What you say of the way in which Americans know our standard authors, reminds me of a fellow-passenger on board the Baltic, on our outward voyage—a charming woman, from Hartford, Connecticut, who sat beside us at meals. She had been spending five months in Europe, travelling incessantly, and finished up with London—her first visit to our capital—expecting to be altogether too tired to enjoy it; but found it a place of such abounding interest and delight, that life went on with fresh zest, and fatigue was forgotten. "Every street," she explained, "is so familiar. We have never seen them before, and yet they are more familiar than the streets of our native cities. It is the London of Dickens and of Thackeray. We know it all. We recognise the streets as we come to them. The places are homelike to us. We have known them all our lives." I enjoyed this tribute to our English literature. But I wonder, my dear Myra, how many streets, east of Temple Bar, in our dear old London, are "homelike" to you!

Garth insists upon sending you at once a selection of his favourites from among the works of Dickens. So expect a bulky package before long. You might read them aloud to the Miss Murgatroyds, while they knit and wind wool.

Garth thoroughly enjoyed our trip to America. You know why we went? Since he lost his sight, all sounds mean so much to him. He is so boyishly eager to hear all there is to be heard in the world. Any possibility of a new sound-experience fills him with enthusiastic expectation, and away we go! He set his heart upon hearing the thunderous roar of Niagara, so off we went, by the White Star Line. His enjoyment was complete, when at last he stood close to the Horseshoe Fall, on the Canadian side, with his hand on the rail at the place where the spray showers over you, and the great rushing boom seems all around. And as we stood there together, a little bird on a twig beside us, began to sing!—Garth is putting it all into a symphony.

How true is what you say of the genial friendliness of Americans! I was thinking it over, on our homeward voyage. It seems to me, that, as a rule, they are so far less self-conscious than we. Their minds are fully at liberty to go out at once, in keenest appreciation and interest, to meet a new acquaintance. Our senseless British greeting: "How do you do?"—that everlasting question, which neither expects nor awaits an answer, can only lead to trite remarks about the weather; whereas America's "I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Dalmain," or "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Ingleby," is an open door, through which we pass at once to fuller friendliness. Too often, in the moment of introduction, the reserved British nature turns in upon itself, sensitively debating what impression it is making; nervously afraid of being too expansive; fearful of giving itself away. But, as I said, the American mind comes forth to meet us with prompt interest and appreciative expectation; and we make more friends, in that land of ready sympathies, in half an hour, than we do in half a year of our own stiff social functions. Perhaps you will put me down as biassed in my opinion. Well, they were wondrous good to Garth and me; and we depend so greatly upon people saying exactly the right thing at the right moment. When friendly looks cannot be seen, tactful words become more than ever a necessity.

Yes, little Geoff's eyes are bright and shining, and the true golden brown. In many other ways he is very like his father.

Garth sends his love, and promises you a special accompaniment to the "Blackbird's Song," such as can easily be played with one finger!

It seems so strange to address this envelope to Mrs. O'Mara. It reminds me of a time when I dropped my own identity and used another woman's name. I only wish your experiment might end as happily as mine.

Ah, Myra dearest, there is a Best for every life! Sometimes we can only reach it by a rocky path or along a thorny way; and those who fear the pain, come to it not at all. But such of us as have attained, can testify that it is worth while. From all you have told me lately, I gather the Best has not yet come your way. Keep on expecting. Do not be content with less.

We certainly must not let Deryck know that Jim Airth—what a nice name—was at Targai. He would move you on, promptly.

Report again next week; and do abide, if necessary, beneath the safe chaperonage of the cameo brooch.

Yours, in all fidelity, JANE DALMAIN.



CHAPTER VIII

IN HORSESHOE COVE

Lady Ingleby sat in the honeysuckle arbour, pouring her tea from a little brown earthenware teapot, and spreading substantial slices of home-made bread with the creamiest of farm butter, when the aged postman hobbled up to the garden gate of the Moorhead Inn, with a letter for Mrs. O'Mara.

For a moment she could scarcely bring herself to open an envelope bearing another name than her own. Then, smiling at her momentary hesitation, she tore it open with the keen delight of one, who, accustomed to a dozen letters a day, has passed a week without receiving any.

She read Mrs. Dalmain's letter through rapidly; and once she laughed aloud; and once a sudden colour flamed into her cheeks.

Then she laid it down, and helped herself to honey—real heather-honey, golden in the comb.

She took up her letter again, and read it carefully, weighing each word.

Then:—"Good old Jane!" she said; "that is rather neatly put: the 'safely abstract' becoming the 'perilously personal.' She has acquired the knack of terse and forceful phraseology from her long friendship with the doctor. I can do it myself, when I try; only, my Sir Derycky sentences are apt merely to sound well, and mean nothing at all. And—after all—does this of Jane's mean anything worthy of consideration? Could six foot five of abstraction—eating its breakfast in complete unconsciousness of one's presence, returning one's timid 'good-morning' with perfunctory politeness, and relegating one, while still debating the possibility of venturing a remark on the weather, to obvious oblivion—ever become perilously personal?"

Lady Ingleby laughed again, returned the letter to its envelope, and proceeded to cut herself a slice of home-made currant cake. As she finished it, with a final cup of tea, she thought with amusement of the difference between this substantial meal in the honeysuckle arbour of the old inn garden, and the fashionable teas then going on in crowded drawing-rooms in town, where people hurried in, took a tiny roll of thin bread-and-butter, and a sip at luke-warm tea, which had stood sufficiently long to leave an abiding taste of tannin; heard or imparted a few more or less detrimental facts concerning mutual friends; then hurried on elsewhere, to a cucumber sandwich, colder tea, which had stood even longer, and a fresh instalment of gossip.

"Oh, why do we do it?" mused Lady Ingleby. Then, taking up her scarlet parasol, she crossed the little lawn, and stood at the garden gate, in the afternoon sunlight, debating in which direction she should go.

Usually her walks took her along the top of the cliffs, where the larks, springing from the short turf and clumps of waving harebells, sang themselves up into the sky. She loved being high above the sea, and hearing the distant thunder of the breakers on the rocks below.

But to-day the steep little street, down through the fishing village, to the cove, looked inviting. The tide was out, and the sands gleamed golden.

Also, from her seat in the arbour, she had seen Jim Airth's tall figure go swinging along the cliff edge, silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky. And one sentence in the letter she had just received, made this into a factor which turned her feet toward the shore.

The friendly Cornish folk, sitting on their doorsteps in the sunshine, smiled at the lovely woman in white serge, who passed down their village street, so tall and graceful, beneath the shade of her scarlet parasol. An item in the doctor's prescription had been the discarding of widow's weeds, and it had seemed quite natural to Myra to come down to her first Cornish breakfast in a cream serge gown.

Arrived at the shore, she turned in the direction she usually took when up above, and walked quickly along the firm smooth sand; pausing occasionally to pick up a beautifully marked stone, or to examine a brilliant sea-anemone or gleaming jelly-fish, left stranded by the tide.

Presently she reached a place where the cliff jutted out toward the sea; and, climbing over slippery rocks, studded with shining pools in which crimson seaweed waved, crabs scudded sideways from her passing shadow, and darting shrimps flicked across and buried themselves hastily in the sand, Myra found herself in a most fascinating cove. The line of cliff here made a horseshoe, not quite half a mile in length. The little bay, within this curve, was a place of almost fairy-like beauty; the sand a soft glistening white, decked with delicate crimson seaweed. The cliffs, towering up above, gave welcome shadow to the shore; yet the sun behind them still gleamed and sparkled on the distant sea.

Myra walked to the centre of the horseshoe; then, picking up a piece of driftwood, scooped out a comfortable hollow in the sand, about a dozen yards from the foot of the cliff; stuck her open parasol up behind it, to shield herself from the observation, from above, of any chance passer-by; and, settling comfortably into the soft hollow, lay back, watching, through half-closed lids, the fleeting shadows, the blue sky, the gently moving sea. Little white clouds blushed rosy red. An opal tint gleamed on the water. The moving ripple seemed too far away to break the restful silence.

Lady Ingleby's eyelids drooped lower and lower.

"Yes, my dear Jane," she murmured, dreamily watching a snow-white sail, as it rounded the point, curtseyed, and vanished from view; "undoubtedly a—a well-expressed sentence; but far from—from—being fact. The safely abstract could hardly require—a—a—a cameo——"

The long walk, the sea breeze, the distant lapping of the water—all these combined had done their soothing work.

Lady Ingleby slept peacefully in Horseshoe Cove; and the rising tide crept in.



CHAPTER IX

JIM AIRTH TO THE RESCUE

An hour later, a man swung along the path at the summit of the cliffs, whistling like a blackbird.

The sun was setting; and, as he walked, he revelled in the gold and crimson of the sky; in the opal tints upon the heaving sea.

The wind had risen as the sun set, and breakers were beginning to pound along the shore.

Suddenly something caught his eye, far down below.

"By Jove!" he said. "A scarlet poppy on the sands!"

He walked on, until his rapid stride brought him to the centre of the cliff above Horseshoe Cove.

