JIM AIRTH DECIDES
Lady Ingleby awaited Jim Airth's arrival, in her sitting-room.
As the hour drew near, she rang the bell.
"Groatley," she said, when the butler appeared, "the Earl of Airth, who
was here yesterday, will call again, this afternoon. When his lordship
comes, you can show him in here. I shall not be at home to any one else.
You need not bring tea until I ring for it."
Then she sat down, quietly waiting.
She had resumed the mourning, temporarily laid aside. The black gown,
hanging about her in soft trailing folds, added to the graceful height of
her slight figure. The white tokens of widowhood at neck and wrists gave
to her unusual beauty a pathetic suggestion of wistful loneliness. Her
face was very pale; a purple tint beneath the tired eyes betokened tears
and sleeplessness. But the calm steadfast look in those sweet eyes
revealed a mind free of all doubt; a heart, completely at rest.
She leaned back among the sofa cushions, her hands folded in her lap, and
waited.
Bees hummed in and out of the open windows. The scent of freesias filled
the room, delicate, piercingly sweet, yet not oppressive. To one man
forever afterwards the scent of freesias recalled that afternoon; the
exquisite sweetness of that lovely face; the trailing softness of her
widow's gown.
Steps in the hall.
The door opened. Groatley's voice, pompously sonorous, broke into the
waiting silence.
"The Earl of Airth, m'lady"; and Jim Airth walked in.
As the door closed behind him, Myra rose.
They stood, silently confronting one another beneath Lord Ingleby's
picture.
It almost seemed as though the thoughtful scholarly face must turn from
its absorbed contemplation of the little dog, to look down for a moment
upon them. They presented a psychological problem--these brave hearts in
torment--which would surely have proved interesting to the calm student
of metaphysics.
Silently they faced one another for the space of a dozen heart-beats.
Then Myra, with a swift movement, went up to Jim Airth, put her arms
about his neck, and laid her head upon his breast.
"I _know_, my belovèd," she said. "You need not give yourself the pain of
trying to tell me."
"How?" A single syllable seemed the most Jim's lips, for the moment,
could manage.
"Billy told me. He and Ronald Ingram came over yesterday afternoon, soon
after you left. They had passed you, on your way to the station. They
thought I ought to know. So Billy told me."
Jim Airth's arms closed round her, holding her tightly.
"My--poor--girl!" he said, brokenly.
"They meant well, Jim. They are dear boys. They knew you would come back
and tell me yourself; and they wanted to spare us both that pain. I am
glad they did it. You were quite right when you said it had to be faced
alone. I could not have been ready for your return, if I had not heard
the truth, and had time to face it alone. I _am_ ready now, Jim."
Jim Airth laid his cheek against her soft hair, with a groan.
"I have come to say good-bye, Myra. It is all that remains to be said."
"Good-bye?" Myra raised a face of terrified questioning.
Jim Airth pressed it back to its hiding-place upon his breast.
"I am the man, Myra, whose hand you could never bring yourself to touch
in friendship."
Myra lifted her head again. The look in her eyes was that of a woman
prepared to fight for happiness and life.
"You are the man," she said, "whose little finger is dearer to me than
the whole body of any one else has ever been. Do you suppose I will give
you up, Jim, because of a thing which happened accidentally in the past,
before you and I had ever met? Ah, how little you men understand a
woman's heart! Shall I tell you what I felt when Billy told me, after the
first bewildering shock was over? First: sorrow for you, my dearest; a
realisation of how appalling the mental anguish must have been, at the
time. Secondly: thankfulness--yes, intense overwhelming thankfulness--to
know at last what had come between us; and to know it was this
thing--this mere ghost out of the past--nothing tangible or real; no
wrong of mine against you, or of yours against me; nothing which need
divide us."
Jim Airth slowly unlocked his arms, took her by the wrists, holding her
hands against his breast. Then he looked into her eyes with a silent
sadness, more forcible than speech.
