The waltz tune, with its enticing beat, grew louder and louder, and soon
the garden was deserted by all save Sir Charles, who remained there
absorbed in his thoughts.
Diana, having seen her guests dancing, and fearful that her father might
remain too long in the garden, hurriedly returned to him. She stood in
the open window and tenderly watched the closely wrapped figure. The
moonlight intensified his pallor; it had been an event that he should
come to them that night. She saw him smile.
"Well, father," she said, "are you having a happy time?"
He rose and drew her close to him. "My dear child, I can't tell you how
much this has pleased me. It is a great joy to me to know that my
daughter is married to the distinguished head of one of our great
families, a man so loved, so honored--a pillar of society, and a bulwark
of the empire."
Never for a moment had he suspected the misery of Diana's marriage. Not
a quiver of emotion showed on her calm face as she drew her arm into his
and said, quietly, "Yes, father."
"I haven't forgotten your opposition to this match," but Charles
continued, "although I dare say you have, my dear, and I am naturally
pleased that events have vindicated me. Your husband cuts a noble
figure in the world, and I am grateful beyond words to see you so
happy."
As Diana gradually led Sir Charles from his seat to the house, she again
answered, "Yes, father."
During the past months her life had grown more dreary. If it had not
been for Jim--dear Jim--what would she have done? Her fragrant mind had
never been disloyal to Henry. Often she had longed to go to her father,
but her solicitude for him prevented her from bringing disaster to him.
As they reached the door Lady Elizabeth called:
"Have you seen Jim, Diana?"
Jim had been down in the park doing some service for a sick trooper;
Diana explained this to Lady Elizabeth. He had promised to return in
time for the dancing.
"By-the-way, my dear," Lady Elizabeth began, "if you get an opportunity,
I wish you would say a judicious word in praise of Mrs. Hobart
Chichester Chichester Jones. Jim, you know, sets such an extraordinary
value on your opinion."
A quick feeling of dislike filled Diana--why, she could not explain.
"What do you wish me to do?" she said. "Praise her American accent or
her American money?" Before she had finished the sentence she was
ashamed. She really liked Sadie Jones; the sneer had been unworthy. She
was about to retract her words when Jim hurriedly came up the
garden-walk. As she entered the library with Sir Charles he called:
"Don't forget our waltz, Diana."
"I won't, Jim."
Lady Elizabeth sank on to the stone bench. She watched Jim, whose eyes
were still following Diana's receding figure. This was the moment in
which she might serve Henry. In the music-room Sadie Jones was singing:
"Tout lasse, tout passe--"
Jim began humming the tune; he crossed to Lady Elizabeth and lightly put
his arm about her as he said:
"Well, Auntie mine?"
*CHAPTER VIII*
Lady Elizabeth watched Jim with curiosity. The voice from the
drawing-room grew louder:
"Tout casse, tout passe--"
deeper grew Jim's voice as he softly sang the refrain. Quite abruptly
Lady Elizabeth began:
"She's a fine woman, Jim."
As she spoke, Jim caught sight of Diana crossing to the piano in smiling
approbation as the song ceased, and answered:
"Diana?"
"Diana! Nonsense!" Again she watched Jim's face, but its grave
serenity gave no sign. "I mean Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones.
She's quite the type that men admire, is she not?"
"That's the most offensive thing that one woman can say about another,"
Jim laughingly replied, as he turned from watching the group in the
music-room--"isn't it, Auntie?"
"Not at all." Lady Elizabeth fidgeted; he was making it exceedingly
difficult, she thought, as he leaned over her, his laughing eyes teasing
her. "The sensible view of things never appeals to you, Jim; so I have
hesitated to remind you that Sadie Jones is exceedingly rich."
"Did you notice how deferential I was, Aunt?" Jim lightly interrupted.
"Why, if you tell me more, I shall scarcely dare to speak to her."
He drew Lady Elizabeth's arm through his; he knew what was coming. It
amused him, and it also irritated him a little, but he felt very tender
towards his aunt. All the boyish hurt had been forgotten. Her great
endurance of Henry's conduct, her indomitable resolution to keep him
well placed in the eyes of men, deeply touched him. After all, in her
devotion to Henry there was a magnificent capacity for self-surrender.
