Kitabı oku: «The Mistress of Shenstone», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XVII
“SURELY YOU KNEW?”

Myra Ingleby rose and wended her way slowly towards the house.

A stranger meeting her would probably have noticed nothing amiss with the tall graceful woman, whose pallor might well have been due to the unusual warmth of the day.

But the heart within her was dying.

Her joy had received a mortal wound. The man she adored, with a love which had placed him at the highest, was slowly slipping from his pedestal, and her hands were powerless to keep him there.

A woman may drag her own pride in the dust, and survive the process; but when the man she loves falls, then indeed her heart dies within her.

She had loved to call Jim Airth a cowboy. She knew him to be avowedly cosmopolitan. But was he also a slave to vulgar pride? Being plain Jim Airth himself, did he grudge noble birth and ancient lineage to those to whom they rightfully belonged? Professing to scorn titles, did he really set upon them so exaggerated a value, that he would turn from the woman he was about to wed, merely because she owned a title, while he had none?

Myra, entering the house, passed to her sitting-room. Green awnings shaded the windows. The fireplace was banked with ferns and lilies. Bowls of roses stood about; while here and there pots of growing freesias poured their delicate fragrance around.

Myra crossed to the hearthrug and stood gazing up at the picture of Lord Ingleby. The gentle refinement of the scholarly face seemed accentuated by the dim light. Lady Ingleby dwelt in memory upon the consistent courtesy of the dead man’s manner; his unfailing friendliness and equability to all; courteous to men of higher rank, considerate to those of lower; genial to rich and poor alike.

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “have I been unfaithful? Have I forgotten how good you were?”

But still her heart died within her. The man who had stalked across the lawn, leaving her without a touch or look, held it in the hollow of his hand.

A dog-cart clattered up to the portico. Men’s voices sounded in the hall. Tramping feet hurried along the corridor. Then Billy’s excited young voice cried, “May we come in?” followed by Ronnie’s deeper tones, “If we shall not be in the way?” The next moment she was grasping a hand of each.

“You dear boys!” she said. “I have never been more glad to see you! Do sit down; or have you come to play tennis?”

“We have come to see you, dear Queen,” said Billy. “We are staying at Overdene. The duchess had your letter. She told us the great news; also, that you were returning yesterday. So we came over to – to – ”

“To congratulate,” said Ronald Ingram; and he said it heartily and bravely.

“Thank you,” said Myra, smiling at them, but her sweet voice was tremulous. These first congratulations, coming just now, were almost more than she could bear. Then, with characteristic simplicity and straightforwardness, she told these old friends the truth.

“You dear boys! It is quite sweet of you to come over; and an hour ago, you would have found me radiant. There cannot have been a happier woman in the whole world than I. But, you know, I met him, and we became engaged, while I was doing my very original rest-cure, which consisted chiefly in being Mrs. O’Mara, to all intents and purposes, instead of myself. This afternoon he knows for the first time that I am Lady Ingleby of Shenstone. And, boys, the shock has been too much for him. He is such a splendid man; but a dear delightful cowboy sort of person. He has lived a great deal abroad, and been everything you can imagine that bestrides a horse and does brave things. He finished up at your horrid little war, and got fever at Targai. You must have known him. He calls it ‘a muddle on the frontier,’ and now he is writing a book about it, and about other muddles, and how to avoid them. But he has a quite eccentric dislike to titles and big properties; so he has shied really badly at mine. He has gone off to ‘face it out’ alone. Hence you find me sad instead of gay.”

Billy looked at Ronnie, telegraphing: “Is it? It must be! Shall we tell her?”

Ronnie telegraphed back: “It is! It can be no other. You tell her.”

Lady Ingleby became aware of these crosscurrents.

“What is it, boys?” she said,

“Dear Queen,” cried Billy, with hardly suppressed excitement; “may we ask the cowboy person’s name?”

“Jim Airth,” replied Lady Ingleby, a sudden rush of colour flooding her pale cheeks.

“In that case,” said Billy, “he is the chap we met tearing along to the railway station, as if all the furies were loose at his heels. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor, for that matter, in front of him; and our dog-cart had to take to the path! So he did not see two old comrades, nor did he hear their hail. But he cannot possibly have been fleeing from your title, dear lady, and hardly from your property; seeing that his own title is about the oldest known in Scottish history; while mile after mile of moor and stream and forest belong to him. Surely you knew that the fellow who called himself ‘Jim Airth’ when out ranching in the West, and still keeps it as his nom-de-plume, is – when at home – James, Earl of Airth and Monteith, and a few other names I have forgotten; – the finest old title in Scotland!”

CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL

“Did you bring your rackets, boys?” Lady Ingleby had said, with fine self-control; adding, when they admitted rackets left in the hall, “Ah, I am glad you never can resist the chestnut court. It seems ages since I saw you two fight out a single. Do go on and begin. I will order tea out there in half an hour, and follow you.”

Then she escaped to the terrace, flew across garden and lawn, and sought the shelter of the beeches. Arrived there, she sank into the chair in which Jim Airth had sat so immovable, and covered her face with her trembling fingers.

“Oh, Jim, Jim!” she sobbed. “My darling, how grievously I wronged you! My king among men! How I misjudged you! Imputing to you thoughts of which you, in your noble large-heartedness, would scarcely know the meaning. Oh, my dear, forgive me! And oh, come to me through this darkness and explain what I have done wrong; explain what it is you have to face; tell me what has come between us. For indeed, if you leave me, I shall die.”

Myra now felt certain that the fault was hers; and she suffered less than when she had thought it his. Yet she was sorely perplexed. For, if the Earl of Airth and Monteith might write himself down “Jim Airth” in the Moorhead Inn visitors’ book, and be blameless, why might not Lady Ingleby of Shenstone take an equally simple name, without committing an unpardonable offence?

Myra pondered, wept, and reasoned round in a circle, growing more and more bewildered and perplexed.

But by-and-by she went indoors and tried to remove all traces of recent tears. She must not let her sorrow make her selfish. Ronald and Billy would be wanting tea, and expecting her to join them.

Meanwhile the two friends, their rackets under their arms, had strolled through the shrubbery at the front of the house, to the beautiful tennis lawns, long renowned as being the most perfect in the neighbourhood. Many a tournament had there been fought out, in presence of a gay crowd, lining the courts, beneath the shady chestnut trees.

But on this day the place seemed sad and deserted. They played one set, in silence, hardly troubling to score; then walked to the net and stood close together, one on either side.

“We must tell her,” said Ronald, examining his racket, minutely.

“I suppose we must,” agreed Billy, reluctantly. “We could not let her marry him.”

“Duffer! you don’t suppose he would dream of marrying her? He will come back, and tell her himself to-morrow. We must tell her, to spare her that interview. She need never see him again.”

“I say, Ron! Did you see her go quite pink when she told us his name? And in spite of the trouble to-day, she looks half a dozen years younger than when she went away. You know she does, old man!”

“Oh, that’s the rest-cure,” explained Ronnie, but without much conviction. “Rest-cures always have that effect. That’s why women go in for them. Did you ever hear of a man doing a rest-cure?”

“Well, I’ve heard of you, at Overdene,” said Billy, maliciously.

“Rot! You don’t call staying with the duchess a rest-cure? Good heavens, man! You get about the liveliest time of your life when her Grace of Meldrum undertakes to nurse you. Did you hear about old Pilberry the parson, and the toucan?”

“Yes, shut up. You’ve told me that unholy story twice already. I say, Ronnie! We are begging the question. Who’s to tell her?”

“You,” said Ronald decidedly. “She cares for you like a mother, and will take it more easily from you. Then I can step in, later on, with – er —manly comfort.”

“Confound you!” said Billy, highly indignant. “I’m not such a kid as you make out. But I’ll tell you this: – If I thought it would be for her real happiness, and could be pulled through, I would tell her I did it; then find Airth to-morrow and tell him I had told her so.”

“Ass!” said Ronnie, affectionately. “As if that could mend matters. Don’t you know the earl? He was against the hushing-up business from the first. He would simply punch your head for daring to lie to her, and go and tell her the exact truth himself. Besides, at this moment, he is thinking more of his side of the question, than of hers. We fellows have a way of doing that. If he had thought first of her, he would have stayed with her and seen her through, instead of rushing off like this, leaving her heart-broken and perplexed.”

“Confound him!” said Billy, earnestly.

“I say, Billy! You know women.” It was the first time Ronnie had admitted this. “Don’t you think – if a woman turned in horror from a man she had loved, she might – if he were tactfully on the spot – turn to a man who had long loved her, and of whom she had undoubtedly been fond?”

