was already in the motor.

CHAPTER XXII

LORD INGLEBY'S WIFE

The journey down from town had been as satisfactorily rapid as even Jim
Airth could desire. He had caught the train at Charing Cross by five
seconds.

The hour's run passed quickly in glowing anticipation of that which was
being brought nearer by every turn of the wheels.

Myra's telegram was drawn from his pocket-book many times. Each word
seemed fraught with tender meaning, "_Come to me at once._" It was so
exactly Myra's simple direct method of expression. Most people would have
said, "Come here," or "Come to Shenstone," or merely "Come." "Come _to
me_" seemed a tender, though unconscious, response to his resolution of
the night before: "I will arise and go to my beloved."

Now that the parting was nearly over, he realised how terrible had been
the blank of three weeks spent apart from Myra. Her sweet personality was
so knit into his life, that he needed her--not at any particular time, or
in any particular way--but always; as the air he breathed; or as the
light, which made the day.

And she? He drew a well-worn letter from his pocket-book--the only letter
he had ever had from Myra.

"I shall always want you," it said; "but I could never send, unless the
coming would mean happiness for you."

Yet she _had_ sent. Then she had happiness in store for him. Had she
instinctively realised his change of mind? Or had she gauged his
desperate hunger by her own, and understood that the satisfying of that,
_must_ mean happiness, whatever else of sorrow might lie in the
background?

But there should be no background of anything but perfect joy, when Myra
was his wife. Would he not have the turning of the fair leaves of her
book of life? Each page should unfold fresh happiness, hold new
surprises as to what life and love could mean. He would know how to guard
her from the faintest shadow of disillusion. Even now it was his right
to keep her from that. How much, after all, should he tell her of the
heart-searchings of these wretched weeks? Last night he had meant to
tell her everything; he had meant to say: "I have sinned against
heaven--the heaven of our love--and before thee; and am no more
worthy...." But was it not essential to a woman's happiness to believe the
man she loved, to be in all ways, worthy? Out of his pocket came again
the well-worn letter. "I know you decided as you felt right," wrote Myra.
Why perplex her with explanations? Let