Kitabı oku: «The Mistress of Shenstone», sayfa 10
She passed swiftly out. Through the closed door, the man she left alone heard her giving quiet orders in the hall.
He crossed the room, in two great strides, to follow her. But at the door he paused; turned, and came slowly back.
He stood on the hearthrug, with bent head; rigid, motionless.
Suddenly he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby’s portrait.
“Curse you!” he said through clenched teeth, and beat his fists upon the marble mantelpiece. “Curse your explosives! And curse your inventions! And curse you for taking her first!” Then he dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God forgive me!” he whispered, brokenly. “But there is a limit to what a man can bear.”
He scarcely noticed the entrance of the footman who brought tea. But when a lighter step paused at the door, he lifted a haggard face, expecting to see Myra.
A quiet woman entered, simply dressed in black merino. Her white linen collar and cuffs gave her the look of a hospital nurse. Her dark hair, neatly parted, was smoothly coiled around her head. She came in, deferentially; yet with a quiet dignity of manner.
“I have come to pour your tea, my lord,” she said. “Lady Ingleby is not well, and fears she must remain in her room. She asks me to give you these papers.”
Then the Earl of Airth and Monteith rose to his feet, and held out his hand.
“I think you must be Mrs. O’Mara,” he said. “I am glad to meet you, and it is kind of you to give me tea. I have heard of you before; and I believe I saw you yesterday, on the steps of your pretty house, as I drove up the avenue. Will you allow me to tell you how often, when we stood shoulder to shoulder in times of difficulty and danger, I had reason to respect and admire the brave comrade I knew as Sergeant O’Mara?”
Before quitting Shenstone, Jim Airth sat at Myra’s davenport and wrote a letter, leaving it with Mrs. O’Mara to place in Lady Ingleby’s hands as soon as he had gone.
“I do not wonder you felt unable to see me again. Forgive me for all the grief I have caused, and am causing, you. I shall go abroad as soon as may be; but am obliged to remain in town until I have completed work which I am under contract with my publishers to finish. It will take a month, at most.
“If you want me, Myra – I mean if you need me – I could come at any moment. A wire to my Club would always find me.
“May I know how you are?”Wholly yours,“Jim Airth.”
To this Lady Ingleby replied on the following day.
“Dear Jim,
“I shall always want you; but I could never send unless the coming would mean happiness for you.
“I know you decided as you felt right,
“I am quite well.
“God bless you always.“Myra.”
CHAPTER XX
A BETTER POINT OF VIEW
In the days which followed, Jim Airth suffered all the pangs which come to a man who has made a decision prompted by pride rather than by conviction.
It had always seemed to him essential that a man should appear in all things without shame or blame in the eyes of the woman he loved. Therefore, to be obliged suddenly to admit that a fatal blunder of his own had been the cause, even in the past, of irreparable loss and sorrow to her, had been an unacknowledged but intolerable humiliation. That she should have anything to overlook or to forgive in accepting himself and his love, was a condition of things to which he could not bring himself to submit; and her sweet generosity and devotion, rather increased than soothed his sense of wounded pride.
He had been superficially honest in the reasons he had given to Myra regarding the impossibility of marriage between them. He had said all the things which he knew others might be expected to say; he had mercilessly expressed what would have been his own judgment had he been asked to pronounce an opinion concerning any other man and woman in like circumstances. As he voiced them they had sounded tragically plausible and stoically just. He knew he was inflicting almost unbearable pain upon himself and upon the woman whose whole love was his; but that pain seemed necessary to the tragic demands of the entire ghastly situation.
Only after he had finally left her and was on his way back to town, did Jim Airth realise that the pain he had thus inflicted upon her and upon himself, had been a solace to his own wounded pride. His had been the mistake, and it re-established him in his own self-respect and sense of superiority, that his should be the decision, so hard to make – so unfalteringly made – bringing down upon his own head a punishment out of all proportion to the fault committed.
But, now that the strain and tension were over, his natural honesty of mind reasserted itself, forcing him to admit that his own selfish pride had been at the bottom of his high-flown tragedy.
Myra’s simple loving view of the case had been the right one; yet, thrusting it from him, he had ruthlessly plunged himself and her into a hopeless abyss of needless suffering.
By degrees he slowly realised that in so doing he had deliberately inflicted a more cruel wrong upon the woman he loved, than that which he had unwittingly done her in the past.
Remorse and regret gnawed at his heart, added to an almost unbearable hunger for Myra. Yet he could not bring himself to return to her with this second and still more humiliating confession of failure.
His one hope was that Myra would find their separation impossible to endure, and would send for him. But the days went by, and Myra made no sign. She had said she would never send for him unless assured that coming to her would mean happiness to him. To this decision she quietly adhered.
In a strongly virile man, love towards a woman is, in its essential qualities, naturally selfish. Its keynote is, “I need”; its dominant, “I want”; its full major chord, “I must possess.”
