Some time elapsed before the announcement that the consent had been won.
"She wanted to all the while," Edie said; "but her woman's dignity kept
her back."
The girl was quite right, and it was only in a fit of mad despair that
Myra had at last agreed in acknowledging the force of her cousin's
words.
"Percy says he thinks Malcolm is slowly dying, dear, and that your
coming might save his life."
"I'll go," Myra said, drawing in her breath with a hiss; and then to
herself, "If he despises me for the act, well, I must bear it, too--
while I am here."
An evening was fixed, one on which Guest felt sure he would be able to
catch his friend at the chambers, as being the preferable place, though,
failing this, there was the lodging in Sarum Street.
There was no occasion for inventing subterfuges. The admiral that night
dined at the club, and he troubled himself so little about the comings
and goings of his daughter and niece that, if he returned, he would only
consider that they had gone to some "at home," and retire to his bed.
The consequence was that the carriage was in waiting at eight, and Guest
arrived to act as guide.
"Strikes me, William," said Andrews, the butler, to the attendant
footman, "that our young lady would be doing more what's right if she
stopped at home."
"Ay, she do look bad, sir."
"She does, William," said Andrew, with a little stress on the "does."
"Twice over me and you has made preparations to have her married, and it
strikes me that the next time we have to do with any public proceedings
it will be to take her to her long home."
"They're a-coming down, Mr Andrews," whispered the footman as, in
evening dress and cloak, Guest brought down Myra, looking very white in
her mufflings, and as if she were in some dream.
Guest handed her into the carriage, and returned for Edie, who was
flushed and agitated.
"You won't think any the worse of me for this, Percy, will you?" she
whispered.
His reply was a tender pressure of the little hand which rested upon his
arm.
Matters having been intrusted to Guest he directed the coachman to draw
up beside the old court in Counsel Lane, and upon the footman opening
the door, and the ladies being handed out, he looked at them in wonder,
and asked his fellow-servant what game he thought was up as the trio
passed into a gloomy looking alley, at whose corner was a robe-maker's
shop with two barristers' wigs on blocks in the window.
But Guest knew what he was about. The courts and alleys about Benchers'
Inn were principally occupied by law writers, printers, and law
stationers, and deserted enough of an evening to render the passage
through of a couple of ladies in evening dress a matter likely to cause
little notice, especially as they might be taking a short cut to one of
the theatres.
Myra had taken Guest's arm at a whisper from her cousin, who followed
close behind, and, before long, the young barrister was well aware of
her agitation and weakness, for, as they reached the upper entrance to
the inn, she leaned more and more heavily upon his arm, and, after a few
more paces, clung to him and stopped.
"Tired?" he said gently; "we are nearly there."
She tried to speak, but no words would come; he could feel, though, that
she was trembling violently, and Edie pressed to her side.
"Courage," she murmured; and her voice seemed to calm Myra, who drew a
deep breath, and tried to walk firmly the rest of the way; while Edie
began to hope Stratton would be absent, for she dreaded the scene.
But fate was against her this time. The meeting she had struggled to
bring about was to be, for Guest turned to her and whispered over his
shoulder:
"There is a light in his room; he is at home."
There was not a soul visible as they crossed the little, silent,
ill-paved courtyard, with its few flickering gas lamps and the buildings
around standing up blank and bare, for the most part solitary and
deserted looking, for hardly a blind showed a light behind.
Half-way along by the railings, beneath the great plane trees, a man was
standing; and, as he took a step out into the light of the nearest lamp,
Guest felt that Myra was ready to drop. But a whispered word or two
roused her to make the last effort, and the next minute they were in the
doorway; with the stone stairs looking dim and strange, visible where
they stood, but gradually fading into the darkness above.
Guest stopped short in obedience to a pressure upon his arm, and Myra
supported herself by grasping the great wooden balustrade, while Edie
uttered a sigh, and their escort began to feel some doubt as to the
result of their mission, and wonder whether it was wise to have come,
even going so far as to feel that he should not be sorry if his
companions drew back.
Just then Edie whispered a few words to her cousin, who seemed to be
spurred by them to fresh exertion, and, bearing hard upon Guest's arm
once more, she ascended the silent staircase to the first floor, where
Guest led them a little aside into Brettison's entry, while he went to
reconnoitre.
