Kitabı oku: «The Mistress of Shenstone», sayfa 8

Myra smiled up into his angry eyes.

“Jim,” she whispered, “it is so silly to say: ‘If you had really cared’; because you know, perfectly well, that I care for you, more than any woman in the world has ever cared for any man before! And I do assure you, Jim, that you couldn’t have married me validly from here – and think how awful it would be, to love as much as we love and then find out that we were not validly married – and when you come to my home, and fetch me away from there, you will admit – yes really admit– that I was right. You will have to apologise humbly for having said ‘Bosh!’ so often. Jim – dearest! Look at the clock! I must go. Poor Miss Murgatroyd will grow so tired of listening for us. She always leaves her door a crack open. So does Miss Susannah. They have all taken to sleeping with their doors ajar. I deftly led the conversation round to riddles yesterday, when I was alone with them for a few minutes, and asked sternly: ‘When is a door, not a door?’ They all answered: ‘When it is a jar!’ quite unabashed; and Miss Eliza asked another! I believe Susie stands at her crack, in the darkness, in hopes of seeing you march by… No, don’t say naughty words. They are dears, all three of them; and we shall miss them horribly to-morrow. Oh, Jim – I’ve just had such a brilliant idea! I shall ask them to be my bridesmaids! Can’t you see them following me up the aisle? It would be worse than the duchess giving Jane away. Ah, you don’t know that story? I will tell it you, some day. Jim, say ‘Good-night’ quickly, and let me go.”

“Once,” said Jim Airth, tightening his grasp on her wrists – “once, Myra, we said no ‘good-night,’ and no ‘good-morning.’”

“Jim, darling!” said Myra, gently; “on that night, before I went to sleep, you said to me: ‘We are not alone. God is here.’ And then you repeated part of the hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. And, Jim – I thought you the best and strongest man I had ever known; and I felt that, all my life, I should trust you, as I trusted my God.”

Jim Airth loosed the hands he had held so tightly, and kissed them very gently. “Good-night, my sweetheart,” he said, “and God bless you!” Then he turned away to the marble table.

Myra ran swiftly up the stairs and closed her door.

Then she knelt beside her bed, and sobbed uncontrollably; partly for joy, and partly for sorrow. The unanswered question commenced its reiteration: “Ah, was I right to keep him waiting?”

Presently she lifted her head, held her breath, and stared into the darkness. A vision seemed to pass across her room. A tall, bearded man, in evening clothes. In his arms a tiny dog, peeping at her through its curls, as if to say: “I have the better place. Where do you come in?” The tall man turned at the door. “Good-night, my dear Myra,” he said, kindly.

The vision passed.

Lady Ingleby buried her face in the bedclothes. “That – for ten long years!” she said. Then, in the darkness, she saw the mutinous fire of Jim Airth’s blue eyes, and felt the grip of his strong hands on hers. “How can I say ‘Good-night’?” protested his deep voice, passionately. And, with a rush of happy tears, Myra clasped her hands, whispering: “Dear God, am I at last to know the Best?”

And up the stairs came Jim Airth, whistling like a nightingale. But, as a concession to Miss Murgatroyd’s ideas concerning suitable Sabbath music, he discarded “Nancy Lee,” and whistled:

 
“Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave;
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep,
O hear us, when we cry to Thee – ”
 

And, kneeling beside her bed, in the darkness, Myra made of it her evening prayer.

CHAPTER XV
“WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY?”

When Jim Airth left the train on the following Tuesday afternoon, he looked eagerly up and down the platform, hoping to see Myra. True, they had particularly arranged not to meet, until after his interview with Lady Ingleby. But Myra was so charmingly inconsequent and impulsive in her actions. It would be quite like her to reverse the whole plan they had made; and, if her desire to see him, in any measure resembled his huge hunger for a sight of her, he could easily understand such a reversal.

However, Myra was not there; and with a heavy sense of unreasonable disappointment, Jim Airth chucked his ticket to a waiting porter, passed through the little station, and found a smart turn-out, with tandem ponies, waiting outside.

The groom at the leader’s head touched his hat.

“For Shenstone Park, sir?”

“Yes,” said Jim Airth, and climbed in.

The groom touched his hat again. “Her ladyship said, sir, that perhaps you might like to drive the ponies yourself, sir.”

“No, thank you,” said Jim Airth, shortly. “I never drive other people’s ponies.”

