LORD INGLEBY'S WIFE
The journey down from town had been as satisfactorily rapid as even Jim
Airth could desire. He had caught the train at Charing Cross by five
seconds.
The hour's run passed quickly in glowing anticipation of that which was
being brought nearer by every turn of the wheels.
Myra's telegram was drawn from his pocket-book many times. Each word
seemed fraught with tender meaning, "_Come to me at once._" It was so
exactly Myra's simple direct method of expression. Most people would have
said, "Come here," or "Come to Shenstone," or merely "Come." "Come _to
me_" seemed a tender, though unconscious, response to his resolution of
the night before: "I will arise and go to my belovèd."
Now that the parting was nearly over, he realised how terrible had been
the blank of three weeks spent apart from Myra. Her sweet personality was
so knit into his life, that he needed her--not at any particular time, or
in any particular way--but always; as the air he breathed; or as the
light, which made the day.
And she? He drew a well-worn letter from his pocket-book--the only letter
he had ever had from Myra.
"I shall always want you," it said; "but I could never send, unless the
coming would mean happiness for you."
Yet she _had_ sent. Then she had happiness in store for him. Had she
instinctively realised his change of mind? Or had she gauged his
desperate hunger by her own, and understood that the satisfying of that,
_must_ mean happiness, whatever else of sorrow might lie in the
background?
But there should be no background of anything but perfect joy, when Myra
was his wife. Would he not have the turning of the fair leaves of her
book of life? Each page should unfold fresh happiness, hold new
surprises as to what life and love could mean. He would know how to guard
her from the faintest shadow of disillusion. Even now it was his right
to keep her from that. How much, after all, should he tell her of the
heart-searchings of these wretched weeks? Last night he had meant to
tell her everything; he had meant to say: "I have sinned against
heaven--the heaven of our love--and before thee; and am no more
worthy...." But was it not essential to a woman's happiness to believe the
man she loved, to be in all ways, worthy? Out of his pocket came again
the well-worn letter. "I know you decided as you felt right," wrote Myra.
Why perplex her with explanations? Let the dead past bury its dead. No
need to cloud, even momentarily, the joy with which they could now go
forward into a new life. And what a life! Wedded life with Myra----
"Shenstone Junction!" shouted a porter and Jim Airth was across the
platform before the train had stopped.
The tandem ponies waited outside the station, and this time Jim Airth
gathered up the reins with a gay smile, flicking the leader, lightly.
Before, he had said: "I never drive other people's ponies," in response
to "Her ladyship's" message; but now--"All that's mine, is thine,
laddie."
He whistled "Huntingtower," as he drove between the hayfields. Sprays of
overhanging traveller's-joy brushed his shoulder in the narrow lanes. It
was good to be alive on such a day. It was good not to be leaving
England, in England's most perfect weather.... Should he take her home to
Scotland for their honeymoon, or down to Cornwall?
What a jolly little church!
Evidently Myra never slacked pace for a gate. How the ponies dashed
through, and into the avenue!
Poor Mrs. O'Mara! It had been difficult to be civil to her, when she had
appeared instead of Myra to give him tea.
Of course Scotland would be jolly, with so much to show her; but Cornwall
meant more, in its associations. Yes; he would arrange for the honeymoon
in Cornwall; be married in the morning, up in town; no fuss; then go
straight down to the old Moorhead Inn. And after dinner, they would sit
in the honeysuckle arbour, and----
Groatley showed him into Myra's sitting-room.
She was not there.
He walked over to the mantelpiece. It seemed years since that evening
when, in a sudden fury against Fate, he had crashed his fists upon its
marble edge. He raised his eyes to Lord Ingleby's portrait. Poor old
chap! He looked so content, and so pleased with himself, and his little
dog. But he must have always appeared more like Myra's father than
her--than anything else.
On the mantelpiece lay a telegram. After the manner of leisurely country
post-offices, the full address was written on the envelope. It caught Jim
Airth's eye, and hardly conscious of doing so, he took it up and read it.
"_Lady Ingleby, Shenstone Park, England._" He laid it down. "England?" he
wondered, idly. "Who can have been wiring to her from abroad?"
Then he turned. He had not heard her enter; but she was standing behind
him.
"Myra!" he cried, and caught her to his heart.
The rapture and relief of that moment were unspeakable. No words seemed
possible. He could only strain her to him, silently, with all his
strength, and realise that she was safely there at last.
Myra had lifted her arms, and laid them lightly about his neck, hiding
her face upon his breast.... He never knew exactly when he began to
realise a subtle change about the quality of her embrace; the woman's
passionate tenderness seemed missing; it rather resembled the trustful
clinging of a little child. An uneasy foreboding, for which he could not
account, assailed Jim Airth.
"Kiss me, Myra!" he said, peremptorily, and she, lifting her sweet face
to his, kissed him at once. But it was the pure loving kiss of a little
child.
Then she withdrew herself from his embrace; and, standing back, he looked
at her, perplexed. The light upon her face seemed hardly earthly.