During the past winter Jim had grown strangely attached to his aunt, and
a great pity for the inevitable tragedy of her life lay deep in his
thoughts of the proud old woman. He patted her hand caressingly.
With almost a note of despair she said, "And I invited her here for this
visit especially for you, Jim."
"Do you think she would care to add to her already abundant collection
of names?"
He would not be serious, but Lady Elizabeth took up his question
literally.
"I think she would be very glad to ally herself with one of the great
families of England. Besides," she continued, as there was no reply,
"such a marriage would put you in a position to be of great service to
Henry and the family."
Jim distinctly saw Henry's purpose in this appeal. It sickened him--this
cold, devilish selfishness that made his cousin use all things as a
means to further his own ends. His spirit rose in revolt against his
aunt, who, he now saw, was seriously asking so grave a sacrifice of him.
How lightly they played with human destinies! Then he conquered his
sudden passion. He spoke in a tone of affectionate banter.
"You dear Aunt--Henry and the family are among the earliest of my
recollections. I was taught Henry and the family before my letters. If
I found a stray dog, or made a toy, I was forced to hand it over to
Henry. Why, I remember I gave up a brilliant offer to enter commercial
life--far better suited to my small fortune than an army career--because
it would not lend dignity to Henry and the family." The hard tone he
was struggling to keep down crept into his voice. "The woman I marry
will have a right to expect more of me than a profound respect for her
money and a laudable desire to promote Henry and the family."
Lady Elizabeth perceived the suppressed irritation, and was for a moment
touched by Jim's reproaches.
"One must pay something for the glory and privilege of belonging to a
great family."
"Don't you think we pay too great a price, dear Aunt?"
"I have never shirked the sacrifices."
The worn, tremulous face looked up at Jim with eyes that were
unconscious confessors of the bitter struggle her life had been. He
leaned towards her and gently took her hand.
"No, dear Aunt, you haven't. You deny yourself everything. Don't you
think I can see that? You stint yourself to the point of shabbiness:
why, your wardrobe is positively pitiful! And Mabel--the child has had
no proper education, no advantages; she has never been anywhere, nor
seen anything, nor had anything--Henry needed the money."
"We have been as generous to you and Mabel as we could, Jim. We must
keep up the dignity and position of the head of the family." Like a
war-horse sniffing the powder of battle-fields, at the words "family"
and "dignity of its head," Lady Elizabeth's courage rose. In the
moonlight Jim could plainly see the determined look grow on her face
until it formed granite-like lines. The fox might eat her vitals, but
she would not whimper. The torch of the family was the light of her
declining years, as it had been of her youth. It was useless to argue
further, Jim told himself. The music sounded a new dance. It was an
opportune moment to escape.
"You've been a dear--I'm not complaining, only I don't think we have the
right to sacrifice an amiable lady on the altar of our obligations." He
drew his aunt towards him and leaned over the seat. "Besides, I have no
desire to marry at present, so we won't speak of this again, will we?"
As he spoke he kissed her on the forehead. "God bless you! And now I
must be off to help Di with the dancing."
Lady Elizabeth rose. It was impossible to resist his tender charm, but
his evident indifference to her wishes vexed her. He crossed to the
casement and Lady Elizabeth called:
"There's an occasional streak of stubbornness in you, Jim."
He smilingly called back. "I think it runs in the family, doesn't it,
Aunt?"
As he went into the house, he passed Henry and several of the men busily
discussing the condition of the Yeomanry, and the Relief Fund that was
doing such excellent work. Here Henry proved himself of worth--of his
interest in the work there could be no doubt.
As Lady Elizabeth stood alone in the garden, she was conscious that her
recent interviews with Jim had been most unsatisfactory. He had a way
of not taking the traditions of her life seriously; he discussed and
dismissed them lightly. She knew that Henry would be annoyed at Jim's
indifference to this fortune within his grasp, and she suspected that
there was a cause unknown to her for Henry's nervous and upset
condition.
