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

a man doing a rest-cure?"

"Well, I've heard of _you_, at Overdene," said Billy, maliciously.

"Rot! You don't call staying with the duchess a rest-cure? Good heavens, man! You get about the liveliest time of your life when her Grace of Meldrum undertakes to nurse you. Did you hear about old Pilberry the parson, and the toucan?"

"Yes, shut up. You've told me that unholy story twice already. I say, Ronnie! We are begging the question. Who's to tell her?"

"You," said Ronald decidedly. "She cares for you like a mother, and will take it more easily from you. Then I can step in, later on, with--er--_manly_ comfort."

"Confound you!" said Billy, highly indignant. "I'm not such a kid as you make out. But I'll tell you this:--If I thought it would be for her real happiness, and could be pulled through, I would tell her I did it; then find Airth to-morrow and tell him I had told her so."

"Ass!" said Ronnie, affectionately. "As if that could mend matters. Don't you know the earl? He was against the hushing-up business from the first. He would simply punch your head for daring to lie to her, and go and tell her the exact truth himself. Besides, at this moment, he is thinking more of his side of the question, than of hers. We fellows have a way of doing that. If he had thought first of her, he would have stayed with her and seen her through, instead of rushing off like this, leaving her heart-broken and perplexed."

"Confound him!" said Billy, earnestly.

"I say, Billy! You know women." It was the first time Ronnie had admitted this. "Don't you think--if a woman turned in horror from a man she had loved, she might--if he were tactfully on the spot--turn _to_ a man who had long loved her, and of whom she had undoubtedly been fond?"

"My knowledge of women," declaimed Billy, dramatically, "leads me to hope that she would fall into the arms of the man who loved her well enough to risk incurring her displeasure by bravely telling her himself that which she ought----"

"Confound you!" whispered Ronnie, who had glanced past Billy, "Shut up!--The meshes of this net are better than the other, and the new patent sockets undoubtedly keep it----"

"You patient people!" said Lady Ingleby's voice, just behind Billy. "Don't you badly need tea?"

"We were admiring the new net," said Ronald Ingram, frowning at Billy, who with his back to Lady Ingleby, continued admiring the new net, helplessly speechless!

There were brave attempts at merriment during tea. Ronald told all the latest Overdene stories; then described the annual concert which had just taken place.

"Mrs. Dalmain was there, and sang divinely. She sings her husband's songs; he accompanies her. It is awfully fine to see the light on his blind face as he listens, while her glorious voice comes pouring forth. When the song is over, he gets up from the piano, gives her his arm, and apparently leads her off. Very few people realise that, as a matter of fact, she is guiding him. She gave, as an encore, a jolly little new thing of his--quite simple--but everybody wanted it twice over; an air like summer wind blowing through a pine wood, with an accompaniment like a blackbird whistling; words something about 'On God's fair earth, 'mid blossoms blue'--I forget the rest. Go ahead, Bill!"


"There is no room for sad despair,
When heaven's love is everywhere."


quoted Billy, who had an excellent memory.

Myra rose, hastily. "I must go in," she said. "But play as long as you like."

Billy walked beside her towards the shrubbery. "May I come in and see you, presently, dear Queen? There is something I want to say."

"Come when you will, Billy-boy," said Lady Ingleby, with a smile. "You will find me in my sitting-room."

And Billy looked furtively at Ronald, hoping he had not seen. Words and smile undoubtedly partook of the maternal!

* * * * *


It was a very grave-faced young man who, half an hour later, appeared in Lady Ingleby's sitting-room, closing the door carefully behind him. Lady Ingleby knew at once that he had come on some matter which, at all events to himself, appeared of paramount importance. Billy's days of youthful escapades were over. This must be something more serious.

She rose from her davenport and came to the sofa. "Sit down, Billy," she said, indicating an armchair opposite--Lord Ingleby's chair, and little Peter's. Both had now left it empty. Billy filled it readily, unconscious of its associations.

"Rippin' flowers," remarked Billy, looking round the room.

"Yes," said Lady Ingleby. She devoutly hoped Billy was not going to propose.

"Jolly room," said Billy; "at least, I always think so."

"Yes," said Lady Ingleby. "So do I."

Billy's eyes, roaming anxiously around for fresh inspiration, lighted on the portrait over the mantelpiece. He started and paled. Then he knew his hour had come. There must be no more beating about the bush.

Billy was a soldier, and a brave one. He had led a charge once, running up a hill ahead of his men, in face of a perfect hail of bullets. First came Billy; then the battalion. Not a man could keep within fifty yards of him. They always said afterwards that Billy came through that charge alive, because he sprinted so fast, that no bullets could touch him. He rushed at the subject now, with the same headlong courage.

"Lady Ingleby," he said, "there is something Ronnie and I both think you ought to know."

"Is there, Billy?" said Myra. "Then suppose you tell it me."

"We have sworn not to tell," continued Billy; "but I don't care a damn--I mean a pin--for an oath, if _your_ happiness is at stake."

"You must not break an oath, Billy, even for my sake," said Myra, gently.

"Well, you see--_if you wished it_, you were to be the one exception."

Suddenly Lady Ingleby understood. "Oh, Billy!" she said. "Does Ronald wish me to be told?"

This gave Billy a pang. So Ronnie really counted after all, and would walk in--over the broken hearts of Billy and another--in role of manly comforter. It was hard; but, loyally, Billy made answer.

"Yes; Ronnie says it is only right; and I think so too. I've come to do it, if you will let me."

Lady Ingleby sat, with clasped hands, considering. After all, what did it matter? What did anything matter, compared to the trouble with Jim?

She looked up at the portrait; but Michael's pictured face, intent on little Peter, gave her no sign.

If these boys wished to tell her, and get it off their minds, why should she not know? It would put a stop, once for all, to Ronnie's tragic love-making.

"Yes, Billy," she said. "You may as well tell me."

The room was very still. A rosebud tapped twice against the window-pane. It might have been a warning finger. Neither noticed it. It tapped a third time.

Billy cleared his throat, and swallowed, quickly.

Then he spoke.

"The man who made the blunder," he said, "and fired the mine too soon; the man who killed Lord Ingleby, by mistake, was the chap you call 'Jim Airth.'"


CHAPTER XIX


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 beloved," 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