"Oh, Jim," she said, "God's ways are wonderful! I have such news for you,
my friend. I thank God, it came before you had gone beyond recall. And I,
who had been the one, unwittingly, to add so terribly to the weight of
the lifelong cross you had to bear, am privileged to be the one to lift
it quite away. Jim--_you did not do it!_"
Jim Airth gazed at her in troubled amazement. Into his mind,
involuntarily, came the awesome Scotch word "fey."
"I did not do what, dear?" he asked, gently, as if he were speaking to a
little child whom he was anxious not to frighten.
"You did not kill Michael."
"What makes you think I did not kill Michael, dear?" questioned Jim
Airth, gently.
"Because," said Myra, with clasped hands, "Michael is alive."
"Dearest heart," said Jim Airth, tenderly, "you are not well. These awful
three weeks, and what went before, have been too much for you. The strain
has upset you. I was a brute to go off and leave you. But you knew I did
what I thought right at the time; didn't you, Myra? Only now I see the
whole thing quite differently. Your view was the true one. We ought to
have acted upon it, and been married at once."
"Oh, Jim," said Myra, "thank God we didn't! It would have been so
terrible now. It must have been a case of 'Even there shall Thy hand lead
me, and Thy right hand shall hold me.' In our unconscious ignorance, we
might have gone away together, not knowing Michael was alive."
Beads of perspiration stood on Jim Airth's forehead.
"My darling, you are ill," he said, in a voice of agonised anxiety. "I am
afraid you are very ill. Do sit down quietly on the couch, and let me
ring. I must speak to the O'Mara woman, or somebody. Why didn't the fools
let me know? Have you been ill all these weeks?"
Myra let him place her on the couch; smiling up at him reassuringly, as
he stood before her.
"You must not ring the bell, Jim," she said. "Maggie is at the Lodge; and
Groatley would be so astonished. I am quite well."
He looked around, in man-like helplessness; yet feeling something must be
done. A long ivory fan, of exquisite workmanship, lay on a table near. He
caught it up, and handed it to her. She took it; and to please him,
opened it, fanning herself gently as she talked.
"I am not ill, Jim; really dear, I am not. I am only strangely happy and
thankful. It seems too wonderful for our poor earthly hearts to
understand. And I am a little frightened about the future--but you will
help me to face that, I know. And I am rather worried about little things
I have done wrong. It seems foolish--but as soon as I realised Michael
was coming home, I became conscious of hosts of sins of omission, and I
scarcely know where to begin to set them right. And the worst of all
is--Jim! we have lost little Peter's grave! No one seems able to locate
it. It is so trying of the gardeners; and so wrong of me; because of
course I ought to have planted it with flowers. And Michael would have
expected a little marble slab, by now. But I, stupidly, was too ill to
see to the funeral; and now Anson declares they put him in the
plantation, and George swears it was in the shrubbery. I have been
consulting Groatley who always has ideas, and expresses them so well, and
he says: 'Choose a suitable spot, m' lady; order a handsome tomb; plant
it with choice flowers; and who's to be the wiser, till the
resurrection?' Groatley is always resourceful; but of course I never
deceive Michael. Fancy little Peter rising from the shrubbery, when
Michael had mourned for years over a marble tomb on the lawn! But it
really is a great worry. They must all begin digging, and keep on until
they find something definite. It will be good for the shrubbery and the
plantation, like the silly old man in the parable--no, I mean fable--who
pretended he had hidden a treasure. Oh, Jim, don't look so distressed. I
ought not to pour out all these trivial things to you; but since I have
known Michael is coming back, my mind seems to have become foolish and
trivial again. Michael always has that effect upon me; because--though he
himself is so great and clever--he really thinks trivial and unimportant
things are a woman's vocation in life. But oh, Jim--Jim Airth--with _you_
I am always lifted straight to the big things; and our big thing to-day
is this:--that you never killed Michael. Do you remember telling me how,
as you lay in your tent recovering from the fever, if some one could have
come in and told you Michael was alive and well, and that you had not
killed him after all, you would have given your life for the relief of
that moment? Well, _I_ am that 'some one,' and _this_ is the 'moment';
and when first I had the telegram I could think of nothing--absolutely
nothing, Jim--but what it would be to you."
"What telegram?" gasped Jim Airth. "In heaven's name, Myra, what do you
mean?"
"Michael's telegram. It lies on the mantelpiece. Read it, Jim."
Jim Airth turned, took up the telegram and drew it from the envelope with
steady fingers. He still thought Myra was raving.
He read it through, slowly. The wording was unmistakable; but he read it
through again. As he did so he slightly turned, so that his back was
toward the couch.
The blow was so stupendous. He could only realise one thing, for the
moment:--that the woman who watched him read it, must not as yet see his
face.
She spoke.
"Is it not almost impossible to believe, Jim? Ronald and Billy were
lunching here, when it came. Billy seemed stunned; but Ronnie was
delighted. He said he had always believed the first men to rush in had
been captured, and that no actual proofs of Michael's death had ever been
found. They never explained to me before, that there had been no funeral.