"My own poor girl," he said, at length; "it is impossible for me to marry
Lord Ingleby's widow."
The strength of his will mastered hers; and, just as in Horseshoe Cove
her fears had yielded to his dauntless courage, so now Myra felt her
confidence ebbing away before his stern resolve. Fearful of losing it
altogether, she drew away her hands, and turned to the sofa.
"Oh, Jim," she said, "sit down and let us talk it over."
She sank back among the cushions and drawing a bowl of roses hastily
toward her, buried her face in them, fearing again to meet the settled
sadness of his eyes.
Jim Airth sat down--in the chair left vacant by Lord Ingleby and Peter.
"Listen, dear," he said. "I need not ask you never to doubt my love. That
would be absurd from me to you. I love you as I did not know it was
possible for a man to love a woman. I love you in such a way that every
fibre of my being will hunger for you night and day--through all the
years to come. But--well, it would always have come hard to me to stand
in another man's shoes, and take what had been his. I did not feel this
when I thought I was following Sergeant O'Mara, because I knew he must
always have been in all things so utterly apart from you. I could, under
different circumstances, have brought myself to follow Ingleby, because I
realise that he never awakened in you such love as is yours for me. His
possessions would not have weighted me, because it so happens I have
lands and houses of my own, where we could have lived. But, to stand in a
dead man's shoes, when he is dead through an act of mine; to take to
myself another man's widow, when she would still, but for a reckless
movement of my own right hand, have been a wife--Myra, I could not do it!
Even with our great love, it would not mean happiness. Think of
it--think! As we stood together in the sight of God, while the Church, in
solemn voice, required and charged us both, as we should answer at the
dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts should be
disclosed, that if either of us knew any impediment why we might not be
lawfully joined together in matrimony, we should then confess it--I
should cry: 'Her husband died by my hand!' and leave the church, with the
brand of Cain, and the infamy of David, upon me."
Myra lifted frightened eyes; met his, beseechingly; then bent again over
the roses.
"Or, even if I passed through that ordeal, standing mute in the solemn
silence, what of the moment when the Church bade me take your right hand
in my right hand--Myra, _my_ right hand?"
She rose, came swiftly over, and knelt before him. She took his hand, and
covered it with tears and kisses. She held it, sobbing, to her heart.
"Dearest," she said, "I will never ask you to do, for my sake, anything
you feel impossible or wrong. But, oh, in this, I know you are mistaken.
I cannot argue or explain. I cannot put my reasons into words. But I
_know_ our living, longing, love _ought_ to come before the happenings of
a dead past. Michael lost his life through an accident. That the accident
was caused by a mistake on your part, is fearfully hard for you. But
there is no moral wrong in it. You might as well blame the company whose
boat took him abroad; or the government which decided on the expedition;
or the War Office people, who accepted him when he volunteered. I am sure
I don't know what David did; I thought he was a quite excellent person.
But I _do_ know about Cain; and I am perfectly certain that the brand of
Cain could never rest on anyone, because of an unpremeditated accident.
Oh, Jim! Cannot you look at it reasonably?"
"I looked at it reasonably--after a while--until yesterday," said Jim
Airth. "At first, of course, all was blank, ghastly despair. Oh, Myra,
let me tell you! I have never been able to tell anyone. Go back to the
couch; I can't let you kneel here. Sit down over there, and let me tell
you."
Lady Ingleby rose at once and returned to her seat; then sat
listening--her yearning eyes fixed upon his bowed head. He had
momentarily forgotten what the events of that night had cost her; so also
had she. Her only thought was of his pain.
Jim Airth began to speak, in low, hurried tones; haunted with a horror of
reminiscence.
"I can see it now. The little stuffy tent; the hidden light. I was
already sickening for fever, working with a temperature of 102. I hadn't
slept for two nights, and my head felt as if it were two large eyes, and
those eyes, both bruises. I knew I ought to knock under and give the job
to another man; but Ingleby and I had worked it all out together, and I
was dead keen on it. It was a place where no big guns could go; but our
little arrangement which you could carry in one hand, would do better and
surer work, than half a dozen big guns.
