LADY INGLEBY'S REST-CURE
From the moment when the express for Cornwall had slowly but irrevocably
commenced to glide away from the Paddington platform; when she had looked
her last upon Margaret O'Mara's anxious devoted face, softly framed in
her simple widow's bonnet; when she had realised that her somewhat
original rest-cure had really safely commenced, and that she was leaving,
not only her worries, but her very identity behind her--Lady Ingleby had
leaned back with closed eyes in a corner of her reserved compartment, and
given herself up to quiet retrospection.
The face, in repose, was sad--a quiet sadness, as of regret which held no
bitterness. The cheek, upon which the dark fringe of lashes rested, was
white and thin having lost the tint and contour of perfect health. But,
every now and then, during those hours of retrospection, the wistful
droop of the sweet expressive mouth curved into a smile, and a dimple
peeped out unexpectedly, giving a look of youthfulness to the tired
face.
When London and, its suburbs were completely left behind, and the summer
sunshine blazed through the window from the clear blue of a radiant June
sky, Lady Ingleby leaned forward, watching the rapid unfolding of country
lanes and hedges; wide commons, golden with gorse; fir woods, carpeted
with blue-bells; mossy banks, overhung with wild roses, honeysuckle, and
traveller's-joy; the indescribable greenness and soft fragrance of
England in early summer; and, as she watched, a responsive light shone in
her sweet grey eyes. The drear sadness of autumn, the deadness of winter,
the chill uncertainty of spring--all these were over and gone. "Flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come," murmurs
the lover of Canticles; and in Myra Ingleby's sad heart there blossomed
timidly, flowers of hope; vague promise of future joy, which life might
yet hold in store. A blackbird in the hawthorn, trilled gaily; and Myra
softly sang, to an air of Garth Dalmain's, the "Blackbird's Song."
"Wake, wake,
Sad heart!
Rise up, and sing!
On God's fair earth, 'mid blossoms blue.
Fresh hope must ever spring.
There is no room for sad despair,
When heaven's love is everywhere."
Then, as the train sped onward through Wiltshire, Somerset, and Devon,
Lady Ingleby felt the mantle of her despondence slipping from her, and
reviewed the past, much as a prisoner might glance back into his dark
narrow cell, from the sunlight of the open door, as he stood at last on
the threshold of liberty.
Seven months had gone by since, on that chill November evening, the news
of Lord Ingleby's death had reached Shenstone. The happenings of the
weeks which followed, now seemed vague and dreamlike to Myra, just a few
events standing out clearly from the dim blur of misery. She remembered
the reliable strength of the doctor; the unselfish devotion of Margaret
O'Mara; the unspeakable comfort of Jane's wholesome understanding
tenderness. Then the dreaded arrival of her mother; followed,
immediately, according to promise, by the protective advent of Georgina,
Duchess of Meldrum; after which, tragedy and comedy walked hand in hand;
and the silence of mourning was enlivened by the "Hoity-toity!" of the
duchess, and the indignant sniffs of Mrs. Coller-Cray.
Later on, details of Lord Ingleby's death came to hand, and his widow had
to learn that he had fallen--at the attempt upon Targai, it is true--but
the victim of an accident; losing his life, not at the hands of the
savage enemy, but through the unfortunate blunder of a comrade. Myra
never very clearly grasped the details:--a wall to be undermined; his own
patent and fearful explosive; the grim enthusiasm with which he insisted
upon placing it himself, arranging to have it fired by his patent
electrical plan. Then the mistaking of a signal; the fatal pressing of a
button five minutes too soon; an electric flash in the mine, a terrific
explosion, and instant death to the man whose skill and courage had made
the gap through which crowds of cheering British soldiers, bursting from
the silent darkness, dashed to expectant victory.
When full details reached the War Office, a Very Great Personage called
at her house in Park Lane personally to explain to Lady Ingleby the
necessity for the hushing up of some of these greatly-to-be-deplored
facts. The whole unfortunate occurrence had largely partaken of the
nature of an experiment. The explosive, the new method of signalling, the
portable electric plant--all these were being used by Lord Ingleby and
the young officers who assisted him, more or less experimentally and
unofficially. The man whose unfortunate mistake caused the accident had
an important career before him. His name must not be allowed to
transpire. It would be unfair that a future of great promise should be
blighted by what was an obvious accident. The few to whom the name was
known had been immediately pledged to secrecy. Of course it would be
confidentially given to Lady Ingleby if she really desired to hear it,
but----
Then Myra took a very characteristic line. She sat up with instant
decision; her pale face flushed, and her large pathetic grey eyes shone
with sudden brightness.
