The Mistress of Shenstone - Florence Louisa Barclay (top inspirational books .TXT) 📗

oh, you Tease! There was I, ramping with impatience at every wasted moment; and here were you, sitting under this tree, hiding your face and pretending to be Lady Ingleby! The astonished and astonishing old party in the eyebrows, certainly pointed you out as Lady Ingleby when he started me off on my pilgrimage. I say, how lovely you look! What billowy softness! It wouldn't do for cliff-climbing; but its A.I. for sitting on lawns.... I can't help it! I must!"

"Jim," said Myra, laughing and pushing him away; "what has come to you, you dearest old boy? You will really have to behave! We are not in the honeysuckle arbour. 'The astonishing old party in the eyebrows' is most likely observing us from a window, and will have good cause to look astonished, if he sees you 'carrying on' in such a manner. Jim, how nice you look in your town clothes. I always like a grey frock-coat. Stand up, and let me see.... Oh, look at the green of the turf on those immaculate knees! What a pity. Did you don all this finery for me?"

"Of course not, silly!" said Jim Airth, rubbing his knees vigorously. "When I haul you up cliffs, I wear old Norfolk coats; and when I duck you in the sea, I wear flannels. I considered this the correct attire in which to pay a formal call on Lady Ingleby; and now, before she has had a chance of being duly impressed by it, I have spoilt my knees hopelessly, worshipping at your shrine! Where is Lady Ingleby? Why doesn't she keep her appointments?"

"Jim," said Myra, looking up at him with eyes full of unspeakable love, yet dancing with excitement and delight; "Jim, do you admire this place?"

"This place?" cried Jim, stepping back a pace, so as to command a good view of the lake and woods beyond. "It is absolutely perfect. We have nothing like this in Scotland. You can't beat for all round beauty a real old mellow lived-in English country seat; especially when you get a twenty acre lake, with islands and swans, all complete. And I suppose the woods beyond, as far as one can see, belong to the Inglebys--or rather, to Lady Ingleby. What a pity there is no son."

"Jim," said Myra, "I have so looked forward to showing you my home."

He stepped close to her at once. "Then show it to me, dear," he said. "I would rather be alone with you in your own little home--I saw it, as we drove up--than waiting about, in this vast expanse of beauty, for Lady Ingleby."

"Jim," said Myra, "do you remember a little tune I often hummed down in Cornwall; and, when you asked me what it was, I said you should hear the words some day?"

Jim looked puzzled. "Really dear--you hummed so many little tunes----"

"Oh, I know," said Myra; "and I have not much ear. But this was very special. I want to sing it to you now. Listen!"

And looking up at him, her soft eyes full of love, Myra sang, with slight alterations of her own, the last verse of the old Scotch ballad, "Huntingtower."


"Blair in Athol's mine, Jamie,
Fair Dunkeld is mine, laddie;
Saint Johnstown's bower,
And Huntingtower,
And all that's mine, is thine, laddie."


"Very pretty," said Jim, "but you've mixed it, my dear. Jamie bestowed all his possessions on the lassie. You sang it the wrong way round."

"No, no," cried Myra, eagerly. "There _is_ no wrong way round. Providing they both love, it does not really matter which gives. The one who happens to possess, bestows. If you were a cowboy, Jim, and you loved a woman with lands and houses, in taking her, you would take all that was hers."

"I guess I'd take her out to my ranch and teach her to milk cows," laughed Jim Airth. Then turning about under the tree and looking in all directions: "But seriously, Myra, where is Lady Ingleby? She should keep her appointments. We cannot waste our whole afternoon waiting here. I want my girl; and I want her in her own little home, alone. Cannot we find Lady Ingleby?"

Then Myra rose, radiant, and came and stood before him. The sunbeams shone through the beech leaves and danced in her grey eyes. She had never looked more perfect in her sweet loveliness. The man took it all in, and the glory of possession lighted his handsome face.

She came and stood before him, laying her hands upon his breast. He wrapped his arms lightly about her. He saw she had something to say; and he waited.

"Jim," said Myra, "Jim, dearest. There is just one name I want to bear, more than any other. There is just one thing I long to be. Then I shall be content. I want to have the right to be called 'Mrs. Jim Airth.' I want more than all else beside, to be your wife. But--until I am that; and may it be very soon! until you make me 'Mrs. Jim Airth'--dearest--_I_--am Lady Ingleby."


CHAPTER XVI


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 beloved, 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