The Mistress of Shenstone. Barclay Florence Louisa
charming person,” smiled the doctor, “where the rest of mankind are concerned; but very bad for you just now.”
“But – whom?” questioned Myra, again. “Whom can you mean?”
“I mean Lady Ingleby,” replied the doctor, gravely. “When I send you away for your rest-cure, Lady Ingleby with her worries and questionings, doubts and fears, must be left behind. I shall send you to a little out-of-the-world village on the wild sea coast of Cornwall, where you know nobody, and nobody knows you. You must go incognito, as ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs.’ – anything you please. Your rest-cure will consist primarily in being set free, for a time, from Lady Ingleby’s position, predicament, and perplexities. You must send word to all intimate friends, telling them you are going into retreat, and they must not write until they hear again. You will have leave to write one letter a week, to one person only; and that person must be one of whom I can approve. You must eat plenty of wholesome food; roam about all day long in the open-air; rise early, retire early; live entirely in a simple, beautiful, wholesome present, firmly avoiding all remembrance of a sad past, and all anticipation of an uncertain future. Nobody is to know where you are, excepting myself, and the one friend to whom you may write. But we will arrange that somebody – say, for instance, your devoted attendant from the Lodge, shall hold herself free to come to you at an hour’s notice, should you be overwhelmed with a sudden sense of loneliness. The knowledge of this, will probably keep the need from arising. You can communicate with me daily if you like, by letter or by telegram; but other people must not know where you are. I do not wish you followed by the anxious or restless thoughts of many minds. To-morrow I will give you the name of a place I recommend, and of a comfortable hotel where you can order rooms. It must be a place you have never seen, probably one of which you have never heard. We are nearing the end of May. I should like you to start on the first of June. If you want a house-party at Shenstone this summer, you may invite your guests for the first of July. Lady Ingleby will be at home again by then, fully able to maintain her reputation as a hostess of unequalled charm, graciousness, and popularity. Morbid self-consciousness is a condition of mind from which you have hitherto been so completely free, that this unexpected attack has altogether unnerved you, and requires prompt and uncompromising measures… Yes, Jane Dalmain may be your correspondent. You could not have chosen better.”
This was the doctor’s verdict and prescription; and, as his patients never disputed the one, or declined to take the other, Myra found herself, on “the glorious first of June” flying south in the Great Western express, bound for the little fishing village of Tregarth where she had ordered rooms at the Moorhead Inn, in the name of Mrs. O’Mara.
CHAPTER VI
AT THE MOORHEAD INN
The ruddy glow of a crimson sunset illumined cliff and hamlet, tinting the distant ocean into every shade of golden glory, as Myra walked up the gravelled path to the rustic porch of the Moorhead Inn, and looked around her with a growing sense of excited refreshment.
She had come on foot from the little wayside station, her luggage following in a barrow; and this mode of progression, minus a footman and maid, and carrying her own cloak, umbrella, and travelling-bag, was in itself a charming novelty.
At the door, she was received by the proprietress, a stately lady in black satin, wearing a double row of large jet beads, who reminded her instantly of all Lord Ingleby’s maiden aunts. She seemed an accentuated, dignified, concentrated embodiment of them all; and Myra longed for Billy, to share the joke.
“Aunt Ingleby” requested Mrs. O’Mara to walk in, and hoped she had had a pleasant journey. Then she rang a very loud bell twice, in order to summon a maid to show her to her room; and, the maid not appearing at once, requested Mrs. O’Mara meanwhile to write her name in the visitors’ book.
Lady Ingleby walked into the hall, passing a smoking-room on the left, and, noting a door, with “Coffee Room” upon it in gold lettering, down a short passage immediately opposite. Up from the centre of the hall, on her right, went the rather wide old-fashioned staircase; and opposite to it, against the wall, between the smoking-room and a door labelled “Reception Room,” stood a marble-topped table. Lying open upon this table was a ponderous visitors’ book. A fresh page had been recently commenced, as yet only containing four names. The first three were dated May the 8th, and read, in crabbed precise writing:
Miss Amelia Murgatroyd, Miss Eliza Murgatroyd, Miss Susannah Murgatroyd … Lawn View, Putney.
Below these, bearing date a week later, in small precise writing of unmistakable character and clearness, the name:
Jim Airth … London.
Pen and ink lay ready, and, without troubling to remove her glove, Lady Ingleby wrote beneath, in large, somewhat sprawling, handwriting:
Mrs. O’Mara … The Lodge, Shenstone.
A maid appeared, took her cloak and bag, and preceded her up the stairs.
As she reached the turn of the staircase, Lady Ingleby paused, and looked back into the hall.
The door of the smoking-room opened, and a very tall man came out, taking a pipe from the pocket of his loose Norfolk jacket. As he strolled into the hall, his face reminded her of Ronnie’s, deep-bronzed and thin; only it was an older face – strong, rugged, purposeful. The heavy brown moustache could not hide the massive cut of chin and jaw.
Catching sight of a fresh name in the book, he paused; then laying one large hand upon the table, bent over and read it.
Myra stood still and watched, noting the broad shoulders, and the immense length of limb in the leather leggings.
He appeared to study the open page longer than was necessary for the mere reading of the name. Then, without looking round, reached up, took a cap from the antler of a stag’s head high up on the wall, stuck it on the back of his head; swung round, and went out through the porch, whistling like a blackbird.
“Jim Airth,” said Myra to herself, as she moved slowly on; “Jim Airth of London. What an address! He might just as well have put: ‘of the world!’ A cross between a guardsman and a cowboy; and very likely he will turn out to be a commercial-traveller.” Then, as she reached the landing and came in sight of the rosy-cheeked maid, holding open the door of a large airy bedroom, she added with a whimsical smile: “All the same, I wish I had taken the trouble to write more neatly.”
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