Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: "'BIG FATHER--SEND FOR LITTLE HAL--HAL SEE THE RISING
SUN'" See page 250]
*The Squaw Man*
*A Novel*
*By
Julie Opp Faversham*
*Adapted from the Play by
Edwin Milton Royle*
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1906, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published December, 1906.
TO
WILLIAM FAVERSHAM
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
"THE SQUAW MAN" . . . Cover Inlay
"'BIG FATHER--SEND FOR LITTLE HAL--HAL SEE THE RISING SUN'" . . .
Frontispiece
"ALMOST AS ONE MAN THEY THRUST THEIR REVOLVERS INTO BUD'S FACE"
"SHE DREW HERSELF UP CLOSE TO HIM, AND SAID 'ME KILL 'UM'"
"'YES, DIANA. MY BOY--MY SON'"
_The illustrations in this book are reproduced from photographs of
scenes in the play, made by Hall's Studio, New York; the cover inlay by
Morrison, Chicago._
*HOME*
*THE SQUAW MAN*
*CHAPTER I*
It was Jim's last day at home. He stood in the centre of the fragrant
garden and watched the glory of color suffusing the Surrey hills towards
the west. With a sigh he turned away and walked to the house.
"Where's Diana?" he called, as he came from the garden through the
casement-window of the library.
"Diana--why, she's in bed an hour ago, I should hope," replied his aunt,
Lady Elizabeth Kerhill. "She and Mabel went with Bates to see the
decorations and then said good-night. Surely you didn't expect me to
allow the children to stay up for the ball?"
Mabel was her daughter; Diana Marjoribanks was a young girl of thirteen,
who had come to visit her.
"Poor imps! they were so excited all day, and followed me about the
gun-room where I was doing some packing. They wanted me to coax you to
allow them to see the ball, and the tenantry welcome Henry to-night."
Lady Kerhill elevated her eyebrows in questioning amazement at Jim, as
she nervously twisted the lace of her gown, and with an impatient
gesture motioned the subject aside. She was a tall, angular woman, with
a profile like the head on a bronze coin; there was a suggestion of the
eagle in her personality, and by her friends she was likened to the
famous Sarah Churchill, the first Duchess of Marlborough.
To-night her face showed that anxious thoughts were crowding in on her
as she apprehensively watched the big, carved oak door leading into the
hall. Jim knew his aunt's firmness of character, and as silence followed
his words, he feared further discussion was useless; but the wistful
faces of the children at tea-time in the nursery, as they coaxed him to
plead for them to see the fun, made him venture a final appeal.
"You know, Aunt, Sir Charles brought Di over to stay with Mabel so that
she might see the festivities and incidentally say good-bye to me, so
you might turn angel and let Diana dance once with me at the very
beginning of the ball. I sha'n't see my little playfellow for ages, you
know."
A sound from outside held Lady Elizabeth's attention more intently than
Jim's pleading words. He crossed to her in the window-enclosure and
laid his hand caressingly on her shoulder.
"The Colonel wired me that we were leaving Paddington at nine to-morrow
morning, and India is a long way off, Auntie mine."
"Nonsense," answered Lady Elizabeth, as she rose from the deep
window-seat. "You are almost twenty, and Diana is only a babe--isn't
she, Henry?" She glanced up and appealed to the young man who rather
noisily entered the library.
"Who's a babe? Diana? Why, mater, she's a little witch, and I promised
her I'd let her see the illuminations at ten and then old Burrow should
carry her off to bed."
Henry Wynnegate, seventh Earl of Kerhill, dropped into a great settle
close to the fire. The ball was for the tenantry in celebration of his
return, after five years' absence with his regiment. He was a tall,
heavy-set young soldier of seven-and-twenty, with the famous Wynnegate
beauty, but it was marred by the shifting expression of his rather
deep-set eyes and the heavy lines about his mouth. Self was his god: it
showed in every expression of his face and in every action of his life.
Jim Wynnegate, his cousin, the son of the younger brother of the late
Earl, Henry's father, turned from the window as Henry entered. In the
young boy's face--for he seemed younger than his years--one could easily
trace the family resemblance; but Jim, with his great, clean spirit
shining in his honest gray eyes, invited confidence and won it, from a
mongrel dog to a superior officer. He was taller than Henry, and as
slim as a young sapling. The delicate, sensitive mouth was balanced by
a strong chin.
In the oak-lined room, grown almost black with age, the candle-lights
flickering in the heavy brass sconces, stood these three last
descendants of a great family. The Earl's brother, Dick Wynnegate, had
run away with the daughter of an impecunious colonel. A few years
later, while on service in India, he was shot, and the young wife lived
only to bring the tiny boy Jim home and to leave him with her husband's
brother. Even then the fortunes of the Wynnegates were somewhat
impaired, but the old Earl had taken the boy to his heart, and on his
death had confided him to his wife to share their fortune with his son
Henry. His last words were, "Be good to poor Dick's boy." The estates
were entailed, so no provision could be made by him for Jim, but Lady
Kerhill, in her cold, just fashion, had tried to make Dick's boy happy.
Deep in his heart, Jim remembered the years that followed; remembered
the selfish domination of the elder boy; remembered the blind adoration
of his aunt for her son, the bearer of the torch, who was to carry on
the golden light of the house of Kerhill. In the Anglo-Saxon idolatry
of the Countess of Kerhill for the male of the family, all the old
traditions and beliefs were justified. Her boy---the man-child who was
to be the head of the house--was her obsession. The tiny, flower-like
girl who came shortly before her husband's death, learned soon to turn
to Cousin Jim for comfort when her brother carelessly crushed her little
joys, as he selfishly planned and fought for his own gratification.
Instinctively Jim watched his aunt, who, at Henry's word, had started to
move towards him.
"Of course, if you care to go and fetch Diana, I shall be happy," Lady
Kerhill said.
Henry lounged back in his chair. "Well, if I forget, Jim can remember
for me--eh, Jim?"
Lady Kerhill's face became grave as she leaned over Henry's chair and
closely studied the flushed face. She found there confirmation of the
fear that had preyed on her mind for the past half-hour.
"Oh, Henry, you've broken your word," she whispered.
The reckless challenge of Henry's dark eyes as he moved impatiently in
his chair was his only answer. Then in a burst of ill-concealed
resentment he rose: "Don't nag, mother."
He swayed slightly as he crossed to the open casement. As Jim turned to
him, he sullenly pushed him aside.
"And don't you preach," he muttered, as he started for the garden.
Jim quickly caught him by the shoulder, "Pull yourself together, Henry.
It's eight o'clock and the people are gathering in the park."
Henry's only reply was a snarl as he disappeared in the shadow of the
trees.
The broad window opened level on an Old World garden that led into the
great park beyond. The late twilight of the July night was bathing park
and garden in a curious, unearthly light which made strange spectres of
the slowly waving yew-trees. The scent of the rose-bushes, the call of
the late nightingale to his mate, and the ghostly sundial,
sentinel-like, guarding the old place, made a fitting environment for
Maudsley Towers.
On a slight hill beyond the park, Jim could see the ruins of the famous
Norman church. To the right, at the farther end of the garden, was the
Fairies' Corner. There among the trees the fairies of the field were
supposed to sleep, and to listen to and grant the requests of the
children, who had the courage to venture to them at even-tide. Jim's
thoughts were busy to-night; all the old memories seemed to tug at his
heartstrings.
