In his work for the Yeomanry and his characteristic British loyalty to
his men, Diana found one great virtue to be proud of in Henry. She
realized this as she heard the men discussing his efforts. For several
days a growing feeling of pity for his misspent life had taken hold of
her as she saw what he really could do when he willed.
"You are a great man with the Tenth, Henry," she said. "To hear them
talk, one would think you carried the regiment in your pocket. And the
dear mother there--to see her listen to your praises! Oh, well, it's
very beautiful--you both had better go and glory in some more. The
taste for adulation will grow insatiable after this--won't it?" As she
spoke she lifted her long, slender hands and fastened them across her
brows. Henry came to her. She was very beautiful; an unusual pallor
gave her face a delicate spirituality. In the dim light her soft white
draperies, the fluttering scarf ends, and the wreath of green leaves
made her seem half a sprite.
"Won't you return with us, Di?"
"No--I have a headache. I'll stay here in the air for a few moments."
As she spoke, Jim came towards them.
"The next is our dance, Diana. Will you come?"
Henry answered for her with unmistakable sarcasm.
"Perhaps Jim will stay with you, Di, as you have a headache."
And Jim innocently replied, "With pleasure; I've really been doing duty
quite assiduously in the way of dancing."
He crossed to Diana's side. Lady Elizabeth, who had been trying to
divert an awkward moment, drew her arm through Henry's. Henry looked at
his mother's face, which grew tender as her eyes rested on him.
"I'm afraid my wife does not share your pleasure in my praises, mater."
"Oh yes," Diana answered, "but you must not expect a wife to have the
illusions of a mother." It was lightly said, to cover up an apparent
effort on Henry's part to cause an embarrassing moment.
Lady Elizabeth took up the cue. She glanced from Jim to Diana, but they
were beginning to talk; she almost drew Henry forcibly away as she said
with forced gayety, "No--no one can love you as your mother does, dear."
She little knew the prophetic truth of her words or to what length her
mother-love would lead her before another day had passed at the Towers.
*CHAPTER IX*
These moments of respite from the dancing were peaceful, Diana thought,
as Jim drew a chair forward and seated himself beside her. She was
strangely unsettled to-night. Her head ached slightly, it was true, but
she was conscious that ever since Lady Elizabeth's remark concerning Jim
and Sadie Jones, a curious irritation had possessed her. She didn't
stop to reason it out, but plunged at once into the heart of the matter.
"I congratulate you, Jim."
"On what?"
"Your brilliant prospects."
"We've never met--shouldn't know them if I saw them."
So Diana knew too of the scheme to secure a fortune for the house of
Kerhill. Jim was curious to learn her point of view. There was a new
touch of bitterness in Diana's voice that puzzled him.
"Don't let them beat you down in the price, Jim. If you sell your sweet
young life, let it be at a good round figure, for our sakes." The
scornful mirth of her last words was unmistakable.
"I shall always be a joke to you, Diana."
"Well, if our whole social fabric isn't a joke," Di interrupted, "pray,
what is it?"
"I don't belong to the social fabric. I'm an outsider."
Again she feverishly interrupted.
"Oh, you can't escape. You are up on the block. Look your best, and try
to bring a fancy price. We have always sold our women, and now we have
taken to selling our men."
For a moment he wondered if she, too, approved of the fortune hunt.
"Are you in the Chichester Jones conspiracy, too?" he asked.
"Certainly," the answer came, but with it a look that plainly
contradicted the words. She was in wild spirits, he could see; he let
her run on. "You are a monster of selfish obstinacy, Jim. Your
inability to grasp your own best interests and ours--is a proof of a
feeble intellect--and a wicked heart."
Gayly he entered into her mood. "Well, Diana," he said, "I'm an amiable
brute. If you insist upon it, perhaps--"
"Good," she cut in quickly as she jumped up on the seat and clung to an
overhanging bough. "Let me be the auctioneer; I'll get you a good
price." Blithely assuming the voice and manner of a professional
auctioneer, she began: "Step up, ladies--step up, ladies. Please
examine this first-class specimen of the British aristocracy. He is
kind and gentle, sound in mind and limb; will travel well in double
harness--has blue ribbons and medals, and a pedigree longer than your
purses. He's for sale; how much am I bid--"
Jim, who laughingly followed her words, interrupted in mock seriousness:
"One moment before you knock me down. Have you considered the existence
of the American Peril? These Yankees are driving the English girls out
of the home market. I believe in protection for the home product by an
_ad valorem_ tax on the raw material and exclusion for the finished
product--in the shape of widows. I'm a patriot. God bless our English
commerce--homes, I mean."
