“So you see, Jane,” concluded Lady Ingleby, pathetically, “as Michael is not coming back, I am indeed alone.”

“Loving Jim Airth as you do—” said Jane Dalmain.

“Did,” interposed Lady Ingleby.

“Did, and do,” said Jane Dalmain, “you would have been worse than alone if Michael had, after all, come back. Oh, Myra! I cannot imagine anything more unendurable, than to love one man, and be obliged to live with another.”

“I should not have allowed myself to go on loving Jim,” said Lady Ingleby.

“Rubbish!” pronounced Mrs. Dalmain, with forceful decision. “My dear Myra, that kind of remark paves the way for the devil, and is one of his favourite devices. More good women have been tripped by over-confidence in their ability to curb and to control their own affections, than by direct temptation to love where love is not lawful. Men are different; their temptations are not so subtle. They know exactly to what it will lead, if they dally with sentiment. Therefore, if they mean to do the right thing in the end, they keep clear of the danger at the beginning. We cannot possibly forbid ourselves to go on loving, where love has once been allowed to reign supreme. I know you would not, in the first instance, have let yourself care for Jim Airth, had you not been free. But, once loving him, if so appalling a situation could have arisen as the unexpected return of your husband, your only safe and honourable course would have been to frankly tell Lord Ingleby: ‘I grew to love Jim Airth while I believed you dead. I shall always love Jim Airth; but, I want before all else to be a good woman and a faithful wife. Trust me to be faithful; help me to be good.’ Any man, worth his salt, would respond to such an appeal.”

“And shoot himself?” suggested Lady Ingleby.

“I said ‘man,’ not ‘coward,’” responded Mrs. Dalmain, with fine scorn.

“Jane, you are so strong-minded,” murmured Lady Ingleby. “It goes with your linen collars, your tailor-made coats, and your big boots. I cannot picture myself in a linen collar, nor can I conceive of myself as standing before Michael and informing him that I loved Jim!”

Jane Dalmain laughed good-humouredly, plunged her large hands into the pockets of her tweed coat, stretched out her serviceable brown boots and looked at them.

“If by ‘strong-minded’ you mean a wholesome dislike to the involving of a straightforward situation in a tangle of disingenuous sophistry, I plead guilty,” she said.

“Oh, don’t quote Sir Deryck,” retorted Lady Ingleby, crossly. “You ought to have married him! I never could understand such an artist, such a poet, such an eclectic idealist as Garth Dalmain, falling in love with you, Jane!”

A sudden light of womanly tenderness illumined Jane’s plain face. “The wife” looked out from it, in simple unconscious radiance.

“Nor could I,” she answered softly. “It took me three years to realise it as an indubitable fact.”

“I suppose you are very happy,” remarked Myra.

Jane was silent. There were shrines in that strong nature too wholly sacred to be easily unveiled.

“I remember how I hated the idea, after the accident,” said Myra, “of your tying yourself to blindness.”

“Oh, hush,” said Jane Dalmain, quickly. “You tread on sacred ground, and you forget to remove your shoes. From the first, the sweetest thing between my husband and myself has been that, together, we learned to kiss that cross.”

“Dear old thing!” said Lady Ingleby, affectionately; “you deserved to be happy. All the same I never can understand why you did not marry Deryck Brand.”

Jane smiled. She could not bring herself to discuss her husband, but she was very willing at this critical juncture to divert Lady Ingleby from her own troubles by entering into particulars concerning herself and the doctor.

“My dear,” she said, “Deryck and I were far too much alike ever to have dovetailed into marriage. All our points would have met, and our differences gaped wide. The qualities which go to the making of a perfect friendship by no means always ensure a perfect marriage. There was a time when I should have married Deryck had he asked me to do so, simply because I implicitly trusted his judgment in all things, and it would never have occurred to me to refuse him anything he asked. But it would not have resulted in our mutual happiness. Also, at that time, I had no idea what love really meant. I no more understood love until—until Garth taught me, than you understood it before you met Jim Airth.”