She had no inclination to return to the dance; instead, she crossed to
the seat under the great oak-tree, and drew her lace scarf close about
her. The garden was quite empty. In the distance the yew-trees, like a
line of ghostly, fantastic figures, seemed pregnant with sinister
forebodings. She shivered; it was growing slightly cold. She could
hear the dancers, and from the card-players in the house came sounds of
more life and mirth. Her recent desire to be alone deserted her--the
living warmth of the life of the crowds within her reach attracted her.
The sadness of the moaning wind in the trees she could dispel by
returning to her guests--she would do so and assist Diana in her duties.
As she started to leave the rose enclosure, Henry with Sir John came
through the open casement.
She noticed the strained look on Henry's face as he said, "No, no, I
haven't done it yet. But we'll prepare a statement in good time--leave
it to me. I'm getting tired of the word Fund--the demands of the work
have been so incessant."
They reached Lady Elizabeth. Henry's look quickly told her that he
wished to be alone. She came to his assistance as she said:
"Don't you believe him, Sir John. He really thinks of nothing else.
But won't you join the dancers? I'm sure Diana will need you."
Henry quickly added, "Do, and forget the Fund for a moment." As Sir
John disappeared he muttered, "And let _me_ forget it."
Lady Elizabeth heard the last words and wondered. The ugly horns on his
brows showed the irritable state of his mind.
"Well," he quietly said, "what did Jim say to the American widow? It
isn't often that a man without a title gets a chance like that." There
was a moment's silence. Lady Elizabeth would have preferred to have
this conversation at another time; her mind was anxious about Henry's
recent words--what did they forebode? But Henry settled himself in a
big chair, and she saw that he was anxious to learn the result of her
interview with Jim.
"He declines positively," she answered.
Then the passion he had been fighting to keep under broke loose. He
rose and began pacing the walk.
"Not an atom of consideration for me--eh? In the hopeless struggle I
make to live up to the traditions of my race?" Henry could always work
himself up into a great burst of self-pity.
"Jim is an anarchist in his talk, but an angel at heart. He always ends
by doing the right thing."
This defence of Jim caused Henry to stop in his walk. That his mother
should advocate the goodness of Jim was a new victory for his cousin.
"Jim likes to play the saint, confound him," he barked, "but waking or
sleeping, he never takes off his halo."
Lady Elizabeth crossed to him. "He says he has no desire to marry at
present."
"That's the sickly sentimental pose of the man who loves a woman beyond
his reach," Henry answered.
Like a flame of illumination the innuendo of his words brought their
meaning to Lady Elizabeth. She remembered so much and yet so little in
Jim's actions of late, but all tended towards a horrible suspicion. She
could still see Jim's face as he watched Diana earlier in the evening.
It was not the face of a lover in the usual sense. It was a face
glorified by an unconscious devotion to a great ideal. All she could
stammer was:
"You mean--"
But Henry, who had blurted out in a heat of temper more than he felt he
had reason for, tried to ignore the question and the look of sudden
bewilderment in her eyes. He moved restlessly in his chair as he said:
"Never mind, mother; it doesn't matter."
But Lady Elizabeth went to him, and, with her arms about him, whispered,
"My son, you are nervous, pale, distrait. You have been so for some
time. I haven't spoken of it for fear of annoying you, but others are
beginning to speak of it. What is it?" She drew his head back until it
rested against her breast. "Can't you trust your mother?"
Instead of a restive withdrawal from her embrace, he let her soothe his
head with her half-trembling hands. Why not tell her what he suspected?
"Have you seen Jim and Diana much together?"
"Not more than always," was her reassuring reply.
"But, mother, have you observed them when they are together?"
Lady Elizabeth slipped down on the seat beside him.
"My boy, your suspicions are morbid and unjust. You ought to be ashamed
of them," she gently urged. In her heart she feared for him and his
happiness with Diana. She had seen the girl gradually sicken and turn
away from her life with Henry. Great provocation, she knew, had been
given Diana, but at present it was wiser not to discuss this with him,
but to calm him.
Suddenly he leaned forward and buried his face on his arms.
