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 s.p.a.ce 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 beloved," 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 G.o.d, 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.