I suppose they thought it would seem more horrible. But I never take much
account of bodies. If it weren't for the burden of having a weird little
urn about, and wondering what to do with it, I should approve of
cremation. I sometimes felt I ought to make a pilgrimage to see the
grave. I knew Michael would have wished it. He sets much store by
graves--all the Inglebys lie in family vaults. That makes it worse about
Peter. Ronnie went up to town at once to telegraph out the money. Billy
went with him. Do you think five hundred is enough? Jim?--Jim! Are you
not thankful? Do say something, Jim."
Jim Airth put back the telegram upon the mantelpiece. His big hand
shook.
"What is 'Veritas'?" he asked, without looking round.
"That is our private code, Jim; Michael's and mine. My mother once wired
to me in Michael's name, and to him in mine--poor mamma often does
eccentric things, to get her own way--and it made complications, Michael
was very much annoyed. So we settled always to sign important telegrams
'Veritas,' which means: 'This is really from me.'"
"Then--your husband--is coming home to you?" said Jim Airth, slowly.
"Yes, Jim," the sweet voice faltered, for the first time, and grew
tremulous. "Michael is coming home."
Then Jim Airth turned round, and faced her squarely. Myra had never seen
anything so terrible as his face.
"You are mine," he said; "not his."
Myra looked up at him, in dumb sorrowful appeal. She closed the ivory
fan, clasping her hands upon it. The unquestioning finality of her
patient silence, goaded Jim Airth to madness, and let loose the torrent
of his fierce wild protest against this inevitable--this unrelenting,
fate.
"You are mine," he said, "not his. Your love is mine! Your body is mine!
Your whole life is mine! I will not leave you to another man. Ah, I know
I said we could not marry! I know I said I should go abroad. But you
would have remained faithful to me; and I, to you. We might have been
apart; we might have been lonely; we might have been at different ends of
the earth; but--we should have been each other's. I could have left you
to loneliness; but, by God, I will not leave you to another!"
Myra rose, moved forward a few steps and stood, leaning her arm upon the
mantelpiece and looking down upon the bank of ferns and lilies.
"Hush, Jim," she said, gently. "You forget to whom you are speaking."
"I am speaking," cried Jim Airth, in furious desperation, "to the woman I
have won for my own; and who is mine, and none other's. If it had not
been for my pride and my folly, we should have been married by
now--_married_, Myra--and far away. I left you, I know; but--by heaven, I
may as well tell you all now--it was pride--damnable false pride--that
drove me away. I always meant to come back. I was waiting for you to
send; but anyhow I should have come back. Would to God I had done as you
implored me to do! By now we should have been together--out of reach of
this cursed telegram,--and far away!"
Myra slowly lifted her eyes and looked at him. He, blinded by pain and
passion, failed to mark the look, or he might have taken warning. As it
was, he rushed on, headlong.
Myra, very white, with eyelids lowered, leaned against the mantelpiece;
slowly furling and unfurling the ivory fan.
"But, darling," urged Jim Airth, "it is not yet too late. Oh, Myra, I
have loved you so! Our love has been so wonderful. Have I not taught you
what love is? The poor cold travesty you knew before--_that_ was not
love! Oh, Myra! you will come away with me, my own belovèd? You won't put
me through the hell of leaving you to another man? Myra, look at me! Say
you will come."
Then Lady Ingleby slowly closed the fan, grasping it firmly in her right
hand. She threw back her head, and looked Jim Airth full in the eyes.
"So _this_ is your love," she said. "This is what it means? Then I thank
God I have hitherto only known the 'cold travesty,' which at least has
kept me pure, and held me high. What? Would you drag _me_ down to the
level of the woman you have scorned for a dozen years? And, dragging me
down, would you also trail, with me, in the mire, the noble name of the
man whom you have ventured to call friend? My husband may not have given
me much of those things a woman desires. But he has trusted me with his
name, and with his honour; he has left me, mistress of his home. When he
comes back he will find me what he himself made me--mistress of
Shenstone; he will find me where he left me, awaiting his return. You are
no longer speaking to a widow, Lord Airth; nor to a woman left desolate.
You are speaking to Lord Ingleby's wife, and you may as well learn how
Lord Ingleby's wife guards Lord Ingleby's name, and defends her own
honour, and his." She lifted her hand swiftly and struck him, with the
ivory fan, twice across the cheek. "Traitor!" she said, "and coward!
Leave this house, and never set foot in it again!"
Jim Airth staggered back, his face livid--ashen, his hand involuntarily
raised to ward off a third blow. Then the furious blood surged back. Two
crimson streaks marked his cheek. He sprang forward; with a swift
movement caught the fan from Lady Ingleby's hands, and whirled it above
his head. His eyes blazed into hers. For a moment she thought he was
going to strike her. She neither flinched nor moved; only the faintest
smile curved the corners of her mouth into a scornful question.
Then Jim Airth gripped the fan in both hands; with a twist of his strong
fingers snapped it in half, the halves into quarters, and again, with
another wrench, crushed those into a hundred fragments--flung them at her
feet; and, turning on his heel, left the room, and left the house.