_ CHAPTER FORTY. FOR HIS SAKE
Edie rushed to her cousin where she lay prone on the carpet, her face turned toward the shaded lamp, which threw its soft light upon her face, and, even then, in her horror, the girl thought it had never looked so beautiful before; while, as Guest, full of remorse, joined her, he felt ready to bite out his tongue in impotent rage against himself for a boyish babbler in making known to two gentlewomen his fearful discovery at the chambers.
"Shall I ring?" he said excitedly; and he was half-way to the bell before Edie checked him.
"Ring? No; you absurd man!" she cried impatiently. "Lock the doors. Nobody must know of this but us. Here, quick, water."
Guest was hurrying to obey the businesslike little body's orders about the doors when she checked him again.
"No, no; it would make matters worse. Nobody is likely to come till uncle leaves the library. Water. Throw those flowers out of that great glass bowl."
Guest obeyed, and bore the great iridescent vessel, from which he had tossed some orchids, to her side.
"That's right. Hold it closer. Poor darling! My dearest Myra, what have you done to have to suffer all this terrible pain?"
There were drops other than the cold ones to besprinkle the white face Edie had lifted into her lap, as she sat on the floor, bending down from time to time to kiss the marble forehead and contracted eyelids as she spoke.
"Percy, dear," she said, as he knelt by her, helpful, but, in spite of the trouble, full of mute worship for the clever little body before him.
His eyes met hers, and flashed their delight, as the second word seemed to clinch others which she had spoken that night.
"This is all a secret. Even uncle must not know yet till we have had a long talk with aunt. She can be quite like a lawyer in giving advice."
"But, Edie!"
"No, no; we can have no hesitation. What I say is right. I'm very fond of Malcolm Stratton; and, if he has done this dreadful thing, his punishment must not come through us."
"You're a little Queen of Sheba," he whispered passionately.
"Hush! That's not behaving like Solomon. Be wise, please. O Myra, Myra! Stop; there are some salts on the chimney-piece in the front room. No, no; stay! She is coming to."
For Myra turned her head slightly on one side, and muttered a few incoherent words in a low, weary tone; and at last opened her eyes to let them rest on Guest's face as he knelt by her.
There was no recognition for a few moments, as she lay back, gazing dreamily at him. Then thought resumed its power in her brain, and her face was convulsed by a spasm.
Starting up, she caught his arm.
"Is it all true?" she cried, in a low, husky whisper.
Guest gave her a pitying, appealing look, but he did not speak.
"Yes, it must be true," she said, as she rose to her feet, and stood supporting herself by Guest's arm, while Edie held her hand. "You have not told anyone?" she said eagerly.
"No; I came here as soon as I knew."
"Where is Mr Stratton?"
"At his chambers."
"And you, his friend, have left him at such a time?"
"It was at his wish," said Guest gently; "his secret is safe with me."
"Yes. He trusts you. I trust you. Percy Guest, Edie, even if he is guilty, he must be saved. No, no, it could not be guilt. I must not be weak now. He may be innocent, and the law can be so cruel. Who knows what may be the cause!"
She pressed her hands to her temples for a few moments, and then the power to think grew clearer.
"Go to him--from me. Tell him I bid him leave England at once. Leave with him, if you can be of help. Stop. He is not rich. Edie, all the money you have. Mr Guest, take this, too, and I will get more. Now go, and remember that you are his friend. Write to me and Edie, and we will send; but, though all is over, let me know that his life is safe."
Guest caught the hand she extended with her purse and Edie's, kissed it reverently, and closed the fingers tightly round the purses, and gently thrust them from him.
"What!" Myra cried passionately; "you refuse?"
"I want to help you both," he replied gravely.
"O Percy!" cried Edie, with the tears starting to her eyes, and her tone of reproach thrilled him.
"Don't speak to me like that," he said. "You mean well, but to do what you say is to condemn him at once in everybody's sight. It is all so foreign to my poor friend's nature that, even knowing what I do, I cling to the belief in his innocence."