Then—"Good Lord!" said Jim Airth, and stood still.

He had caught sight of Lady Ingleby's white skirt reposing on the sand, beyond the scarlet parasol.

"Good Lord!" said Jim Airth.

Then he scanned the horizon. Not a boat to be seen.

His quick eye travelled along the cliff, the way he had come. Not a living thing in sight.

On to the fishing village. Faint threads of ascending vapour indicated chimneys. "Two miles at least," muttered Jim Airth. "I could not run it and get back with a boat, under three quarters of an hour."

Then he looked down into the cove.

"Both ends cut off. The water will reach her feet in ten minutes; will sweep the base of the cliff, in twenty."

Exactly beneath the spot where he stood, more than half way down, was a ledge about six feet long by four feet wide.

Letting himself over the edge, holding to tufts of grass, tiny shrubs, jutting stones, cracks in the surface of the sandstone, he managed to reach this narrow ledge, dropping the last ten feet, and landing on it by an almost superhuman effort of balance.

One moment he paused; carefully took its measure; then, leaning over, looked down. Sixty feet remained, a precipitous slope, with nothing to which foot could hold, or hand could cling.

Jim Airth buttoned his Norfolk jacket, and tightened his belt. Then slipping, feet foremost off the ledge, he glissaded down on his back, bending his knees at the exact moment when his feet thudded heavily on to the sand.

For a moment the shock stunned him. Then he got up and looked around.

He stood, within ten yards of the scarlet parasol, on the small strip of sand still left uncovered by the rapidly advancing sweep of the rising tide.



CHAPTER X

"YEO HO, WE GO!"

"A cameo chaperonage," murmured Lady Ingleby, and suddenly opened her eyes.

Sky and sea were still there, but between them, closer than sea or sky, looking down upon her with a tense light in his blue eyes, stood Jim Airth.

"Why, I have been asleep!" said Lady Ingleby.

"You have," said Jim Airth; "and meanwhile the sun has set, and—the tide has come up. Allow me to assist you to rise."

Lady Ingleby put her hand into his, and he helped her to her feet. She stood beside him gazing, with wide startled eyes, at the expanse of sea, the rushing waves, the tiny strip of sand.

"The tide seems very high," said Lady Ingleby.

"Very high," agreed Jim Airth. He stood close beside her, but his eyes still eagerly scanned the water. If by any chance a boat came round the point there would still be time to hail it.

"We seem to be cut off," said Lady Ingleby.

"We are cut off," replied Jim Airth, laconically.

"Then I suppose we must have a boat," said Lady Ingleby.

"An excellent suggestion," replied Jim Airth, drily, "if a boat were to be had. But, unfortunately, we are two miles from the hamlet, and this is not a time when boats pass in and out; nor would they come this way. When I saw you, from the top of the cliff, I calculated the chances as to whether I could reach the boats, and be back here in time. But, before I could have returned with a boat, you would have—been very wet," finished Jim Airth, somewhat lamely.

He looked at the lovely face, close to his shoulder. It was pale and serious, but showed no sign of fear.

He glanced at the point of cliff beyond. Twenty feet above its rocky base the breakers were dashing; but round that point would be safety.

"Can you swim?" asked Jim Airth, eagerly.

Myra's calm grey eyes met his, steadily. A gleam of amusement dawned in them.

"If you put your hand under my chin, and count 'one—two! one—two!' very loud and quickly, I can swim nearly ten yards," she said.

Jim Airth laughed. His eyes met hers, in sudden comprehending comradeship. "By Jove, you're plucky!" they seemed to say. But what he really said was: "Then swimming is no go."

"No go, for me," said Myra, earnestly, "nor for you, weighted by me. We should never get round that eddying whirlpool. It would merely mean that we should both be drowned. But you can easily do it alone. Oh, go at once! Go quickly! And—don't look back. I shall be all right. I shall just sit down against the cliff, and wait. I have always been fond of the sea."

Jim Airth looked at her again. And, this time, open admiration shone in his keen eyes.

"Ah, brave!" he said. "A mother of soldiers! Such women make of us a fighting race."

Myra laid her hand on his sleeve. "My friend," she said, "it was never given me to be a mother. But I am a soldier's daughter, and a soldier's widow; and—I am not afraid to die. Oh, I do beg of you—give me one handclasp and go!"

Jim Airth took the hand held out, but he kept it firmly in his own.

"You shall not die," he said, between his teeth. "Do you suppose I would leave any woman to die alone? And you—you, of all women!—By heaven," he repeated, doggedly; "you shall not die. Do you think I could go; and leave—" he broke off abruptly.

Myra smiled. His hand was very strong, and her heart felt strangely restful. And had he not said: "You, of all women?" But, even in what seemed likely to be her last moments, Lady Ingleby's unfailing instinct was to be tactful.

"I am sure you would leave no woman in danger," she said; "and some, alas! might have been easier to save than I. Plump little Miss Susie would have floated."

Jim Airth's big laugh rang out. "And Miss Murgatroyd could have sailed away in her cameo," he said.

Then, as if that laugh had broken the spell which held him inactive: "Come," he cried, and drew her to the foot of the cliff; "we have not a moment to lose! Look! Do you see the way I came down? See that long slide in the sand? I tobogganed down there on my back. Pretty steep, and nothing to hold to, I admit; but not so very far up, after all. And, where my slide begins, is a blessed ledge four foot by six." He pulled out a huge clasp-knife, opened the largest blade, and commenced hacking steps in the face of the cliff. "We must climb," said Jim Airth.

"I have never climbed," whispered Myra's voice behind him.

"You must climb to-day," said Jim Airth.

"I could never even climb trees," whispered Myra.

"You must climb a cliff to-night. It is our only chance."

He hacked on, rapidly.

Suddenly he paused. "Show me your reach," he said. "Mine would not do. Put your left hand there; so. Now stretch up with your right; as high as you can, easily.... Ah! three foot six, or thereabouts. Now your left foot close to the bottom. Step up with your right, as high as you can comfortably.... Two foot, nine. Good! One step, more or less, might make all the difference, by-and-by. Now listen, while I work. What a God-send for us that there happens to be, just here, this stratum of soft sand. We should have been done for, had the cliff been serpentine marble. You must choose between two plans. I could scrape you a step, wider than the rest—almost a ledge—just out of reach of the water, leaving you there, while I go on up, and finish. Then I could return for you. You could climb in front, I helping from below. You would feel safer. Or—you must follow me up now, step by step, as I cut them."

"I could not wait on a ledge alone," said Myra. "I will follow you, step by step."

"Good," said Jim Airth; "it will save time. I am afraid you must take off your shoes and stockings. Nothing will do for this work, but naked feet. We shall need to stick our toes into the sand, and make them cling on like fingers."

He pulled off his own boots and stockings; then drew the belt from his Norfolk jacket, and fastened it firmly round his left ankle in such a way that a long end would hang down behind him as he mounted.

"See that?" he said. "When you are in the niches below me, it will hang close to your hands. If you are slipping, and feel you must clutch at something, catch hold of that. Only, if possible, shout first, and I will stick on like a limpet, and try to withstand the strain. But don't do it, unless really necessary."

He picked up Myra's shoes and stockings, and put them into his big pockets.

At that moment an advance wave rushed up the sand and caught their bare feet.

"Oh, Jim Airth," cried Myra, "go without me! I have not a steady head. I cannot climb."

He put his hands upon her shoulders, and looked full into her eyes.

"You can climb," he said. "You must climb. You shall climb. We must climb—or drown. And, remember: if you fall, I fall too. You will not be saving me, by letting yourself go."

She looked up into his eyes, despairingly. They blazed into hers from beneath his bent brows. She felt the tremendous mastery of his will. Her own gave one final struggle.

"I have nothing to live for, Jim Airth," she said. "I am alone in the world."

"So am I," he cried. "I have been worse than alone, for a half score of years. But there is life to live for. Would you throw away the highest of all gifts? I want to live—Good God! I must live; and so must you. We live or die together."

He loosed her shoulders and took her by the wrists. He lifted her trembling hands, and held them against his breast.

For a moment they stood so, in absolute silence.

Then Myra felt herself completely dominated. All fear slipped from her; but the assurance which took its place was his courage, not hers; and she knew it. Lifting her head, she smiled at him, with white lips.

"I shall not fall," she said.

Another wave swept round their ankles, and remained there.

"Good," said Jim Airth, and loosed her wrists. "We shall owe our lives to each other. Next time I look into your face, please God, we shall be in safety. Come!"

He sprang up the face of the cliff, standing in the highest niches he had made.