Jim's burst of nonsense was finished by a "Hear, hear" from Diana. Then
their laughter rang out merrily. Diana clung to the swaying branch;
Jim, below her, like Henry, noticed the ethereal quality of her beauty
that night. She put out her hands to him.
"Please," she said, and he helped her down. Their light-heartedness
seemed to desert them. Mechanically he kept her hand in his, held
spellbound by her gracious charm. Diana withdrew her hand as she said,
"Jim, you're a boy and you'll never grow up." Then, because she wished
him to reassure her of his distaste for the proposed marriage, she said,
"Sadie Jones is the chance of a lifetime and you'll miss it."
Jim only half heard her words. He was conscious of a strange dread of
remaining longer alone with her.
"How do you know I will?" he said.
All her tender faith and belief in him was in her answer: "Oh, Jim, I
know you."
Did she though? Did he know himself? What was this wild new feeling of
fear, of sweet, elusive pain? His words gave no sign of the tumult of
his thoughts.
"Do you? Well, you couldn't do me a greater service than to make me
know myself. Fire at will."
Diana, too, was conscious of a strange undercurrent to their lighter
talk. She was aware of Jim's searching glances, but, like him, she gave
no sign of the vague uneasiness that would not be stilled.
"Shall I, really?" she questioned.
Jim nodded.
"Remember, you've brought it on yourself." She seated herself close to
the sundial, and half leaned against it. Jim was facing her. "Well, to
begin with, you will never wholly succeed in life."
"Dear me, I meant surgery, not butchery, Di."
She paid no heed to the interruption. "You are not spiritual enough to
create your own world, and you are too idealistic to be happy in this
frankly material world. You have temperament and sentiment; they are
fatal in a practical age." She paused; there was no denial from Jim.
As she waited for him to speak, her eyes rested on the decorations
glittering on his coat. "Your breast is covered with medals for
personal courage, but you could never be a great general."
He almost stopped her with a reminder of the days on the Northwestern
Hills, but a certain truth in all that she said kept him silent. His
memory went back to the hours in which he had fought--even at the
sacrifice of himself--to save his men. He heard her say:
"You could never sink your point of view to the demands of necessary
horrors. Confronted with the alternative of suffering, or causing
suffering, you would suffer." She rose, and, as though peering into the
future, said, "You are marked for the sacrifice."
Her face shone as though illumined by a clairvoyant power of spiritual
insight. She seemed to have forgotten the present and stared straight
ahead, trying to see into the heavy mists that enveloped the coming
years. Jim made an effort to relax the nervous tension of the moment.
"What a rosy, alluring picture! A failure at everything I touch, eh?
Have I one redeeming virtue?"
But although the voice that spoke was light with raillery he was
possessed by an uncontrollable agitation. She stood with a haunted look
of such intensity on her face that he became conscious only of an
infinite desire to protect her. As he came close to her she was
thrilled by the vibrating sympathy that drew them together, and raised
her eyes to his. The strong, tender face of Jim, to which she had so
often turned in her days of unspoken despair, gave her the comprehension
and sympathy that were denied her by another. She thought of the
expression of Sadie Jones's eyes as she sang:
"Tout passe, tout lasse."
Diana knew that she had been sending her song out into the night as a
message to Jim in the garden. She thought of the unacknowledged sense
of comfort that Lady Elizabeth experienced when Jim came to visit them.
Without him, what would the days be? She shuddered at the desolation it
might mean to be without this reliant, forceful friend. As it all
flashed through her mind, she said:
"You have one triumphant quality, Jim. Whether it will add to your sum
of suffering or compensate for all the rest, who knows? You have one
inevitable success."
She paused, but the rustling of the tree-tops prevented either of them
from hearing Henry as he came from the pergola. Diana moved a step
nearer to Jim--Henry did not make known his presence. Quite simply and
sincerely she said:
"You will always have the love of women, Jim."
Something snapped in Jim's brain. He stood hypnotized by a stronger
force than his own will; he could not speak. Henry's voice sounded like
the cracked clang of a jarring bell in a golden silence.
"That's a dangerous gift, Jim. Professional heart-breakers ought not to
be allowed in other people's preserves."
