Time had crept on since the return of the Jerrolds, and by degrees the
pain of the meeting between Myra and Stratton grew less, and the wound
made that day began to heal.
"I'm sorry for him," Guest would say to himself; "but I can't keep away
because he is unhappy."
So he visited at the admiral's, where he always found a warm welcome,
but made little progress with Edie, who seemed to have grown cold.
Then, too, he met the cousins at Miss Jerrold's, and it naturally came
about that one evening, after a good deal of persuasion, Stratton became
his companion.
Myra was there that night, and once more their hands were clasped, while
Stratton felt that it was no longer the girl into whose eyes he looked,
but the quiet, thoughtful woman who had suffered in the struggle of
life, and that he must banish all hope of a nearer tie than that of
friendship.
For whatever Myra may have held hidden in her secret heart she was the
calm, self-contained friend to her aunt's guest. Ready to sit and talk
with him of current topics and their travels; to play or sing if asked;
but Stratton always left the house with the feeling that unconsciously
Myra had gravely impressed upon him the fact that she was James Barron's
wife, and that she would never seek to rid herself of that tie.
"And I must accept that position." Stratton would say despairingly,
after one of the meetings which followed; and then he would make a vow
never to meet Myra again, for the penance was too painful to be borne.
The result was that the very next day after making one of these vows he
received a letter from Edie, asking him, at her uncle's wish, to dinner
in Bourne Square.
For the admiral had said to Edie, on hearing that they had met Stratton
at her aunt's:
"Let bygones be bygones. I don't see why we should not all be friends
again. I always liked the boy. He can talk well about scientific
things without boring you. Ask him to dinner."
"Uncle wants him to come and wean poor Myra from that terrible
business."
But Edie was wrong, for after approaching his daughter several times on
the question of the possibility of obtaining a divorce, Myra had stopped
the admiral so decidedly that he had been ready to believe she must have
cared for Barron after all.
"First man who ever told her he loved her," the old man said to himself,
"so, of course, she can't help feeling a kind of liking for him. But
suppose he comes out on ticket-of-leave, don't they call it? And what
if he comes here? Bah! I'll shoot him before he shall have her. That
would bring Myra to book, too. That's a card I must play--possibility
of his coming back. She'll give in, then. I must hear what a lawyer
says."
But, in his unbusinesslike way, Sir Mark did nothing. Home was calm and
pleasant again, and he had his little dinners, and his friends; and to
him the existence of James Barron, alias Dale, at The Foreland became
less and less clear. He was buried, as it were, in a living tomb, and
there was no need to think of him for years.
Stratton came again and again for dinner, and now and then dropped in of
an evening. Always against his will, he told himself; but the
attraction was strong enough to draw him there. It was plain, too, that
Myra's eyes brightened when he entered, but he felt that it was only to
see her father's friend.
Then came one autumn night when, after a long and busy day, Stratton
made up his mind to go to Bourne Square, undid it, made up his mind
again, once more undid it, and determined that he would no longer play
the moth round the bright candle.
He had dressed, and, throwing off his light coat and crush hat, he went
out of his rooms and along the landing to Brettison's.
"I'll go and talk botany," he said. "Life is too valuable to waste upon
a heartless woman."
He knocked; no answer. Again; no reply.
"Gone out," he said. "What shall I do?"
Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then went and fetched his hat
and coat, descended, took a cab, and ordered the man to drive to
Guest's, in Grey's Inn.
"Better have stopped at home," muttered Stratton; "he will talk about
nothing else but Bourne Square." But he was wrong. Guest was out, so
descending into the square, and walking out into Holborn, Stratton took
another cab.
"Where to, sir?"
"Bourne Square."
Stratton sank back in his seat perfectly convinced that he had said
Benchers' Inn, and he started out of a reverie when the cab stopped at
the admiral's door.
"Fate," he muttered. "It was no doing of mine." Andrews admitted him
as a matter of course, and led the way to the drawing room, where he
announced his name.
Myra started from a couch, where she had been sitting alone, dreaming;
and as Stratton advanced his pulses began to beat heavily, for never had
the woman he idolised looked so beautiful as then.
There was a faint flush in her soft, creamy cheeks, the trace of emotion
in her heaving bosom, as she greeted him consciously; for she had been
sitting alone, thinking of him and his proposal to her father, and the
next minute the door had been opened, and he stood before her.
"It is almost by accident that I am here," he said, in a low voice full
of emotion, which he vainly strove to control. "Your cousin? The
admiral?"
"Did you not know?" said Myra in a voice as deep and tremulous as his
own. "Mr Guest came with tickets for the opera. He knew my father
liked the one played to-night--`Faust.'"
"Indeed!" said Stratton huskily.
"He goes for the sake of the great scene of the return of the men from
the war. I think he would never tire of hearing that grand march."
She left the couch, conscious of a strange feeling of agitation, and,
crossing to the piano, seated herself, and began to play softly the
second strain in the spirit-stirring composition, gradually gliding into
the jewel song quite unconsciously, and with trembling fingers. Then
she awoke to the fact that Stratton had followed her to the instrument,
against which he leaned, with the tones thrilling his nerves, tones set
vibrating by the touch of hands that he would have given worlds to clasp
in his own, while he poured forth the words struggling for exit.
"It is fate," he said to himself, as he stood there gazing down at the
beautiful head with its glossy hair, the curve of the creamy neck, and
the arms and hands whiter than the ivory over which they strayed.
So sudden--so wondrous. The only thing in his thoughts had been that he
might be near her for a time, and hear her words, while now they were
alone in the soft, dim light of the drawing room, and the touch of her
fingers on those keys sent that dreamy, sensuous, glorious music
thrilling through every fibre of his body. Friend? How could he be
friend? He loved her passionately, and, cold as she might ever be,
however she might trample upon his feelings, she must always be the same
to him--his ideal--his love--the only woman in the world who could ever
stir his pulses.
And so silent now--so beautiful? If she had spoken in her customary
formal, friendly way, it would have broken the spell. But she could
not. The chain was as fast round her at that moment, though she longed
to speak.
She could not, for she knew how he loved her; how his touch stirred each
pulse; that this man was all in all to her--the one she loved, and she
could not turn and flee.
At last, by a tremendous effort, she raised her eyes to his to speak
indifferently and break through this horrible feeling of dread and
lassitude, but as their eyes met, her hands dropped from the keys, as,
with a passionate cry, he took a step forward, caught her to his breast,
and she lay for the moment trembling there, and felt his lips pressed to
her in a wild, passionate kiss.
"Myra!" he panted; "all that must be as a dream. You are not his. It
is impossible. I love you--my own! my own!"
His words thrilled her, but their import roused in her as well those
terrible thoughts of the tie which bound her; and, with a cry of anger
and despair, she thrust him away.
"Go!" she cried; "it is an insult. You must be mad."
Then, with the calm majesty of an injured woman proud of her honour and
her state, she said coldly, as she pointed to the door:
"Mr Stratton, you have taken a cruel advantage of my loneliness here.
I am Mr Barron's wife. Go, sir. We are friends no longer and can
never meet again."