“My knowledge of women,” declaimed Billy, dramatically, “leads me to hope that she would fall into the arms of the man who loved her well enough to risk incurring her displeasure by bravely telling her himself that which she ought – ”

“Confound you!” whispered Ronnie, who had glanced past Billy, “Shut up! – The meshes of this net are better than the other, and the new patent sockets undoubtedly keep it – ”

“You patient people!” said Lady Ingleby’s voice, just behind Billy. “Don’t you badly need tea?”

“We were admiring the new net,” said Ronald Ingram, frowning at Billy, who with his back to Lady Ingleby, continued admiring the new net, helplessly speechless!

There were brave attempts at merriment during tea. Ronald told all the latest Overdene stories; then described the annual concert which had just taken place.

“Mrs. Dalmain was there, and sang divinely. She sings her husband’s songs; he accompanies her. It is awfully fine to see the light on his blind face as he listens, while her glorious voice comes pouring forth. When the song is over, he gets up from the piano, gives her his arm, and apparently leads her off. Very few people realise that, as a matter of fact, she is guiding him. She gave, as an encore, a jolly little new thing of his – quite simple – but everybody wanted it twice over; an air like summer wind blowing through a pine wood, with an accompaniment like a blackbird whistling; words something about ‘On God’s fair earth, ’mid blossoms blue’ – I forget the rest. Go ahead, Bill!”

“There is no room for sad despair,

When heaven’s love is everywhere.”

quoted Billy, who had an excellent memory.

Myra rose, hastily. “I must go in,” she said. “But play as long as you like.”

Billy walked beside her towards the shrubbery. “May I come in and see you, presently, dear Queen? There is something I want to say.”

“Come when you will, Billy-boy,” said Lady Ingleby, with a smile. “You will find me in my sitting-room.”

And Billy looked furtively at Ronald, hoping he had not seen. Words and smile undoubtedly partook of the maternal!

It was a very grave-faced young man who, half an hour later, appeared in Lady Ingleby’s sitting-room, closing the door carefully behind him. Lady Ingleby knew at once that he had come on some matter which, at all events to himself, appeared of paramount importance. Billy’s days of youthful escapades were over. This must be something more serious.

She rose from her davenport and came to the sofa. “Sit down, Billy,” she said, indicating an armchair opposite – Lord Ingleby’s chair, and little Peter’s. Both had now left it empty. Billy filled it readily, unconscious of its associations.

“Rippin’ flowers,” remarked Billy, looking round the room.

“Yes,” said Lady Ingleby. She devoutly hoped Billy was not going to propose.

“Jolly room,” said Billy; “at least, I always think so.”

“Yes,” said Lady Ingleby. “So do I.”

Billy’s eyes, roaming anxiously around for fresh inspiration, lighted on the portrait over the mantelpiece. He started and paled. Then he knew his hour had come. There must be no more beating about the bush.

Billy was a soldier, and a brave one. He had led a charge once, running up a hill ahead of his men, in face of a perfect hail of bullets. First came Billy; then the battalion. Not a man could keep within fifty yards of him. They always said afterwards that Billy came through that charge alive, because he sprinted so fast, that no bullets could touch him. He rushed at the subject now, with the same headlong courage.

“Lady Ingleby,” he said, “there is something Ronnie and I both think you ought to know.”

“Is there, Billy?” said Myra. “Then suppose you tell it me.”

“We have sworn not to tell,” continued Billy; “but I don’t care a damn – I mean a pin – for an oath, if your happiness is at stake.”

“You must not break an oath, Billy, even for my sake,” said Myra, gently.

“Well, you see —if you wished it, you were to be the one exception.”

Suddenly Lady Ingleby understood. “Oh, Billy!” she said. “Does Ronald wish me to be told?”

This gave Billy a pang. So Ronnie really counted after all, and would walk in – over the broken hearts of Billy and another – in rôle of manly comforter. It was hard; but, loyally, Billy made answer.

“Yes; Ronnie says it is only right; and I think so too. I’ve come to do it, if you will let me.”

Lady Ingleby sat, with clasped hands, considering. After all, what did it matter? What did anything matter, compared to the trouble with Jim?

She looked up at the portrait; but Michael’s pictured face, intent on little Peter, gave her no sign.

If these boys wished to tell her, and get it off their minds, why should she not know? It would put a stop, once for all, to Ronnie’s tragic love-making.

“Yes, Billy,” she said. “You may as well tell me.”

