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The Mistress of Shenstone. Barclay Florence Louisa
Читать онлайн.Название The Mistress of Shenstone
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Автор произведения Barclay Florence Louisa
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
“Oh, yes, I know,” said Myra, smiling wistfully. “Tiresome things, which keep him hours in his laboratory. And he has some very clever plan for long distance signalling from fort to fort – hieroglyphics in the sky, isn’t it? you know what I mean. But the fact that he volunteered into all this danger, merely to do experimenting, makes it harder to bear than if he had been at the head of his old regiment, and gone at the imperative call of duty. However – nothing matters so long as he comes home safely. And now you – you, Sir Deryck – must help me to become a real helpmeet to Michael. Tell me how you helped – oh, very well, we will not mention names. But give me wise advice. Give me hope; give me courage. Make me strong.”
The doctor looked at the clock; and, even as he looked, the chimes in the hall rang out the half-hour.
“You have not yet told me,” he said, speaking very slowly, as if listening for some other sound; “you have not yet told me, your second reason for leaving town.”
“Ah,” said Lady Ingleby, and her voice held a deeper, older, tone – a note bordering on tragedy. “Ah! I left town, Sir Deryck, because other people were teaching me love-lessons, and I did not want to learn them apart from Michael. I stayed with Jane Dalmain and her blind husband, before they went back to Gleneesh. You remember? They were in town for the production of his symphony. I saw that ideal wedded life, and I realised something of what a perfect mating of souls could mean. And then – well, there were others; people who did not understand how wholly I am Michael’s; nothing actually wrong; but not so fresh and youthful as Billy’s innocent adoration; and I feared I should accidentally learn what only Michael must teach. Therefore I fled away! Oh, doctor; if I ever learned from another man, that which I have failed to learn from my own husband, I should lie at Michael’s feet and implore him to kill me!”
The doctor looked up at the portrait over the mantelpiece. The calm passionless face smiled blandly at the tiny dog. One sensitive hand, white and delicate as a woman’s, was raised, forefinger uplifted, gently holding the attention of the little animal’s eager eyes. The magic skill of the artist supplied the doctor with the key to the problem. A woman– as mate, as wife, as part of himself, was not a necessity in the life of this thinker, inventor, scholar, saint. He could appreciate dumb devotion; he was capable of unlimited kindness, leniency, patience, toleration. But woman and dog alike, remained outside the citadel of his inner self. Had not her eyes resembled those of a favourite spaniel, he would very probably not have wedded the lovely woman who, now, during ten years had borne his name; and even then he might not have done so, had not the tyranny of her mother, awakening his instinct of protection towards the weak and oppressed, aroused in him a determination to withstand that tyranny, and to carry her off triumphantly to freedom.
The longer the doctor looked, the more persistently the picture said; “We two; and where does she come in?” – Righteous wrath arose in the heart of Deryck Brand; for his ideal as to man’s worship of woman was a high one. As he thought of the closed door; of the lonely wife, humbly jealous of a toy-poodle, yet blaming herself only, for her loneliness, his jaw set, and his brow darkened. And all the while he listened for a sound from the outer world which must soon come.
Lady Ingleby noticed his intent gaze, and, leaning forward, also looked up at the picture. The firelight shone on her lovely face, and on the gleaming softness of her hair. Her lips parted in a tender smile; a pure radiance shone from her eyes.
“Ah, he is so good!” she said. “In all the years, he has never once spoken harshly to me. And see how lovingly he looks at Peter, who really is a most unattractive little dog. Did you ever hear the duchess’s bon mot about Michael? He and I once stayed together at Overdene; but she did not ask us again until he was abroad, fishing in Norway; so of course I went by myself. The duchess always does those things frankly, and explains them. Therefore on this occasion she said: ‘My dear, I enjoy a visit from you; but you must only come, when you can come alone. I will never undertake again, to live up to your good Michael. It really was a case of St. Michael and All Angels. He was St. Michael, and we had to be all angels!’ Wasn’t it like the duchess; and a beautiful testimony to Michael’s consistent goodness? Oh, I wish you knew him better. And, for the matter of that, I wish I knew him better! But after all I am his wife. Nothing can rob me of that. And don’t you think – when Michael comes home this time – somehow, all will be different; better than ever before?”
The hall clock chimed three-quarters after the hour.
The clang of a bell resounded through the silent house.
Peter sat up, and barked once, sharply.
The doctor rose and stood with his back to the fire, facing the door.
Myra’s question remained unanswered.
Hurried steps approached.
A footman entered, with a telegram for Lady Ingleby.
She took it with calm fingers, and without the usual sinking of the heart from sudden apprehension. Her mind was full of the conversation of the moment, and the doctor’s presence made her feel so strong and safe; so sure of no approach of evil tidings.
She did not hear Sir Deryck’s quiet voice say to the man: “You need not wait.”
As the door closed, the doctor turned away, and stood looking into the fire.
The room was very still.
Lady Ingleby opened her telegram, unfolded it slowly, and read it through twice.
Afterwards she sat on, in such absolute silence that, at length, the doctor turned and looked at her.
She met his eyes, quietly.
“Sir Deryck,” she said, “it is from the War Office. They tell me Michael has been killed. Do you think it is true?”
She handed him the telegram. Taking it from her, he read it in silence. Then: “Dear Lady Ingleby,” he said, very gently, “I fear there is no doubt. He has given his life for his country. You will be as brave in giving him, as he would wish his wife to be.”
Myra smiled; but the doctor saw her face slowly whiten.
“Yes,” she said; “oh, yes! I will not fail him. I will be adequate – at last.” Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her: “Did you know of this? Is it why you came?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, slowly. “The duchess sent me. She was at the War Office this morning when the news came in, inquiring for Ronald Ingram, who has been wounded, and is down with fever. She telephoned for me, and insisted on the telegram being kept back until six o’clock this evening, in order to give me time to get here, and to break the news to you first, if it seemed well.”
Myra gazed at him, wide-eyed. “And you let me say all that, about Michael and myself?”
“Dear lady,” said the doctor, and few had ever heard that deep firm voice, so nearly tremulous, “I could not stop you. But you did not say one word which was not absolutely loving and loyal.”
“How could I have?” queried Myra, her face growing whiter, and her eyes wider and more bright. “I have never had a thought which was not loyal and loving.”
“I know,” said the doctor. “Poor brave heart, – I know.”
Myra took up the telegram, and read it again.
“Killed,” she said; “killed. I wish I knew how.”
“The duchess is ready to come to you immediately, if you would like to have her,” suggested the doctor.
“No,” said Myra, smiling vaguely. “No; I think not. Not unless dear mamma comes. If that happens we must wire for the duchess, because now – now Michael is away – she is the only person who can cope with mamma. But please not, otherwise; because – well, you see, – she said she could not live up to Michael; and it does not sound funny now.”
“Is there anybody you would wish sent for at once?” inquired the doctor, wondering how much