On the other hand, the woman’s love for the man is essentially unselfish. Its keynote is, “He needs”; its dominant, “I am his, to do with as he pleases”; its full major chord, “Let me give all.” In the Book of Canticles, one of the greatest love-poems ever written, we find this truth exemplified; we see the woman’s heart learning its lesson, in a fine crescendo of self-surrender. In the first stanza she says: “My Belovèd is mine, and I am his”; in the second, “I am my Belovèd’s and he is mine.” But in the third, all else is merged in the instinctive joy of giving: “I am my Belovèd’s, and his desire is towards me.”
This is the natural attitude of the sexes, designed by an all-wise Creator; but designed for a condition of ideal perfection. No perfect law could be framed for imperfection. Therefore, if the working out prove often a failure, the fault lies in the imperfection of the workers, not in the perfection of the law. In those rare cases where the love is ideal, the man’s “I take” and the woman’s “I give” blend into an ideal union, each completing and modifying the other. But where sin of any kind comes in, a false note has been struck in the divine harmony, and the grand chord of mutual love fails to ring true.
Into their perfect love, Jim Airth had introduced the discord of false pride. It had become the basis of his line of action, and their symphony of life, so beautiful at first in its sweet theme of mutual love and trust, now lost its harmony, and jarred into a hopeless jangle. The very fact that she faithfully adhered to her trustful unselfishness, acquiescing without a murmur in his decision, made readjustment the more impossible. Thus the weeks went by.
Jim Airth worked feverishly at his proofs; drinking and smoking, when he should have been eating and sleeping; going off suddenly, after two or three days of continuous sitting at his desk, on desperate bouts of violent exercise.
He walked down to Shenstone by night; sat, in bitterness of spirit under the beeches, surrounded by empty wicker chairs; – a silent ghostly garden-party! – watched the dawn break over the lake; prowled around the house where Lady Ingleby lay sleeping, and narrowly escaped arrest at the hands of Lady Ingleby’s night-watchman; leaving for London by the first train in the morning, more sick at heart than when he started.
Another time he suddenly turned in at Paddington, took the train down to Cornwall, and astonished the Miss Murgatroyds by stalking into the coffee-room, the gaunt ghost of his old gay self. Afterwards he went off to Horseshoe Cove, climbed the cliff and spent the night on the ledge, dwelling in morbid misery on the wonderful memories with which that place was surrounded.
It was then that fresh hope, and the complete acceptance of a better point of view, came to Jim Airth.
As he sat on the ledge, hugging his lonely misery, he suddenly became strangely conscious of Myra’s presence. It was as if the sweet wistful grey eyes, were turned upon him in the darkness; the tender mouth smiled lovingly, while the voice he knew so well asked in soft merriment, as under the beeches at Shenstone: “What has come to you, you dearest old boy?”
He had just put his hand into his pocket and drawn out his spirit-flask. He held it for a moment, while he listened, spellbound, to that whisper; then flung it away into the darkness, far down to the sea below. “Davy Jones may have it,” he said, and laughed aloud; “who e’er he be!” It was the first time Jim Airth had laughed since that afternoon beneath the Shenstone beeches.
Then, with the sense of Myra’s presence still so near him, he lay with his back to the cliff, his face to the moonlit sea. It seemed to him as if again he drew her, shaking and trembling but unresisting, into his arms, holding her there in safety until her trembling ceased, and she slept the untroubled sleep of a happy child.
All the best and noblest in Jim Airth awoke at that hallowed memory of faithful strength on his part, and trustful peace on hers.
“My God,” he said, “what a nightmare it has been! And what a fool, I, to think anything could come between us. Has she not been utterly mine since that sacred night spent here? And I have left her to loneliness and grief?.. I will arise and go to my belovèd. No past, no shame, no pride of mine, shall come between us any more.”
He raised himself on his elbow and looked over the edge. The moonlight shone on rippling water lapping the foot of the cliff. He could see his watch by its bright light. Midnight! He must wait until three, for the tide to go down. He leaned back again, his arms folded across his chest; but Myra was still safely within them.
Two minutes later, Jim Airth slept soundly.
The dawn awoke him. He scrambled down to the shore, and once again swam up the golden path toward the rising sun.
As he got back into his clothes, it seemed to him that every vestige of that black nightmare had been left behind in the gay tossing waters.
On his way to the railway station, he passed a farm. The farmer’s wife had been up since sunrise, churning. She gladly gave him a simple breakfast of home-made bread, with butter fresh from the churn.
He caught the six o’clock express for town; tubbed, shaved, and lunched, at his Club.
At a quarter to three he was just coming down the steps into Piccadilly, very consciously “clothed and in his right mind,” debating which train he could take for Shenstone if – as in duty bound – he looked in at his publishers’ first; when a telegraph boy dashed up the steps into the Club, and the next moment the hall-porter hastened after him with a telegram.
