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.