"Mother, I love Diana. I have my faults, but that is the best of me. I
love her desperately. Oh, I know you're going to say that at times I
haven't proved by my actions that I cared for her, but it's because I
knew from the beginning that I never could reach her. Does she love me?
No, I can't deceive myself. She was devilled into marrying me for the
damned title. I know that now. The best I can hope for is that she
should not utterly despise me, and I want a chance to win her love--my
God, how I want it! Everything that Jim does pleases her. She admires
him; I can see it clearly." He paused as the whirlwind of words swept
from him; he rose, and towered over his mother. "That admiration
belongs to me. You've spoiled me, mother. I've always had what I
wanted, and now I'm the victim of it. I'm the selfish monster that
takes everything while St. James stands modestly in the background. Oh,
don't you see you have made him her hero, not me?"
He began to move restlessly about the rose paths, Lady Elizabeth
following. Indulgently she linked her arm through his. Although a fear
was beginning to persuade her of the truth of his wild words, still, she
argued, he greatly exaggerated. That he cared so deeply for Diana
promised well for the future, and, with her aid, Diana would soon be
convinced of Henry's worthiness.
"My dear boy," she said, "is that all you have to worry over?"
"No, mother, no--I wish to God it were."
She caught hold of him almost savagely, "Ah--" she gasped. Then the
apprehensions that had torn her for days had been justified. She feared
to question further. An overwhelming dread held her in its torturing
grip. Henry started as though to leave her; his face was averted, she
turned him towards her.
"Money again?" she asked.
"You know what the demands on me are. I couldn't disgrace my family by
going into bankruptcy, and I had to have money. Well--I was foolish
enough to borrow--"
Lady Elizabeth knew instinctively the words that would follow. Her
hands clinched his arm so tight that he shrank under the pressure.
"Borrow, mind," he continued, "some of the Fund's money."
"The Relief Fund? Oh, Henry--"
The despair and horror of her tone caused him to put his arms
protectingly about her. Even in his own blind fury at fate he could see
her shrink from her stately strength into a feeble old woman. He tried
to reassure her.
"Oh. it's really all right, mater. I'll be able to replace it.
"How?"
She clung to his arm. He could hear the quadrille's last quarters
beginning; it would be impossible to continue this conversation much
longer.
"You wouldn't understand, mother. You see, it's a stock transaction,
but it's all right--bound to be. Hobbes, of Simpson & Hobbes, you know,
gave me the tip. It was absolutely inside information."
Lady Elizabeth loosened her hold, and with a hopeless gesture moved
away. Henry read her lack of faith in the enterprise.
"Oh, I took the trouble to verify it." He did not admit, however, that
he had sought Petrie's advice only after the plunge, when the waiting
had grown too fearful. "I'm expecting a telegram to-night--that's the
reason I'm nervous. But I'll have enough to put back the sum I've
borrowed, and a nice little fortune besides. Don't you worry." But
even as he spoke the comforting words he seemed to lose the confidence
which he was vainly trying to assume. The telegram should have arrived
in the afternoon. He knew that Petrie, if his investigation had been at
all hopeful, would have sent a reassuring word. Then, that the strength
of his mother, upon which he had so often leaned, should crumble away as
he confessed to her, that he should be forced to carry her anxieties
instead of receiving her support, terrified him with its significance.
It was all quite palpable to Lady Elizabeth. His drawn face with eyes
like burned-out flames showed how the fever of unrest and fear consumed
him.
"Henry, you are trying to reassure yourself, not me," she said.
"No, no, mother, it isn't that." But it was useless, he could no longer
play a part. "Yes, you're right," he acknowledged as he threw himself
down on the great stone bench. "My God, the consequences!--the
consequences!"
And Lady Elizabeth stood dumb and helpless. For the first time he held
out his hands to her, and she was unable to grasp them in support. She
could offer no respite to the torture of suspense he endured.
As they stood in silence, Diana came from the pergola, "Dear people, are
you moon-struck? Our guests are missing you."
With an effort Lady Elizabeth turned, "Is the dance over?" she said.