“Well, I pulled through the fever; life had to be lived, and I suppose I’m not the sort of chap to take a morbid view. When I found the thing was to be kept quiet; when the few who knew the ins-and-outs stood by me like the good fellows they were, saying it might have happened to any of them, and as soon as I got fit again I should see the only rotten thing would be to let it spoil my future; I made up my mind to put it clean away, and live it down. You know they say, out in the great western country: ‘God Almighty hates a quitter.’ It is one of the stimulating tenets of their fine practical theology. I had fought through other hard times. I determined to fight through this. I succeeded so well, that it even seemed natural to go on with the work Ingleby and I had been doing together, and carry it through. And when notes of his were needed, I came to his own home without a qualm, to ask his widow—the woman I, by my mistake, had widowed—for permission to have and to use them.
“I came—my mind full of the rich joy of life and love, with scarcely room for a passing pang of regret, as I entered the house without a master, the home without a head, knowing I was about to meet the woman I had widowed. Truly ‘The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.’ I had thrown off too easily what should have been a lifelong burden of regret.
“In the woman I had widowed I found—the woman I was about to wed! Good God! Was there ever so hard a retribution?”
“Jim,” said Myra, gently, “is there not another side to the picture? Does it not strike you that it should have seemed beautiful to find that God in His wonderful providence had put you in a position to be able to take care of Michael’s widow, left so helpless and alone; that in saving her life by the strength of your right hand, you had atoned for the death that hand had unwittingly dealt; that, though the past cannot be undone, it can sometimes be wiped out by the present? Oh, Jim! Cannot you see it thus, and keep and hold the right to take care of me forever? My belovèd! Let us never, from this moment, part. I will come away with you at once. We can get a special licence, and be married immediately. We will let Shenstone, and let the house in Park Lane, and live abroad, anywhere you will, Jim; only together—together! Take me away to-day. Maggie O’Mara can attend me, until we are married. But I can’t face life without you. Jim—I can’t! God knows, I can’t!”
Jim Airth looked up, a gleam of hope in his sad eyes.
Then he looked away, that her appealing loveliness might not too much tempt him, while making his decision. He lifted his eyes; and, alas! they fell on the portrait over the mantelpiece.
He shivered.
“I can never marry Lord Ingleby’s widow,” he said. “Myra, how can you wish it? The thing would haunt us! It would be evil—unnatural. Night and day, it would be there. It would come between us. Some day you would reproach me——”
“Ah, hush!” cried Myra, sharply. “Not that! I am suffering enough. At least spare me that!” Then, putting aside once more her own pain: “Would it not be happiness to you, Jim?” she asked, with wistful gentleness.
“Happiness?” cried Jim Airth, violently, “It would be hell!”