The groom’s comprehending grin was immediately suppressed. He touched his hat again; gathered up the reins, mounted the driver’s seat, flicked the leader, and the perfectly matched ponies swung at once into a fast trot.

Jim Airth, a connoisseur in horse-flesh, eyed them with approval. They flew along the narrow Surrey lanes, between masses of wild roses and clematis. The villagers were working in the hayfields, shouting gaily to one another as they tossed the hay. It was a matchless June day, in a perfect English summer.

Jim Airth’s disappointment at Myra’s non-appearance, was lifting rapidly in the enjoyment of the drive. After all it was best to adhere to plans once made; and every step of these jolly little tapping hoofs was bringing him nearer to the Lodge. Perhaps she would be at the window. (He had particularly told her not to be!)

“These ponies have been well handled,” he remarked approvingly to the groom, as they flew round a bend.

“Yes, sir,” said the groom, with the inevitable movement towards his hat, whip and hand going up together. “Her ladyship always drives them herself, sir. Fine whip, her ladyship, sir.”

This item of information surprised Jim Airth. Judging by Lord Ingleby’s age and appearance, he had expected to find Lady Ingleby a sedate and stately matron of sixty. It was somewhat surprising to hear of her as a fine whip.

However, he had no time to weigh the matter further. Passing an ivy-clad church on the village green, they swung through massive iron gates, of very fine design, and entered the stately avenue of Shenstone Park. To the left, in a group of trees, stood a pretty little gabled house.

“What house is that?” asked Jim Airth, quickly.

“The Lodge, sir.”

“Who lives there?”

“Mrs. O’Mara, sir.”

“Has Mrs. O’Mara returned?”

“I don’t know, sir. She was up at the house with her ladyship this morning.”

“Then she has returned,” said Jim Airth.

The groom looked perplexed, but made no comment.

Jim Airth turned in his seat, and looked back at the Lodge. It was a far smaller house than he had expected. This fact did not seem to depress him. He smiled to himself, as at some thought which gave him amusement and pleasure. While he still looked back, a side door opened; a neatly dressed woman in black, apparently a superior lady’s-maid, appeared on the doorstep, shook out a white table-cloth, and re-entered the house.

They flew on up the avenue, Jim Airth noting every tree with appreciation and pleasure. The fine old house came into view, and a moment later they drew up at the entrance.

“Good driving,” remarked Jim Airth approvingly, as he tipped the little groom. Then he turned, to find the great doors already standing wide, and a stately butler, with immense black eyebrows, waiting to receive him.

“Will you come to her ladyship’s sitting-room, sir?” said the butler, and led the way.

Jim Airth entered a charmingly appointed room, and looked around.

It was empty.

“Kindly wait here, sir, while I acquaint her ladyship with your arrival,” said the pompous person with the eyebrows, and went out noiselessly, closing the door behind him.

Left alone, Jim Airth commenced taking rapid note of the room, hoping to gain therefrom some ideas as to the tastes and character of its possessor. But almost immediately his attention was arrested by a life-size portrait of Lord Ingleby, hanging above the mantelpiece.

Jim Airth walked over to the hearthrug, and stood long, looking with silent intentness at the picture.

“Excellent,” he said to himself, at last. “Extraordinarily clever. That chap shall paint Myra, if I can lay hands on him. What a jolly little dog! And what devotion! Mutual and absorbing. I suppose that is Peter. Queer to think that I should have been the last to hear him calling Peter. I wonder whether Lady Ingleby liked Peter. If not, I doubt if she would have had much of a look-in. If anyone went to the wall it certainly wasn’t Peter.”

He was still absorbed in the picture, when the butler returned with a long message, solemnly delivered.

“Her ladyship is out in the grounds, sir. As it is so warm in the house, sir, her ladyship requests that you come to her in the grounds. If you will allow me, sir, I will show you the way.”

Jim Airth restrained an inclination to say: “Buck up!” and followed the butler along a corridor, down a wide staircase to a lower hall. They stepped out on to a terrace running the full length of the house. Below it, an old-fashioned garden, with box borders, bright flower beds, a fountain in the centre. Beyond this a smooth lawn, sloping down to a beautiful lake, which sparkled and gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. On this lawn, well to the right, half-way between the house and the water, stood a group of beeches. Beneath their spreading boughs, in the cool inviting shadow, were some garden chairs. Jim Airth could just discern, in one of these, the white gown of a woman, holding a scarlet parasol.

The butler indicated this clump of trees.

“Her ladyship said, sir, that she would await you under the beeches.”