“I wish you would not keep on alluding to Jim Airth,” said Myra, wearily. “I never wish to hear his name again. And I cannot allow you to suppose that I should ever have adopted your strong-minded suggestion, and admitted to Michael that I loved Jim. I should have done nothing of the kind. I should have devoted myself to pleasing Michael in all things, and made myself—yes, Jane; you need not look amused and incredulous; though I don’t wear collars and shooting-boots, I can make myself do things—I should have made myself forget that there was such a person in this world as the Earl of Airth and Monteith.”

“Oh spare him that!” laughed Mrs. Dalmain. “Don’t call the poor man by his titles. If he must be hanged, at least let him hang as plain Jim Airth. If one had to be wicked, it would be so infinitely worse to be a wicked earl, than wicked in any other walk of life. It savours so painfully of the ‘penny-dreadful’, or the cheap novelette. Also, my dear, there is nothing to be gained by discussing a hypothetical situation, with which you do not after all find yourself confronted. Mercifully, Lord Ingleby is not coming back.”

“Mercifully!” exclaimed Lady Ingleby. “Really, Jane, you are crude beyond words, and most unsympathetic. You should have heard how tactfully the doctor broke it to me, and how kindly he alluded to my loss.”

“My dear Myra,” said Mrs. Dalmain, “I don’t waste sympathy on false sentiment. And if Deryck had known you were already engaged to another man, instead of devoting to you four hours of his valuable time, he could have sent a sixpenny wire: ‘Telegram a forgery. Accept heartfelt congratulations!’”

“Jane, you are brutal. And seeing that I have just told you the whole story of these last weeks, with the cruel heart-breaking finale of yesterday, I fail to understand how you can speak of me as engaged to another man.”

Instantly Jane Dalmain’s whole bearing altered. She ceased looking quizzically amused, and left off swinging her brown boot. She sat up, uncrossed her knees, and leaning her elbows upon them, held out her large capable hands to Lady Ingleby. Her noble face, grandly strong and tender, in its undeniable plainness, was full of womanly understanding and sympathy.

“Ah, my dear,” she said, “now we must come to the crux of the whole matter. I have merely been playing around the fringe of the subject, in order to give you time to recover from the inevitable strain of the long and painful recital you have felt it necessary to make, in order that I might fully understand your position in all its bearings. The real question is this: Are you going to forgive Jim Airth?”

“I must never forgive him,” said Lady Ingleby, with finality, “because, if I forgave him, I could not let him go.”

“Why let him go, when his going leaves your whole life desolate?”

“Because,” said Myra, “I feel I could not trust him; and I dare not marry a man whom I love as I love Jim Airth, unless I can trust him as implicitly as I trust my God. If I loved him less, I would take the risk. But I feel, for him, something which I can neither understand nor define; only I know that in time it would make him so completely master of me that, unless I could trust him absolutely—I should be afraid.”

“Is a man never to be trusted again,” asked Jane, “because, under sudden fierce temptation, he has failed you once?”

“It is not the failing once,” said Myra. “It is the light thrown upon the whole quality of his love—of that kind of love. The passion of it makes it selfish—selfish to the degree of being utterly regardless of right and wrong, and careless of the welfare of its unfortunate object. My fair name would have been smirched; my honour dragged in the mire; my present, blighted; my future, ruined; but what did he care? It was all swept aside in the one sentence: ‘You are mine, not his. You must come away with me.’ I cannot trust myself to a love which has no standard of right and wrong. We look at it from different points of view. You see only the man and his temptation. I knew the priceless treasure of the love; therefore the sin against that love seems to me unforgivable.”

Mrs. Dalmain looked earnestly at her friend. Her steadfast eyes were deeply troubled.