He had carried Diana Marjoribanks there on her first visit to the
Towers. She was six then and he was twelve. She had clung to him and
hid her head on his shoulder--the tiny body had stiffened with fear--as
they made their way to the dark enclosure of the trees. He could still
hear her prayer.
"Dear Fairy, please make Henry kinder to poor Jim, poor Mabel, and poor
me!"
Even then, Henry had been the little tyrant of the Towers.
And yet to-night Henry's wish, as of old, was law to his mother. She
conceded Diana to him at his first careless request, although in all
probability he would forget the longing child in the nursery--forget his
promise to give her pleasure, as he had forgotten so often when he was a
boy.
Jim roused himself; as he turned to Lady Elizabeth he caught a glimpse
of her with the mask off, the bitter disappointment of the mother's
heart showing in every line of her proud face. He crossed to her, but
the sound of carriage-wheels turning into the driveway heralded the
approach of the first arrivals, and before Jim could speak the doors
were thrown open to the guests.
Lady Elizabeth gave one look of appeal to Jim. It said: "Help Henry and
me!"
Up-stairs in the right wing of the old house, a tall, slender child
crouched close to the nursery window. She had crept from her cot, and,
wrapped in a coverlet, waited, and clung to the belief that Henry would
come for her. Jim had said he would try, but Henry had promised. She
was old enough to know that what Henry desired he obtained. Her little
face was pressed closer and closer to the window as she listened to the
swelling music and saw the guests thronging towards the park. Carriage
after carriage brought its load of finery, until the child fancied that
the entire county must be gathered below. She could see through the
climbing roses down into the library, which jutted out at a sharp angle
almost opposite to the nursery window. But of Jim or Henry she could
catch no glimpse.
The stars began to creep out and blink at the tiny figure in the
window-seat. Gradually the entire house grew quiet. All--even the
servants--had joined the revelry in the park.
The music crashed louder. Fiery showers of illumination could be seen
shooting and flaming into the sky. It grew cold. Tighter she drew the
coverlet and held closer the small puppy that nestled warm in her arms
and slept. In the adjoining room Mabel, Lady Kerhill's little daughter,
lay fast asleep.
"It's Jim's last night. I must say good-bye," the child whispered to
the fleecy white bundle in her arms. "I must keep awake and say
good-bye."
Fainter grew the music, darker the sky, and heavier the curved eyelids.
Slowly, with a sigh the child slipped to the floor, and the brown head
pillowed itself on the cushioned window-seat. Diana slept.
In the park, the tenantry, eager to meet their young master, were
shouting themselves hoarse. A speech of welcome followed the dazzling
illuminations. Over it all, Lady Elizabeth, with Sir Charles
Marjoribanks, presided.
Diana and her father lived on a neighboring estate, and Sir Charles had
come to-night to rejoice with his old friend on the return of her son.
Sir Charles was a man of slender physique, with a gentle, winning
manner; extremely delicate in health, he led for the most part a
secluded life, and since the death of his wife, at Diana's birth, went
little into the social world. Diana's childhood had been almost as
lonely as Jim's had been in his aunt's home. To-night Sir Charles
delighted in seeing the house of Wynnegate honored. He scarcely noted
the reckless demeanor and wild spirits of Henry as unusual; only for Jim
and Lady Elizabeth was it a night of anxiety. Never for a moment did
Henry escape Jim's watchful eyes; slip after slip made by Henry was
covered by Jim's tact and thoughtfulness, and with simple dignity he
carried the night to success. Only when he stood aside and saw Henry
receive the demonstrations of the county and tenantry did the bitterness
of his position force itself upon him. Not once did Henry remember his
promise to the child waiting for him. Jim remembered; but the look of
appeal from his aunt, and the sullen defiance of Henry, kept him close
to his cousin's side.
The final bars of the last dance were dying away and the ball was
drawing to its brilliant end. In the east, a pale streak of light was
beginning to show over the horizon. Sir Charles, half an hour before,
had gone to his room. Exhausted by the long evening's anxiety and late
festivities, Lady Kerhill forgot that Jim was to leave early in the
morning and that she would not see him again, and had retired to her own
apartment. In the great hall, tired and excited groups of guests were
saying good-night.
"It's good-bye for Jim," Sir John Applegate, Diana's cousin, called as
the last carriage drove away.
A half-whimsical smile played over Jim's face. Then some one remembered
that he was leaving England. As he turned from the door, he met the
eyes of his cousin fastened on him, all the latent rebellion rising to
the surface. Henry Kerhill was sober enough to know that Jim had
watched and guarded him through the entire night, and had stood between
him and disgrace. As he leaned against the tall mantel, the bitter
consciousness that the young boy had proved himself of fine mettle, ate
like acid into his feverish brain. He dug his hands deep into his
pockets, then with a lurch he pulled himself together. Without a word he
turned, crossed to the twisted staircase, and grasping the oak rails,
slowly ascended. From the landing came the slam of a heavy door, and Jim
knew that he was alone.
So this was the end. The striking of the bell in the church-tower
reminded him that it was now four o'clock and that he was to leave at
six. His luggage had been sent on ahead the previous day. He changed
quickly, without disturbing the tired servants, and in half an hour was
ready to walk to the station. As he came down the broad staircase,
lined with portraits of the ancestors of the house of Wynnegate, a
slight noise in the corridor leading off from the broad landing
attracted him. Before he could turn, a low voice called:
"Jim--Jim!"
It was Diana. Standing there in the dim light of the corridor, she made
an entrancing picture. With the parted hair falling away from the low
brow, around the oval face, and the far-apart blue-black eyes, she
looked like the child Madonna of Rosetti's "Annunciation." The coverlet
was drawn close about her, the puppy still hidden under its folds.
"It's Di, Jim," she whispered as she hurried to him. "I waited and
waited for you--I knew you were going away and I wanted to say good-bye.
Burrow promised that she would let me see you, but she's fast asleep,
and so is Mabel. I tried to wake them but I couldn't." The little
figure cuddled into his arms.
Jim's heart was very full as he looked at the frail child in the early
dawn, the shadows of a restless night showing on her delicately modelled
face. He drew her into a window-enclosure, and wrapping the heavy
curtains about her, held her fast.
"Say something," the sweet voice coaxed. "I shall miss you so and wait
for you to come back. You will come back, won't you?"
Jim's only answer was to press the little head close to his heart. In
all the great house, she alone had cared to say good-bye--to wish him in
her child's way godspeed.
"See," Diana continued as she opened her arms, "here is something for
you to take away with you, so that you sha'n't be lonely any more." She
opened her arms and held up the soft roll of fur with its blinking eyes
and pink-tipped nose.
"Di, dear Di," Jim whispered, as he patted the towsled hair.
Quite seriously her big eyes searched Jim's face to be sure that her
gift truly won approval.
The church clock boomed the hour of five. Jim hurriedly rose and
slipped the dog into his coat-pocket.
"Good-bye, Di, and God bless you!"
She clung quietly to him with her arms tight around his neck for a long
time; then the little face quivered, and in a burst of tears she sank
back among the cushions of the window-seat. Jim hesitated a moment,
then with a final pat on the dear head, hurriedly reached the doorway
and was out on the high-road. From a turn at the top of the common he
caught a last glimpse of the great house, and in the big window of the
hall could see the faint outline of the white figure still huddled among
the cushions.
All the suppression of the past days gave way. With a cry, Jim threw
himself down on the damp ground and convulsive sobs shook his body. It
had all been his--his home, his country--and he was leaving it without a
friend, without a loving hand or voice to cheer him.
