Part 12 (1/2)

”I can't,” he said. ”Hus.h.!.+ I can't. Not up here--it means too much. Wait until we get back to earth again. Then--Oh, I say! Can't you help?”

This kind of emotion was an unknown quant.i.ty to Lady Ingleby. So was the wild beating of her own heart. But she knew the situation called for tact, and was not tactful speech always her special forte?

”Jim,” she said, ”are you not frightfully hungry? I should be; only I had an enormous tea before coming out. Would you like to hear what I had for tea? No. I am afraid it would make you feel worse. I suppose dinner at the inn was over, long ago. I wonder what variation of fried fish they had, and whether Miss Susannah choked over a fish-bone, and had to be requested to leave the room. Oh, do you remember that evening? You looked so dismayed and alarmed, I quite thought you were going to the rescue! I wonder what time it is?”

”We can soon tell that,” said Jim Airth, cheerfully. He dived into his pocket, produced a matchbox which he had long been fingering turn about with his pipe and tobacco-pouch, struck a light, and looked at his watch.

Myra saw the lean brown face, in the weird flare of the match. She also saw the horrid depth so close to them, which she had almost forgotten. A sense of dizziness came over her. She longed to cling to his arm; but he had drawn it resolutely away.

”Half past ten,” said Jim Airth. ”Miss Murgatroyd has donned her night-cap. Miss Eliza has sighed: '_Good-night, summer, good-night, good-night_,' at her open lattice; and Susie, folding her plump hands, has said: '_Now I lay me_.'”

Myra laughed. ”And they will all be listening for you to dump out your big boots,” she said. ”That is always your 'Good-night' to the otherwise silent house.”

”No, really? Does it make a noise?” said Jim Airth, ruefully. ”Never again----?”

”Oh, but you must,” said Myra. ”I love--I mean _Susie_ loves the sound, and listens for it. Jim, that match reminds me:--why don't you smoke?

Surely it would help the hunger, and be comfortable and cheering.”

Jim Airth's pipe and pouch were out in a twinkling.

”Sure you don't mind? It doesn't make you sick, or give you a headache?”

”No, I think I like it,” said Myra. ”In fact, I am sure I like it. That is, I like to sit beside it. No, I don't do it myself.”

Another match flared, and again she saw the chasm, and the nearness of the edge. She bore it until the pipe was drawing well. Then: ”Oh, Jim,”

she said, ”I am so sorry; but I am afraid I am becoming dizzy. I feel as though I must fall over.” She gave a half sob.

Jim Airth turned, instantly alert.

”Nonsense,” he said, but the sharp word sounded tender. ”Four good feet of width are as safe as forty. Change your position a bit.” He put his arm around her, and moved her so that she leant more completely against the cliff at their backs. ”Now forget the edge,” he said, ”and listen. I am going to tell you camp yarns, and tales of the Wild West.”

Then as they sat on in the darkness, Jim Airth smoked and talked, painting vivid word-pictures of life and adventure in other lands. And Myra listened, absorbed and enchanted; every moment realising more fully, as he unconsciously revealed it, the manly strength and honest simplicity of his big nature, with its fun and its fire; its huge capacity for enjoyment; its corresponding capacity for pain.

And, as she listened, her heart said: ”Oh, my cosmopolitan cowboy! Thank G.o.d you found no t.i.tle in the book, to put you off. Thank G.o.d you found no name which you could 'place,' relegating its poor possessor to the ranks of 'society leaders' in which you would have had no share. And, oh!

most of all, I thank G.o.d for the doctor's wise injunction: 'Leave behind you your own ident.i.ty'!”

CHAPTER XII

UNDER THE MORNING STAR

The night wore on.

Stars shone in the deep purple sky; bright watchful eyes looking down unwearied upon the sleeping world.

The sound of the sea below fell from a roar to a murmur, and drew away into the distance.

It was a warm June night, and very still.

Jim Airth had moved along the ledge to the further end, and sat swinging his legs over the edge. His content was so deep and full, that ordinary speech seemed impossible; and silence, a glad necessity. The prospect of that which the future might hold in store, made the ledge too narrow to contain him. He sought relief in motion, and swung his long legs out into the darkness.