Henry spoke quietly, but he was consumed by a mad, unreasoning fury.
Diana simply said, "Oh, I was just trying to tease Jim about Sadie
Jones."
Jim started towards the house, intending to leave Di with Henry.
"Teasing--a ruthless grilling, I call it. I've been vivisected, Henry;
it's not a pleasant experience, believe me."
But Henry, who was looking from Diana to Jim, with unmistakable meaning,
said, "You stopped at an interesting--perhaps a critical--moment, Diana.
I suppose I ought to beg your pardon. Where lovers are involved, the
husband is an intrusion, almost an impertinence."
Jim turned and retraced his steps. Diana did not move. Their eyes were
fastened on Henry's face, now flaming with passion. All Diana's
womanhood was battling within her; her face grew tense, her eyes like
black pansies. She seemed unconscious of Jim's presence; all her being
was concentrated in the challenge of her eyes as she let them strike
back her answer.
"You are making a grave mistake, Henry. One that you will regret as
long as you live."
She could say no more; she wished to escape. Why didn't Jim speak? She
could hardly see him. An overwhelming desire to leave both men before
the sinking trembling of her body should overpower the strength of her
will, enabled her to reach the house.
The men were alone; both had watched Diana gain the doorway. Neither
seemed capable of helping her. Jim was the first to move; he came
towards Henry with a quick, resolute step. Suddenly he became conscious
of a new knowledge that checked his speech. He could only stare at
Henry, while the wild beating of his heart tormented him. Much had been
revealed to him regarding his feeling for Diana, during the past hour.
Henry was watching him furtively.
"And now, sir," he began, "I will listen to you. You have had time to
think up a plausible explanation."
For Diana and his aunt's sake he must be calm, so Jim only answered, "I
would not insult you or Diana by offering one."
The quiet scorn of Jim's apparent indifference maddened Henry.
"Oh, indeed!" He drew a chair forward. "Sit down and confront the
truth," he said, as he sat on the bench opposite. He was trembling
violently. Jim still maintained his composure. Henry's clinched hand
struck the table as he sneeringly exclaimed: "You owe everything you are
to me."
With the bitter knowledge of how much he had sacrificed for the family,
quick came Jim's reply:
"You mean everything I am not."
But Henry did not notice the truth of Jim's words. Ever since his
boyhood, when he had first abused his power as master of the Towers, he
had been irritated by the opposing point of view of his cousin--had
rebelled at Jim's success in making a place for himself in the world
without his help.
"You have lived in my house," he said, "enjoyed my bounty, and now--damn
you--"
"Don't say it--don't!"
Jim's words hit at Henry across the table like points of forked
lightning. All the pent-up feeling of years seemed concentrated in the
utterance. He was leaning far across the table, his face twitching with
disgust at Henry's suspicions. Like Diana he sickened at the thought
that Henry could believe him capable of playing so degrading a part in
Diana's life.
"Don't," he continued, "or I'll forget myself--forget the respect we owe
her--" Even as he spoke he knew that Diana was the supreme concern of
his life. That he loved her, he now realized; all the misery that might
ensue was engulfed in the supreme surrender he made to his love, the
love that unconsciously for the past months had become part of his life.
But with this knowledge came clearly the injustice that Diana and he
were being subjected to, by a mind that could not conceive of the purity
of her friendship. "You--why, you--" he began again, then with
difficulty controlled himself.
It was impossible to continue this conversation further; any moment they
might be interrupted. He could not determine the course of his future
at the moment, but he could save her the discovery of his secret--he
could save her further humiliation from Henry.
"Henry, you must have been drinking. Go to Diana at once, before she
realizes what you said, before it is too late. Go and make your peace
with her for this outrage against her." While he spoke he was trying to
escape from the knowledge the night had brought. He watched Henry, who
in a dogged tone said:
"It's too late now. It has always been too late--with me--and Di."
"Nonsense," Jim said.
Henry mumbled on as though he were only half aware of the words he was
speaking.
"Unless you'd intercede for me? She'd listen to you."
Jim rose. To obtain peace and dismiss from Henry's mind all suspicion
that might harm Diana was his one desire. But almost before he was on
his feet, Henry sprang up and held Jim with both hands while he
spluttered in frantic abandon:
"No, no--I couldn't trust you--I couldn't trust you."
With a quick movement Jim flung Henry off. It was useless to expect
sanity from this trembling, fanatical creature. Without a word or look
he left him, and Henry stood watching Jim's receding figure down the
alley of trees.