"Pardon me, sir," she said, "for interposing; but I never wish to know
that name. My husband would have been the first to desire that it should
not be told. And, personally, I should be sorry that there should be any
man on earth whose hand I could not bring myself to touch in friendship.
The hand that widowed me, did so without intention. Let it remain always
to me an abstract instrument of the will of Providence. I shall never
even try to guess to which of Michael's comrades that hand belonged."
Lady Ingleby was honest in making this decision; and the Very Great
Personage stepped into his brougham, five minutes later, greatly
relieved, and filled with admiration for Lord Ingleby's beautiful and
right-minded widow. She had always been all that was most charming. Now
she added sound good sense, to personal charm. Excellent! Incomparable!
Poor Ingleby! Poor--Ah! _he_ must not be mentioned, even in thought.
Yes; Lady Ingleby was absolutely honest in coming to her decision. And
yet, from that moment, two names revolved perpetually in her mind, around
a ceaseless question--the only men mentioned constantly by Michael in his
letters as being always with him in his experiments, sharing his
interests and his dangers: Ronald Ingram, and Billy Cathcart--dear boys,
both; her devoted adorers; almost her dearest, closest friends; faithful,
trusted, tried. And now the haunting question circled around all thought
of them: "Was it Ronald? Or was it Billy? Which? Billy or Ronnie? Ronnie
or Billy?" Myra had said: "I shall never even try to guess," and she had
said it honestly. She did not try to guess. She guessed, in spite of
trying not to do so; and the certainty, and yet _un_certainty of her
surmisings told on her nerves, becoming a cause of mental torment which
was with her, subconsciously, night and day.
Time went on. The frontier war was over. England, as ever, had been bound
to win in the end; and England had won. It had merely been a case of
time; of learning wisdom by a series of initial mistakes; of expending a
large amount of British gold and British blood. England's supremacy was
satisfactorily asserted; and, those of her brave troops who had survived
the initial mistakes, came home; among them Ronald Ingram and Billy
Cathcart; the former obviously older than when he went away, gaunt and
worn, pale beneath his bronze, showing unmistakable signs of the effects
of a severe wound and subsequent fever. "Too interesting for words," said
the Duchess of Meldrum to Lady Ingleby, recounting her first sight of
him. "If only I were fifty years younger than I am, I would marry the
dear boy immediately, take him down to Overdene, and nurse him back to
health and strength. Oh, you need not look incredulous, my dear Myra! I
always mean what I say, as you very well know."
But Lady Ingleby denied all suspicion of incredulity, and merely
suggested languidly, that--bar the matrimonial suggestion--the programme
was an excellent one, and might well be carried out. Young Ronald being
of the same opinion, he was soon installed at Overdene, and had what he
afterwards described as _the_ time of his life, being pampered, spoiled,
and petted by the dear old duchess, and never allowing her to suspect
that one of the chief attractions of Overdene lay in the fact that it was
within easy motoring distance of Shenstone Park.
Billy returned as young, as inconsequent, as irrepressible as ever. And
yet in him also, Myra was conscious of a subtle change, for which she,
all too readily, found a reason, far removed from the real one.
The fact was this. Both young men, in their romantic devotion to her, had
yet been true to their own manhood, and loyal, at heart, to Lord Ingleby.
But their loyalty had always been with effort. Therefore, when--the
strain relaxed--they met her again, they were intensely conscious of her
freedom and of their own resultant liberty. This produced in them, when
with her, a restraint and shyness which Myra naturally construed into a
confirmation of her own suspicions. She, having never found it the
smallest effort to remember she was Michael's, and to be faithful in
every thought to him, was quite unconscious of her liberty. There having
been no strain in remaining true to the instincts of her own pure,
honest, honourable nature, there was no tension to relax.
So it very naturally came to pass that when one day Ronald Ingram had sat
long with her, silently studying his boots, his strong face tense and
miserable, every now and then looking furtively at her, then, as his eyes
met the calm friendliness of hers, dropping them again to the
floor:--"Poor Ronnie," she mused, "with his 'important career' before
him. Undoubtedly it was he who did it. And Billy knows it. See how
fidgety Billy is, while Ronnie sits with me."
But by-and-by it would be: "No; of course it was Billy--dear hot-headed
impulsive young Billy; and Ronald, knowing it, feels guilty also. Poor
little Billy, who was as a son to Michael! There was no mistaking the
emotion in his face just now, when I merely laid my hand on his. Oh,
impetuous scatter-brained boy!... Dear heavens! I wish he wouldn't hand
me the bread-and-butter."