"Now follow me, carefully," he said; "slowly, and carefully. We are not in a position to hurry. Always keep each hand and each foot firmly in a niche. Are you there? Good!... Now don't look either up or down, but keep your eyes on my heels. Directly I move, come on into the empty places. See?... Now then. Can you manage?... Good! On we go! After all it won't take long.... I say, what fun if the Miss Murgatroyds peeped over the cliff! Amelia would be so shocked at our bare feet. Eliza would cry: 'Oh my dear love!' And Susie would promptly fall upon us! Hullo! Steady down there! Don't laugh too much.... Fine knife, this. I bought it in Mexico. And if the big blade gives out, there are two more; also a saw, and a cork-screw.... Mind the falling sand does not get into your eyes.... Tell me if the niches are not deep enough, and remember there is no hurry, we are not aiming to catch any particular train! Steady down there! Don't laugh.... Up we go! Oh, good! This is a third of the way. Don't look either up or down. Watch my heels—I wish they were more worth looking at—and remember the belt is quite handy, and I am as firm as a rock up here. You and all the Miss Murgatroyds might hang on to it together. Steady down there!... All right; I won't mention them.... By the way, the water must be fairly deep below us now. If you fell, you would merely get a ducking. I should slide down and pull you out, and we would start afresh.... Good Lord!... Oh, never mind! Nothing. Only, my knife slipped, but I caught it again.... We must be half way, by now. How lucky we have my glissading marks to guide us. I can't see the ledge from here. Let's sing 'Nancy Lee.' I suppose you know it. I can always work better to a good rollicking tune."

Then, as he drove his blade into the cliff, Jim Airth's gay voice rang out:

"Of all the wives as e'er you know, Yeo ho! lads! ho! Yeo ho! Yeo ho! There's none like Nancy Lee, I trow, Yeo ho! lads! ho! Yeo ho! See there she stands

—Blow! I've struck a rock! Not a big one though. Remember this step will be slightly more to your right

—and waves her hands, Upon the quay, And ev'ry day when I'm away, She'll watch for me; And whisper low, when tempests blow—

Oh, hang these unexpected stones! That's finished my big blade!

—For Jack at sea, Yeo ho! lads, ho! Yeo ho!

Now the chorus.

The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall be,—

Come on! You sing too!"

"Yeo ho! we go, Across the sea!"

came Lady Ingleby's voice from below, rather faint and quavering.

"That's right!" shouted Jim Airth. "Keep it up! I can see the ledge now, just above us.

The bo's'n pipes the watch below, Yeo ho! lads! ho! Yeo ho! Yeo ho! Then here's a health afore we go, Yeo ho! lads! ho! Yeo ho! A long, long life to my sweet wife, And mates at sea

—Keep it up down there! I have one hand on the ledge—

And keep our bones from Davy Jones Where'er we be!"

"And—keep our bones—from— Davy Jones—who e'er he be,"

quavered Lady Ingleby, making one final effort to move up into the vacant niches, though conscious that her fingers and toes were so numb that she could not feel them grip the sand.

Then Jim Airth's whole body vanished suddenly from above her, as he drew himself on to the ledge.

"Yeo ho! we go!" Came his gay voice from above.

"Yeo ho! Yeo ho!"

sang Lady Ingleby, in a faint whisper.

She could not move on into the empty niches. She could only remain where she was, clinging to the face of the cliff.

She suddenly thought of a fly on a wall; and remembered a particular fly, years ago, on her nursery wall. She had followed its ascent with a small interested finger, and her nurse had come by with a duster, and saying: "Nasty thing!" had ruthlessly flicked it off. The fly had fallen—fallen dead, on the nursery carpet.... Lady Ingleby felt she too was falling. She gave one agonised glance upward to the towering cliff, with the line of sky above it. Then everything swayed and rocked. "A mother of soldiers," her brain insisted, "must fall without screaming." Then—A long arm shot down from above; a strong hand gripped her firmly.

"One step more," said Jim Airth's voice, close to her ear, "and I can lift you."

She made the effort, and he drew her on to the ledge beside him.

"Thank you very much," said Lady Ingleby. "And who was Davy Jones?"

Jim Airth's face was streaming with perspiration. His mouth was full of sand. His heart was beating in his throat. But he loved to play the game, and he loved to see another do it. So he laughed as he put his arm around her, holding her tightly so that she should not realise how much she was trembling.

"Davy Jones," he said, "is a gentleman who has a locker at the bottom of the sea, into which all drown'd things go. I am afraid your pretty parasol has gone there, and my boots and stockings. But we may well spare him those.... Oh, I say!.... Yes, do have a good cry. Don't mind me. And don't you think between us we could remember some sort of a prayer? For if ever two people faced death together, we have faced it; and, by God's mercy, here we are—alive."



CHAPTER XI

'TWIXT SEA AND SKY

Myra never forgot Jim Airth's prayer. Instinctively she knew it to be the first time he had voiced his soul's thanksgiving or petitions in the presence of another. Also she realised that, for the first time in her whole life, prayer became to her a reality. As she crouched on the ledge beside him, shaking uncontrollably, so that, but for his arm about her, she must have lost her balance and fallen; as she heard that strong soul expressing in simple unorthodox language its gratitude for life and safety, mingled with earnest petition for keeping through the night and complete deliverance in the morning; it seemed to Myra that the heavens opened, and the felt presence of God surrounded them in their strange isolation.

An immense peace filled her. By the time those disjointed halting sentences were finished, Myra had ceased trembling; and when Jim Airth, suddenly at a loss how else to wind up his prayer, commenced "Our Father, Who art in heaven," Myra's sweet voice united with his, full of an earnest fervour of petition.

At the final words, Jim Airth withdrew his arm, and a shy silence fell between them. The emotion of the mind had awakened an awkwardness of body. In that uniting "Our Father," their souls had leapt on, beyond where their bodies were quite prepared to follow.

Lady Ingleby saved the situation. She turned to Jim Airth, with that impulsive sweetness which could never be withstood. In the rapidly deepening twilight, he could just see the large wistful grey eyes, in the white oval of her face.

"Do you know," she said, "I really couldn't possibly sit all night, on a ledge the size of a Chesterfield sofa, with a person I had to call 'Mr.' I could only sit there with an old and intimate friend, who would naturally call me 'Myra,' and whom I might call 'Jim.' Unless I may call you 'Jim,' I shall insist on climbing down and swimming home. And if you address me as 'Mrs. O'Mara,' I shall certainly become hysterical, and tumble off!"

"Why of course," said Jim Airth. "I hate titles of any kind. I come of an old Quaker stock, and plain names with no prefixes always seem best to me. And are we not old and trusted friends? Was not each of those minutes on the face of the cliff, a year? While that second which elapsed between the slipping of my knife from my right hand and the catching of it, against my knee, by my left, may go at ten years! Ah, think if it had dropped altogether! No, don't think. We were barely half way up. Now you must contrive to put on your shoes and stockings." He produced them from his pocket. "And then we must find out how to place ourselves most comfortably and safely. We have but one enemy to fight during the next seven hours—cramp. You must tell me immediately if you feel it threatening anywhere, I have done a lot of scouting in my time, and know a dodge or two. I also know what it is to lie in one position for hours, not daring to move a muscle, the cold sweat pouring off my face, simply from the agonies of cramp. We must guard against that."

"Jim," said Myra, "how long shall we have to sit here?"

He made a quick movement, as if the sound of his name from her lips for the first time, meant much to him; and there was in his voice an added depth of joyousness, as he answered:

"It would be impossible to climb from here to the top of the cliff. When I came down, I had a sheer drop of ten feet. You see the cliff slightly overhangs just above us. So far as the tide is concerned we might clamber down in three hours; but there is no moon, and by then, it will be pitch dark. We must have light for our descent, if I am to land you safe and unshaken at the bottom. Dawn should be breaking soon after three. The sun rises to-morrow at 3.44; but it will be quite light before then. I think we may expect to reach the Moorhead Inn by 4 A.M. Let us hope Miss Murgatroyd will not be looking out of her window, as we stroll up the path."

"What are they all thinking now?" questioned Lady Ingleby.

"I don't know, and I don't care," said Jim Airth, gaily. "You're alive, and I'm alive; and we've done a record climb! Nothing else matters."

"No, but seriously, Jim?"

"Well, seriously, it is very unlikely that I shall be missed at all. I often dine elsewhere, and let myself in quite late; or stop out altogether. How about you?"

"Why, curiously enough," said Myra, "before coming out I locked my bedroom door. I have the key here. I had left some papers lying about—I am not a very tidy person. On the only other occasion upon which I locked my door, I omitted dinner altogether, and went to bed on returning from my evening walk. I am supposed to be doing a 'rest-cure' here. The maid tried my door, went away, and did not turn up again until next morning. Most likely she has done the same to-night."

"Then I don't suppose they will send out a search-party," said Jim Airth.

"No. We are so alone down here. We only matter to ourselves," said Myra.

"And to each other," said Jim Airth, quietly.

Myra's heart stood still.

Those four words, spoken so simply by that deep tender voice, meant more to her than any words had ever meant. They meant so much, that they made for themselves a silence—a vast holy temple of wonder and realisation wherein they echoed back and forth, repeating themselves again and again.

The two on the ledge sat listening.

The chant of mutual possession, so suddenly set going, was too beautiful a thing to be interrupted by other words.

Even Lady Ingleby's unfailing habit of tactful speech was not allowed to spoil the deep sweetness of this unexpected situation. Myra's heart was waking; and when the heart is stirred, the mind sometimes forgets to be tactful.