"There was a long wait after Ingleby and the other fellow--it was
Ingram--started. Cathcart, left behind with me, was in and out of the
tent; but he couldn't stay still two minutes; he was afraid of missing
the rush. So I was alone when the signal came. We found afterwards that
Ingram had crawled out of the tunnel, and gone to take a message to the
nearest ambush. Ingleby was left alone. He signalled: 'Placed,' as
agreed. I took it to be 'Fire!' and acted instantly. The moment I had
done it, I realised my mistake. But that same instant came the roar, and
the hot silent night was turned to pandemonium. I dashed out of the tent,
shouting for Ingleby. Good God! It was like hell! The yelling swearing
Tommies, making up for the long enforced silence and inaction; the hordes
of dark devilish faces, leering in their fury, and jeering at our
discomfiture; for inside their outer wall, was a rampart of double the
strength, and we were no nearer taking Targai.
"Afterwards--if I hadn't owned up at once to my mistake, nobody would
have known how the thing had happened. Even then, they tried to persuade
me the wrong signal had been given; but I knew better. And on the spot,
it was impossible to find--well, any actual proofs of what had happened.
The gap had been filled at once with crowds of yelling jostling Tommies,
mad to get into the town. Jove, how those chaps fight when they get the
chance. When all was over, several were missing who were not among the
dead. They must have forced themselves in where they could not get back,
and been taken prisoners. God alone knows their fate, poor beggars. Yet I
envied them; for when the row was over, my hell began.
"Myra, I would have given my whole life to have had that minute over
again. And it was maddening to know that the business might have been
done all right with any old fuse. Only we were so keen over our new ideas
for signalling, and our portable electric apparatus. Oh, good Lord! I
knew despair, those days and nights! I was down with fever, and they took
away my sword, and guns, and razors. I couldn't imagine why. Even despair
doesn't take me that way. But if a chap could have come into my tent and
said: 'You didn't kill Ingleby after all. He's all right and alive!' I
would have given my life gladly for that moment's relief. But no present
anguish can undo a past mistake.
"Well, I pulled through the fever; life had to be lived, and I suppose
I'm not the sort of chap to take a morbid view. When I found the thing
was to be kept quiet; when the few who knew the ins-and-outs stood by me
like the good fellows they were, saying it might have happened to any of
them, and as soon as I got fit again I should see the only rotten thing
would be to let it spoil my future; I made up my mind to put it clean
away, and live it down. You know they say, out in the great western
country: 'God Almighty hates a quitter.' It is one of the stimulating
tenets of their fine practical theology. I had fought through other hard
times. I determined to fight through this. I succeeded so well, that it
even seemed natural to go on with the work Ingleby and I had been doing
together, and carry it through. And when notes of his were needed, I came
to his own home without a qualm, to ask his widow--the woman I, by my
mistake, had widowed--for permission to have and to use them.
"I came--my mind full of the rich joy of life and love, with scarcely
room for a passing pang of regret, as I entered the house without a
master, the home without a head, knowing I was about to meet the woman I
had widowed. Truly 'The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind
exceeding small.' I had thrown off too easily what should have been a
lifelong burden of regret.
"In the woman I had widowed I found--the woman I was about to wed! Good
God! Was there ever so hard a retribution?"
"Jim," said Myra, gently, "is there not another side to the picture? Does
it not strike you that it should have seemed beautiful to find that God
in His wonderful providence had put you in a position to be able to take
care of Michael's widow, left so helpless and alone; that in saving her
life by the strength of your right hand, you had atoned for the death
that hand had unwittingly dealt; that, though the past cannot be undone,
it can sometimes be wiped out by the present? Oh, Jim! Cannot you see it
thus, and keep and hold the right to take care of me forever? My belovèd!