He suddenly felt a damp nose thrust into his hand, and a soft tongue
began to lap his face as though in sympathy. The tiny puppy had fallen
from his pocket and crawled on to his shoulder. He rose to his feet and
picked up the fluffy ball; something in the round, pulpy mass made him
laugh.
"So I've found a friend, have I? Is that what you're trying to tell
me?"
The dog gave a faint yelp in reply and began to lick his hand. Holding
the dog close to him, Jim walked on, all the boy in him welling up to
meet the promise of the new day. Suddenly he stopped as he neared the
station platform, and stroking gently the soft fur, he whispered:
"I'll call you Di."
*CHAPTER II*
It was London in full swing. A wild April shower had sprung up and was
quickly driving people into the shelter of passing hansoms. There was a
sudden exodus from the park of gayly gowned women, hurrying to their
waiting carriages. Bewildered nurses gathered their young charges into
protecting corners. Only a few minutes before it had been radiant
sunshine. Open high-swung see-victorias, with their powdered, liveried
men on the boxes, and unprotected occupants driving from a royal house
to a ducal assemblage, were caught in the congested mass of hansoms,
top-heavy 'busses, and passing carts. Stalwart, blue-coated giants were
trying to stem the rush and scramble.
Diana crossed from the couch where she had been sitting to the open
window. In a week's time she was to be married. She held a note in her
hand, which had just come by messenger. It was from Henry. He could
not take her to Ranelagh as he had planned, he wrote. Unexpected
business had arisen, but he would see her later in the evening.
The room in which Diana stood faced Hyde Park. The house was one of
those built a century ago by the mad Duke of Delford, and was famous for
the purity of its architecture. On this spring day the front looked
like a hanging garden, so abundant and exquisite were the large boxes of
trailing flowers. The room with its Adam ceiling and mantel, its crimson
brocade curtains against the pale-cream walls, its rare specimens of
Sheraton and Chippendale and precious bits of china, made a harmonious
setting for Diana in her dove-colored gown. Bowls of yellow jonquils
and daffodils gleamed like golden bits of imprisoned sunlight on
slender-legged tables.
Diana was alone. Lady Dillingham, her aunt, and the mistress of the
Park Lane House was confined to her room with a sharp attack of gout.
From the window looking out across the park, the rain glinted like a
fine sheet of steel. It beat down the great beds of flaming hyacinths
and daffodils that lined the park walk with their glory of purple and
yellow. The blue-and-white fleecy sky of a past half-hour now hung over
the town like a dirty ship's sail, with puffing, dun-colored clouds
sweeping past.
Diana half consciously watched the amusing scurry of the passers-by.
Through the long, open windows protected by a projecting balcony she
could hear the splashing of the rain against the pavement. The
confusion of carriages began to straighten itself out. The hurrying
crowds disappeared as though swallowed up in the drenched ground. What
had been a fantastic, brilliantly colored panorama was now a desolate
space.
As Diana stood there, a rising resentment at the broken promise filled
her mind. It was not because of the disappointment. So often, at the
last moment, her plans had been changed by Henry's failure to keep his
engagements with her. A sharp gust of wind blew its damp air into the
room and made her shiver. She closed the window and walked to the open
log fire. The spring days of an English climate still permitted this
luxury within doors. As she sat before the hearth, the letter still in
her hand hanging listlessly by her side, the door quietly opened and her
father entered. On the previous day he had come up from the country to
join Diana, who was visiting his sister while the necessary wedding
preparations were being completed. The passing years had greatly aged
Sir Charles. The delicate, high-bred face had grown more spiritual, and
he seemed further aloof from material influences.
With a pang Diana noticed the change. She rose and crossed to him, her
tall figure hovering protectingly over the old man. The maternal
instinct was deeply embedded in Diana's nature. Quite tenderly he took
the young face in his withered but exquisitely modelled hands and kissed
her.
"Alone, dear?" he said. "I thought Henry was to take you to join some
people at Ranelagh."
"Henry has just sent me word that he is unexpectedly detained in the
city."
Something in her tone made Sir Charles wince.
She was very beautiful, in a curious, contradictory way. Her tender,
serious eyes suggested the Madonna, but her arched, full mouth made her
a half Venus. More than tall, there was in the lithe, girlish figure an
embodiment of latent reliance and vitality. Her usually calm face was
disturbed at the moment by a look of intense perplexity. It seemed as
though she were vainly trying to combat her doubts.
She stood for a moment irresolute, then in a burst of tears she slipped
down beside the big chair in which her father sat.
"I can't marry Henry--I can't," she sobbed, as she hid her face in her
hands.
For a moment Sir Charles was startled; then, smiling at what he divined
to be a lover's quarrel, he patiently patted the bent head as though
humoring a wayward child. Absorbed in his own narrow life, he had no
knowledge of men, and to him Henry Wynnegate was an ideal match for his
motherless girl.
He had known the late Earl well, and in the reflected glory of the
parents he saw the son. His heart was set on seeing Diana safely moored
in the house of Wynnegate and the brilliant position hers, which she
could assume as the Countess of Kerhill. These tears, of course, were
the foolish outcome of the afternoon's disappointment. He let her have
her cry out; then gradually drew the slender hands from her face.
"You are unreasonable, my child," he began. "Surely you can hope for no
better husband than the son of my late friend. Why, I have known him
from childhood. Think," he went on, "of his career as a soldier; of the
respect of his tenantry; of his position in the world." He forgot the
dominance of Lady Elizabeth, who, by her plans and generalship had
commanded all these attributes for her son. "With his knowledge of life
and the future assured him," he continued, "he can give you all that so
far has been denied to you. What more can you desire, my dear?"
Diana raised her tear-stained face and listened.
He drew her close to him, his feeble body vibrating with sudden emotion
as he said, "I am very feeble--far older than my years, and I long to
see you safely placed." He waited a moment as though expecting a reply,
but there was no answer to his appeal. "We are poor, Diana--very poor.
I have carried a heavy burden for years. This marriage will make me
supremely happy; it will make my remaining days peaceful." He paused.
"You can trust me, dear, in this matter. Say that you can."
Something in the tense, pathetic face forced back Diana's words of
opposition. Perhaps she was wrong, There was no tangible reason for
this rebellion that her perplexed mind could grasp. Her father, so
gentle, so wise, so loving, could not be doubted. Sir Charles watched
her eagerly. He loved her, but in his short-sighted desire for her
happiness he failed to see the depths of her troubled heart. Almost
convinced that her frightened instinct was wrong, Diana rose, and, with
a gentle pressure of her father's hand, yielded to his importunities.
Tactfully, and in silence, Sir Charles accepted her consent.
A strained pause followed. Sir Charles reflectively sank into the
cushions of his high-backed chair. He was sure that Diana's outburst
was mere nervousness; it was often so with young, inexperienced girls
before marriage. The excitement of the London life was a great fatigue
to him. Even the muffled, vibrating roar that half penetrated into the
dwellings of Mayfair, told on his sensitive nature. He closed his eyes.
Diana's girlhood had been singularly isolated from the world. Shortly
after Jim's departure for India, she had been sent abroad to a school on
the Continent. She had usually spent the summers with her father at some
peaceful, out of the way corner. Her education completed, she had
returned during the April previous, to the quiet life of her father's
home.
There followed the lonely weeks with her awakening womanhood crying out
for comprehension. Then one day Henry Wynnegate returned to the Towers.
She had only a vague memory of the subsequent days of amusement that
passed so quickly. All that her youth and gayety had so long desired
was given her. She was unconsciously swept on by the passion of Henry's
love and could hardly recall when she promised to be his wife. That was
in the autumn.