At length:—"Don't you remember," he said, very low, "what I told you before we began to climb? Did I not say, that if we succeeded in reaching the ledge safely, we should owe our lives to each other? Well, we did; and—we do."

"Ah, no," cried Myra, impulsively. "No, Jim Airth! You—glad, and safe, and free—were walking along the top of these cliffs. I, in my senseless folly, lay sleeping on the sand below, while the tide rose around me. You came down into danger to save me, risking your life in so doing. I owe you my life, Jim Airth; you owe me nothing."

The man beside her turned and looked at her, with his quiet whimsical smile.

"I am not accustomed to have my statements amended," he said, drily.

It was growing so dark, they could only just discern each other's faces.

Lady Ingleby laughed. She was so unused to that kind of remark, that, at the moment she could frame no suitable reply.

Presently:—"I suppose I really owe my life to my scarlet parasol," she said. "Had it not attracted your attention, you would not have seen me."

"Should I not?" questioned Jim Airth, his eyes on the white loveliness of her face. "Since I saw you first, on the afternoon of your arrival, have you ever once come within my range of vision without my seeing you, and taking in every detail?"

"On the afternoon of my arrival?" questioned Lady Ingleby, astonished.

"Yes," replied Jim Airth, deliberately. "Seven o'clock, on the first of June. I stood at the smoking-room window, at a loose end of all things; sick of myself, dissatisfied with my manuscript, tired of fried fish—don't laugh; small things, as well as great, go to make up the sum of a man's depression. Then the gate swung back, and YOU—in golden capitals—the sunlight in your eyes, came up the garden path. I judged you to be a woman grown, in years perhaps not far short of my own age; I guessed you a woman of the world, with a position to fill, and a knowledge of men and things. Yet you looked just a lovely child, stepping into fairy-land; the joyful surprise of unexpected holiday danced in your radiant eyes. Since then, the beautiful side of life has always been you—YOU, in golden capitals."

Jim Airth paused, and sat silent.

It was quite dark now.

Myra slipped her hand into his, which closed upon it with a strong unhesitating clasp.

"Go on, Jim," she said, softly.

"I went out into the hall, and saw your name in the visitors' book. The ink was still wet. The handwriting was that of the holiday-child—I should like to set you copies! The name surprised me—agreeably. I had expected to be able at once to place the woman who had walked up the path. It was a surprise and a relief to find that my Fairy-land Princess was not after all a fashionable beauty or a society leader, but owned just a simple Irish name, and lived at a Lodge."

"Go on, Jim," said Lady Ingleby, rather tremulously.

"Then the name 'Shenstone' interested me, because I know the Inglebys—at least, I knew Lord Ingleby, well; and I shall soon know Lady Ingleby. In fact I have written to-day asking for an interview. I must see her on business connected with notes of her husband's which, if she gives permission, are to be embodied in my book. I suppose if you live near Shenstone Park you know the Inglebys?"

"Yes," said Myra. "But tell me, Jim; if—if you noticed so much that first day; if you were—interested; if you wanted to set me copies—yes, I know I write a shocking hand;—why would you never look at me? Why were you so stiff and unfriendly? Why were you not as nice to me as you were to Susie, for instance?"

Jim Airth sat long in silence, staring out into the darkness. At last he said:

"I want to tell you. Of course, I must tell you. But—may I ask a few questions first?"

Lady Ingleby also gazed unseeingly into the darkness; but she leaned a little nearer to the broad shoulder beside her. "Ask me what you will," she said. "There is nothing, in my whole life, I would not tell you, Jim Airth."

Her cheek was so close to the rough Norfolk jacket, that if it had moved a shade nearer, she would have rested against it. But it did not move; only, the clasp on her hand tightened.

"Were you married very young?" asked Jim Airth.

"I was not quite eighteen. It is ten years ago."

"Did you marry for love?"

There was a long silence, while both looked steadily into the darkness.

Then Myra answered, speaking very slowly. "To be quite honest, I think I married chiefly to escape from a very unhappy home. Also I was very young, and knew nothing—nothing of life, and nothing of love; and—how can I explain, Jim Airth?—I have not learnt much during these ten long years."

"Have you been unhappy?" He asked the question very low.

"Not exactly unhappy. My husband was a very good man; kind and patient, beyond words, towards me. But I often vaguely felt I was missing the Best in life. Now—I know I was."

"How long have you been—How long has he been dead?" The deep voice was so tender, that the question could bring no pain.

"Seven months," replied Lady Ingleby. "My husband was killed in the assault on Targai."

"At Targai!" exclaimed Jim Airth, surprised into betraying his astonishment. Then at once recovering himself: "Ah, yes; of course. Seven months. I was there, you know."

But, within himself, he was thinking rapidly, and much was becoming clear.

Sergeant O'Mara! Was it possible? An exquisite refined woman such as this, bearing about her the unmistakable hall-mark of high birth and perfect breeding? The Sergeant was a fine fellow, and superior—but, good Lord! Her husband! Yet girls of eighteen do foolish things, and repent ever after. A runaway match from an unhappy home; then cast off by her relations, and now left friendless and alone. But—Sergeant O'Mara! Yet no other O'Mara fell at Targai; and there was some link between him and Lord Ingleby.

Then, into his musing, came Myra's soft voice, from close beside him, in the darkness: "My husband was always good to me; but——"

And Jim Airth laid his other hand over the one he held. "I am sure he was," he said, gently. "But if you had been older, and had known more of love and life you would have done differently. Don't try to explain. I understand."

And Myra gladly left it at that. It would have been so very difficult to explain further, without explaining Michael; and all that really mattered was, that—with or without explanation—Jim Airth understood.

"And now—tell me," she suggested, softly.

"Ah, yes," he said, pulling himself together, with an effort. "My experience also misses the Best, and likewise covers ten long years. But it is a harder one than yours. I married, when a boy of twenty-one, a woman, older than myself; supremely beautiful. I went mad over her loveliness. Nothing seemed to count or matter, but that. I knew she was not a good woman, but I thought she might become so; and even if she didn't it made no difference. I wanted her. Afterwards I found she had laughed at me, all the time. Also, there had all the time been another—an older man than I—who had laughed with her. He had not been in a position to marry her when I did; but two years later, he came into money. Then—she left me."

Jim Airth paused. His voice was hard with pain. The night was very black. In the dark silence they could hear the rhythmic thunder of the waves pounding monotonously against the cliff below.

"I divorced her, of course; and he married her; but I went abroad, and stayed abroad. I never could look upon her as other than my wife. She had made a hell of my life; robbed me of every illusion; wrecked my ideals; imbittered my youth. But I had said, before God, that I took her for my wife, until death parted us; and, so long as we were both alive, what power could free me from that solemn oath? It seemed to me that by remaining in another hemisphere, I made her second marriage less sinful. Often, at first, I was tempted to shoot myself, as a means of righting this other wrong. But in time I outgrew that morbidness, and realised that though Love is good, Life is the greatest gift of all. To throw it away, voluntarily, is an unpardonable sin. The suicide's punishment should be loss of immortality. Well, I found work to do, of all sorts, in America, and elsewhere. And a year ago—she died. I should have come straight home, only I was booked for that muddle on the frontier they called 'a war.' I got fever after Targai; was invalided home; and here I am recruiting and finishing my book. Now you can understand why loveliness in a woman, fills me with a sort of panic, even while a part of me still leaps up instinctively to worship it. I had often said to myself that if I ever ventured upon matrimony again, it should be a plain face, and a noble heart; though all the while I knew I should never bring myself really to want the plain face. And yet, just as the burnt child dreads the fire, I have always tried to look away from beauty. Only—my Fairy-land Princess, may I say it?—days ago I began to feel certain that in you—YOU in golden capitals—the loveliness and the noble heart went together. But from the moment when, stepping out of the sunset, you walked up the garden path, right into my heart, the fact of YOU, just being what you are, and being here, meant so much to me, that I did not dare let it mean more. Somehow I never connected you with widowhood; and not until you said this evening on the shore: 'I am a soldier's widow,' did I know that you were free.—There! Now you have heard all there is to hear. I made a bad mistake at the beginning; but I hope I am not the sort of chap you need mind sitting on a ledge with, and calling 'Jim'."

For answer, Myra's cheek came trustfully to rest against the sleeve of the rough tweed coat. "Jim," she said; "Oh, Jim!"

* * * * *

Presently: "So you know the Inglebys?" remarked Jim Airth.

"Yes," said Myra.

"Is 'The Lodge' near Shenstone Park?"

"The Lodge is in the park. It is not at any of the gates.—I am not a gate-keeper, Jim!—It is a pretty little house, standing by itself, just inside the north entrance."

"Do you rent it from them?"

Myra hesitated, but only for the fraction of a second. "No; it is my own. Lord Ingleby gave it to me."

"Lord Ingleby?" Jim Airth's voice sounded like knitted brows. "Why not Lady Ingleby?"

"It was not hers, to give. All that is hers, was his."