The room was very still. A rosebud tapped twice against the window-pane. It might have been a warning finger. Neither noticed it. It tapped a third time.

Billy cleared his throat, and swallowed, quickly.

Then he spoke.

“The man who made the blunder,” he said, “and fired the mine too soon; the man who killed Lord Ingleby, by mistake, was the chap you call ‘Jim Airth.’”

CHAPTER XIX
JIM AIRTH DECIDES

Lady Ingleby awaited Jim Airth’s arrival, in her sitting-room.

As the hour drew near, she rang the bell.

“Groatley,” she said, when the butler appeared, “the Earl of Airth, who was here yesterday, will call again, this afternoon. When his lordship comes, you can show him in here. I shall not be at home to any one else. You need not bring tea until I ring for it.”

Then she sat down, quietly waiting.

She had resumed the mourning, temporarily laid aside. The black gown, hanging about her in soft trailing folds, added to the graceful height of her slight figure. The white tokens of widowhood at neck and wrists gave to her unusual beauty a pathetic suggestion of wistful loneliness. Her face was very pale; a purple tint beneath the tired eyes betokened tears and sleeplessness. But the calm steadfast look in those sweet eyes revealed a mind free of all doubt; a heart, completely at rest.

She leaned back among the sofa cushions, her hands folded in her lap, and waited.

Bees hummed in and out of the open windows. The scent of freesias filled the room, delicate, piercingly sweet, yet not oppressive. To one man forever afterwards the scent of freesias recalled that afternoon; the exquisite sweetness of that lovely face; the trailing softness of her widow’s gown.

Steps in the hall.

The door opened. Groatley’s voice, pompously sonorous, broke into the waiting silence.

“The Earl of Airth, m’lady”; and Jim Airth walked in.

As the door closed behind him, Myra rose.

They stood, silently confronting one another beneath Lord Ingleby’s picture.

It almost seemed as though the thoughtful scholarly face must turn from its absorbed contemplation of the little dog, to look down for a moment upon them. They presented a psychological problem – these brave hearts in torment – which would surely have proved interesting to the calm student of metaphysics.

Silently they faced one another for the space of a dozen heart-beats.

Then Myra, with a swift movement, went up to Jim Airth, put her arms about his neck, and laid her head upon his breast.

“I know, my belovèd,” she said. “You need not give yourself the pain of trying to tell me.”

“How?” A single syllable seemed the most Jim’s lips, for the moment, could manage.

“Billy told me. He and Ronald Ingram came over yesterday afternoon, soon after you left. They had passed you, on your way to the station. They thought I ought to know. So Billy told me.”

Jim Airth’s arms closed round her, holding her tightly.

“My – poor – girl!” he said, brokenly.

“They meant well, Jim. They are dear boys. They knew you would come back and tell me yourself; and they wanted to spare us both that pain. I am glad they did it. You were quite right when you said it had to be faced alone. I could not have been ready for your return, if I had not heard the truth, and had time to face it alone. I am ready now, Jim.”

Jim Airth laid his cheek against her soft hair, with a groan.

“I have come to say good-bye, Myra. It is all that remains to be said.”

“Good-bye?” Myra raised a face of terrified questioning.

Jim Airth pressed it back to its hiding-place upon his breast.

“I am the man, Myra, whose hand you could never bring yourself to touch in friendship.”

Myra lifted her head again. The look in her eyes was that of a woman prepared to fight for happiness and life.

“You are the man,” she said, “whose little finger is dearer to me than the whole body of any one else has ever been. Do you suppose I will give you up, Jim, because of a thing which happened accidentally in the past, before you and I had ever met? Ah, how little you men understand a woman’s heart! Shall I tell you what I felt when Billy told me, after the first bewildering shock was over? First: sorrow for you, my dearest; a realisation of how appalling the mental anguish must have been, at the time. Secondly: thankfulness – yes, intense overwhelming thankfulness – to know at last what had come between us; and to know it was this thing – this mere ghost out of the past – nothing tangible or real; no wrong of mine against you, or of yours against me; nothing which need divide us.”

Jim Airth slowly unlocked his arms, took her by the wrists, holding her hands against his breast. Then he looked into her eyes with a silent sadness, more forcible than speech.

“My own poor girl,” he said, at length; “it is impossible for me to marry Lord Ingleby’s widow.”