At the beginning of the season she was presented at court. Her youth
and beauty made a sensation, and her marriage was arranged to take place
within a month.
Eager to grasp the bloom of the fresh flower he had plucked, Henry would
tolerate no delay. Backed by the dominant influence of his mother, who
in Diana saw not only the gratification of Henry's desires, but a
gracious bearer of his name, and, with the persuasion of Sir Charles,
Diana acquiesced to an early marriage. She was in love with love, not
with the man, and her loveliness and the purity of her fresh young soul
made her idealize the best of Henry's shifting, many-sided nature.
Sir Charles dozed peacefully. Diana, with feverish cheeks and burning
eyes, longed to escape from the warm room. Through the closed windows
she could see that the rain had ceased. She wanted to be alone, to calm
the battling emotions of the past hour. As she tiptoed to the door, it
was thrown open, and the Countess of Kerhill and Lady Mabel Wynnegate
were announced.
Sir Charles aroused, rose quickly from his chair to greet the visitors.
"My dear," Lady Kerhill began, as she entered the room and embraced
Diana, "we are going to ask you for our tea at once if you will take
pity on us. Such an afternoon! We were obliged to turn back from
Ranelagh because of the storm. Fortunately we had a closed carriage,
but Mabel and I were so anxious to know whether you and Henry had
started before the shower sprang up"--with a quick look of surprise
about the room, she exclaimed, "Why, where is Henry?"
Diana rang the bell for tea.
"I had a note from Henry, dear Lady Elizabeth, saying he was detained by
some unexpected business."
Sir Charles noticed with great satisfaction Diana's superb control. Her
rebellious mood, as he surmised, had been a mere whim.
For a moment a half-frightened look came into Lady Elizabeth's eyes.
She was never quite sure of Henry, but even to herself she never
admitted it. She had cast him for a role that he neither suggested nor
attempted to play, but she never flinched before the duty of wilfully
blinding herself to these truths. Her love and her belief would win,
and out of it all would be created the son she so desired Henry to
be--that was her unconscious prayer. She threw off the moment's
anxiety.
"No doubt it is a busy week for Henry," she said. She crossed to a chair
near the fire, and with the announcement of tea began to gossip with Sir
Charles. Mabel moved close to Diana's side at the tea-table. She had
grown into a fairy-like creature, with exquisite, youthful coloring.
Very shy and utterly subordinate to her mother and brother, she lavished
upon Diana a great affection in return for her sympathy. She stole shy
glances at Diana's unusual color, as the latter poured the tea
mechanically, but joined little in the conversation. Diana caught
Mabel's eyes wonderingly fastened upon her. She could no longer endure
the close room.
"I must get a breath of air. Can Mabel go with me?" she said, as she
rose from her untouched tea.
Sir Charles was explaining to Lady Elizabeth some details of the
previous night's rowdy conduct at the House. They both paused for a
moment.
"Do take a turn with Mabel in the park," said Sir Charles. "It will
refresh you."
"Remember we are due at the opera to-night," Lady Elizabeth said, as she
rose. Sir Charles protested. "But it's just why I'm going myself,"
Lady Elizabeth confessed. "I'll send the carriage back for Mabel."
A few minutes later Diana and Mabel entered the park. The pungent smell
of the damp earth filled the air. Great crimson and yellow pools of
color dotted the ground; they were the battered-down blossoms of the
afternoon. Some stronger plants than the others were lifting their
swaying stems. The paths were covered with bruised leaves, and from the
branches came the drip-drip of the gleaming rain-drops. At times under
interlaced branches it seemed as though the storm still continued, so
heavy was the splashing of the drenched trees. The usually crowded
meeting-ground of fashion was practically deserted; even the guards had
not left their corners of refuge. Here and there a stray gardener in a
by-path was pityingly regarding his damaged beds.
The fresh, wet air blew against Diana's face and calmed her troubled
spirit. Mabel linked her arm through Diana's: neither spoke. On and on
they walked, in and out of deserted side-paths, until a turn in the road
brought them opposite to the Serpentine Bridge, and they faced the
public driveway of the park. A gust of wind blew across the ground a
deluge of broken boughs; it caused them to hesitate on the edge of the
crossing. Mabel started forward as a cab dashed towards them at a
tremendous speed.
"Why, Di, there's Henry in that hansom," Mabel gasped, as she blew a
tangle of loosened hair out of her eyes.
But Diana could only see the occupant nearest to her in the cab--it was
a woman with a strangely interesting foreign face.
"Nonsense," she answered, as she held firm the wind-blown hat. "Henry
is in the city. You are mistaken, dear."
As she spoke the storm began afresh. The wind blew the sodden blossom
leaves and broken branches into a hurricane cloud around them. Grasping
Mabel by the hand, Diana made her way against the violence of the wind
and finally reached the entrance to the park. In the rush of keen air
and the fight against it, everything else was forgotten. They quickly
reached the house, and Diana saw Mabel drive away in the shelter of the
waiting carriage. A few minutes later she was in her own room.
She loosened her long, brown hair, and kneeling before the glowing fire
held the wet coils to its warmth. On her bed lay a gown to be worn that
night, and the light from the fire cast a delicate sheen over its folds.
It flickered and blazed with merry bursts of flame, lighting up the
old-fashioned chintz draperies of the quaintly furnished room. Through
the closed window she could hear the faint splutter of the rain on the
casement. As she leaned against the tall chair close to the fireplace,
a soft, warm languor stole over her and the tension of her mind relaxed.
The beauty of her present life stretched out innumerable magic wands
that lulled into insensibility the frightened thoughts of the afternoon.
Soothed by the warmth and comfort of the room after the fatigue of her
walk against the gale in the park, she abandoned herself to pleasant,
intangible dreams. A knock at the door aroused her.
It was her aunt's maid, who carried a large box of flowers. Diana
opened them; they were from Henry. Again they reiterated his apologies
for the afternoon's disappointment. The perfume of the gardenias filled
the room as she sank into a chair before her dressing-table and buried
her face in the masses of delicate blossoms. The quiet servant gathered
up the tangled hair.
"Her ladyship would like you to come to her room before you leave for
the opera," she said, as she drew the brush across the soft brown locks.
Diana did not reply.
Yes, she was admitting to herself she had been unreasonable, as her
father said. Life was beautiful and wonderful, and she meant to gather
all its sweetness and bloom.
*CHAPTER III*
The rain that battered down the glory of color into the soaked earth of
the park had slashed and beaten black, struggling lines against the gray
stone-wall of the buildings in Lincoln's Inn. The radiance of the sun
never wholly penetrated the court, but to-day the old place seemed like
a tomb. In one of the forbidding-looking dwellings, in his solicitor's
chambers, sat Lord Kerhill. He glanced around the silent room, and
aimlessly took in the array of large tin boxes, with their painted
family names, piled high on the shelves encircling the walls.
Conspicuous among them was his own. With the exception of a few
unattractive pieces of solid mahogany and some large leather chairs, the
room was almost empty. Its ugliness jarred him. As he sat there, his
face in repose showed that the years had given an added touch of
bitterness to his expression. He still retained his well-cut features,
and their beauty of line was only a little marred by a certain heaviness
that had recently developed. His dark mustache hid the weak mouth with
its suggestion of sensuality; indeed, the whole man showed a strong
tendency towards grossness as yet only noticeable to the careful
observer.