“Myra,” she said, “you are absolutely right in your definitions, and correct in your conclusions. But your mistake is this. You make no allowance for the sudden, desperate, overwhelming nature of the temptation before which Jim Airth fell. Remember all that led up to it. Think of it, Myra! He stood so alone in the world; no mother, no wife, no woman’s tenderness. And those ten hard years of worse than loneliness, when he fought the horrors of disillusion, the shame of betrayal, the bitterness of desertion; the humiliation of the stain upon his noble name. Against all this, during ten long years, he struggled; fought a manful fight, and overcame. Then—strong, hardened, lonely; a man grown to man’s full heritage of self-contained independence—he met you, Myra. His ideals returned, purified and strengthened by their passage through the fire. Love came, now, in such gigantic force, that the pigmy passion of early youth was dwarfed and superseded. It seemed a new and untasted experience such as he had not dreamed life could contain. Three weeks of it, he had; growing in certainty, increasing in richness, every day; yet tempered by the patient waiting your pleasure, for eagerly expected fulfilment. Then the blow—so terrible to his sensibilities and to his manly pride; the horrible knowledge that his own hand had brought loss and sorrow to you, whom he would have shielded from the faintest shadow of pain. Then his mistake in allowing false pride to come between you. Three weeks of growing hunger and regret, followed by your summons, which seemed to promise happiness after all; for, remember while you had been bringing yourself to acquiesce in his decision as absolutely final, so that the news of Lord Ingleby’s return meant no loss to you and to him, merely the relief of his exculpation, he had been coming round to a more reasonable point of view, and realising that, after all, he had not lost you. You sent for him, and he came—once more aglow with love and certainty—only to hear that he had not only lost you himself, but must leave you to another man. Oh Myra! Can you not make allowance for a moment of fierce madness? Can you not see that the very strength of the man momentarily turned in the wrong direction, brought about his downfall? You tell me you called him coward and traitor? You might as well have struck him! Such words from your lips must have been worse than blows. I admit he deserved them; yet Saint Peter was thrice a coward and a traitor, but his Lord, making allowance for a sudden yielding to temptation, did not doubt the loyalty of his love, but gave him a chance of threefold public confession, and forgave him. If Divine Love could do this—oh, Myra, can you let your lover go out into the world again, alone, without one word of forgiveness?”

“How do I know he wants my forgiveness, Jane? He left me in a towering fury. And how could my forgiveness reach him, even supposing he desired it, or I could give it? Where is he now?”

“He left you in despair,” said Mrs. Dalmain, “and—he is in the library.”

Lady Ingleby rose to her feet.

“Jane! Jim Airth in this house! Who admitted him?”

“I did,” replied Mrs. Dalmain, coolly. “I smuggled him in. Not a soul saw us enter. That was why I sent the carriage on ahead, when we reached the park gates. We walked up the avenue, turned down on to the terrace and slipped in by the lower door. He has been sitting in the library ever since. If you decide not to see him, I can go down and tell him so; he can go out as he came in, and none of your household will know he has been here. Dear Myra, don’t look so distraught. Do sit down again, and let us finish our talk.... That is right. You must not be hurried. A decision which affects one’s whole life, cannot be made in a minute, nor even in an hour. Lord Airth does not wish to force an interview, nor do I wish to persuade you to grant him one. He will not be surprised if I bring him word that you would rather not see him.”

“Rather not?” cried Myra, with clasped hands. “Oh Jane, if you could know what the mere thought of seeing him means to me, you would not say ‘rather not,’ but ‘dare not.’”

“Let me tell you how we met,” said Mrs. Dalmain, ignoring the last remark. “I reached Charing Cross in good time; stopped at the book stall for a supply of papers; secured an empty compartment, and settled down to a quiet hour. Jim Airth dashed into the station with barely one minute in which to take his ticket and reach the train. He tore up the platform, as the train began to move; had not time to reach a smoker; wrenched open the door of my compartment; jumped in headlong, and sat down upon my papers; turned to apologise, and found himself shut in alone for an hour with the friend to whom you had written weekly letters from Cornwall, and of whom you had apparently told him rather nice things—or, at all events things which led him to consider me trustworthy. He recognised me by a recent photograph which you had shown him.”

