He lifted his eyes, for a moment, full of a dumb anguish, which wrung her heart.
“Myra, I must go,” he said, brokenly. “There was so much I had to tell you; so much to explain. But all need of this seems swept away by your divine tenderness and comprehension. All my life through I shall carry with me, deep hidden in my heart, these words of yours. Oh, my dear—my dear! Don’t speak again! Let them be the last. Only—may I say it?—never let thoughts of me, sadden your fair life. I am going to America—a grand place for fresh beginnings; a land where one can work, and truly live; a land where earnest endeavour meets with fullest success, and where a man’s energy may have full scope. I want you to think of me, Myra, as living, and working, and striving; not going under. But, if ever I feel like going under, I shall hear your dear voice singing at my shoulder, in the little Cornish church, on the quiet Sabbath evening, in the sunset: ‘Eternal Father, strong to save,’ ... And—when I think of you, my dear—my dear; I shall know your life is being good and beautiful every hour, and that you are happy with—” he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby’s portrait; they dwelt for a moment on the kind quiet face—“with one of the best of men,” said Jim Airth, bravely
He took a last look at her face. Silent tears stole slowly down it, and fell upon her folded hands.
A spasm of anguish shot across Jim Airth’s set features.
“Ah, I must go,” he said, suddenly. “God keep you, always.”
He turned so quickly, that his hand was actually upon the handle of the door, before Myra reached him, though she sprang up, and flew across the room.
“Jim,” she said, breathlessly. “Stop, Jim! Ah, stop! Listen! Wait!—Jim, I have always known—I told Jane so—that if I forgave you, I could not let you go.” She flung her arms around his neck, as he stood gazing at her in dumb bewilderment. “Jim, my belovèd! I cannot let you go; or, if you go, you must take me with you. I cannot live without you, Jim Airth!”
For the space of a dozen heart-beats he stood silent, while she hung around him; her head upon his breast, her clinging arms about his neck.
Then a cry so terrible burst from him, that Myra’s heart stood still.
“Oh, my God,” he cried, “this is the worst of all! Have I, in falling, dragged her down? Now, indeed am I broken—broken. What was the loss of my own pride, my own honour, my own self-esteem, to this? Have I soiled her fair whiteness; weakened the noble strength of her sweet purity? Oh, not this—my God, not this!”