UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE
Jim Airth's arms fell slowly to his sides. He still looked into those
happy, loving eyes, but the joy in his own died out, leaving them merely
cold blue steel. His face slowly whitened, hardened, froze into lines of
silent misery. Then he moved back a step, and Myra's hands fell from
him.
"_You_--'Lady Ingleby'?" he said.
Myra gazed at him, in unspeakable dismay.
"Jim!" she cried, "Jim, dearest! Why should you mind it so much?"
She moved forward, and tried to take his hand.
"Don't touch me!" he said, sharply. Then: "_You_, Myra? You! Lord
Ingleby's widow?"
The furious misery of his voice stung Myra. Why should he resent the
noble name she bore, the high rank which was hers? Even if it placed her
socially far above him, had she not just expressed her readiness--her
longing--to resign all, for him? Had not her love already placed him on
the topmost pinnacle of her regard? Was it generous, was it worthy of Jim
Airth to take her disclosure thus?
She moved towards the chairs, with gentle dignity.
"Let us sit down, Jim, and talk it over," she said, quietly. "I do not
think you need find it so overwhelming a matter as you seem to imagine.
Let me tell you all about it; or rather, suppose you ask me any questions
you like."
Jim Airth sat blindly down upon the chair farthest from her, put his
elbows on his knees, and sank his face into his hands.
Without any comment, Myra rose; moved her chair close enough to enable
her to lay her hand upon his arm, should she wish to do so; sat down
again, and waited in silence.
Jim Airth had but one question to ask. He asked it, without lifting his
head.
"Who is Mrs. O'Mara?"
"She is the widow of Sergeant O'Mara who fell at Targai. We both lost our
husbands in that disaster, Jim. She had been for many years my
maid-attendant. When she married the sergeant, a fine soldier whom
Michael held in high esteem, I wished still to keep her near me. Michael
had given me the Lodge to do with as I pleased. I put them into it. She
lives there still. Oh, Jim dearest, try to realise that I have not said
one word to you which was not completely truthful! Let me explain how I
came to be in Cornwall under her name instead of my own. If I might put
my hand in yours, Jim, I could tell you more easily.... No? Very well;
never mind.
"After I received the telegram last November telling me of my husband's
death, I had a very bad nervous breakdown. I do not think it was caused
so much by my loss, as by a prolonged mental strain, which had preceded
it. Just as I had moved to town and was getting better, full details
arrived, and I had to be told that it had been an accident. You know all
about the question as to whether I should hear the name or not. You also
know my decision. The worry of this threw me back. What you said in the
arbour was perfectly true. I _am_ a woman, Jim; often, a weak one; and I
was very much alone. I decided rightly, in a supreme moment--possibly you
may know who it was who graciously undertook to bring me the news from
the War Office--but, afterwards, I began to wonder; I allowed myself to
guess. Men from the front came home. My surmisings circled ceaselessly
around two--dear fellows, of whom I was really fond. At last I felt
convinced I knew, by intangible yet unmistakable signs, which was he who
had done it. I grew quite sure. And then--I hardly know how to tell you,
Jim--of all impossible horrors! The man who had killed Michael wanted to
marry _me_!--Oh, don't groan, darling; you make me so unhappy! But I do
not wonder you find it difficult to believe. He cared very much, poor
boy; and I suppose he thought that, as I should remain in ignorance, the
_fact_ need not matter. It seems hard to understand; but a man in love
sometimes loses all sense of proportion--at least so I once heard someone
say; or words to that effect. I did not allow it ever to reach the point
of an actual proposal; but I felt I must flee away. There were
others--and it was terrible to me. I loved none of them; and I had made
up my mind never to marry again unless I found my ideal. Oh, Jim!"
She laid her hand upon his knee. It might have been a falling leaf, for
all the sign he gave. She left it there, and went on speaking.
"People gossiped. Society papers contained constant trying paragraphs.
Even my widow's weeds were sketched and copied. My nerves grew worse.
Life seemed unendurable.
"At last I consulted a great specialist, who is also a trusted friend. He
ordered me a rest-cure. Not to be shut up within four walls with my own
worries, but to go right away alone; to leave my own identity, and all
appertaining thereto, completely behind; to go to a place to which I had
never before been, where I knew no one, and should not be known; to live
in the open air; fare simply; rise early, retire early; but, above all,
as he quaintly said: 'Leave Lady Ingleby behind.'
"I followed his advice to the letter. He is not a man one can disobey. I
did not like the idea of taking a fictitious name, so I decided to be
'Mrs. O'Mara,' and naturally entered her address in the visitors' book,
as well as her name.
"Oh, that evening of arrival! You were quite right, Jim. I felt just a
happy child, entering a new world of beauty and delight--all holiday and
rest.
"And then--I saw you! And, oh my belovèd, I think almost from the first
moment my soul flew to you, as to its unquestioned mate! Your vitality
became my source of vigour; your strength filled and upheld everything in
me which had been weak and faltering. I owed you much, before we had
really spoken. Afterwards, I owed you life itself, and love, and
all--ALL, Jim!"
Myra paused, silently controlling her emotion; then, bending forward,
laid her lips upon the roughness of his hair. It might have been the
stirring of the breeze, for all the sign he made.
"When I found at first that you had come from the war, when I realised
that you must have known Michael, I praised the doctor's wisdom in making
me drop my own name. Also the Murgatroyds would have known it
immediately, and I should have had no peace, As it was, Miss Murgatroyd
occasionally held forth in the sitting-room concerning 'poor dear Lady
Ingleby,' whom she gave us to understand she knew intimately. And
then--oh, Jim! when I came to know my cosmopolitan cowboy; when he told
me he hated titles and all that appertained to them; then indeed I
blessed the moment when I had writ myself down plain 'Mrs. O'Mara'; and I
resolved not to tell him of my title until he loved me enough not to mind
it, or wanted me enough, to change me at once from Lady Ingleby of
Shenstone Park, into plain Mrs. Jim Airth of--anywhere he chooses to take
me!
"Now you will understand why I felt I could not marry you validly in
Cornwall; and I wanted--was it selfish?--I wanted the joy of revealing my
own identity when I had you, at last, in my own beautiful home. Oh, my
dear--my dear! Cannot our love stand the test of so light a thing as
this?"
She ceased speaking and waited.
She was sure of her victory; but it seemed strange, in dealing with so
fine a nature as that of the man she loved, that she should have had to
fight so hard over what appeared to her a paltry matter. But she knew
false pride often rose gigantic about the smallest things; the very
unworthiness of the cause seeming to add to the unreasonable growth of
its dimensions.
She was deeply hurt; but she was a woman, and she loved him. She waited
patiently to see his love for her arise victorious over unworthy pride.
At last Jim Airth stood up.
"I cannot face it yet," he said, slowly. "I must be alone. I ought to
have known from the very first that you were--are--Lady Ingleby. I am
very sorry that you should have to suffer for that which is no fault of
your own. I must--go--now. In twenty-four hours, I will come back to talk
it over."
He turned, without another word; without a touch; without a look. He
swung round on his heel, and walked away across the lawn.
Myra's dismayed eyes could scarcely follow him.
He mounted the terrace; passed into the house. A door closed.
Jim Airth was gone!