Then, into this atmosphere of misunderstanding and uncertainty, intruded
a fresh element. A first-cousin of Lord Ingleby's, to whom had come the
title, minus the estates, came to the conclusion that title and estates
might as well go together. To that end, intruding upon her privacy on
every possible occasion, he proceeded to pay business-like court to Lady
Ingleby.
Thus rudely Myra awoke to the understanding of her liberty. At once, her
whole outlook on life was changed. All things bore a new significance.
Ronnie and Billy ceased to be comforts. Ronnie's nervous misery assumed a
new importance; and, coupled with her own suspicions, filled her with a
dismayed horror. The duchess's veiled jokes took point, and hurt. A sense
of unprotected loneliness engulfed her. Every man became a prospective
and dreaded suitor; every woman's remarks seemed to hold an innuendo. Her
name in the papers distracted her.
She recognised the morbidness of her condition, even while she felt
unable to cope with it; and, leaving Shenstone suddenly, came up to town,
and consulted Sir Deryck Brand.
"Oh, my friend," she said, "help me! I shall never face life again."
The doctor heard her patiently, aiding the recital by his strong
understanding silence.
Then he said, quietly: "Dear lady, the diagnosis is not difficult. Also
there is but one possible remedy." He paused.
Lady Ingleby's imploring eyes and tense expectancy, besought his
verdict.
"A rest-cure," said the doctor, with finality.
"Horrors, no!" cried Myra; "Would you shut me up within four walls; cram
me with rice pudding and every form of food I most detest; send a
dreadful woman to pound, roll, and pommel me, and tell me gruesome
stories; keep out all my friends, all letters, all books, all news; and,
after six weeks send me out into the world again, with my figure gone,
and not a sane thought upon any subject under the sun? Dear doctor, think
of it! Stout, and an idiot! Oh, give me something in a bottle, to shake,
and take three times a day--and let me go!"
The doctor smiled. He was famed for his calm patience.
"Your somewhat highly coloured description, dear Lady Ingleby, applies to
a form of rest-cure such as I rarely, if ever, recommend. In your case it
would be worse than useless. We should gain nothing by shutting you up
with the one person who is doing you harm, and from whom we must contrive
your escape."
"The one person--?" queried Myra, wide-eyed.
"A charming person," smiled the doctor, "where the rest of mankind are
concerned; but very bad for you just now."
"But--whom?" questioned Myra, again. "Whom can you mean?"
"I mean Lady Ingleby," replied the doctor, gravely. "When I send you away
for your rest-cure, Lady Ingleby with her worries and questionings,
doubts and fears, must be left behind. I shall send you to a little
out-of-the-world village on the wild sea coast of Cornwall, where you
know nobody, and nobody knows you. You must go incognito, as 'Miss' or
'Mrs.'--anything you please. Your rest-cure will consist primarily in
being set free, for a time, from Lady Ingleby's position, predicament,
and perplexities. You must send word to all intimate friends, telling
them you are going into retreat, and they must not write until they hear
again. You will have leave to write one letter a week, to one person
only; and that person must be one of whom I can approve. You must eat
plenty of wholesome food; roam about all day long in the open-air; rise
early, retire early; live entirely in a simple, beautiful, wholesome
present, firmly avoiding all remembrance of a sad past, and all
anticipation of an uncertain future. Nobody is to know where you are,
excepting myself, and the one friend to whom you may write. But we will
arrange that somebody--say, for instance, your devoted attendant from the
Lodge, shall hold herself free to come to you at an hour's notice, should
you be overwhelmed with a sudden sense of loneliness. The knowledge of
this, will probably keep the need from arising. You can communicate with
me daily if you like, by letter or by telegram; but other people must not
know where you are. I do not wish you followed by the anxious or restless
thoughts of many minds. To-morrow I will give you the name of a place I
recommend, and of a comfortable hotel where you can order rooms. It must
be a place you have never seen, probably one of which you have never
heard. We are nearing the end of May. I should like you to start on the
first of June. If you want a house-party at Shenstone this summer, you
may invite your guests for the first of July. Lady Ingleby will be at
home again by then, fully able to maintain her reputation as a hostess of
unequalled charm, graciousness, and popularity. Morbid self-consciousness
is a condition of mind from which you have hitherto been so completely
free, that this unexpected attack has altogether unnerved you, and
requires prompt and uncompromising measures.... Yes, Jane Dalmain may be
your correspondent. You could not have chosen better."
This was the doctor's verdict and prescription; and, as his patients
never disputed the one, or declined to take the other, Myra found
herself, on "the glorious first of June" flying south in the Great
Western express, bound for the little fishing village of Tregarth where
she had ordered rooms at the Moorhead Inn, in the name of Mrs. O'Mara.