Let us never, from this moment, part. I will come away with you at once.
We can get a special licence, and be married immediately. We will let
Shenstone, and let the house in Park Lane, and live abroad, anywhere you
will, Jim; only together--together! Take me away to-day. Maggie O'Mara
can attend me, until we are married. But I can't face life without you.
Jim--I can't! God knows, I can't!"
Jim Airth looked up, a gleam of hope in his sad eyes.
Then he looked away, that her appealing loveliness might not too much
tempt him, while making his decision. He lifted his eyes; and, alas! they
fell on the portrait over the mantelpiece.
He shivered.
"I can never marry Lord Ingleby's widow," he said. "Myra, how can you
wish it? The thing would haunt us! It would be evil--unnatural. Night and
day, it would be there. It would come between us. Some day you would
reproach me----"
"Ah, hush!" cried Myra, sharply. "Not that! I am suffering enough. At
least spare me that!" Then, putting aside once more her own pain: "Would
it not be happiness to you, Jim?" she asked, with wistful gentleness.
"Happiness?" cried Jim Airth, violently, "It would be hell!"
Lady Ingleby rose, her face as white as the large arum lily in the corner
behind her.
"Then that settles it," she said; "and, do you know, I think we had
better not speak of it any more. I am going to ring for tea. And, if you
will excuse me for a few moments, while they are bringing it, I will
search among my husband's papers, and try to find those you require for
your book."
She passed swiftly out. Through the closed door, the man she left alone
heard her giving quiet orders in the hall.
He crossed the room, in two great strides, to follow her. But at the door
he paused; turned, and came slowly back.
He stood on the hearthrug, with bent head; rigid, motionless.
Suddenly he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby's portrait.
"Curse you!" he said through clenched teeth, and beat his fists upon the
marble mantelpiece. "Curse your explosives! And curse your inventions!
And curse you for taking her first!" Then he dropped into a chair, and
buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God forgive me!" he whispered,
brokenly. "But there is a limit to what a man can bear."
He scarcely noticed the entrance of the footman who brought tea. But when
a lighter step paused at the door, he lifted a haggard face, expecting to
see Myra.
A quiet woman entered, simply dressed in black merino. Her white linen
collar and cuffs gave her the look of a hospital nurse. Her dark hair,
neatly parted, was smoothly coiled around her head. She came in,
deferentially; yet with a quiet dignity of manner.
"I have come to pour your tea, my lord," she said. "Lady Ingleby is not
well, and fears she must remain in her room. She asks me to give you
these papers."
Then the Earl of Airth and Monteith rose to his feet, and held out his
hand.
"I think you must be Mrs. O'Mara," he said. "I am glad to meet you, and
it is kind of you to give me tea. I have heard of you before; and I
believe I saw you yesterday, on the steps of your pretty house, as I
drove up the avenue. Will you allow me to tell you how often, when we
stood shoulder to shoulder in times of difficulty and danger, I had
reason to respect and admire the brave comrade I knew as Sergeant
O'Mara?"
* * * * *
Before quitting Shenstone, Jim Airth sat at Myra's davenport and wrote a
letter, leaving it with Mrs. O'Mara to place in Lady Ingleby's hands as
soon as he had gone.
"I do not wonder you felt unable to see me again. Forgive me for all the
grief I have caused, and am causing, you. I shall go abroad as soon as
may be; but am obliged to remain in town until I have completed work
which I am under contract with my publishers to finish. It will take a
month, at most.
"If you want me, Myra--I mean if you _need_ me--I could come at any
moment. A wire to my Club would always find me.
"May I know how you are?
"Wholly yours,
"Jim Airth."
To this Lady Ingleby replied on the following day.
"DEAR JIM,
"I shall always want you; but I could never send unless the coming would
mean happiness for you.
"I know you decided as you felt right,
"I am quite well.
"God bless you always.
"MYRA."