He returned to the house, and Jim Airth was left to make his way alone to Lady Ingleby, guided by the gleam among the trees of her brilliant parasol. Even at that moment it gave him pleasure to find Lady Ingleby’s taste in sunshades, resembling Myra’s.

He stood for a minute on the terrace, taking in the matchless beauty of the place. Then his face grew sad and stern. “What a home to leave,” he said; “and to leave it, never to return!”

He still wore a look of sadness as he descended the steps leading to the flower garden, made his way along the narrow gravel paths; then stepped on to the soft turf of the lawn, and walked towards the clump of beeches.

Jim Airth – tall and soldierly, broad-shouldered and erect – might have made an excellent impression upon Lady Ingleby, had she watched his coming. But she kept her parasol between herself and her approaching guest.

In fact he drew quite near; near enough to distinguish the ripples of soft lace about, her feet, the long graceful sweep of her gown; and still she seemed unconscious of his close proximity.

He passed beneath the beeches and stood before her. And, even then, the parasol concealed her face.

But Jim Airth was never at a loss, when sure of his ground. “Lady Ingleby,” he said, with grave formality; “I was told to – ”

Then the parasol was flung aside, and he found himself looking down into the lovely laughing eyes of Myra.

To see Jim Airth’s face change from its look of formal gravity to one of rapturous delight, was to Myra well worth the long effort of sitting immovable. He flung himself down before her with boyish abandon, and clasped both herself and her chair in his long arms.

“Oh, you darling!” he said, bending his face over hers, while his blue eyes danced with delight. “Oh, Myra, what centuries since yesterday! How I have longed for you. I almost hoped you would after all have come to the station. How I have grudged wasting all this time in coming to call on old Lady Ingleby. Myra, has it seemed long to you? Do you realise, my dear girl, that it can’t go on any longer; that we cannot possibly live through another twenty-four hours of separation? But oh, you Tease! There was I, ramping with impatience at every wasted moment; and here were you, sitting under this tree, hiding your face and pretending to be Lady Ingleby! The astonished and astonishing old party in the eyebrows, certainly pointed you out as Lady Ingleby when he started me off on my pilgrimage. I say, how lovely you look! What billowy softness! It wouldn’t do for cliff-climbing; but its A.I. for sitting on lawns… I can’t help it! I must!”

“Jim,” said Myra, laughing and pushing him away; “what has come to you, you dearest old boy? You will really have to behave! We are not in the honeysuckle arbour. ‘The astonishing old party in the eyebrows’ is most likely observing us from a window, and will have good cause to look astonished, if he sees you ‘carrying on’ in such a manner. Jim, how nice you look in your town clothes. I always like a grey frock-coat. Stand up, and let me see… Oh, look at the green of the turf on those immaculate knees! What a pity. Did you don all this finery for me?”

“Of course not, silly!” said Jim Airth, rubbing his knees vigorously. “When I haul you up cliffs, I wear old Norfolk coats; and when I duck you in the sea, I wear flannels. I considered this the correct attire in which to pay a formal call on Lady Ingleby; and now, before she has had a chance of being duly impressed by it, I have spoilt my knees hopelessly, worshipping at your shrine! Where is Lady Ingleby? Why doesn’t she keep her appointments?”

“Jim,” said Myra, looking up at him with eyes full of unspeakable love, yet dancing with excitement and delight; “Jim, do you admire this place?”

“This place?” cried Jim, stepping back a pace, so as to command a good view of the lake and woods beyond. “It is absolutely perfect. We have nothing like this in Scotland. You can’t beat for all round beauty a real old mellow lived-in English country seat; especially when you get a twenty acre lake, with islands and swans, all complete. And I suppose the woods beyond, as far as one can see, belong to the Inglebys – or rather, to Lady Ingleby. What a pity there is no son.”

“Jim,” said Myra, “I have so looked forward to showing you my home.”

He stepped close to her at once. “Then show it to me, dear,” he said. “I would rather be alone with you in your own little home – I saw it, as we drove up – than waiting about, in this vast expanse of beauty, for Lady Ingleby.”

“Jim,” said Myra, “do you remember a little tune I often hummed down in Cornwall; and, when you asked me what it was, I said you should hear the words some day?”

Jim looked puzzled. “Really dear – you hummed so many little tunes – ”

“Oh, I know,” said Myra; “and I have not much ear. But this was very special. I want to sing it to you now. Listen!”

