Part 24 (1/2)

”I am going to town,” said Billy, decidedly. Then he walked over to where the telegram still lay on the table. ”May I copy this?” he asked of Lady Ingleby.

”Do,” she said, without looking round.

”And Ronnie--you take the original to show them at the bank. Ah, no! I must keep that for Jim. Here is paper. Make two copies, Billy.”

Billy had already copied the message into his pocket-book. With shaking fingers he copied it again, handing the sheet to Ronald, without looking at him.

The note written, Lady Ingleby rose.

”Thank you, Ronald,” she said. ”Thank you, more than I can say. I think you will catch the train. And good-bye, Billy.”

But Billy was already in the motor.

CHAPTER XXII

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 pa.s.sed quickly in glowing antic.i.p.ation 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 beloved.”

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 ladys.h.i.+p'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.