The strength of his will mastered hers; and, just as in Horseshoe Cove her fears had yielded to his dauntless courage, so now Myra felt her confidence ebbing away before his stern resolve. Fearful of losing it altogether, she drew away her hands, and turned to the sofa.

“Oh, Jim,” she said, “sit down and let us talk it over.”

She sank back among the cushions and drawing a bowl of roses hastily toward her, buried her face in them, fearing again to meet the settled sadness of his eyes.

Jim Airth sat down – in the chair left vacant by Lord Ingleby and Peter.

“Listen, dear,” he said. “I need not ask you never to doubt my love. That would be absurd from me to you. I love you as I did not know it was possible for a man to love a woman. I love you in such a way that every fibre of my being will hunger for you night and day – through all the years to come. But – well, it would always have come hard to me to stand in another man’s shoes, and take what had been his. I did not feel this when I thought I was following Sergeant O’Mara, because I knew he must always have been in all things so utterly apart from you. I could, under different circumstances, have brought myself to follow Ingleby, because I realise that he never awakened in you such love as is yours for me. His possessions would not have weighted me, because it so happens I have lands and houses of my own, where we could have lived. But, to stand in a dead man’s shoes, when he is dead through an act of mine; to take to myself another man’s widow, when she would still, but for a reckless movement of my own right hand, have been a wife – Myra, I could not do it! Even with our great love, it would not mean happiness. Think of it – think! As we stood together in the sight of God, while the Church, in solemn voice, required and charged us both, as we should answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts should be disclosed, that if either of us knew any impediment why we might not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, we should then confess it – I should cry: ‘Her husband died by my hand!’ and leave the church, with the brand of Cain, and the infamy of David, upon me.”

Myra lifted frightened eyes; met his, beseechingly; then bent again over the roses.

“Or, even if I passed through that ordeal, standing mute in the solemn silence, what of the moment when the Church bade me take your right hand in my right hand – Myra, my right hand?”

She rose, came swiftly over, and knelt before him. She took his hand, and covered it with tears and kisses. She held it, sobbing, to her heart.

“Dearest,” she said, “I will never ask you to do, for my sake, anything you feel impossible or wrong. But, oh, in this, I know you are mistaken. I cannot argue or explain. I cannot put my reasons into words. But I know our living, longing, love ought to come before the happenings of a dead past. Michael lost his life through an accident. That the accident was caused by a mistake on your part, is fearfully hard for you. But there is no moral wrong in it. You might as well blame the company whose boat took him abroad; or the government which decided on the expedition; or the War Office people, who accepted him when he volunteered. I am sure I don’t know what David did; I thought he was a quite excellent person. But I do know about Cain; and I am perfectly certain that the brand of Cain could never rest on anyone, because of an unpremeditated accident. Oh, Jim! Cannot you look at it reasonably?”

“I looked at it reasonably – after a while – until yesterday,” said Jim Airth. “At first, of course, all was blank, ghastly despair. Oh, Myra, let me tell you! I have never been able to tell anyone. Go back to the couch; I can’t let you kneel here. Sit down over there, and let me tell you.”

Lady Ingleby rose at once and returned to her seat; then sat listening – her yearning eyes fixed upon his bowed head. He had momentarily forgotten what the events of that night had cost her; so also had she. Her only thought was of his pain.

Jim Airth began to speak, in low, hurried tones; haunted with a horror of reminiscence.

“I can see it now. The little stuffy tent; the hidden light. I was already sickening for fever, working with a temperature of 102. I hadn’t slept for two nights, and my head felt as if it were two large eyes, and those eyes, both bruises. I knew I ought to knock under and give the job to another man; but Ingleby and I had worked it all out together, and I was dead keen on it. It was a place where no big guns could go; but our little arrangement which you could carry in one hand, would do better and surer work, than half a dozen big guns.

“There was a long wait after Ingleby and the other fellow – it was Ingram – started. Cathcart, left behind with me, was in and out of the tent; but he couldn’t stay still two minutes; he was afraid of missing the rush. So I was alone when the signal came. We found afterwards that Ingram had crawled out of the tunnel, and gone to take a message to the nearest ambush. Ingleby was left alone. He signalled: ‘Placed,’ as agreed. I took it to be ‘Fire!’ and acted instantly. The moment I had done it, I realised my mistake. But that same instant came the roar, and the hot silent night was turned to pandemonium. I dashed out of the tent, shouting for Ingleby. Good God! It was like hell! The yelling swearing Tommies, making up for the long enforced silence and inaction; the hordes of dark devilish faces, leering in their fury, and jeering at our discomfiture; for inside their outer wall, was a rampart of double the strength, and we were no nearer taking Targai.

