“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.