The Mistress of Shenstone, Florence Louisa Barclay [if you liked this book .TXT] 📗

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!


CHAPTER XVII


"SURELY YOU KNEW?"

Myra Ingleby rose and wended her way slowly towards the house.

A stranger meeting her would probably have noticed nothing amiss with the tall graceful woman, whose pallor might well have been due to the unusual warmth of the day.

But the heart within her was dying.

Her joy had received a mortal wound. The man she adored, with a love which had placed him at the highest, was slowly slipping from his pedestal, and her hands were powerless to keep him there.

A woman may drag her own pride in the dust, and survive the process; but when the man she loves falls, then indeed her heart dies within her.

She had loved to call Jim Airth a cowboy. She knew him to be avowedly cosmopolitan. But was he also a slave to vulgar pride? Being plain Jim Airth himself, did he grudge noble birth and ancient lineage to those to whom they rightfully belonged? Professing to scorn titles, did he really set upon them so exaggerated a value, that he would turn from the woman he was about to wed, merely because she owned a title, while he had none?

Myra, entering the house, passed to her sitting-room. Green awnings shaded the windows. The fireplace was banked with ferns and lilies. Bowls of roses stood about; while here and there pots of growing freesias poured their delicate fragrance around.

Myra crossed to the hearthrug and stood gazing up at the picture of Lord Ingleby. The gentle refinement of the scholarly face seemed accentuated by the dim light. Lady Ingleby dwelt in memory upon the consistent courtesy of the dead man's manner; his unfailing friendliness and equability to all; courteous to men of higher rank, considerate to those of lower; genial to rich and poor alike.

"Oh, Michael," she whispered, "have I been unfaithful? Have I forgotten how good you were?"

But still her heart died within her. The man who had stalked across the lawn, leaving her without a touch or look, held it in the hollow of his hand.

A dog-cart clattered up to the portico. Men's voices sounded in the hall. Tramping feet hurried along the corridor. Then Billy's excited young voice cried, "May we come in?" followed by Ronnie's deeper tones, "If we shall not be in the way?" The next moment she was grasping a hand of each.

"You dear boys!" she said. "I have never been more glad to see you! Do sit down; or have you come to play tennis?"

"We have come to see _you_, dear Queen," said Billy. "We are staying at Overdene. The duchess had your letter. She told us the great news; also, that you were returning yesterday. So we came over to--to----"

"To congratulate," said Ronald Ingram; and he said it heartily and bravely.

"Thank you," said Myra, smiling at them, but her sweet voice was tremulous. These first congratulations, coming just now, were almost more than she could bear. Then, with characteristic simplicity and straightforwardness, she told these old friends the truth.

"You dear boys! It is quite sweet of you to come over; and an hour ago, you would have found me radiant. There cannot have been a happier woman in the whole world than I. But, you know, I met him, and we became engaged, while I was doing my very original rest-cure, which consisted chiefly in being Mrs. O'Mara, to all intents and purposes, instead of myself. This afternoon he knows for the first time that I am Lady Ingleby of Shenstone. And, boys, the shock has been too much for him. He is such a splendid man; but a dear delightful cowboy sort of person. He has lived a great deal abroad, and been everything you can imagine that bestrides a horse and does brave things. He finished up at your horrid little war, and got fever at Targai. You must have known him. He calls it 'a muddle on the frontier,' and now he is writing a book about it, and about other muddles, and how to avoid them. But he has a quite eccentric dislike to titles and big properties; so he has shied really badly at mine. He has gone off to 'face it out' alone. Hence you find me sad instead of gay."

Billy looked at Ronnie, telegraphing: "Is it? It must be! Shall we tell her?"

Ronnie telegraphed back: "It is! It can be no other. _You_ tell her."

Lady Ingleby became aware of these crosscurrents.

"What is it, boys?" she said,

"Dear Queen," cried Billy, with hardly suppressed excitement; "may we ask the cowboy person's name?"

"Jim Airth," replied Lady Ingleby, a sudden rush of colour flooding her pale cheeks.

"In that case," said Billy, "he is the chap we met tearing along to the railway station, as if all the furies were loose at his heels. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, nor, for that matter, in front of him; and our dog-cart had to take to the path! So he did not see two old comrades, nor did he hear their hail. But he cannot possibly have been fleeing from your title, dear lady, and hardly from your property; seeing that his own title is about the oldest known in Scottish history; while mile after mile of moor and stream and forest belong to him. Surely you knew that the fellow who called himself 'Jim Airth' when out ranching in the West, and still keeps it as his _nom-de-plume_, is--when at home--James, Earl of Airth and Monteith, and a few other names I have forgotten;--the finest old title in Scotland!"


CHAPTER XVIII


WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL

"Did you bring your rackets, boys?" Lady Ingleby had said, with fine self-control; adding, when they admitted rackets left in the hall, "Ah, I am glad you never can resist the chestnut court. It seems ages since I saw you two fight out a single. Do go on and begin. I will order tea out there in half an hour, and follow you."

Then she escaped to the terrace, flew across garden and lawn, and sought the shelter of the beeches. Arrived there, she sank into the chair in which Jim Airth had sat so immovable, and covered her face with her trembling fingers.

"Oh, Jim, Jim!" she sobbed. "My darling, how grievously I wronged you! My king among men! How I misjudged you! Imputing to you thoughts of which you, in your noble large-heartedness, would scarcely know the meaning. Oh, my dear, forgive me! And oh, come to me through this darkness and explain what I have done wrong; explain what it is you have to face; tell me what has come between us. For indeed, if you leave me, I shall die."

Myra now felt certain that the fault was hers; and she suffered less than when she had thought it his. Yet she was sorely perplexed. For, if the Earl of Airth and Monteith might write himself down "Jim Airth" in the Moorhead Inn visitors' book, and be blameless, why might not Lady Ingleby of Shenstone take an equally simple name, without committing an unpardonable offence?

Myra pondered, wept, and reasoned round in a circle, growing more and more bewildered and perplexed.

But by-and-by she went indoors and tried to remove all traces of recent tears. She must not let her sorrow make her selfish. Ronald and Billy would be wanting tea, and expecting her to join them.

* * * * *


Meanwhile the two friends, their rackets under their arms, had strolled through the shrubbery at the front of the house, to the beautiful tennis lawns, long renowned as being the most perfect in the neighbourhood. Many a tournament had there been fought out, in presence of a gay crowd, lining the courts, beneath the shady chestnut trees.

But on this day the place seemed sad and deserted. They played one set, in silence, hardly troubling to score; then walked to the net and stood close together, one on either side.

"We must tell her," said Ronald, examining his racket, minutely.

"I suppose we must," agreed Billy, reluctantly. "We could not let her marry him."

"Duffer! you don't suppose he would dream of marrying her? He will come back, and tell her himself to-morrow. We must tell her, to spare her that interview. She need never see him again."

"I say, Ron! Did you see her go quite pink when she told us his name? And in spite of the trouble to-day, she looks half a dozen years younger than when she went away. You know she does, old man!"

"Oh, that's the rest-cure," explained Ronnie, but without much conviction. "Rest-cures always have that effect. That's why women go in for them. Did you ever hear of