He still had the ineffable quality of charm, when he willed to exert it,
which made his selfishness seem to many only the outcome of impulsive
youthfulness. In a shamefaced way he admitted to himself now that he was
in the wrong and that he had stupidly involved his affairs, but he
comforted himself in the same moment, with the fatuousness of
self-indulgence, that everything would work out all right. To tide over
this difficulty or adjust and evade for a time the demand of the hour
had been his policy for so long that he could not realize that an end
was possible to the long tether he so often abused.
He had come in response to an urgent summons. Opposite him, deeply
absorbed in some papers, sat Johnston Petrie, the trusted solicitor of
the Kerhill family since Henry's father came into the title. He was a
large, powerfully built man of fifty-five, with a massive head, piercing
black eyes under shaggy eyebrows, and close-cropped iron-gray curls
above the shrewd face. Henry rose impatiently to go.
As he did so, Petrie lifted his glasses on their black ribbon to his
eyes, and said, "I'm exceedingly sorry, your Lordship, but you must give
me time to look more closely into that affair before I can venture a
final opinion as to the condition of the estate. Besides, I have several
other matters of the gravest importance to question you about; they
pertain to some business transactions you made recently without my
knowledge, while you were abroad."
He motioned his lordship to a chair as though to pursue deeper the
conversation, and drew several documents from a drawer. Henry Kerhill
fidgeted.
"It's impossible, Petrie. Next week, after the wedding, or after we
return from Scotland, I'll have leisure then to discuss these things
with you, and I really mean this time to have you adjust everything and
set me quite straight."
Johnston Petrie shook his head.
"Oh, I know," Henry continued, "I've been careless, but I mean to pull
up. I'll start fair from next week."
Johnston Petrie looked up sharply. He knew more of his client's career
than Henry cared to remember. He had known him from boyhood, and his
shrewd summing up of human nature could see only pitfalls ahead for Lady
Elizabeth's son. He had tried in every way to stop the reckless living
of his client. From the incessant demands made on the estate for large
sums of ready money he knew that Henry Wynnegate, irritated by the
conservative principles of his firm, had used outside help to prevent
his family adviser from obtaining knowledge of some recent speculations.
Long ago Johnston Petrie would have asked to be released from the
responsibilities of the Kerhill affairs, out for a loyal devotion to his
dead client, the late Earl, and a desire to protect Lady Elizabeth's
fast diminishing rights. He was not in the least deceived by Henry's
machinations, but wilfully allowed himself to seem blind to certain
matters. He wished to be able to keep his hand at the lever, and argued
with his brother that the end justified the means.
Lady Elizabeth in a recent interview had assured him that the coming
marriage would be the turning-point in Henry's career. Nevertheless, he
feared her judgment. Something in Henry's attitude to-day had made him
more apprehensive; it had been impossible to pin him down to a serious
consideration of his affairs. Petrie determined to venture a final
effort, by enrolling his brother's services to strengthen his
admonitions.
"Lord Kerhill," he said. "My brother is also most anxious to see you
regarding some stocks you asked his advice about." He touched a bell; a
clerk answered from an adjoining room.
"Ask Mr. Malcolm Petrie to come to us. Say that the Earl of Kerhill is
here."
Henry chafed under the calm firmness of his solicitor. He had come in
answer to an imperative note, and the discussion of his complicated
affairs was extremely disagreeable. He was in no mood to continue it
further. He moved to the door as Malcolm Petrie entered; a smaller
counterpart of his brother, and a silent member of the firm, he took the
same personal interest in the Kerhill affairs that his brother did. As
he started to speak he was stopped by Henry.
"It's no use. I can wait no longer. A most important engagement
demands my leaving at once. Advise me by letter--it will reach me
to-morrow." And before either of the men could urge upon him the
necessity of being allowed to advise him on certain negotiations, he had
reached the outer door of the chambers, mounted the few steps leading to
the court, and was in the square where his cab was waiting. He cursed
the dreariness of the day as the rain splashed him. For a moment he
hesitated. They had detained him far too long, these croaking fogies in
their stuffy office. His hand fumbled in his pocket where lay a letter
with a message not to be disregarded. On its arrival at his club early
in the afternoon the note to Diana had been despatched.
The fury of haste that had made him so eager to escape from his business
interview now deserted him. The rain drenched him in warm torrents. The
driver on the box was a running stream, and from the horse came clouds
of heavy steam.
Then the momentary irresolution passed as he gave his orders to the
impassive cabman. He leaned back in his cab, tearing into shreds the
mauve letter with its gold monogram as he muttered, "It's for the last
time, by God." The hansom started with a jerk. It rattled down an
alley. To Henry the damp, dismal court looked more than ever like a
graveyard. He was glad when they turned into the vortex of the Strand.
That night at the opera, a new singer was to make her debut in "Carmen."
In Paris and America this sloe-eyed Italian had made the sensation of
the half-century in her creation of the gypsy wanton. The brilliant
throng in Covent Garden was alive with anticipation. The royalties were
expected; indeed, the queen herself had especially commanded this
reception for the gifted woman whom she had honored as her guest on the
Riviera, where this singing Rachel had entranced her with the folk-songs
and lullabies of her beloved country.
All that the London season could assemble of wit, beauty, and
distinction was gathered in the Opera-House. The tiers of boxes were
filling unusually early. Near the stage sat the Prime-Minister, a man
of strong artistic perceptions and a writer of extraordinary talent.
His face, with the marked cleft in the square chin, looked less dreamy
than usual to-night, and the large, pale-blue eyes, amusedly surveyed
the house. He seemed to have slipped off the yoke of tangled politics
as he turned to his secretary, who was pointing out to him the
celebrities in the stalls.
"There is the delightful American whom I met last week at Lord
Blight's." As he spoke, he bowed to the new American favorite, Mrs.
Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones, a radiant figure in scarlet, who
found many glasses levelled at her.
"Only an American would dress so originally," the minister replied.
The American wore a gown of clinging scarlet fabric, the decidedly
low-cut corsage showing the perfection of the white shoulders and arms.
Around her throat she had twisted one long rope of uncut pearls and
diamonds that reached below her waist, and in the soft, waving, red-gold
hair she had arranged some daring scarlet geraniums. With her pale skin
and great green eyes she enchanted London by her unusual type. Near her
was the famous story-book Duchess, as the most popular of the younger
beauties was called. "Too good to be true," _Truth_ declared her, and
indeed she seemed to have been especially created to confirm the mode of
the old-fashioned romances extolling the grace and loveliness of an
English Duchess. The crowd noticed the famous rubies that shone like
tiny flames against the white gown.
Here and there a Dowager gleamed like a shelf in a Bond Street
jeweller's shop, so promiscuous was her array of gems. The younger
school of beauties with more wisdom employed their jewels differently,
using them as an added tone of color or a touch of brilliance to a
costume. In the stalls the art world was well represented. Painters
and writers with a sprinkling of actors and actresses, who were not
playing, were on hand to-night to greet the new-comer. From the gallery
rail a crowd of eager, swarthy faces peered, impatiently gesticulating
to one another, because of the failure of the curtain to ascend at the
given time. It was known that the prima-donna was a capricious creature,
often swayed by a mere whim from making her appearance. Once the death
of a mocking-bird had postponed her debut as Marguerite. Would she
really appear?
As the royalties entered the box, the excitement was at fever-heat.
Henry with his mother impatiently awaited Diana's arrival.
The overture began its sensuous, stirring appeal, and before the
cigarette-girl crossed the bridge in the street scene, every seat and
box was occupied.