"And now I've driven out of her life the only interest in it, and she
will hate me for that, too."
There was only one thing for him to do--he must get to his own quarters
and send some message of excuse to his mother. He turned into a side
path. He could hear the dance music and the gayety of the groups
scattered near the pergola. Diana was there. He could see her, pale but
with perfect poise, assisting Lady Elizabeth. Even Jim was at Lady
Elizabeth's side. He envied them their control; in his condition it
would be folly for him to venture near them. As he turned towards the
house he met Bates carrying a telegram.
"I've been looking for your lordship," he said. "The message came about
half an hour ago."
He remembered Petrie ind the expected word as he tore open the wire. It
read:
"Impossible to give any definite news. Still probing matter. Will be
down to-morrow afternoon."
God!--and he had this to add to his night's vigil! Bates left him. He
threw out his arms as he stumbled into a chair. He knew and admitted
that he alone was responsible for it all. But he did not know that he
had fanned to life the love that Diana and Jim now acknowledged to
themselves for the first time. That night their fight for happiness
began.
*CHAPTER X*
In the Towers four desperate souls fought their battle, and to none of
them did the dawn bring comfort. In her room Lady Elizabeth sat
motionless before her open window, and, like Agrippina, saw the long
line of destruction that the child she had borne had brought to her and
to her house. Shortly before the end of the evening's entertainment,
she had received a message from Henry, begging to be excused, as a
matter of great importance had arisen which prevented him from remaining
with his guests.
Once she thought of venturing to go to him, as she listened to his
restless pacing above her, but fear of his displeasure and a physical
shrinking from a painful scene forced her to keep her watch alone.
To-night's confession of his use of the Fund was the gravest of his many
offences; she could not shake herself free of its grave consequences.
Along with it came the memory of the faces of Jim and Diana as she had
last seen them at midnight. The guests had departed; Diana was entering
her own apartments, while from the landing Lady Elizabeth could see Jim
below her as he started for the garden. Both their faces were stamped
with a new, vital truth which, in its immensity, they seemed to find
difficult to grasp. She recalled the wistful, inquiring expression of
Diana's look as she turned to call her good-night to Jim. Even more
vividly she recalled the answer of his eyes. The mute, unspoken thoughts
that lay there were haunting her now with their tragic possibilities. A
numb fear possessed her.
Above her, Henry's monotonous steps continued; her imagination began to
play tricks with her. The steady tread above seemed to change into the
tentative, faltering toddle of a baby boy; she remembered that the room
over her was the old nursery, now used by Henry for his own apartment.
How often she and his father had listened and rejoiced at the stumbling
efforts which they could hear in the early morning! The terrible
sympathy of a mother's sorrowing womb, that can reach the most poignant
of all human anguish, caused her suddenly to start to her feet; a
physical craving to hold again the tiny body firm against her own, and
ease this suffering, overpowered her. She could hear the broken steps
of the long ago; she could see only the naked, mottled body of the
sturdy chap that she had so often clasped close and smothered with her
kisses. She stretched out her arms as if in search of it. The longing
to touch again the soft warm flesh of her own creation became intense,
from her wildly beating heart to the tightly contracted throat there
grew a spasm of pain that ended in a long, broken sob. She forgot all
the years of suffering, the disappointments, and to-night's crowning
tragedy of Henry's wilful treachery to her and his house.
She was the young mother again. The half shy, inquiring face of the
babe with its tight corkscrew curls, as she had seen him first walk
across the long nursery to fall into her arms at the open doorway, was
all that she could remember. Other ghosts crowded into the room; the
husband of her love-days--for Elizabeth Kerhill had passionately loved
her boy's father--stood, as he often had stood, close behind her at the
nursery door and joyed with her at the beauty of its tiny occupant. The
old wound, which nature mercifully in the passage of years had
alleviated, again ached as it had in the first hours of her great sorrow
at his death.
Suddenly the pacing above ceased. She became conscious of a terrible
anxiety to know why; she feared the stillness; the steady beat had been
an unconscious comfort. Her tired brain grew more fanciful. Did she
imagine or did she really see the pale spectre of her husband at the
farther end of the room beckoning her to follow him? He seemed to open
the door into the corridor and disappear into the gloom. There was a
slight movement from above, significant in its abruptness; it was as
though a quick decision had been made by Henry. Down the corridor she
fled, obeying a compelling instinct. The pale mist of the first streaks
of dawn was struggling through the distant windows. She remembered a
similar hurried rush to the nursery, when the tiny, twisted body was
attacked with writhing convulsions. Quickly she sped along the hallway,
around a twisted enclosure, and up the broad staircase until she reached
the nursery. Without a pause she swung open the heavy oak door; then
she knew why the warning had come to her.