"Yes; he must be innocent," cried Myra. "He could not be what you say."
"Then should I be right in taking money and your message, saying to him, though not in words--'Fly for your life, like a hunted criminal'? I could not do it. Myra, Edie--think, pray, what you are urging. It would be better advice to him to say--'Give yourself up, and let a jury of your fellow-countrymen decide.'"
"No, no," cried Myra; "it is too horrible. You do not know; you cannot see what he is suffering--what his position is. I must act myself. It cannot, it cannot be true!"
"Myra!" whispered Edie, clinging to her.
"What? And you side against me, too?"
"No, no, dear! How can you speak such cruel words? You know I would do anything for your sake."
Half-mad with mental agony, Myra repulsed her with a bitter laugh.
"Anything but this," she cried. "There it is, plain enough. He speaks, and you cry 'Hearken! is he not wise.' He says, 'Let him be given up to justice for the mob to howl at him and say he must die.' Die? Oh, no, no, no, it is too horrible! He must--he shall be saved!"
In her agony she made a rush for the door, but before she was half-way there, she tottered, and would have fallen but for Guest's ready arm. He caught her just in time, and bore her to a couch, where she lay back sobbing hysterically for a few moments, but only to master her emotion, draw her cousin to her breast, and kiss her again and again before holding out her hand to Guest.
"Forgive me!" she whispered. "These long months of suffering have made me weak--half-mad. My lips spoke, not my heart. You are both wiser than I am. Help me, and tell me what to do."
"I will help you, and help him, in every way I can," said Guest gently, as he held the thin white hand in his. "Now let me talk coolly to you-- let us look the matter plainly in the face, and see how matters stand. I am speaking now as the lawyer, not as the friend--yes, as the friend, too; but our feelings must not carry us away."
Myra struggled with her emotion, and pressed the hand which held hers firmly.
Guest was silent for a few moments and stood as if collecting his thoughts and reviewing his position.
"There is no need for taking any immediate steps," he said. "The scene that took place to-night was forced on by my precipitancy, and the danger to Stratton has passed away. To-morrow I will see him again, and perhaps he will be more ready to take me into his confidence, for there is a great deal more to learn, I am sure."
"It is not so bad as you imagined."
"After what took place to-night I can't say that," Guest replied sadly; "but there are points I have not yet grasped. An accident--a fit of passion--a great deal more than I have yet learned."
"Then go to him to-night," said Myra eagerly. "I will go with you. He shall not think that all who love forsake him in the hour of his need."
"Myra!"
"I cannot help it," she cried, springing up. "Did I not go to him when that suspicion clung to him--that he was treacherous and base? Even then in my heart I felt it could not be true. Yes, I know what you say; he has tacitly confessed to this dreadful crime, but we do not know all. I saw that Malcolm Stratton could not be base. If he has taken another's life, I know, I feel all the horror; but he has not been false or treacherous to the woman he loved, and it was on account of this horror that he shrank back that day. To insult--to treat me with contempt? No; to spare me, Edie; and my place is at his side."
"No, not now," said Guest firmly. "I will go back to-night. Trust me, please, and have faith in my trying to do what is for the best."
There was a few moments' silence, and then Myra spoke again faintly, but with more composure.
"Yes, we trust you, Mr Guest. Don't think any more about what I said. Come to me again soon with news. I shall be dying for your tidings. Yes," she said, with a weary sigh, as she clung to his hand, "dying for your news. Only promise me this; that you will not deceive me in any way. If it is good or bad, you will come."
"You must know," said Guest quietly, "sooner or later. I will come and tell you everything."
"Then go now--go to him."
"Your father? He will think it strange that I have been and gone without seeing him."
"No; you have been to see us. I will tell him everything when we are alone. Good-night."
"Good-night."
Guest hurried back to the inn, but all was dark there; and, on going on to Sarum Street, he knocked at the door in vain.
"I can do no more," he said; and he went slowly back to his own rooms. _