Myra lifted her head again. The look in her eyes was that of a woman prepared to fight for happiness and life.
“You are the man,” she said, “whose little finger is dearer to me than the whole body of any one else has ever been. Do you suppose I will give you up, Jim, because of a thing which happened accidentally in the past, before you and I had ever met? Ah, how little you men understand a woman’s heart! Shall I tell you what I felt when Billy told me, after the first bewildering shock was over? First: sorrow for you, my dearest; a realisation of how appalling the mental anguish must have been, at the time. Secondly: thankfulness—yes, intense overwhelming thankfulness—to know at last what had come between us; and to know it was this thing—this mere ghost out of the past—nothing tangible or real; no wrong of mine against you, or of yours against me; nothing which need divide us.”
Jim Airth slowly unlocked his arms, took her by the wrists, holding her hands against his breast. Then he looked into her eyes with a silent sadness, more forcible than speech.
“My own poor girl,” he said, at length; “it is impossible for me to marry Lord Ingleby’s widow.”
The strength of his will mastered hers; and, just as in Horseshoe Cove her fears had yielded to his dauntless courage, so now Myra felt her confidence ebbing away before his stern resolve. Fearful of losing it altogether, she drew away her hands, and turned to the sofa.
“Oh, Jim,” she said, “sit down and let us talk it over.”
She sank back among the cushions and drawing a bowl of roses hastily toward her, buried her face in them, fearing again to meet the settled sadness of his eyes.
Jim Airth sat down—in the chair left vacant by Lord Ingleby and Peter.
“Listen, dear,” he said. “I need not ask you never to doubt my love. That would be absurd from me to you. I love you as I did not know it was possible for a man to love a woman. I love you in such a way that every fibre of my being will hunger for you night and day—through all the years to come. But—well, it would always have come hard to me to stand in another man’s shoes, and take what had been his. I did not feel this when I thought I was following Sergeant O’Mara, because I knew he must always have been in all things so utterly apart from you. I could, under different circumstances, have brought myself to follow Ingleby, because I realise that he never awakened in you such love as is yours for me. His possessions would not have weighted me, because it so happens I have lands and houses of my own, where we could have lived. But, to stand in a dead man’s shoes, when he is dead through an act of mine; to take to myself another man’s widow, when she would still, but for a reckless movement of my own right hand, have been a wife—Myra, I could not do it! Even with our great love, it would not mean happiness. Think of it—think! As we stood together in the sight of God, while the Church, in solemn voice, required and charged us both, as we should answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts should be disclosed, that if either of us knew any impediment why we might not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, we should then confess it—I should cry: ‘Her husband died by my hand!’ and leave the church, with the brand of Cain, and the infamy of David, upon me.”
Myra lifted frightened eyes; met his, beseechingly; then bent again over the roses.