At the creaking of the door, Henry started; he was unaware that it had
remained unlocked. For a moment he stared at his mother as though she
were an apparition. He was standing near the open drawer of a huge
desk; the glint of fire-arms in it shone clear against the flicker of
the spluttering candles. He made no attempt to move. His eyes were
held by the figure at the door, but no words came from the moving lips
of Lady Elizabeth. Instinctively, both their glances went to the open
drawer with its certain means of death. Henry turned away; he tried to
close the case. Through the silent room came the sobbed name of his
childhood days.
"Ba-ba! Ba-ba!"
He felt her strong arms fasten tight around him; unresisting, he was
gathered up close against the trembling body of his mother, as she drew
him down into a big settle. He made no attempt to speak. He heard only
the name of his babyhood in his mother's moans, as she pressed his tense
face to hers, kissed the faunlike ears, while her hands strayed, as they
used to do, over the long limbs that, relaxed, lay helpless against
hers. The old nursery again held her treasure, and mechanically the
tremulous lips fell to crooning a long-forgotten lullaby.
Gradually he slept with his head on her breast. Straight and stiff the
early shadows found her, while the bitter tears furrowed her face, as
she held her child, warm and alive, against her heart. During the long
hours of her vigil she heard distinctly the crunching of footsteps on
the gravel-walk outside as some one passed and repassed the east wing.
But she was little concerned with the world without.
Below, unconscious of the tragedy so close to him, Jim, whose step it
was Lady Kerhill had heard on the gravel-path, fought through the long
night for his right to happiness. His entire horizon seemed blocked by
the unyielding figures of Lady Elizabeth and Henry; behind them,
tantalizing him with the sweetness of the vision, he could see Diana's
face illumined with its new light of wonder. The heavy dews, which gave
to the old garden its fragrant, green, sweet odors, drenched him as he
paced along the path under the giant trees. He was insensible to his
wet clothes--to the tumbled hair which the dampness knotted about his
head in kinky curls. The tangle of his thoughts proved too difficult
for him to unravel; the night had been so charged with emotions that he
could hardly look truthfully into his own heart. The hours passed as he
paced restlessly, dazed and overwhelmed by the chaotic uprooting of all
his being. Aimlessly he at last wandered towards the Fairies' Corner,
and sought rest on the rudely fashioned seat, dented and marked with his
boyish carvings. There he lay haunted by intangible dreams until,
overcome by weariness, he crept close into his old corner and slept.
The strong orange shafts of sunrise were lighting up the hill-side
opposite Diana's window as she stealthily crept down and let herself out
of the silent house into the garden. The mounds close to the Towers
were covered with great splashes of heather, while the moor beyond
dipped and stretched far away like a trailing, purple, overblown,
monster flower, which seemed, mushroom-like, to have sprung up during
the night. Diana's first sight of the brilliant coloring that came every
July to the heather-covered hill-side, brought now as always bitter
memories of her first summer in Scotland, where as a young bride the
illusions of her virgin mind and heart had been shattered by Henry.
She turned away from its flaunting beauty with a shudder. No memories
of the past had been hers during the night; why should she allow the old
pain and heartache to come back? She alone in the great house had given
herself up to delicious reveries that tempted her; every thought of
Henry, her father, and the ties that bound her, she ignored. She never
questioned what had changed her since she had left Henry, outraged at
his vile suspicions. Why probe into the cause of her happiness? Enough
that she could rejoice, silently, if need be, without a reason
acknowledged even to herself, for her joy. But the dawn brought with it
only feverish longing to reach the cool of the hill-side, and now the
blooming riot of purple tones had struck at her like a menacing ghost.
She plunged into a thicket, and, sinking knee-deep in its luxuriant
growth, made her way across a yellow meadow. Finally she reached the
copse of trees through which she could see the Elizabethan gables of the
back of the house.