The singer made the ill-starred Carmen a bewitching and compelling
wanton. Who that saw her will ever forget her delicious cajolery as she
urged the bewitched Don Jose to loosen the ropes that bound her? With
her Habanera she eclipsed all predecessors and made the role irrevocably
hers. The first act ended with a storm of bravas from the gallery and
vociferous applause from the rest of the house.
It was not until the tumultuous ovation over the first act had ceased
that Diana's presence was noticed by the audience. Accompanied by her
father, she had arrived at the close of the overture, and had only time
to slip into her place before the curtain arose. The walk in the rain
had given her delicate skin a touch of color and heightened the beauty
of her tender eyes, "so deeply blue that they were black," as Lord
Patrick Illington described them on his first meeting at her
presentation at Court. Her bands of straight hair were wound around her
head; pale-green draperies encircled her lithesome body, and the
gardenia blossoms in her hair gave her a fleeting likeness to the
water-sprite Undine. In the horseshoe of fashionable _mondaines_ the
fragrance of her beauty was like that of a dew-sprayed rose.
Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones, with her usual common-sense of
seeing things as they were, leaned towards the man beside her.
"That is a beauty--the real thing; no chic, no gowning, no Paris wisdom
of make-up, but a beauty. I'm glad I've seen it." She sank back as
though philosophically preparing for a Waterloo.
From his box the Prince noticed the daughter of Sir Charles Marjoribanks
whose services in diplomacy in his youth were not forgotten. Forthwith
an equerry was sent to Sir Charles and Diana inviting them to visit the
royal presence.
Diana was the social novelty of the season. The Prime-Minister
remembered his classics as he dreamily gazed at her and murmured, "Is
this the face that launched a thousand ships?"
From the back of the box, Henry watched Diana's impression on the house.
His eyebrows were drawn into horns of suppressed temper and there was an
air of brutal determination in his bearing. Gradually his expression
cleared. Diana's beauty that night stirred the best in him. He tried
to dismiss the events of the afternoon; he would be worthy of this
child-woman. He set his shoulders square as though preparing to fight
unseen forces.
"Lucky fellow, Kerhill," one man confided to another as they watched the
crowd's sweeping glasses pause constantly at Diana Marjoribanks's box
and saw the triumphant look on Henry's face.
The sinuous, commanding Carmen had reached her triumphant entry with the
toreador when the mad Don Jose's dagger drew the purple stain on the
gold-embroidered gown. Over the house a spell-bound silence reigned.
As from an animal wounded to the death, low sounds of agonized pain came
from the great actress--she forgot to sing, and the house forgot that
she was a singer in an opera comique. For the moment it faced the
realistic truth of a grim tragedy.
Excited and intoxicated by the sensuous music, Diana was hardly
conscious that the opera was over. She was like a child with the world
for a great, colored balloon. As she came down the winding staircase
she was almost happy, and turned to smile at Henry, who was by her side.
As she did so she saw him frown. They reached the foot of the staircase,
and found their way half-barred by a dark, foreign-looking woman robed
in a spun-gold gown. Diana noticed the insolent, amused expression on
her handsome face, but at that moment her attention was diverted by some
one who spoke to her, and she only vaguely noticed Henry's constrained
bow, and the sudden brutal flame in his eyes.
Only later, as she sleepily looked over at the park in the dim light,
did she remember that the woman in cloth of gold at the bottom of the
staircase was strangely like the vivid, foreign-looking woman who had
flashed past her in the park as the storm broke.
The wedding took place at St. George's, Hanover Square. It was the
first brilliant wedding of the season and royalty honored it, not by
sending a deputy, but by its personal presence. Diana passed through
the gay pageant and heard the conventional words of well-wishers like
one in a dream. She remembered being changed into a going-away
frock--the curious street crowd gathering around her as she left the
reception at the Park Lane house. Then as she entered the brougham she
was conscious of Henry's face drawn close to hers, and the old
frightened instincts that her father only a week ago had soothed and
quelled again took possession of her. A great wall of fear closed in
about her.
At last the carriage reached the station.
Diana leaned back in their compartment in the train northbound for
Scotland. The bustle of the outgoing crowds was holding Henry's
attention as she glanced over the afternoon paper, which gave a
prominent position to the brilliant wedding that had taken place at St.
George's only a few hours ago.
Suddenly she espied a name that made her heart leap. A brief paragraph
told of the reward to be conferred on Captain James Wynnegate, but a
longer account followed, giving details of his gallant work in the
Northwestern Hills.
A great longing to see the friend of her childhood came over her. She
was ashamed that she had forgotten him so long.
Henry entered the compartment, the guard closed the door, and the train
started on its journey. Her husband spoke to her and she answered him
in an absent manner. The sudden remembrance of her old playmate grew
vividly and seemed to blot out all else, as, following on her
self-reproach for forgetting him, came the thought, growing more
poignant; "Did Jim remember her?"
*CHAPTER IV*
Jim lay in the hospital ward convalescing. Of the march back to the
nearest hospital post, after the fight which has taken place three
months before in the Northwestern Hills, when his name had been flashed
over Europe in praise of his magnificent service to his flag, his mind
held no memory.
Night after night in his delirium he lived again through the scenes of
the fight that had brought glory to his name. Now it was the evening
before the battle, when, acting upon information brought by the spy
Rham-shi, he and his men kept their long vigil, sitting silently in
their saddles the entire night awaiting the onslaught of the fanatical
natives across the hill. Again it was early dawn, and in his
fever-tossed dreams he heard the roar of the voices as the assault
began; again he climbed to the summit of the hill and saw the dreaded
gun of the enemy that was riddling his men. On--on he mounted. He felt
the warm blood ooze down his body, the mists swim before his eyes, and
the stinging pain pierce his side. In despair that he might not reach
the monster in time to prevent it from completing its deadly work, his
cry of agony often rang out in the silent room.
"Oh, God, God, my men--my splendid men--give me courage!"
Then his thoughts would wander to the hours when he lay on the ground
with the blood dripping from his wound, and with the loaded carbine
snatched from a fallen trooper he brought down a tribesman at the
enemy's gun. As he fell, another sprang forward--there was another shot
and still another as the tribesmen went down before his sure aim. There
was but one thought in his brain--to prevent the firing of the gun, the
devastation of his men. Difficult and more difficult it grew to lift
the weakening arm. He could feel as he tossed on his couch the gurgle
of the blood that glued him to the ground. He made an effort to rise to
his knees. Another devil was about to load the gun. He must catch this
one again--he must. It was his last cartridge. He stretched out his
stiffening arm feebly; he tried to pull the trigger, but his strength
failed him. Then--one supreme effort, and a report flashed through the
air. The rest was a blank, but he had carried the day.
These delirious hours passed and there followed a vague mid-air
suspension of existence. Of tangible things he was no part. The years
of fighting were forgotten. He was back in the Fairies' Corner with
Diana, he saw the giant trees bending and whispering in the starlight.
The smell of the damp earth from the sun-hidden enclosure filled the
sick-room, and the vibrant, strong, compelling cry of the night-jar
echoed in his dreams. Again, he and Diana listened for the flutter of
the fairies' wings in the tree-tops. Gradually, even these mists cleared
from his brain, and to-day he waited with impatience the surgeon, who
was to decide whether he might obtain his leave.
The doctor found him sitting up in bed, his lean hands idly resting on
the coverlet.
"Well, doctor," he asked, "what is the verdict? Am I to be allowed to
join my regiment?"