All was dark, apparently, and he began to be in doubt as to whether
Stratton really was there, when, to his great delight, he found that
fate had favoured their visit, for the outer door was ajar, and, drawing
it back, he stepped inside, to find the inner door only just thrust to,
while, after opening it a little way, he could see Stratton seated at
his writing table with his face resting upon his hands.
The lamp was before him, with the shade thrust on one side, so that the
light was cast toward the window, and his face and hands were in
darkness; and so motionless did he seem that Guest concluded that he
must be asleep.
Guest gave a sharp look round, but the room was too dim for much to be
seen. It did not, however, by that light appear to be neglected.
There was an angular look in Stratton's attitude which startled Guest,
and made him step forward with his heart beating heavily. The
unfastened door was terribly suggestive of the entrance of a man who
hardly knew what he was doing, and he now saw that a hat was lying on
the floor as if it had fallen from the table. In an ordinary way such
ideas would not have occurred to him, but he had twice over visited that
room, and been startled by matters which had suggested Stratton's
intention of doing away with his life.
All this made Guest walk quickly up behind his friend's chair, and his
hand was raised to touch him, but he drew back, for a sigh, long-drawn
and piteous, broke the silence of the dim room--such a sigh as escapes
from a sleeping child lying exhausted after some passionate burst of
temper.
Guest, too, drew a long breath as he crept away softly, looking over his
shoulder till he reached the doors, through which he passed, and hurried
over the few steps along the landing to where Myra and Edie stood
shivering in the cold, dark entry leading to Brettison's chambers.
"Oh, how long you have been," whispered Edie, to whom Myra was clinging.
"Come, Mrs Barron," said Guest, without heeding the remark, as he took
Myra's hand, which struck cold through her glove, and drew it through
his arm.
"Wait there, Edie."
The girl uttered a faint ejaculation, but said nothing, and Myra walked
silently to Stratton's door, and as Guest raised his hand to draw it
toward him she pressed it back.
"Wait," she said in a hoarse whisper. "My brain seems to swim. Mr
Guest, let me think for a moment of what I am going to do before it is
too late."
Guest waited, half supporting her, for she hung heavily upon his arm,
but she did not speak.
"I will tell you," he said gently; "you are going like some good angel
to solace a man dying of misery and despair. I do not know the cause of
all this, but I do know that Malcolm Stratton, who has always been as a
brother to me, loves you with all his heart."
"Yes--yes," whispered Myra excitedly.
"And that some terrible event--some sudden blow, caused him to act as he
did on his wedding morning. Myra Jerrold," he continued solemnly,
"knowing Malcolm as I do, I feel that he must have held back for your
sake, taking all the burden of his shame upon him so that you should not
suffer."
"Yes," she said in her low, excited whisper; "that is what I have been
feeling all these weary, weary days. It is that thought which has
sustained me, and made me ready to sacrifice so much--pride, position,
the opinion of my friends--in coming here like this."
"Your cousin is here," said Guest quickly. "We shall not leave."
"No, you will not leave me," she said, holding his arm with both her
hands.
"Now, be firm," whispered Guest, "and think of why you have come."
"To forgive him," she said slowly.
"I believe there is nothing to forgive," said Guest warmly. "No: you
come as his good angel to ask him by his love for you to be open and
frank, and tell you why he has acted thus. He will not speak to me, his
oldest friend: he cannot refuse you. But mind," he continued earnestly,
"it must not be told you under the bond of secrecy; he must tell you
truly, and leave it to us afterward to decide what is best to be done."
"Yes," she said, speaking more firmly now, "I understand. I have come
to help the man who was to have been my husband, in his sore time of
trial. The feeling of shame, degradation, and shrinking has passed
away. Percy Guest, I am strong now, and I know. It is no shameless
stooping on my part: I ought to have come to him before."
"God bless you for that, Myra!" he whispered earnestly, and he bent down
and kissed her hands. As he raised his head he found that Edie had
crept forward, and was looking at him wildly from out of her little
fur-edged hood.
For the moment Guest thought nothing of all this, but at a sign from
Myra drew open the outer door, and she stood in the dimly lit entry as
if framed; she let her hood fall back, and gazed straight before her
into the quaintly furnished room as if wondering that she did not at
once see the object of her thoughts.
Then they saw her take a couple steps forward, and, as if from habit,
thrust to the inner door, shutting in the scene beyond, and leaving
Guest and Edie in the gloom of the landing.