Part 29 (1/2)

He closed the door, and came and stood before her.

For a few moments they looked steadily into one another's faces.

Then Jim Airth spoke, very low.

”It is so good of you to see me,” he said. ”It is almost more than I had ventured to hope. I am leaving England in a few hours. It would have been hard to go--without this. Now it will be easy.”

She lifted her eyes to his, and waited in silence.

”Myra,” he said, ”can you forgive me?”

”I do not know, Jim,” she answered, gently. ”I want to be quite honest with you, and with myself. If I had cared less, I could have forgiven more easily.”

”I know,” he said. ”Oh, Myra, I know. And I would not have you forgive lightly, so great a sin against our love. But, dear--if, before I go, you could say, 'I understand,' it would mean almost more to me, than if you said, 'I forgive.'”

”Jim,” said Myra, gently, a tremor of tenderness in her sweet voice, ”I understand.”

He came quite near, and took her hands in his, holding them for a moment, with tender reverence.

”Thank you, dear,” he said. ”You are very good.”

He loosed her hands, and again she folded them in her lap. He walked to the mantelpiece and stood looking down upon the ferns and lilies.

She marked the stoop of his broad shoulders; the way in which he seemed to find it difficult to hold up his head. Where was the proud gay carriage of the man who swung along the Cornish cliffs, whistling like a blackbird?

”Jim,” she said, ”understanding fully, of course I forgive fully, if it is possible that between you and me, forgiveness should pa.s.s. I have been thinking it over, since I knew you were in the house, and wondering why I feel it so impossible to say, 'I forgive you.' And, Jim--I think it is because you and I are so _one_ that there is no room for such a thing as forgiveness to pa.s.s from me to you, or from you to me. Complete comprehension and unfailing love, take the place of what would be forgiveness between those who were less to each other.”

He lifted his eyes, for a moment, full of a dumb anguish, which wrung her heart.

”Myra, I must go,” he said, brokenly. ”There was so much I had to tell you; so much to explain. But all need of this seems swept away by your divine tenderness and comprehension. All my life through I shall carry with me, deep hidden in my heart, these words of yours. Oh, my dear--my dear! Don't speak again! Let them be the last. Only--may I say it?--never let thoughts of me, sadden your fair life. I am going to America--a grand place for fresh beginnings; a land where one can work, and truly live; a land where earnest endeavour meets with fullest success, and where a man's energy may have full scope. I want you to think of me, Myra, as living, and working, and striving; not going under. But, if ever I feel like going under, I shall hear your dear voice singing at my shoulder, in the little Cornish church, on the quiet Sabbath evening, in the sunset: 'Eternal Father, strong to save,' ... And--when I think of you, my dear--my dear; I shall know your life is being good and beautiful every hour, and that you are happy with--” he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby's portrait; they dwelt for a moment on the kind quiet face--”with one of the best of men,” said Jim Airth, bravely

He took a last look at her face. Silent tears stole slowly down it, and fell upon her folded hands.

A spasm of anguish shot across Jim Airth's set features.

”Ah, I must go,” he said, suddenly. ”G.o.d keep you, always.”

He turned so quickly, that his hand was actually upon the handle of the door, before Myra reached him, though she sprang up, and flew across the room.

”Jim,” she said, breathlessly. ”Stop, Jim! Ah, stop! Listen! Wait!--Jim, I have always known--I told Jane so--that if I forgave you, I could not let you go.” She flung her arms around his neck, as he stood gazing at her in dumb bewilderment. ”Jim, my beloved! I cannot let you go; or, if you go, you must take me with you. I cannot live without you, Jim Airth!”

For the s.p.a.ce of a dozen heart-beats he stood silent, while she hung around him; her head upon his breast, her clinging arms about his neck.

Then a cry so terrible burst from him, that Myra's heart stood still.

”Oh, my G.o.d,” he cried, ”this is the worst of all! Have I, in falling, dragged _her_ down? Now, indeed am I broken--broken. What was the loss of my own pride, my own honour, my own self-esteem, to this? Have I soiled her fair whiteness; weakened the n.o.ble strength of her sweet purity? Oh, not this--my G.o.d, not this!”

He lifted his hands to his neck, took hers by the wrists, and forcibly drew them down, stepping back a pace, so that she must lift her head.