“Afterwards – if I hadn’t owned up at once to my mistake, nobody would have known how the thing had happened. Even then, they tried to persuade me the wrong signal had been given; but I knew better. And on the spot, it was impossible to find – well, any actual proofs of what had happened. The gap had been filled at once with crowds of yelling jostling Tommies, mad to get into the town. Jove, how those chaps fight when they get the chance. When all was over, several were missing who were not among the dead. They must have forced themselves in where they could not get back, and been taken prisoners. God alone knows their fate, poor beggars. Yet I envied them; for when the row was over, my hell began.

“Myra, I would have given my whole life to have had that minute over again. And it was maddening to know that the business might have been done all right with any old fuse. Only we were so keen over our new ideas for signalling, and our portable electric apparatus. Oh, good Lord! I knew despair, those days and nights! I was down with fever, and they took away my sword, and guns, and razors. I couldn’t imagine why. Even despair doesn’t take me that way. But if a chap could have come into my tent and said: ‘You didn’t kill Ingleby after all. He’s all right and alive!’ I would have given my life gladly for that moment’s relief. But no present anguish can undo a past mistake.

“Well, I pulled through the fever; life had to be lived, and I suppose I’m not the sort of chap to take a morbid view. When I found the thing was to be kept quiet; when the few who knew the ins-and-outs stood by me like the good fellows they were, saying it might have happened to any of them, and as soon as I got fit again I should see the only rotten thing would be to let it spoil my future; I made up my mind to put it clean away, and live it down. You know they say, out in the great western country: ‘God Almighty hates a quitter.’ It is one of the stimulating tenets of their fine practical theology. I had fought through other hard times. I determined to fight through this. I succeeded so well, that it even seemed natural to go on with the work Ingleby and I had been doing together, and carry it through. And when notes of his were needed, I came to his own home without a qualm, to ask his widow – the woman I, by my mistake, had widowed – for permission to have and to use them.

“I came – my mind full of the rich joy of life and love, with scarcely room for a passing pang of regret, as I entered the house without a master, the home without a head, knowing I was about to meet the woman I had widowed. Truly ‘The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.’ I had thrown off too easily what should have been a lifelong burden of regret.

“In the woman I had widowed I found – the woman I was about to wed! Good God! Was there ever so hard a retribution?”

“Jim,” said Myra, gently, “is there not another side to the picture? Does it not strike you that it should have seemed beautiful to find that God in His wonderful providence had put you in a position to be able to take care of Michael’s widow, left so helpless and alone; that in saving her life by the strength of your right hand, you had atoned for the death that hand had unwittingly dealt; that, though the past cannot be undone, it can sometimes be wiped out by the present? Oh, Jim! Cannot you see it thus, and keep and hold the right to take care of me forever? My belovèd! Let us never, from this moment, part. I will come away with you at once. We can get a special licence, and be married immediately. We will let Shenstone, and let the house in Park Lane, and live abroad, anywhere you will, Jim; only together – together! Take me away to-day. Maggie O’Mara can attend me, until we are married. But I can’t face life without you. Jim – I can’t! God knows, I can’t!”

Jim Airth looked up, a gleam of hope in his sad eyes.

Then he looked away, that her appealing loveliness might not too much tempt him, while making his decision. He lifted his eyes; and, alas! they fell on the portrait over the mantelpiece.

He shivered.

“I can never marry Lord Ingleby’s widow,” he said. “Myra, how can you wish it? The thing would haunt us! It would be evil – unnatural. Night and day, it would be there. It would come between us. Some day you would reproach me – ”

“Ah, hush!” cried Myra, sharply. “Not that! I am suffering enough. At least spare me that!” Then, putting aside once more her own pain: “Would it not be happiness to you, Jim?” she asked, with wistful gentleness.

“Happiness?” cried Jim Airth, violently, “It would be hell!”

Lady Ingleby rose, her face as white as the large arum lily in the corner behind her.

“Then that settles it,” she said; “and, do you know, I think we had better not speak of it any more. I am going to ring for tea. And, if you will excuse me for a few moments, while they are bringing it, I will search among my husband’s papers, and try to find those you require for your book.”