the action, all unknown, he broke the insidious habit of years; the indecision of boyhood days changed to the firm control of the man.
The train rocked on....
In his berth above, McTaggart, restless, watched till the dawn filtered in between the blinds, pale shafts of primrose light.
He had only to lean and call her name to see those grey eyes open wide, filled with love—the love of a wife! But he fought it out, hour by hour. And as the sun stole over the edge of the long plains, white with frost, he turned on his pillow with a smile and was gathered in the arms of sleep.