AT THE MOORHEAD INN
The ruddy glow of a crimson sunset illumined cliff and hamlet, tinting
the distant ocean into every shade of golden glory, as Myra walked up the
gravelled path to the rustic porch of the Moorhead Inn, and looked around
her with a growing sense of excited refreshment.
She had come on foot from the little wayside station, her luggage
following in a barrow; and this mode of progression, minus a footman and
maid, and carrying her own cloak, umbrella, and travelling-bag, was in
itself a charming novelty.
At the door, she was received by the proprietress, a stately lady in
black satin, wearing a double row of large jet beads, who reminded her
instantly of all Lord Ingleby's maiden aunts. She seemed an accentuated,
dignified, concentrated embodiment of them all; and Myra longed for
Billy, to share the joke.
"Aunt Ingleby" requested Mrs. O'Mara to walk in, and hoped she had had a
pleasant journey. Then she rang a very loud bell twice, in order to
summon a maid to show her to her room; and, the maid not appearing at
once, requested Mrs. O'Mara meanwhile to write her name in the visitors'
book.
Lady Ingleby walked into the hall, passing a smoking-room on the left,
and, noting a door, with "Coffee Room" upon it in gold lettering, down a
short passage immediately opposite. Up from the centre of the hall, on
her right, went the rather wide old-fashioned staircase; and opposite to
it, against the wall, between the smoking-room and a door labelled
"Reception Room," stood a marble-topped table. Lying open upon this table
was a ponderous visitors' book. A fresh page had been recently commenced,
as yet only containing four names. The first three were dated May the
8th, and read, in crabbed precise writing:
Miss Amelia Murgatroyd, Miss Eliza Murgatroyd, Miss Susannah
Murgatroyd ..... Lawn View, Putney.
Below these, bearing date a week later, in small precise writing of
unmistakable character and clearness, the name:
Jim Airth ..... London.
Pen and ink lay ready, and, without troubling to remove her glove, Lady
Ingleby wrote beneath, in large, somewhat sprawling, handwriting:
Mrs. O'Mara ..... The Lodge, Shenstone.
A maid appeared, took her cloak and bag, and preceded her up the stairs.
As she reached the turn of the staircase, Lady Ingleby paused, and looked
back into the hall.
The door of the smoking-room opened, and a very tall man came out, taking
a pipe from the pocket of his loose Norfolk jacket. As he strolled into
the hall, his face reminded her of Ronnie's, deep-bronzed and thin; only
it was an older face--strong, rugged, purposeful. The heavy brown
moustache could not hide the massive cut of chin and jaw.
Catching sight of a fresh name in the book, he paused; then laying one
large hand upon the table, bent over and read it.
Myra stood still and watched, noting the broad shoulders, and the immense
length of limb in the leather leggings.
He appeared to study the open page longer than was necessary for the mere
reading of the name. Then, without looking round, reached up, took a cap
from the antler of a stag's head high up on the wall, stuck it on the
back of his head; swung round, and went out through the porch, whistling
like a blackbird.
"Jim Airth," said Myra to herself, as she moved slowly on; "Jim Airth of
_London_. What an address! He might just as well have put: 'of the
world!' A cross between a guardsman and a cowboy; and very likely he will
turn out to be a commercial-traveller." Then, as she reached the landing
and came in sight of the rosy-cheeked maid, holding open the door of a
large airy bedroom, she added with a whimsical smile: "All the same, I
wish I had taken the trouble to write more neatly."