“I remember,” said Myra. “I kept it in my writing-case. He took it up and looked at it several times. I often spoke to him of you.”

“He introduced himself with straightforward simplicity,” continued Mrs. Dalmain, “and then—we neither of us knew quite how it happened—in a few minutes we were talking without reserve. I believe he felt frankness with me on his part might enable me, in the future, to be a comfort to you—you are his one thought; also, that if I interceded, you would perhaps grant him that which he came to seek—the opportunity to ask your forgiveness. Of course we neither of us had the slightest idea of the possibility that yesterday’s telegram could be incorrect. He sails for America almost immediately, but could not bring himself to leave England without having expressed to you his contrition, and obtained your pardon. He would have written, but did not feel he ought, for your sake, to run the risk of putting explanations on to paper. Also I honestly believe it is breaking his heart, poor fellow, to feel that you and he parted forever, in anger. His love for you is a very great love, Myra.”

“Oh, Jane,” cried Lady Ingleby, “I cannot let him go! And yet—I cannot marry him. I love him with every fibre of my whole being, and yet I cannot trust him. Oh, Jane, what shall I do?”

“You must give him a chance,” said Mrs. Dalmain, “to retrieve his mistake, and to prove himself the man we know him to be. Say to him, without explanation, what you have just said to me: that you cannot let him go; and see how he takes it. Listen, Myra. The unforeseen developments of the last few hours have put it into your power to give Jim Airth his chance. You must not rob him of it. Years ago, when Garth and I were in an apparently hopeless tangle of irretrievable mistake, Deryck found us a way out. He said if Garth could go behind his blindness and express an opinion which he only could have given while he had his sight, the question might be solved. I need not trouble you with details, but that was exactly what happened, and our great happiness resulted. Now, in your case, Jim Airth must be given the chance to go behind his madness, regain his own self-respect, and prove himself worthy of your trust. Have you told any one of the second telegram from Cairo?”

“I saw nobody,” said Lady Ingleby, “from the moment Sir Deryck left me, until you walked in.”

“Very well. Then you, and Deryck, and I, are the only people in England who know of it. Jim Airth will have no idea of any change of conditions since yesterday. Do you see what that means, Myra?”

Lady Ingleby’s pale face flushed. “Oh Jane, I dare not! If he failed again——”

“He will not fail,” replied Mrs. Dalmain, with decision; “but should he do so, he will have proved himself, as you say, unworthy of your trust. Then—you can forgive him, and let him go.”

“I cannot let him go!” cried Myra. “And yet I cannot marry him, unless he is all I have believed him to be.”

“Ah, my dear, my dear!” said Mrs. Dalmain, tenderly. “You need to learn a lesson about married life. True happiness does not come from marrying an idol throned on a pedestal. Before Galatea could wed Pygmalion, she had to change from marble into glowing flesh and blood, and step down from off her pedestal. Love should not make us blind to one another’s faults. It should only make us infinitely tender, and completely understanding. Let me tell you a shrewd remark of Aunt Georgina’s on that subject. Speaking to a young married woman who considered herself wronged and disillusioned because, the honeymoon over, she discovered her husband not to be in all things absolutely perfect: ‘Ah, my good girl,’ said Aunt ’Gina, rapping the floor with her ebony cane; ‘you made a foolish mistake if you imagined you were marrying an angel, when we have it, on the very highest authority, that the angels neither marry nor are given in marriage. Men and women, who are human enough to marry, are human enough to be full of faults; and the best thing marriage provides is that each gets somebody who will love, forgive, and understand. If you had waited for perfection, you would have reached heaven a spinster, which would have been, to say the least of it, dull—when you had had the chance of matrimony on earth! Go and make it up with that nice boy of yours, or I shall find him some pretty—’ But the little bride, her anger dissolving in laughter and tears, had fled across the lawn in pursuit of a tall figure in tweeds, stalking in solitary dudgeon towards the river. They disappeared into the boathouse, and soon after we saw them in a tiny skiff for two, and heard their happy laughter. ‘Silly babies!’ said Aunt ’Gina, crossly, ‘they’ll do it once too often, when I’m not there to spank them; and then there’ll be a shipwreck! Oh, why did Adam marry, and spoil that peaceful garden?’ Whereat Tommy, the old scarlet macaw, swung head downwards from his golden perch, with such shrieks of delighted laughter, mingled with appropriate profanity, that Aunt ’Gina’s good-humour was instantly restored. ‘Give him a strawberry, somebody!’ she said; and spoke no more on things matrimonial.”