"I see. Which of them did you know first?"

"I have known Lady Ingleby all my life," said Myra, truthfully; "and I have known Lord Ingleby since his marriage."

"Ah. Then he became your friend, because he married her?"

Myra laughed. "Yes," she said. "I suppose so."

"What's the joke?"

"Only that it struck me as an amusing way of putting it; but it is undoubtedly true."

"Have they any children?"

Myra's voice shook slightly. "No, none. Why do you ask?"

"Well, in the campaign, I often shared Lord Ingleby's tent; and he used to talk in his sleep."

"Yes?"

"There was one name he often called and repeated."

Lady Ingleby's heart stood still.

"Yes?" she said, hardly breathing.

"It was 'Peter'," continued Jim Airth. "The night before he was killed, he kept turning in his sleep and saying: 'Peter! Hullo, little Peter! Come here!' I thought perhaps he had a little son named Peter."

"He had no son," said Lady Ingleby, controlling her voice with effort. "Peter was a dog of which he was very fond. Was that the only name he spoke?"

"The only one I ever heard," replied Jim Airth.

Then suddenly Lady Ingleby clasped both hands round his arm.

"Jim," she whispered, brokenly, "Not once have you spoken my name. It was a bargain. We were to be old and intimate friends. I seem to have been calling you 'Jim' all my life! But you have not yet called me 'Myra,' Let me hear it now, please."

Jim Airth laid his big hand over both of hers.

"I can't," he said. "Hush! I can't. Not up here—it means too much. Wait until we get back to earth again. Then—Oh, I say! Can't you help?"

This kind of emotion was an unknown quantity to Lady Ingleby. So was the wild beating of her own heart. But she knew the situation called for tact, and was not tactful speech always her special forte?

"Jim," she said, "are you not frightfully hungry? I should be; only I had an enormous tea before coming out. Would you like to hear what I had for tea? No. I am afraid it would make you feel worse. I suppose dinner at the inn was over, long ago. I wonder what variation of fried fish they had, and whether Miss Susannah choked over a fish-bone, and had to be requested to leave the room. Oh, do you remember that evening? You looked so dismayed and alarmed, I quite thought you were going to the rescue! I wonder what time it is?"

"We can soon tell that," said Jim Airth, cheerfully. He dived into his pocket, produced a matchbox which he had long been fingering turn about with his pipe and tobacco-pouch, struck a light, and looked at his watch. Myra saw the lean brown face, in the weird flare of the match. She also saw the horrid depth so close to them, which she had almost forgotten. A sense of dizziness came over her. She longed to cling to his arm; but he had drawn it resolutely away.

"Half past ten," said Jim Airth. "Miss Murgatroyd has donned her night-cap. Miss Eliza has sighed: 'Good-night, summer, good-night, good-night,' at her open lattice; and Susie, folding her plump hands, has said: 'Now I lay me.'"

Myra laughed. "And they will all be listening for you to dump out your big boots," she said. "That is always your 'Good-night' to the otherwise silent house."

"No, really? Does it make a noise?" said Jim Airth, ruefully. "Never again——?"

"Oh, but you must," said Myra. "I love—I mean Susie loves the sound, and listens for it. Jim, that match reminds me:—why don't you smoke? Surely it would help the hunger, and be comfortable and cheering."

Jim Airth's pipe and pouch were out in a twinkling.

"Sure you don't mind? It doesn't make you sick, or give you a headache?"

"No, I think I like it," said Myra. "In fact, I am sure I like it. That is, I like to sit beside it. No, I don't do it myself."

Another match flared, and again she saw the chasm, and the nearness of the edge. She bore it until the pipe was drawing well. Then: "Oh, Jim," she said, "I am so sorry; but I am afraid I am becoming dizzy. I feel as though I must fall over." She gave a half sob.

Jim Airth turned, instantly alert.

"Nonsense," he said, but the sharp word sounded tender. "Four good feet of width are as safe as forty. Change your position a bit." He put his arm around her, and moved her so that she leant more completely against the cliff at their backs. "Now forget the edge," he said, "and listen. I am going to tell you camp yarns, and tales of the Wild West."

Then as they sat on in the darkness, Jim Airth smoked and talked, painting vivid word-pictures of life and adventure in other lands. And Myra listened, absorbed and enchanted; every moment realising more fully, as he unconsciously revealed it, the manly strength and honest simplicity of his big nature, with its fun and its fire; its huge capacity for enjoyment; its corresponding capacity for pain.

And, as she listened, her heart said: "Oh, my cosmopolitan cowboy! Thank God you found no title in the book, to put you off. Thank God you found no name which you could 'place,' relegating its poor possessor to the ranks of 'society leaders' in which you would have had no share. And, oh! most of all, I thank God for the doctor's wise injunction: 'Leave behind you your own identity'!"



CHAPTER XII

UNDER THE MORNING STAR

The night wore on.

Stars shone in the deep purple sky; bright watchful eyes looking down unwearied upon the sleeping world.

The sound of the sea below fell from a roar to a murmur, and drew away into the distance.

It was a warm June night, and very still.

Jim Airth had moved along the ledge to the further end, and sat swinging his legs over the edge. His content was so deep and full, that ordinary speech seemed impossible; and silence, a glad necessity. The prospect of that which the future might hold in store, made the ledge too narrow to contain him. He sought relief in motion, and swung his long legs out into the darkness.

It had not occurred to him to wonder at his companion's silence; the reason for his own had been so all-sufficient.

At length he struck a match to see the time; then, turning with a smile, held it so that its light illumined Myra.

She knelt upon the ledge, her hands pressed against the overhanging cliff, her head turned in terror away from it. Her face was ashen in its whiteness, and large tears rolled down her cheeks.

Jim dropped the match, with an exclamation, and groped towards her in the darkness.

"Dear!" he cried, "Oh, my dear, what is the matter? Selfish fool, that I am! I thought you were just resting, quiet and content."

His groping hands found and held her.

"Oh, Jim," sobbed Lady Ingleby, "I am so sorry! It is so weak and unworthy. But I am afraid I feel faint. The whole cliff seems to rock and move. Every moment I fear it will tip me over. And you seemed miles away!"

"You are faint," said Jim Airth; "and no wonder. There is nothing weak or unworthy about it. You have been quite splendid. It is I who have been a thoughtless ass. But I can't have you fainting up here. You must lie down at once. If I sit on the edge with my back to you, can you slip along behind me and lie at full length, leaning against the cliff?"

"No, oh no, I couldn't!" whispered Myra. "It frightens me so horribly when you hang your legs over the edge, and I can't bear to touch the cliff. It seems worse than the black emptiness. It rocks to and fro, and seems to push me over. Oh, Jim! What shall I do? Help me, help me!"

"You must lie down," said Jim Airth, between his teeth. "Here, wait a minute. Move out a little way. Don't be afraid. I have hold of you. Let me get behind you.... That's right. Now you are not touching the cliff. Let me get my shoulders firmly into the hollow at this end, and my feet fixed at the other. There! With my back rammed into it like this, nothing short of an earthquake could dislodge me. Now dear—turn your back to me and your face to the sea and let yourself go. You will not fall over. Do not be afraid."

Very gently, but very firmly, he drew her into his arms.

Tired, frightened, faint,—Lady Ingleby was conscious at first of nothing save the intense relief of the sense of his great strength about her. She seemed to have been fighting the cliff and resisting the gaping darkness, until she was utterly worn out. Now she yielded to his gentle insistence, and sank into safety. Her cheek rested against his rough coat, and it seemed to her more soothing than the softest pillow. With a sigh of content, she folded her hands upon her breast, and he laid one of his big ones firmly over them both. She felt so safe, and held.

Then she heard Jim Airth's voice, close to her ear.

"We are not alone," he said. "You must try to sleep, dear; but first I want you to realise that we are not alone. Do you know what I mean? God is here. When I was a very little chap, I used to go to a Dame-school in the Highlands; and the old dame made me learn by heart the hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. I have repeated parts of it in all sorts of places of difficulty and danger. I am going to say my favourite verses to you now. Listen. 'Whither shall I go from Thy Spirit? or whither shall I flee from Thy presence?... If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from Thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to Thee.... How precious also are Thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them. If I should count them they are more in number than the sand: when I awake I am still with Thee.'"

The deep voice ceased. Lady Ingleby opened her eyes. "I was nearly asleep," she said. "How good you are, Jim."

"No, I am not good," he answered. "I'm a tough chap, full of faults, and beset by failings. Only—if you will trust me, please God, I will never fail you. But now I want you to sleep; and I don't want you to think about me. I am merely a thing, which by God's providence is allowed to keep you in safety. Do you see that wonderful planet, hanging like a lamp in the sky? Watch it, while I tell you some lines written by an American woman, on the thought of that last verse."

And with his cheek against her soft hair, and his strong arms firmly round her, Jim Airth repeated, slowly, Mrs. Beecher Stowe's matchless poem:

"Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness—I am with Thee.

"Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born; Alone with Thee, in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

"As in the dawning, o'er the waveless ocean, The image of the morning star doth rest; So in this stillness Thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast.