Jim Airth read it; took one look at his watch; then jumped headlong into a passing taxicab.
“Charing Cross!” he shouted to the chauffeur. “And a sovereign if you do it in five minutes.”
As the flag tinged down, and the taxi glided swiftly forward into the whirl of traffic, Jim Airth unfolded the telegram and read it again.
It had been handed in at Shenstone at 2.15.
Come to me at once.
Myra.
A shout of exultation arose within him.
CHAPTER XXI
MICHAEL VERITAS
On the morning of that day, while Jim Airth, braced with a new resolve and a fresh outlook on life, was speeding up from Cornwall, Lady Ingleby sat beneath the scarlet chestnuts, watching Ronald and Billy play tennis.
They had entered for a tournament, and discovered that they required constant practice such as, apparently, could only be obtained at Shenstone. In reality they came over so frequently in honest-hearted trouble and anxiety over their friend, of whose unexpected sorrow they chanced to be the sole confidants. Lady Ingleby refused herself to all other visitors. In the trying uncertainty of these few weeks while Jim Airth was still in England, she dreaded questions or comments. To Jane Dalmain she had written the whole truth. The Dalmains were at Worcester, attending a musical festival in that noblest of English cathedrals; but they expected soon to return to Overdene, when Jane had promised to come to her.
Meanwhile Ronald and Billy turned up often, doing their valiant best to be cheerful; but Myra’s fragile look, and large pathetic eyes, alarmed and horrified them. Obviously things had gone more hopelessly wrong than they had anticipated. They had known at once that Airth would not marry Lady Ingleby; but it had never occurred to them that Lady Ingleby would still wish to marry Airth. Ronald stoutly denied that this was the case; but Billy affirmed it, though refusing to give reasons.
Ronald had never succeeded in extorting from Billy one word of what had taken place when he had told Lady Ingleby that Jim Airth was the man.
“If you wanted to know how she took it, you should have told her yourself,” said Billy. “And it will be a saving of useless trouble, Ron, if you never ask me again.”
Thus the days went by; and, though she always seemed gently pleased to see them both, no possible opening had been given to Ronald for assuming the rôle of manly comforter.
“I shall give it up,” said Ronnie at last, in bitterness of spirit; “I tell you, I shall give it up; and marry the duchess!”
“Don’t be profane,” counselled Billy. “It would be more to the point to find Airth, and explain to him, in carefully chosen language, that letting Lady Ingleby die of a broken heart will not atone for blowing up her husband. I always knew our news would make no difference, from the moment I saw her go quite pink when she told us his name. She never went pink over Ingleby, you bet! I didn’t know they could do it, after twenty.”
“Much you know, then!” ejaculated Ronnie, scornfully. “I’ve seen the duchess go pink.”
“Scarlet, you mean,” amended Billy. “So have I, old chap; but that’s another pair o’ boots, as you very well know.”
“Oh, don’t be vulgar,” sighed Ronnie, wearily. “Let’s cut the whole thing and go to town. Henley begins to-morrow.”
But next day they turned up at Shenstone, earlier than usual.
And that morning, Lady Ingleby was feeling strangely restful and at peace; not with any expectations of future happiness; but resigned to the inevitable; and less apart from Jim Airth. She had fallen asleep the night before beset by haunting memories of Cornwall and of their climb up the cliff. At midnight she had awakened with a start, fancying herself on the ledge, and feeling that she was falling. But instantly Jim Airth’s arms seemed to enfold her; she felt herself drawn into safety; then that exquisite sense of strength and rest was hers once more.
So vivid had been the dream, that its effect remained with her when she rose. Thus she sat watching the tennis with a little smile of content on her sweet face.
“She is beginning to forget,” thought Ronnie, exultant. “My ’vantage!” he shouted significantly to Billy, over the net.
“Deuce!” responded Billy, smashing down the ball with unnecessary violence.
“No!” cried Ronnie. “Outside, my boy! Game and a ‘love’ set to me!”
“Stay to lunch, boys,” said Lady Ingleby, as the gong sounded; and they all three went gaily into the house.
As they passed through the hall afterwards, their motor stood at the door; so they bade her good-bye, and turned to find their rackets.
At that moment they heard the sharp ting of a bicycle bell. A boy had ridden up with a telegram. Groatley, waiting to see them off, took it; picked up a silver salver from the hall table, and followed Lady Ingleby to her sitting-room.
There seemed so sudden a silence in the house, that Ronald and Billy with one accord stood listening.
“Twenty minutes to two,” said Billy, glancing at the clock. “Spirits are walking.”
The next moment a cry rang out from Lady Ingleby’s sitting-room – a cry of such mingled bewilderment, wonder, and relief, that they looked at one another in amazement. Then without waiting to question or consider, they hastened to her.