Myra laughed. “The duchess’s views are always refreshing. I wonder whether Michael and I made the mistake of not realising each other to be human; of not admitting there was anything to forgive, and therefore never forgiving?”

“Well, don’t make it with Jim Airth,” advised Mrs. Dalmain, “for he is the most human man I ever met; also the strongest, and one of the most lovable. Myra, there is nothing to be gained by waiting. Let me send him to you now; and, remember, all he asks or expects is one word of forgiveness.”

“Oh, Jane!” cried Lady Ingleby, with clasped hands. “Do wait a little while. Give me time to think; time to consider; time to decide.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mrs. Dalmain, “When but one right course lies before you, there can be no possible need for hesitation or consideration. You are merely nervously postponing the inevitable. You remind me of scenes we used to have in the out-patient department of a hospital in the East End of London, to which I once went for training. When patients came to the surgery for teeth extraction, and the pretty sympathetic little nurse in charge had got them safely fixed into the chair; as one of the doctors, prompt and alert, came forward with unmistakably business-like forceps ready, the terrified patient would exclaim: ‘Oh, let the nurse do it! Let the nurse do it!’ the idea evidently being that three or four diffident pulls by the nurse, were less alarming than the sharp certainty of one from the doctor. Now, my dear Myra, you have to face your ordeal. If it is to be successful there must be no uncertainty.”

“Oh, Jane, I wish you were not such a decided person. I am sure when you were the nurse, the poor things preferred the doctors. I am terrified; yet I know you are right. And, oh, you dear, don’t leave me! See me through.”

“I am never away from Garth for a night, as you know,” said Mrs. Dalmain. “But he and little Geoff went down to Overdene this morning, with Simpson and nurse; so, if your man can motor me over during the evening, I will stay as long as you need me.”

“Ah, thanks,” said Lady Ingleby. “And now, Jane, you have done all you can for me; and God knows how much that means. I want to be quite alone for an hour. I feel I must face it out, and decide what I really intend doing. I owe it to Jim, I owe it to myself, to be quite sure what I mean to say, before I see him. Order tea in the library. Tell him I will see him; and, at the end of the hour, send him here. But, Jane—not a hint of anything which has passed between us. I may rely on you?”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Dalmain, gently, “I play the game!”

She rose and stood on the hearthrug, looking intently at her husband’s painting of Lord Ingleby.

“And, Myra,” she said at last, “I do entreat you to remember, you are dealing with an unknown quantity. You have never before known intimately a man of Jim Airth’s temperament. His love for you, and yours for him, hold elements as yet not fully understood by you. Remember this, in drawing your conclusions. I had almost said, Let instinct guide, rather than reason.”

“I understand your meaning,” said Lady Ingleby. “But I dare not depend upon either instinct or reason. I have not been a religious woman, Jane, as of course you know; but—I have been learning lately; and, as I learn, I try to practise. I feel myself to be in so dark and difficult a place, that I am trying to say, ‘Even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right Hand shall hold me.’”

“Ah, you are right,” said Jane’s deep earnest voice; “that is the best of all. God’s hand alone leads surely, out of darkness into light.”

She put a kind arm firmly around her friend, for a moment.

Then:—“I will send him to you in an hour,” she said, and left the room.

Lady Ingleby was alone.