And looking up at him, her soft eyes full of love, Myra sang, with slight alterations of her own, the last verse of the old Scotch ballad, “Huntingtower.”

 
“Blair in Athol’s mine, Jamie,
Fair Dunkeld is mine, laddie;
Saint Johnstown’s bower,
And Huntingtower,
And all that’s mine, is thine, laddie.”
 

“Very pretty,” said Jim, “but you’ve mixed it, my dear. Jamie bestowed all his possessions on the lassie. You sang it the wrong way round.”

“No, no,” cried Myra, eagerly. “There is no wrong way round. Providing they both love, it does not really matter which gives. The one who happens to possess, bestows. If you were a cowboy, Jim, and you loved a woman with lands and houses, in taking her, you would take all that was hers.”

“I guess I’d take her out to my ranch and teach her to milk cows,” laughed Jim Airth. Then turning about under the tree and looking in all directions: “But seriously, Myra, where is Lady Ingleby? She should keep her appointments. We cannot waste our whole afternoon waiting here. I want my girl; and I want her in her own little home, alone. Cannot we find Lady Ingleby?”

Then Myra rose, radiant, and came and stood before him. The sunbeams shone through the beech leaves and danced in her grey eyes. She had never looked more perfect in her sweet loveliness. The man took it all in, and the glory of possession lighted his handsome face.

She came and stood before him, laying her hands upon his breast. He wrapped his arms lightly about her. He saw she had something to say; and he waited.

“Jim,” said Myra, “Jim, dearest. There is just one name I want to bear, more than any other. There is just one thing I long to be. Then I shall be content. I want to have the right to be called ‘Mrs. Jim Airth.’ I want more than all else beside, to be your wife. But – until I am that; and may it be very soon! until you make me ‘Mrs. Jim Airth’ – dearest —I– am Lady Ingleby.”

CHAPTER XVI
UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE

Jim Airth’s arms fell slowly to his sides. He still looked into those happy, loving eyes, but the joy in his own died out, leaving them merely cold blue steel. His face slowly whitened, hardened, froze into lines of silent misery. Then he moved back a step, and Myra’s hands fell from him.

“You– ‘Lady Ingleby’?” he said.

Myra gazed at him, in unspeakable dismay.

“Jim!” she cried, “Jim, dearest! Why should you mind it so much?”

She moved forward, and tried to take his hand.

“Don’t touch me!” he said, sharply. Then: “You, Myra? You! Lord Ingleby’s widow?”

The furious misery of his voice stung Myra. Why should he resent the noble name she bore, the high rank which was hers? Even if it placed her socially far above him, had she not just expressed her readiness – her longing – to resign all, for him? Had not her love already placed him on the topmost pinnacle of her regard? Was it generous, was it worthy of Jim Airth to take her disclosure thus?

She moved towards the chairs, with gentle dignity.

“Let us sit down, Jim, and talk it over,” she said, quietly. “I do not think you need find it so overwhelming a matter as you seem to imagine. Let me tell you all about it; or rather, suppose you ask me any questions you like.”

Jim Airth sat blindly down upon the chair farthest from her, put his elbows on his knees, and sank his face into his hands.

Without any comment, Myra rose; moved her chair close enough to enable her to lay her hand upon his arm, should she wish to do so; sat down again, and waited in silence.

Jim Airth had but one question to ask. He asked it, without lifting his head.

“Who is Mrs. O’Mara?”

“She is the widow of Sergeant O’Mara who fell at Targai. We both lost our husbands in that disaster, Jim. She had been for many years my maid-attendant. When she married the sergeant, a fine soldier whom Michael held in high esteem, I wished still to keep her near me. Michael had given me the Lodge to do with as I pleased. I put them into it. She lives there still. Oh, Jim dearest, try to realise that I have not said one word to you which was not completely truthful! Let me explain how I came to be in Cornwall under her name instead of my own. If I might put my hand in yours, Jim, I could tell you more easily… No? Very well; never mind.