The surgeon looked into the brave eyes. Jim was a wraith of the man who
had gone into battle. The drawn cheek-bones were like high lights in
the sunken face, the gauntness of the body could be discerned under the
bedclothes, but the unflinching eyes held the same expression of
everlasting courage. The doctor took Jim's long, meagre hand.
"We are done with you, Wynnegate. You fought a bigger battle here on
this cot than you did yon day on the Hills, but you've won."
Jim only smiled.
"Your regiment is ordered home within a month, and you must go to your
station to join it. Fighting will be a little out of your line for a
while. I think you'll find you need England--a summer of sunshine in
the open fields. Then come back later to us again." A suspicious
moisture clouded his glasses. He was a man many years older than Jim,
and he had seen his own boy go down at the head of his troops. Still,
with the instinctive loyalty of the Englishman to his country, he
concluded, "We need such men as you, my son."
The surgeon moved away. Jim closed his eyes. Presently he looked up.
He saw the long line of wounded men with here and there a wasted,
propped-up figure--the quiet nurses passing and repassing. He began to
feel the pulsating call of life again. For him the sick-room existence
was ended; soon he would be back in the Fairies' Corner; he could hear
the flutter of their wings.
The men were in the mess. Dunlap and Singleton were stretched out in
long, wicker-basket chairs. Tomlinson was talking in an excited voice
with several officers of the Tenth Hussars. "It means that Jim will
receive a mention and a damn fine one," Tomlinson was saying, as he
leaned back in his chair and gulped down his gin-and-seltzer. Singleton
called to the orderly to bring a whiskey-and-soda. Dunlap leaned
forward to Tomlinson as he asked:
"Is that absolutely sure? We all know that Jim has done fine work in
his seven years here, but are the powers above really going to commend
his last bit of pluck?"
"The powers above," thundered Tomlinson, who loathed being doubted, "not
only mean to commend him, but they mean to decorate him with the bronze
cross itself. I had it from Watkins."
A long whistle greeted this bit of news. Watkins was not apt to talk
without positive information.
Tomlinson was fairly bursting with enthusiasm and importance. For him
station life in India meant gossip--good or bad news--so long as it was
news. He could work himself into a fever of enthusiasm, get all the
glory out of another man's receiving a decoration, and rejoice as though
it had been given to himself. He only asked that it should occur in his
station. "Tommy," as he was called, had been known to incite
blackballing from his club against a man whom he had never seen, because
no opposition was made. It meant news, and the passing of the word from
one mess to another. When the man was blackballed, Tomlinson, in a high
fever of indignation, sought the downed man and became so incensed with
sympathy that he threatened to resign from a club that could offer such
indignities: by that time he had forgotten that he had caused it. At
the moment he was basking in the glory of Jim's coming honors. He took
another gin-and-seltzer.
"By George! he was down and done for when he came here from the
hospital," Dunlap said. "Never saw such a goner. But he's picked up
tremendously during the past month."
Singleton took his whiskey-and-potash from the orderly.
"Strange," he continued, as he sat up, glass in hand. "Wynnegate is so
eager to go back: never saw anything like it. Seems as though this
illness had knocked soldiering out of him, and he was such a keen one
before."
"Mighty fortunate the regiment's time was up and we're ordered home.
Talk about Jim's being glad--Gad! it means something to see those
kiddies of mine. Wonder if the little beggars will remember me," Dunlap
mused.
After three gins-and-seltzers, it was time for Tomlinson to listen to
Dunlap about his children. He had heard it all before. He had come from
his own mess with the news about Jim. That was all that interested him,
so he got up to go.
"Who'll play polo this evening?" he asked.
Singleton promised he would.
"I'll walk back with you," Tomlinson said.
They started to leave, but catching sight of an orderly with a mail-bag,
Singleton let Tomlinson go on alone.
"See you at six for polo, Tommy; and I say, send any of our fellows in
that you see. Tell them the post is in," he called as he saw Jim's
long, loose-jointed stride across the road.
A blazing sun beat down on Jim as he crossed to the mess. The April
weather was anticipating India's most wearing heat. But only vaguely he
noted the ominous lead-colored sky, with its promise of dust storms.
The green of England filled his vision. Since the days in the hospital,
his thoughts had recurred incessantly to Diana. A picture in an
illustrated paper, picked up in his ward, showed him Miss Diana
Marjoribanks as a beautiful young girl--little Diana no longer. There
was the same Madonna face, but more exquisitely fair than the child he
had left had promised to be. He hardly cared to admit to himself how
much the picture had stirred him.
When he entered the mess he found the men in groups, absorbed in their
letters. Singleton and Dunlap both called to him.
"There are two for you, Jim."
Letters did not often come his way. When he first left England, several
child's letters had come from Diana--these he had answered. He never
heard from Henry, and his aunt wrote seldom.
"Dinningfold." He saw the familiar old postmark. It was from Lady
Elizabeth, then. Boyishly, he fingered its ample thickness. It was
good of her to write such a budget, he thought, as he tore it open. The
chatter of voices about him fell unheeding on his ears as the men read
their letters.
"God! Breese is dead--dropped down quite suddenly at the club,"
Singleton remarked as he turned a page of the letter he was reading.
His words were almost drowned by an eager, exulting cry. Half the
fellows turned toward Dick Farninsby. He was usually so quiet.
To-night his young, fair face was the color of a puppy.
"I've come into the money," he stammered.
Every one knew that Farninsby's uncle had been an old reprobate and that
Dick had had a close pinch on his meagre allowance. They also knew that
a pretty girl was waiting for him at home. A buzz of congratulations
followed. But Tim took no part in them. He was reading his aunt's
letter.
"... We are so sorry that you won't be home in time for the wedding.
Diana and Henry are to be married. It will be a London wedding. Diana
has grown into a beautiful girl and will make a worthy wife for Henry
and a charming mistress of Maudsley Towers...."
As he read, the page became a dancing mass of hieroglyphics. The men
were beginning to light their cigarettes and pipes as they called bits
of news to one another from the English papers. He tried hard to make
the strange letters shape themselves and form words. He reread them.
"Diana and Henry are to be married." He turned the page. "On the 30th
of April," it said. To-day was the 2d of May.
Several of the men started for the polo-fields. Some one called,
"What's your news, Wynnegate?" He forgot to answer. He crushed the
letter in his hand and left the mess. Mechanically he put the unopened
letter from headquarters, with the news of his brilliant reward, in his
pocket. Across the polo-fields he could see the heavy atmosphere
gathering in great clouds. A dust-storm was nursing its imminent wrath.
It all seemed far away from the Fairies' Corner.
*CHAPTER V*
Since the day in his mess when Jim read the news of Diana's approaching
marriage to Henry, he had been immersed in a strange dreariness of
feeling and a curious indifference to the homeward-bound journey. Night
after night he stood alone on the forward-deck of the _Crocodile_ bound
from Bombay for England, and heard the soldiers singing their
camp-songs, their strong, rough voices growing tender as they sang their
cockney ballads of home. But they roused no responsive echo in Jim;
watching the Southern Cross in the sky, his thoughts often drifted back
to the seven years of fighting with their sun-scorched days of fatigue
and danger, full of work that drained body and brain. He almost wished
that he were returning to them.
One night at Ismailia the pendulum of his emotions swung back from this
indifference to the first hours of joy that he had experienced when he
received the news that his regiment was ordered back. The ship had
anchored there for a few hours to obtain supplies. With Dunlap and
Singleton he went ashore to the little hotel with its Continental
atmosphere of cheap table-d'hote dinners and slipshod Italian waiters.
