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Aye, I trow, auld Ingleby, the Liverpool packman, never came up Glasco street wi' prouder pomp when he had ten horse-laids afore him o' Flanders lace, an' Hollin lawn, an' silks an' satins frae the eastern Indians, than Satan wad strodge into Hell with a packlaid o' the souls o' proud professors on his braid shoulders. Ha, ha, ha!
"You can now guess the truth. Fergus Ingleby was the outlawed son whose name and whose inheritance I had taken. And Fergus Ingleby was even with me for depriving him of his birthright. "Some account of the manner in which the deception had been carried out is necessary to explain I don't say to justify the share I took in the events that followed my arrival at Madeira.
But next day they turned up at Shenstone, earlier than usual. And that morning, Lady Ingleby was feeling strangely restful and at peace; not with any expectations of future happiness; but resigned to the inevitable; and less apart from Jim Airth. She had fallen asleep the night before beset by haunting memories of Cornwall and of their climb up the cliff.
"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.
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.
Well, as I said, ordinary friends could not be admitted. Lady Ingleby went, in her sweet impulsive way, without letting them know she was coming; travelled all the way up from Shenstone with no maid, and nothing but a handbag, and arrived at the door in a fly. Robert Mackenzie, the local medical man, who is an inveterate misogynist, feared at first she was an unsuspected wife of Dal's.
He still looked into those happy, loving eyes, but the joy in his own died out, leaving them merely cold blue steel. His face slowly whitened, hardened, froze into lines of silent misery. Then he moved back a step, and Myra's hands fell from him. "You 'Lady Ingleby'?" he said. Myra gazed at him, in unspeakable dismay. "Jim!" she cried, "Jim, dearest! Why should you mind it so much?"
"To brook controul without the use of anger," and that so Mr. "To brook reproof without the use of anger," and hereupon Dr. Ingleby asks, "Is it not possible that here Mr. Such an objection is worthy of notice only as an example of the carping, unjudicial spirit in which this subject is treated by some of the British critics. Mr.
One of the ladies in question, a most unhappy woman, was under treatment in his Mental Sanatorium at that very moment; but he doubted whether Lady Ingleby knew it. "I was the black sheep," continued Myra, finding no remark forthcoming. "Nothing I did was ever right; everything I did was always wrong.
The next moment a cry rang out from Lady Ingleby's sitting-room a cry of such mingled bewilderment, wonder, and relief, that they looked at one another in amazement. Then without waiting to question or consider, they hastened to her. Lady Ingleby was standing in the middle of the room, an open telegram in her hand. "Jim," she was saying; "Oh, Jim!"
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