"When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer; Sweet the repose, beneath Thy wings o'ershadowing, But sweeter still to wake, and find Thee there.

"So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee; Oh, in that hour, fairer than daylight's dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with Thee!"

Jim Airth's voice ceased. He waited a moment in silence.

Then—"Do you like it?" he asked softly.

There was no answer. Myra slept as peacefully as a little child. He could feel the regular motion of her quiet breathing, beneath his hand.

"Thank God!" said Jim Airth, with his eyes on the morning star.



CHAPTER XIII

THE AWAKENING

When Lady Ingleby opened her eyes, she could not, for a moment, imagine where she was.

Dawn was breaking over the sea. A rift of silver, in the purple sky, had taken the place of the morning star. She could see the silvery gleam reflected in the ocean.

"Why am I sleeping so close to a large window?" queried her bewildered mind. "Or am I on a balcony?"

"Why do I feel so extraordinarily strong and rested?" questioned her slowly awakening body.

She lay quite still and considered the matter.

Then looking down, she saw a large brown hand clasping both hers. Her head was resting in the curve of the arm to which the hand belonged. A strong right arm was flung over and around her. All questionings were solved by two short words: "Jim Airth."

Lady Ingleby lay very still. She feared to break the deep spell of restfulness which held her. She hesitated to bring down to earth the exquisite sense of heaven, by which she was surrounded.

As the dawn broke over the sea, a wonderful light dawned in her eyes, a radiance such as had never shone in those sweet eyes before. "Dear God," she whispered, "am I to know the Best?"

Then she gently withdrew one hand, and laid it on the hand which had covered both.

"Jim," she said. "Jim! Look! It is day."

"Yes?" came Jim Airth's voice from behind her. "Yes? What? COME IN!—Hullo! Oh, I say!"

Myra smiled into the dawning. She had already come through those first moments of astonished realisation. But Jim Airth awoke to the situation more quickly than she had done.

"Hullo!" he said. "I meant to keep watch all the time; but I must have slept. Are you all right? Sure? No cramp? Well, I have a cramp in my left leg which will make me kick down the cliff in another minute, if I don't move it. Let me help you up.... That's the way. Now you sit safely there, while I get unwedged.... By Jove! I believe I've grown into the cliff, like a fossil ichthyosaurus. Did you ever see an ichthyosaurus? Doesn't it seem years since you said: 'And who is Davy Jones?' Don't you want some breakfast? I suppose it's about time we went home."

Talking gaily all the time, Jim Airth drew up his long limbs, rubbing them vigorously; stretched his arms above his head; then passed his hand over his tumbled hair.

"My wig!" he said. "What a morning! And how good to be alive!"

Myra stole a look at him. His eyes were turned seaward. The same dawn-light was in them, as shone in her own.

"Don't you want breakfast?" said Jim Airth, and pulled out his watch.

"I do," said Myra, gaily. "And now I can venture to tell you what delicious home-made bread I had for tea. What time is it, Jim?"

"Half past three. In a few minutes the sun will rise. Watch! Did you ever before see the dawn? Is it not wonderful? Always more of pearl and silver than at sunset. Look how the narrow rift has widened and spread right across the sky. The Monarch of Day is coming! See the little herald clouds, in livery of pink and gold. Now watch where the sea looks brightest. Ah!... There is the tip of his blood-red rim, rising out of the ocean. And how quickly the whole ball appears. Now see the rippling path of gold and crimson, a royal highway on the waters, right from the shore below us, to the footstool of his brilliant Majesty.... A new day has begun; and we have not said 'Good-morning.' Why should we? We did not say 'Good-night.' How ideal it would be, never to say 'Good-morning'; and never to say 'Good-night.' The night would be always 'good', and so would the morning. All life would be one grand crescendo of good—better—best. What? Have we found the Best? Ah, hush! I did not mean to say that yet.... Are you ready for the climb down? No, I can't allow any peeping over, and considering. If you really feel afraid of it, I will run to Tregarth as quickly as possible, rouse the sleeping village, bring ropes and men, and haul you up from the top."

"I absolutely decline to be 'hauled up from the top,' or to be left here alone," declared Lady Ingleby.

"Then the sooner we start down, the better," said Jim Airth. "I'm going first." He was over the edge before Myra could open her lips to expostulate. "Now turn round. Hold on to the ledge firmly with your hands, and give me your feet. Do you hear? Do as I tell you. Don't hesitate. It is less steep than it seemed yesterday. We are quite safe. Come on!... That's right."

Then Lady Ingleby passed through a most terrifying five minutes, while she yielded in blind obedience to the strong hands beneath her, and the big voice which encouraged and threatened alternately.

But when the descent was over and she stood on the shore beside Jim Airth; when together they turned and looked in silence up the path of glory on the rippling waters, to the blazing beauty of the rising sun, thankful tears rushed to Lady Ingleby's eyes.

"Oh, Jim," she exclaimed, "God is good! It is so wonderful to be alive!"

Then Jim Airth turned, his face transfigured, the sunlight in his eyes, and opened his arms. "Myra," he said. "We have found the Best."

* * * * *

They walked along the shore, and up the steep street of the sleeping village, hand in hand like happy children.

Arrived at the Moorhead Inn, they pushed open the garden gate, and stepped noiselessly across the sunlit lawn.

The front door was firmly bolted. Jim Airth slipped round to the back, but returned in a minute shaking his head. Then he felt in his pocket for the big knife which had served them so well; pushed back the catch of the coffee-room window; softly raised the sash; swung one leg over, and drew Myra in after him.

Once in the familiar room, with its mustard-pots and salt-cellars, its table-cloths, left on in readiness for breakfast, they both lapsed into fits of uncontrollable laughter; laughter the more overwhelming, because it had to be silent.

Jim, recovering first, went off to the larder to forage for food.

Lady Ingleby flew noiselessly up to her room to wash her hands, and smooth her hair. She returned in two minutes to find Jim, very proud of his success, setting out a crusty home-made loaf, a large cheese, and a foaming tankard of ale.

Lady Ingleby longed for tea, and had never in her life drunk ale out of a pewter pot. But not for worlds would she have spoiled Jim Airth's boyish delight in the success of his raid on the larder.

So they sat at the centre table, Myra in Miss Murgatroyd's place, and Jim in Susie's, and consumed their bread-and-cheese, and drank their beer, with huge appetites and prodigious enjoyment. And Jim used Miss Susannah's napkin, and pretended to be sentimental over it. And Myra reproved him, after the manner of Miss Murgatroyd reproving Susie. After which they simultaneously exclaimed: "Oh, my dear love!" in Miss Eliza's most affecting manner; then linked fingers for a wish, and could neither of them think of one.

By the time they had finished, and cleared away, it was half past five. They passed into the hall together.

"You must get some more sleep," said Jim Airth, authoritatively.

"I will, if you wish it," whispered Myra; "but I never, in my whole life, felt so strong or so rested. Jim, I shall sit at your table, and pour out your coffee at breakfast. Let's aim to have it at nine, as usual. It will be such fun to watch the Murgatroyds, and to remember our cheese and beer. If you are down first, order our breakfasts at the same table."

"All right," said Jim Airth.

Myra commenced mounting the stairs, but turned on the fifth step and hung over the banisters to smile at him.

Jim Airth reached up his hand. "How can I let you go?" he exclaimed suddenly.

Myra leaned over, and smiled into his adoring eyes.

"How can I go?" she whispered, tenderly.

Jim Airth took both her hands in his. His eyes blazed up into hers.

"Myra," he said, "when shall we be married?"

Myra's face flamed, just as the soft white clouds had flamed when the sun arose. But she met the fire of his eyes without flinching.

"When you will, Jim," she answered gently.

"As soon as possible, then," said Jim Airth, eagerly.

Myra withdrew her hands, and mounted two more steps; then turned to bend and whisper: "Why?"

"Because," replied Jim Airth, "I do not know how to bear that there should be a day, or an hour, or a minute, when we cannot be together."

"Ah, do you feel that, too?" whispered Myra.

"Too?" cried Jim Airth. "Do you—Myra! Come back!"

But Lady Ingleby fled up the stairs like a hare. She had not run so fast since she was a little child of ten. He heard her happy laugh, and the closing of her door.

Then he unbarred the front entrance; and stepping out, stood in the sunshine, on the path where he had seen his Fairy-land Princess arrive.

He stretched his arms over his head.

"Mine!" he said. "Mine, altogether! Oh, my God! At last, I have won the Highest!"

Then he raced down the street to the beach; and five minutes later, in the full strength of his vigorous manhood, he was swimming up the golden path, towards the rising sun.



CHAPTER XIV

GOLDEN DAYS

The week which followed was one of ideal joy and holiday. Both knew, instinctively, that no after days could ever be quite as these first days. They were an experience which came not again, and must be realised and enjoyed with whole-hearted completeness.