“After I received the telegram last November telling me of my husband’s death, I had a very bad nervous breakdown. I do not think it was caused so much by my loss, as by a prolonged mental strain, which had preceded it. Just as I had moved to town and was getting better, full details arrived, and I had to be told that it had been an accident. You know all about the question as to whether I should hear the name or not. You also know my decision. The worry of this threw me back. What you said in the arbour was perfectly true. I am a woman, Jim; often, a weak one; and I was very much alone. I decided rightly, in a supreme moment – possibly you may know who it was who graciously undertook to bring me the news from the War Office – but, afterwards, I began to wonder; I allowed myself to guess. Men from the front came home. My surmisings circled ceaselessly around two – dear fellows, of whom I was really fond. At last I felt convinced I knew, by intangible yet unmistakable signs, which was he who had done it. I grew quite sure. And then – I hardly know how to tell you, Jim – of all impossible horrors! The man who had killed Michael wanted to marry me! – Oh, don’t groan, darling; you make me so unhappy! But I do not wonder you find it difficult to believe. He cared very much, poor boy; and I suppose he thought that, as I should remain in ignorance, the fact need not matter. It seems hard to understand; but a man in love sometimes loses all sense of proportion – at least so I once heard someone say; or words to that effect. I did not allow it ever to reach the point of an actual proposal; but I felt I must flee away. There were others – and it was terrible to me. I loved none of them; and I had made up my mind never to marry again unless I found my ideal. Oh, Jim!”

She laid her hand upon his knee. It might have been a falling leaf, for all the sign he gave. She left it there, and went on speaking.

“People gossiped. Society papers contained constant trying paragraphs. Even my widow’s weeds were sketched and copied. My nerves grew worse. Life seemed unendurable.

“At last I consulted a great specialist, who is also a trusted friend. He ordered me a rest-cure. Not to be shut up within four walls with my own worries, but to go right away alone; to leave my own identity, and all appertaining thereto, completely behind; to go to a place to which I had never before been, where I knew no one, and should not be known; to live in the open air; fare simply; rise early, retire early; but, above all, as he quaintly said: ‘Leave Lady Ingleby behind.’

“I followed his advice to the letter. He is not a man one can disobey. I did not like the idea of taking a fictitious name, so I decided to be ‘Mrs. O’Mara,’ and naturally entered her address in the visitors’ book, as well as her name.

“Oh, that evening of arrival! You were quite right, Jim. I felt just a happy child, entering a new world of beauty and delight – all holiday and rest.

“And then – I saw you! And, oh my belovèd, I think almost from the first moment my soul flew to you, as to its unquestioned mate! Your vitality became my source of vigour; your strength filled and upheld everything in me which had been weak and faltering. I owed you much, before we had really spoken. Afterwards, I owed you life itself, and love, and all – ALL, Jim!”

Myra paused, silently controlling her emotion; then, bending forward, laid her lips upon the roughness of his hair. It might have been the stirring of the breeze, for all the sign he made.

“When I found at first that you had come from the war, when I realised that you must have known Michael, I praised the doctor’s wisdom in making me drop my own name. Also the Murgatroyds would have known it immediately, and I should have had no peace, As it was, Miss Murgatroyd occasionally held forth in the sitting-room concerning ‘poor dear Lady Ingleby,’ whom she gave us to understand she knew intimately. And then – oh, Jim! when I came to know my cosmopolitan cowboy; when he told me he hated titles and all that appertained to them; then indeed I blessed the moment when I had writ myself down plain ‘Mrs. O’Mara’; and I resolved not to tell him of my title until he loved me enough not to mind it, or wanted me enough, to change me at once from Lady Ingleby of Shenstone Park, into plain Mrs. Jim Airth of – anywhere he chooses to take me!

“Now you will understand why I felt I could not marry you validly in Cornwall; and I wanted – was it selfish? – I wanted the joy of revealing my own identity when I had you, at last, in my own beautiful home. Oh, my dear – my dear! Cannot our love stand the test of so light a thing as this?”

She ceased speaking and waited.

She was sure of her victory; but it seemed strange, in dealing with so fine a nature as that of the man she loved, that she should have had to fight so hard over what appeared to her a paltry matter. But she knew false pride often rose gigantic about the smallest things; the very unworthiness of the cause seeming to add to the unreasonable growth of its dimensions.

She was deeply hurt; but she was a woman, and she loved him. She waited patiently to see his love for her arise victorious over unworthy pride.

At last Jim Airth stood up.

“I cannot face it yet,” he said, slowly. “I must be alone. I ought to have known from the very first that you were – are – Lady Ingleby. I am very sorry that you should have to suffer for that which is no fault of your own. I must – go – now. In twenty-four hours, I will come back to talk it over.”

He turned, without another word; without a touch; without a look. He swung round on his heel, and walked away across the lawn.

Myra’s dismayed eyes could scarcely follow him.

He mounted the terrace; passed into the house. A door closed.

Jim Airth was gone!