The Man with the Double Heart Part 57

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 d.a.m.ned 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--d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d'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 s.p.a.ce.

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.

CHAPTER XXVI

The sun was shining high in the heavens as McTaggart crossed the station yard to the Railway Inn of the little town that lay in the trough of the crumpled hills.

The straggling street, with its poor shops, curving away to the left, was void of life. Not a soul stirred; it might have been a deserted village.

He walked briskly into the bar, where a man in shirt sleeves dozed on a stool behind the counter and woke up with a sudden start at the sight of a stranger.

"Are you the landlord?" asked McTaggart.

"No"--the man stared at him--"he's away, gone to the meeting."

"Well--I want a conveyance at once. I see you keep a livery stable."

"Can't be done," said the man slowly--"there's no carriages left, whatever."

McTaggart frowned. "Where can I get one?"

"Nowheres"--the other smiled sourly. He seemed to enjoy the stranger's plight. "Everything's gone over to Cluar--even the carts--you'd best walk. It's only a mile or two, whatever."

He relapsed again, his arms on the counter, with an air of dismissing the visitor.

McTaggart glanced up at the clock and saw there was no time to lose.

He decided to take the barman's advice, but had yet to learn by experience the elastic properties of a mile in Wales by local measurement.

"Which is the nearest way?" he asked, drawing a shilling out of his pocket.

The man sprang up as if worked by a spring. "I'll show you, sir"--his manner had changed. "Indeed to goodness I'm sorry, sir, we've got no carriage in just now, but you'll cut off a corner across the fields if you'll come through here..." he led McTaggart down a grimy pa.s.sage that smelt of beer out on to greasy cobblestones where they were faced by a tumble-down building advertising "Excellent Garage."

But as they crossed the stable yard McTaggart heard the note of a horn, and turned to see a motor car, covered with dust, pa.s.s through the arch and draw up throbbing in their rear.

"Morning, David"--the chauffeur called out. He sprang down. "I've come for the petrol."

"Whose car?" asked McTaggart quickly.

"Mister Llewellyn's," the barman replied, "from Cluarside. That's your way sir"--he opened the gate--"keep straight on, down that path, until you come to the cross roads. Then to the right and up the hill. Thank you, sir." He clutched the coin. "Coming, Charlie..." and was off to the visibly impatient chauffeur.

A sudden thought struck McTaggart. As the barman vanished into the house, he turned back into the yard, with a quick glance at the powerful car.

"Look here..." he addressed the driver. "Could you give me a lift to the meeting?" He felt in his pocket and drew out a sovereign--"I'd make it well worth your while."

The man stared at him, surprised.

"D'you know Mr. Llewellyn, sir?"

McTaggart smiled.

"I'm afraid not. But I've got to get at once to Cluar--and I can't find any other conveyance." He saw the chauffeur's greedy eyes fixed on his hand, and lowering his voice:

"If you can take me there, _now_," he added, "wait a few minutes and get me back to the station, it's ... five pounds in your pocket."