At first Jim Airth talked with determination of a special licence, and pleaded for no delay. But Lady Ingleby, usually vague to a degree on all questions of law or matters of business, fortunately felt doubtful as to whether it would be wise to be married in a name other than her own; and, though she might have solved the difficulty by at once revealing her identity to Jim Airth, she was anxious to choose her own time and place for this revelation, and had set her heart upon making it amid the surroundings of her own beautiful home at Shenstone.

"You see, Jim," she urged, "I have a few friends in town and at Shenstone, who take an interest in my doings; and I could hardly reappear among them married! Could I, Jim? It would seem such an unusual and unexpected termination to a rest-cure. Wouldn't it, Jim?"

Jim Airth's big laugh brought Miss Susie to the window. It caused sad waste of Susannah's time, that her window looked out on the honeysuckle arbour.

"It might make quite a run on rest-cures," said Jim Airth.

"Ah, but they couldn't all meet you," said Myra; and the look he received from those sweet eyes, atoned for the vague inaccuracy of the rejoinder.

So they agreed to have one week of this free untrammelled life, before returning to the world of those who knew them; and he promised to come and see her in her own home, before taking the final steps which should make her altogether his.

So they went gay walks along the cliffs in the breezy sunshine; and Myra, clinging to Jim's arm, looked down from above upon their ledge.

They revisited Horseshoe Cove at low water, and Jim Airth spent hours cutting the hurried niches into proper steps, so as to leave a staircase to the ledge, up which people, who chanced in future to be caught by the tide, might climb to safety. Myra sat on the beach and watched him, her eyes alight with tender memories; but she absolutely refused to mount again.

"No, Jim," she said; "not until we come here on our honeymoon. Then, if you wish, you shall take your wife back to the place where we passed those wonderful hours. But not now."

Jim, who expected always to have his own way, unless he was given excellent reasons in black and white for not having it, was about to expostulate and insist, when he saw tears on her lashes and a quiver of the sweet smiling lips, and gave in at once without further question.

They hired a tent, and pitched it on the shore at Tregarth, Myra telegraphed for a bathing-dress, and Jim went into the sea in his flannels and tried to teach her to swim, holding her up beneath her chin and saying; "One, two! ONE, TWO!" far louder than Myra had ever had it said to her before. Thus, amid much splashing and laughter, Lady Ingleby accomplished her swim of ten yards.

Miss Murgatroyd was shocked; nay, more than shocked. Miss Murgatroyd was scandalised! She took to her bed forthwith, expecting Miss Eliza and Miss Susannah to follow her example—in the spirit, if not to the letter. But, released from Amelia's personal supervision, romantic little Susie led Eliza astray; and the two took a furtive and fearful joy in seeing all they could of the "goings on" of the couple who had boldly converted the prosaic Cornish hotel into a land of excitement and romance.

From the moment when on the morning after their adventure, Myra, with yellow roses in the belt of her white gown, had swept into the coffee-room at five minutes past nine, saying: "My dear Jim, have I kept you waiting? I hope the coffee is not cold?"—all life had seemed transformed to Miss Susie. Turning quickly, she had caught the look Jim Airth gave to the lovely woman who took her place opposite him at his hitherto lonely table, and, still smiling into his eyes, lifted the coffee-pot.

Amelia's stern whisper had recalled her to her senses, and prevented any further glancing round; but she had heard Myra say: "I forgot your sugar, Jim. One lump, or two?" and Jim Airth's reply: "As usual, thanks, dear," not knowing, that with a silent twinkle of fun, he laid an envelope over his cup, as a sign to Myra, waiting with poised sugar-tongs, that "as usual" meant no sugar at all!

Later on, when she one day met Lady Ingleby alone in a passage, Miss Susannah ventured two hurried questions.

"Oh, tell me, my dear! Is it really true that you are going to marry Mr. Airth? And have you known him long?"

And Myra smiling down into Susie's plump anxious face replied: "Well, as a matter of fact, Miss Susannah, Jim Airth is going to marry me. And I cannot explain how long I have known him. I seem to have known him all my life."

"Ah," whispered Miss Susannah with a knowing smile of conscious perspicacity; "Eliza and I felt sure it was a tiff."

This remark appeared absolutely incomprehensible to Lady Ingleby; and not until she had repeated it to Jim, and he had shouted with laughter, and called her a bare-faced deceiver, did she realise that the "tiff" was supposed to have been operative during the whole time she and Jim Airth had sat at separate tables, and showed no signs of acquaintance.

However, she smiled kindly into the archly nodding face. Then, in the consciousness of her own great happiness, enveloped little Susie in her beautiful arms, and kissed her.

Miss Susannah never forgot that embrace. It was to her a reflected realisation of what it must be to be loved by Jim Airth. And, thereafter, whenever Miss Murgatroyd saw fit to use such adjectives as "indecent," "questionable," or "highly improper," Miss Susie bravely gathered up her wool-work, and left the room.

Thus the golden days went by, and a letter came for Jim Airth from Lady Ingleby's secretary. Her ladyship was away at present but would be returning to Shenstone on the following Monday, and would be pleased to give him an interview on Tuesday afternoon. The two o'clock express from Charing Cross would be met at Shenstone station, unless he wrote suggesting another.

"Now that is very civil," said Jim to Myra, as he passed her the letter, "and how well it suits our plans. We had already arranged both to go up to town on Monday, and you on to Shenstone. So I can come down by that two o'clock train on Tuesday, get my interview with Lady Ingleby over as quickly as may be, and dash off to my girl at the Lodge. I hope to goodness she won't want to give me tea!"

"Which 'she'?" asked Myra, smiling. "I shall certainly want to give you tea."

"Then I shall decline Lady Ingleby's," said Jim with decision.

Even during those wonderful days he went on steadily with his book, Myra sitting near him in the smoking-room, writing letters or reading, while he worked. "I do better work if you are within reach, or at all events, within sight," Jim had said; and it was impossible that Lady Ingleby's mind should not have contrasted the thrill of pleasure this gave her, with the old sense of being in the way if work was to be done; and of being shut out from the chief interests of Michael's life, by the closing of the laboratory door. Ah, how different from the way in which Jim already made her a part of himself, enfolding her into his every interest.

She wrote fully of her happiness to Mrs. Dalmain, telling her in detail the unusual happenings which had brought it so rapidly to pass. Also a few lines to her old friend the Duchess of Meldrum, merely announcing the fact of her engagement and the date of her return to Shenstone, promising full particulars later. This letter held also a message for Ronald and Billy, should they chance to be at Overdene.

Sunday evening, their last at Tregarth, came all too soon. They went to the little church together, sitting among the simple fisher folk at Evensong. As they looked over one hymn book, and sang "Eternal Father, strong to save," both thought of "Davy Jones" in the middle of the hymn, and had to exchange a smile; yet with an instant added reverence of petition and thanksgiving.

"Thus evermore, shall rise to Thee, Glad hymns of praise from land and sea."

Jim Airth's big bass boomed through the little church; and Myra, close to his shoulder, sang with a face so radiant that none could doubt the reality of her praise.

Then back to a cold supper at the Moorhead Inn; after which they strolled out to the honeysuckle arbour for Jim's evening pipe, and a last quiet talk.

It was then that Jim Airth said, suddenly: "By the way I wish you would tell me more about Lady Ingleby. What kind of a woman is she? Easy to talk to?"

For a moment Myra was taken aback. "Why, Jim—I hardly know. Easy? Yes, I think you will find her easy to talk to."

"Does she speak of her husband's death, or is it a tabooed subject?"

"She speaks of it," said Myra, softly, "to those who can understand."

"Ah! Do you suppose she will like to hear details of those last days?"

"Possibly; if you feel inclined to give them, Jim—do you know who did it?"

A surprised silence in the arbour. Jim removed his pipe, and looked at her.

"Do I know—who—did—what?" he asked slowly.

"Do you know the name of the man who made the mistake which killed Lord Ingleby?"

Jim returned his pipe to his mouth.

"Yes, dear, I do," he said, quietly. "But how came you to know of the blunder? I thought the whole thing was hushed up, at home."

"It was," said Myra; "but Lady Ingleby was told, and I heard it then. Jim, if she asked you the name, should you tell her?"

"Certainly I should," replied Jim Airth. "I was strongly opposed, from the first, to any mystery being made about it. I hate a hushing-up policy. But there was the fellow's future to consider. The world never lets a thing of that sort drop. He would always have been pointed out as 'The chap who killed Ingleby'—just as if he had done it on purpose; and every man of us knew that would be a millstone round the neck of any career. And then the whole business had been somewhat irregular; and 'the powers that be' have a way of taking all the kudos, if experiments are successful; and making a what-on-earth-were-you-dreaming-of row, if they chance to be a failure. Hence the fact that we are all such stick-in-the-muds, in the service. Nobody dares be original. The risks are too great, and too astonishingly unequal. If you succeed, you get a D.S.O. from a grateful government, and a laurel crown from an admiring nation. If you fail, an indignant populace derides your name, and a pained and astonished government claps you into jail. That's not the way to encourage progress, or make fellows prompt to take the initiative. The right or the wrong of an action should not be determined by its success or failure."

