“What is ‘Veritas’?” he asked, without looking round.
“That is our private code, Jim; Michael’s and mine. My mother once wired to me in Michael’s name, and to him in mine—poor mamma often does eccentric things, to get her own way—and it made complications, Michael was very much annoyed. So we settled always to sign important telegrams ‘Veritas,’ which means: ‘This is really from me.’”
“Then—your husband—is coming home to you?” said Jim Airth, slowly.
“Yes, Jim,” the sweet voice faltered, for the first time, and grew tremulous. “Michael is coming home.”
Then Jim Airth turned round, and faced her squarely. Myra had never seen anything so terrible as his face.
“You are mine,” he said; “not his.”
Myra looked up at him, in dumb sorrowful appeal. She closed the ivory fan, clasping her hands upon it. The unquestioning finality of her patient silence, goaded Jim Airth to madness, and let loose the torrent of his fierce wild protest against this inevitable—this unrelenting, fate.
“You are mine,” he said, “not his. Your love is mine! Your body is mine! Your whole life is mine! I will not leave you to another man. Ah, I know I said we could not marry! I know I said I should go abroad. But you would have remained faithful to me; and I, to you. We might have been apart; we might have been lonely; we might have been at different ends of the earth; but—we should have been each other’s. I could have left you to loneliness; but, by God, I will not leave you to another!”
Myra rose, moved forward a few steps and stood, leaning her arm upon the mantelpiece and looking down upon the bank of ferns and lilies.
“Hush, Jim,” she said, gently. “You forget to whom you are speaking.”