It was a shaky wooden building, built around an inside court, with
balconies over which clambered in exuberance pale, waxy tea-roses, while
the front of the building hung over a cypress-tree garden.
The indifferently good but pretentious meal was served in the tiny
court. Dunlap's and Singleton's boisterous mood jarred Jim. He found
himself watching the other guests of Monsieur Carlos' hostelry. At
adjacent tables parties of tourists were making merry while waiting for
the P.&O. steamer to carry them from Cleopatra's land to golden Italy,
and from a dance-hall came the fantastic music of the nautch women's
instruments. In half an hour the hotel was empty of all the diners save
Jim, who lingered until the shabby proprietor, Monsieur Carlos, informed
Monsieur le Capitaine that after ten the court was closed, but the
verandas were at Monsieur's disposal for his kummel and cigarettes. Jim
ascended the creaking staircase to the broad veranda partly hidden from
the road by its screen of blooming roses gleaming like stars against the
shadowed foliage. Here and there a tight, pink-tipped bud shone like a
tiny flame.
The moon had risen and illumined the entire place with an uncanny
brilliance, turning the night into an unreal day. Jim sank into a
chair. The air was heavy with the perfume of the rose-trees. In the
distance he could hear the barbarous clash of the dancing women's
cymbals. It was their trade-night with two ships in the harbor. Jim
took from his pocket a leather portmonnaie and drew from it the picture
of Diana that he had cut from the paper in the hospital.
He had never willingly thought of her since the day he received his
aunt's letter. As he sat on the deserted veranda, with the torn page
lying on his knee, he was conscious of a sudden, intangible feeling of
apprehension. Diana was the tenderest memory of his boyhood. Why did
he fear this marriage with Henry? Vainly he studied the picture, trying
to gain from the cheap illustration some knowledge of the woman into
which Diana had grown. He tried honestly to face the truth of his great
anxiety concerning the marriage. He knew that through his convalescence
when the longing to go home had overmastered the soldier in him, the
thought of renewing his friendship with Diana had been his happiest
anticipation. He sought to reassure himself that his disappointment was
selfishness--that he feared to find Diana absorbed in new interests,
with his place completely crowded out of her life. Then a vision of
Henry, sullen and defiant as he had last seen him, flashed before
him.... Yet might not Henry's character have been redeemed by his love
for Diana? Jim knew that the meagre fortune of Sir Charles Marjoribanks
could not be a material factor in the marriage. This proved his most
reassuring thought. Then his memory reverted to Diana, and he recalled
the child Di, who had clung to him on the morning of his departure and
begged him to return. He remembered how as a boy he had often played
that he was her knight, and fought the unseen foes that were supposed to
lurk in the alleyways of the giant trees. Was it a prophetic vision of
the future?
He rose from his chair. Sweeping clouds were rolling over the pale
moon. The desolation of the place grew more terrible.
Far out at sea he could see the black phantom ship now appearing, now
disappearing. It seemed at the mercy of the heavy vapors that at times
touched its topmasts. The desire to reach England again grew strong in
him. He felt he had a purpose to fulfil.
A half-hour passed. Suddenly the moon swept from under a heavy cloud,
shaped like the wing of a monster bird. Across the road he could see
the straggling groups of travellers returning from the festivities.
Their tired, excited voices reached him, and he was glad to escape from
the hotel and make his way to the waiting dinghy. Dunlap and Singleton
joined him, and as he leaned back in the skiff, strong and incessant as
the incoming tide that beat against the boat grew the strength of his
resolve. Diana should obtain happiness if he could serve her to that
end.
Three weeks later the _Crocodile_ swung into the harbor at Portsmouth.
A symphony in blues and greens greeted Jim's eyes as they anchored
within sight of the Victory. An English June sky with riotous
blues--from the palest flaky azure to the deepest turquoise--hung in the
heavens over a vivid green sea. The very atmosphere seemed floating
about in nebulous clouds of pearly tinted indigo. To Jim it was like
the beauty of no other land.
Towards evening Jim reached London. The town was alive with the roar
and rush of hansoms and crowded 'buses carrying the day's workers to
their homes. His cab turned from St. James's Park into the Mall towards
his club. How he loved the gray, majestic beauty of the place!
The expected arrival of the _Crocodile_ had been duly noticed by the
papers, and his part in the brilliant work of his regiment warmly
commended. At the club he found letters of welcome awaiting him. Among
them was one from Diana, urging him to come to them at once. It seemed
the letter of a woman calm in her established womanhood. "Henry and I,"
it said, "will be so happy to see you to-morrow at luncheon at two
o'clock. Do come." The letter further told him that Lady Elizabeth and
Mabel were staying at the Towers. "Henry wanted a town-house, so we are
settled at Pont Street for the season."
Late that night Jim sat alone in his club, and wrote an answer to
Diana's letter. He spoke of his pleasure in being able to go to them on
the morrow, but its phrases gave no sign of his intense feeling and his
great desire for her happiness. He left the club and walked to the
pillar-box opposite. He slipped the letter into the slit of the box,
and slowly retraced his steps. A slight haze was beginning to creep
over the city, and in the distance it looked as though a gauze
theatre-drop was shutting off the scene from the spectators.
Jim was loath to leave the streets. There was an enchantment for him in
the smoky atmosphere that intoxicated him. The call of London was in
his blood. As he crossed the quiet Square near the Mall, he stretched
out his arms, and youth and the joy of life rang out in one great
cry--Oh, it was good to be home!
*CHAPTER VI*
Jim slept but little that night. In the morning his first thought was
to reach the War Office, which he did almost before that dignified
machine was prepared to receive him. A rumor was afloat that the Tenth
Hussars might have to start shortly for South Africa, but he found that
the gossip had been greatly exaggerated. Even if troops were sent out,
he was assured that the Tenth Hussars were immune from active service
for a long period. He rejoiced at the news, for he was tired of foreign
service. His long illness had left him shaken and requiring a
much-needed rest for recuperation.
At the War Office he learned that Henry had resigned his regiment and
was at the head of the Surrey Yeomanry, with headquarters near the
Towers. This argued well, he told himself; it meant work and
responsibility for Henry that would engage his interest and surely win
him away from his old, reckless way of living.
The morning slipped away with its many demands on his first day in town.
His hansom turned into Sloane Street only as a clock near by struck two.
In a few minutes the door of the Pont Street house was opened to him,
and he was ushered into the library.
He dropped lightly into an arm-chair near a table heaped with books.
Suddenly a door opened as though at the end of a corridor. He
distinctly heard voices raised in strong argument behind the hangings;
one sounded like Henry's; a half-suppressed oath followed.
"It's no use," the voice went on. "You must do as I say. Don't
preach." He could not hear the words that followed. Jim wished it were
possible to make known his presence in the room. He crossed to the
farther window to avoid hearing the remainder of the conversation, but
the clear and incisive words of the first speaker--this time Jim knew it
was Henry--again struck his ears sharply.
"I must have the money, Petrie; make what explanation you like, but send
it to me within a week. It's useless arguing. I've lost heavily in
speculation. Here are the papers." The opening and slamming of several
drawers followed. To Jim the words that he had just heard were like a
knell to his hopes of the past week for Diana's happiness. So this was
the truth! Another mortgage! He knew enough of the involved condition
of the estate to dread the possibilities of that word.
As Jim sat in the window-seat facing the street, he was so absorbed in
his reflections that he did not hear the door open. With a start he
felt a pair of hands clasped over his eyes.
"Guess!" the low voice said.