Lady Ingleby's mind had paused at the beginning of Jim's tirade.

"They could not have taken Michael's kudos," she said. "It must have been patented. He was always most careful to patent all his inventions."

"Eh, what?" said Jim Airth. "Oh, I see. 'Kudos,' my dear girl, means 'glory'; not a new kind of explosive. And why do you call Lord Ingleby 'Michael'?"

"I knew him intimately," said Lady Ingleby.

"I see. Well, as I was saying, I protested about the hushing up, but was talked over; and the few who knew the facts pledged their word of honour to keep silence. Only, the name was to be given to Lady Ingleby, if she desired to know it; and some of us thought you might as well put it in The Times at once, as tell a woman. Then we heard she had decided not to know."

"What do you think of her decision?" asked Lady Ingleby.

"I think it proved her to be a very just-minded woman, and a very unusual one, if she keeps to it. But it would be rather like a woman, to make a fine decision such as that during the tension of a supreme moment, and then indulge in private speculation afterwards."

"Did you hear her reason, Jim? She said she did not wish that a man should walk this earth, whose hand she could not bring herself to touch in friendship."

"Poor loyal soul!" said Jim Airth, greatly moved. "Myra, if I got accidentally done for, as Ingleby was,—should you feel so, for my sake?"

"No!" cried Myra, passionately. "If I lost you, my beloved, I should never want to touch any other man's hand, in friendship or otherwise, as long as I lived!"

"Ah," mused Jim Airth. "Then you don't consider Lady Ingleby's reason for her decision proved a love such as ours?"

Myra laid her beautiful head against his shoulder.

"Jim," she said, brokenly, "I do not feel myself competent to discuss any other love. One thing only is clear to me;—I never realised what love meant, until I knew you."

A long silence in the honeysuckle arbour.

Then Jim Airth cried almost fiercely to the woman in his arms: "Can you really think you have been right to keep me waiting, even for a day?"

And she who loved him with a love beyond expression could frame no words in answer to that question. Thus it came to pass that, in the days to come, it was there, unanswered; ready to return and beat upon her brain with merciless reiteration: "Was I right to keep him waiting, even for a day."

* * * * *

In the hall, beside the marble table, where lay the visitors' book, they paused to say good-night. From the first, Myra had never allowed him up the stairs until her door was closed. "If you don't keep the rules I think it right to make, Jim," she had said, with her little tender smile, "I shall, in self-defence, engage Miss Murgatroyd as chaperon; and what sort of a time would you have then?"

So Jim was pledged to remain below until her door had been shut five minutes. After which he used to tramp up the stairs whistling:

"A long long life, to my sweet wife, And mates at sea; And keep our bones from Davy Jones, Where'er we be. And may you meet a mate as sweet——"

Then his door would bang, and Myra would venture to give vent to her suppressed laughter, and to sing a soft little

"Yeo ho! we go!—Yeo ho! Yeo ho!"

for sheer overflowing happiness.

But this was the last evening. A parting impended. Also there had been tense moments in the honeysuckle arbour.

Jim's blue eyes were mutinous. He stood holding her hands against his breast, as he had done in Horseshoe Cove, when the waves swept round their feet, and he had cried: "You must climb!"

"So to-morrow night," he said, "you will be at the Lodge, Shenstone; and I, at my Club in town. Do you know how hard it is to be away from you, even for an hour? Do you realise that if you had not been so obstinate we never need have been parted at all? We could have gone away from here, husband and wife together. If you had really cared, you wouldn't have wanted to wait."

Myra smiled up into his angry eyes.

"Jim," she whispered, "it is so silly to say: 'If you had really cared'; because you know, perfectly well, that I care for you, more than any woman in the world has ever cared for any man before! And I do assure you, Jim, that you couldn't have married me validly from here—and think how awful it would be, to love as much as we love and then find out that we were not validly married—and when you come to my home, and fetch me away from there, you will admit—yes really admit—that I was right. You will have to apologise humbly for having said 'Bosh!' so often. Jim—dearest! Look at the clock! I must go. Poor Miss Murgatroyd will grow so tired of listening for us. She always leaves her door a crack open. So does Miss Susannah. They have all taken to sleeping with their doors ajar. I deftly led the conversation round to riddles yesterday, when I was alone with them for a few minutes, and asked sternly: 'When is a door, not a door?' They all answered: 'When it is a jar!' quite unabashed; and Miss Eliza asked another! I believe Susie stands at her crack, in the darkness, in hopes of seeing you march by.... No, don't say naughty words. They are dears, all three of them; and we shall miss them horribly to-morrow. Oh, Jim—I've just had such a brilliant idea! I shall ask them to be my bridesmaids! Can't you see them following me up the aisle? It would be worse than the duchess giving Jane away. Ah, you don't know that story? I will tell it you, some day. Jim, say 'Good-night' quickly, and let me go."

"Once," said Jim Airth, tightening his grasp on her wrists—"once, Myra, we said no 'good-night,' and no 'good-morning.'"

"Jim, darling!" said Myra, gently; "on that night, before I went to sleep, you said to me: 'We are not alone. God is here.' And then you repeated part of the hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. And, Jim—I thought you the best and strongest man I had ever known; and I felt that, all my life, I should trust you, as I trusted my God."

Jim Airth loosed the hands he had held so tightly, and kissed them very gently. "Good-night, my sweetheart," he said, "and God bless you!" Then he turned away to the marble table.

Myra ran swiftly up the stairs and closed her door.

Then she knelt beside her bed, and sobbed uncontrollably; partly for joy, and partly for sorrow. The unanswered question commenced its reiteration: "Ah, was I right to keep him waiting?"

Presently she lifted her head, held her breath, and stared into the darkness. A vision seemed to pass across her room. A tall, bearded man, in evening clothes. In his arms a tiny dog, peeping at her through its curls, as if to say: "I have the better place. Where do you come in?" The tall man turned at the door. "Good-night, my dear Myra," he said, kindly.

The vision passed.

Lady Ingleby buried her face in the bedclothes. "That—for ten long years!" she said. Then, in the darkness, she saw the mutinous fire of Jim Airth's blue eyes, and felt the grip of his strong hands on hers. "How can I say 'Good-night'?" protested his deep voice, passionately. And, with a rush of happy tears, Myra clasped her hands, whispering: "Dear God, am I at last to know the Best?"

And up the stairs came Jim Airth, whistling like a nightingale. But, as a concession to Miss Murgatroyd's ideas concerning suitable Sabbath music, he discarded "Nancy Lee," and whistled:

"Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave; Who bidst the mighty ocean deep, Its own appointed limits keep, O hear us, when we cry to Thee——"

And, kneeling beside her bed, in the darkness, Myra made of it her evening prayer.



CHAPTER XV

"WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY?"

When Jim Airth left the train on the following Tuesday afternoon, he looked eagerly up and down the platform, hoping to see Myra. True, they had particularly arranged not to meet, until after his interview with Lady Ingleby. But Myra was so charmingly inconsequent and impulsive in her actions. It would be quite like her to reverse the whole plan they had made; and, if her desire to see him, in any measure resembled his huge hunger for a sight of her, he could easily understand such a reversal.

However, Myra was not there; and with a heavy sense of unreasonable disappointment, Jim Airth chucked his ticket to a waiting porter, passed through the little station, and found a smart turn-out, with tandem ponies, waiting outside.

The groom at the leader's head touched his hat.

"For Shenstone Park, sir?"

"Yes," said Jim Airth, and climbed in.

The groom touched his hat again. "Her ladyship said, sir, that perhaps you might like to drive the ponies yourself, sir."

"No, thank you," said Jim Airth, shortly. "I never drive other people's ponies."

The groom's comprehending grin was immediately suppressed. He touched his hat again; gathered up the reins, mounted the driver's seat, flicked the leader, and the perfectly matched ponies swung at once into a fast trot.

Jim Airth, a connoisseur in horse-flesh, eyed them with approval. They flew along the narrow Surrey lanes, between masses of wild roses and clematis. The villagers were working in the hayfields, shouting gaily to one another as they tossed the hay. It was a matchless June day, in a perfect English summer.

Jim Airth's disappointment at Myra's non-appearance, was lifting rapidly in the enjoyment of the drive. After all it was best to adhere to plans once made; and every step of these jolly little tapping hoofs was bringing him nearer to the Lodge. Perhaps she would be at the window. (He had particularly told her not to be!)

"These ponies have been well handled," he remarked approvingly to the groom, as they flew round a bend.

"Yes, sir," said the groom, with the inevitable movement towards his hat, whip and hand going up together. "Her ladyship always drives them herself, sir. Fine whip, her ladyship, sir."

This item of information surprised Jim Airth. Judging by Lord Ingleby's age and appearance, he had expected to find Lady Ingleby a sedate and stately matron of sixty. It was somewhat surprising to hear of her as a fine whip.

However, he had no time to weigh the matter further. Passing an ivy-clad church on the village green, they swung through massive iron gates, of very fine design, and entered the stately avenue of Shenstone Park. To the left, in a group of trees, stood a pretty little gabled house.