“Did you bring your rackets, boys?” Lady Ingleby had said, with fine self-control; adding, when they admitted rackets left in the hall, “Ah, I am glad you never can resist the chestnut court. It seems ages since I saw you two fight out a single. Do go on and begin. I will order tea out there in half an hour, and follow you.”

Then she escaped to the terrace, flew across garden and lawn, and sought the shelter of the beeches. Arrived there, she sank into the chair in which Jim Airth had sat so immovable, and covered her face with her trembling fingers.

“Oh, Jim, Jim!” she sobbed. “My darling, how grievously I wronged you! My king among men! How I misjudged you! Imputing to you thoughts of which you, in your noble large-heartedness, would scarcely know the meaning. Oh, my dear, forgive me! And oh, come to me through this darkness and explain what I have done wrong; explain what it is you have to face; tell me what has come between us. For indeed, if you leave me, I shall die.”

Myra now felt certain that the fault was hers; and she suffered less than when she had thought it his. Yet she was sorely perplexed. For, if the Earl of Airth and Monteith might write himself down “Jim Airth” in the Moorhead Inn visitors’ book, and be blameless, why might not Lady Ingleby of Shenstone take an equally simple name, without committing an unpardonable offence?

Myra pondered, wept, and reasoned round in a circle, growing more and more bewildered and perplexed.

But by-and-by she went indoors and tried to remove all traces of recent tears. She must not let her sorrow make her selfish. Ronald and Billy would be wanting tea, and expecting her to join them.

Meanwhile the two friends, their rackets under their arms, had strolled through the shrubbery at the front of the house, to the beautiful tennis lawns, long renowned as being the most perfect in the neighbourhood. Many a tournament had there been fought out, in presence of a gay crowd, lining the courts, beneath the shady chestnut trees.

But on this day the place seemed sad and deserted. They played one set, in silence, hardly troubling to score; then walked to the net and stood close together, one on either side.

“We must tell her,” said Ronald, examining his racket, minutely.

“I suppose we must,” agreed Billy, reluctantly. “We could not let her marry him.”

“Duffer! you don’t suppose he would dream of marrying her? He will come back, and tell her himself to-morrow. We must tell her, to spare her that interview. She need never see him again.”

“I say, Ron! Did you see her go quite pink when she told us his name? And in spite of the trouble to-day, she looks half a dozen years younger than when she went away. You know she does, old man!”

“Oh, that’s the rest-cure,” explained Ronnie, but without much conviction. “Rest-cures always have that effect. That’s why women go in for them. Did you ever hear of 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!”

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 rÔle 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.’”