Lady Ingleby was standing in the middle of the room, an open telegram in her hand.
“Jim,” she was saying; “Oh, Jim!”
Her face was so transfigured by thankfulness and joy, that neither Ronald nor Billy could frame a question. They merely gazed at her.
“Oh, Billy! Oh, Ronald!” she said, “He didn’t do it! Oh think what this will mean to Jim Airth. Stop the boy! Quick! Bring me a telegram form. I must send for him at once… Oh, Jim, Jim!.. He said he would give his life for the relief of the moment when some one should step into the tent and tell him he had not done it; and now I shall be that ‘some one’!.. Oh, how do you spell ‘Piccadilly’… Please call Groatley. If we lose no time, he may catch the three o’clock express… Groatley, tell the boy to take this telegram and have it sent off immediately. Give him half-a-crown, and say he may keep the change… Now boys… Shut the door!”
The whirlwind of excitement was succeeded by sudden stillness. Lady Ingleby sank upon the sofa, burying her face for a moment in the cushions.
In the silence they heard the telegraph boy disappearing rapidly into the distance, ringing his bell a very unnecessary number of times. When it could be heard no longer, Lady Ingleby lifted her head.
“Michael is alive,” she said.
“Great Scot!” exclaimed Ronnie, and took a step forward.
Billy made no sound, but he turned very white; backed to the door, and leaned against it for support.
“Think what it means to Jim Airth!” said Lady Ingleby. “Think of the despair and misery through which he passed; and, after all, he had not done it.”
“May we see?” asked Ronald eagerly, holding out his hand for the telegram.
Billy licked his dry lips, but no sound would come.
“Read it,” said Myra.
Ronald took the telegram and read it aloud.
“To Lady Ingleby, Shenstone Park, Shenstone, England.
“Reported death a mistake. Taken prisoner Targai. Escaped. Arrived Cairo. Large bribes and rewards to pay. Cable five hundred pounds to Cook’s immediately.
“Michael Veritas.”
“Great Scot!” said Ronnie again.
Billy said nothing; but his eyes never left Lady Ingleby’s radiant face.
“Think what it will mean to Jim Airth,” she repeated.
“Er – yes,” said Ronnie. “It considerably changes the situation – for him. What does ‘Veritas’ mean?”
“That,” replied Lady Ingleby “is our private code, Michael’s and mine. My mother once wired to me in Michael’s name, and to Michael in mine – dear mamma occasionally does eccentric things – and it made complications. Michael was very much annoyed; and after that we took to signing our telegrams ‘Veritas,’ which means: ‘This is really from me.’”
“Just think!” said Ronnie. “He, a prisoner; and we, all marching away! But I remember now, we always suspected prisoners had been taken at Targai. And positive proofs of Lord Ingleby’s death were difficult to – well, don’t you know – to find. I mean – there couldn’t be a funeral. We had to conclude it, because we believed him to have been right inside the tunnel. He must have got clear after all, before Airth sent the flash, and getting in with the first rush, been unable to return. Of course he has reached Cairo with no money and no means of getting home. And the chaps who helped him, will stick to him like leeches till they get their pay. What shall you do about cabling?”
Lady Ingleby seemed to collect her thoughts with difficulty.
“Of course the money must be sent – and sent at once,” she said. “Oh, Ronnie, could you go up to town about it, for me? I would give you a cheque, and a note to my bankers; they will know how to cable it through. Could you, Ronnie? Michael must not be kept waiting; yet I must stay here to tell Jim. It never struck me that I might have gone up to town myself; and now I have wired to Jim to come down here. Oh, my dear Ronnie, could you?”
“Of course I could,” said Ronald, cheerfully. “The motor is at the door. I can catch the two-thirty, if you write the note at once. No need for a cheque. Just write a few lines authorising your bankers to send out the money; I will see them personally; explain the whole thing, and hurry them up. The money shall be in Cairo to-night, if possible.”
Lady Ingleby went to her davenport.
No sound broke the stillness save the rapid scratching of her pen.
Then Billy spoke. “I will come with you,” he said, hoarsely.
“Why do that?” objected Ronald. “You may as well go on in the motor to Overdene, and tell them there.”
“I am going to town,” said Billy, decidedly. Then he walked over to where the telegram still lay on the table. “May I copy this?” he asked of Lady Ingleby.
“Do,” she said, without looking round.
“And Ronnie – you take the original to show them at the bank. Ah, no! I must keep that for Jim. Here is paper. Make two copies, Billy.”
Billy had already copied the message into his pocket-book. With shaking fingers he copied it again, handing the sheet to Ronald, without looking at him.
The note written, Lady Ingleby rose.
“Thank you, Ronald,” she said. “Thank you, more than I can say. I think you will catch the train. And good-bye, Billy.”
But Billy was already in the motor.