Oh, the beauty of the unstained day! Like every weary wayfarer
exploring for the first time since childhood the fresh virgin
country-side, her soul cried aloud its appreciation of this beauty of
soft green, wet glistening flowers, crystal clear air, and what is
utterly unknown save to the frequenters of the first hours of dawn in
forests and glades, the ecstatic perfume of the early breezes. Across
the hedges from their kingdom, the flower-garden, came these ripples of
scented air, heavy with the breath of honeysuckle, rose, phlox, and
heliotrope.
Like Jim, she unconsciously turned to the Fairies' Corner. As she
reached the narrow aperture, and its wet earthy smell drowned the sweet,
sensuous odors of the garden blossoms, she espied the sleeping figure on
the old bench. At the unexpected discovery she gave an involuntary
exclamation. Jim was lying on his back, with his head on his arm, all
the wet stain of the night passed in the garden showing on his unchanged
evening clothes, while the unkempt hair gave a curious boyishness to his
face.
Diana waited for him to move, but her surprised ejaculation had failed
to awaken him. How big and wonderful he was! The thick lashes swept
his brown face with its dull touch of red showing under the olive skin.
As she bent over him and was about to touch his hand to arouse him he
opened his eyes.
He had been dreaming that he was in the hospital in the Hills after the
fight, and in his delirium he was back at the Fairies' Corner with
Diana--and there she stood looking at him, but his eyes seemed unable to
grasp the reality of the moment.
"Jim, Jim," she said.
It was no dream. With a rush of memory it all came back to him. He
quickly rose to his feet and came towards her, impelled by an
uncontrollable force. Cobwebs of sunlight were making glinting spaces
against the gray-and-green enclosure; a movement began in the tree-tops
that brought back the childish reminiscence of the rustling fairy wings.
He forgot everything. He only knew that she stood there like an essence
of delight to ease his aching being. The still wonder of the evening
before was again shining in her luminous face.
He lifted her hands to his shoulders, and held them fast there. To her
awakening womanhood he seemed like a young god of nature, who had bathed
in the primeval springs and had arisen glorified and overwhelming in his
forcefulness. They stood speechless, their gaze fastened each on the
other's face, while the moments slipped away. How long they stood there
neither realized: the burning intensity of the moments told them more
than any words could have conveyed. Both now knew the truth--it downed
them with its unflinching eyes; they knew that they were peering close
into the core of life, that they had touched at the vital springs of the
Great Game. Strong and incessant as the beat of the swaying tree-tops,
the bitter knowledge was forced upon them that they could no longer,
even to themselves, play a part. Their months of unconscious
self-deception had that night been slain; each knew that love triumphant
had come into his own.
From the camp in the park beyond came the sound of the bugle calling the
men to their early morning duties. It roused Jim and Diana to the
consciousness of the workaday world. Diana was the first to move; she
slipped her hands away from his shoulders, while she still had the
strength to do so. Jim silently started towards her, his eyes showing
the surrender of his love. She could read all that they asked; her name
broke from his lips in tender reiteration.
"Di, dear--dear Di!"
But this time the out-stretched hands waved him back.
"No, no!" she cried, and down the long copse she fled from him.
Alone, Jim realized that they had been on the edge of a great precipice.
Gradually it came upon him that there was only one way to save
himself--to save Diana; he must go away. When, how--it all mattered
little--later he would decide that. He managed to reach his room
unobserved. How could he face the day's responsibilities, he asked
himself, as he heard rising from below the sounds of the life of the
house, and knew that the duties of the camp were awaiting him.
Towards noon in his tent a letter was brought to him. It was from
Diana. Trembling he tore it open and read:
"DEAR JIM--Our meeting this morning has revealed me to myself. If you
can find it in your interest, I hope you will leave England. I cannot
trust myself to say anything more but good-bye. DIANA."
"Revealed me to myself," he repeated. "Oh, Diana, Diana," he whispered.
Yes, he must go.
*CHAPTER XI*
"When Mr. Petrie comes, show him to me here," Henry gave orders to
Bates.
It was late in the afternoon and he was alone in the rose enclosure--the
library had proved too stifling. He had managed to attend the
afternoon's drill, and discharge without comment the duties required of
him by his guests. The Bishop and a great number of visitors were still
in the park. Diana, on the plea of illness, had remained in her room,
but had sent word that she would be down at tea-time. Absorbed in his
own reflections Henry hardly observed that Jim was passing the entire
day in camp with the troops. That the farce of the day's pleasure was
nearly over, was his most comforting thought; a few hours more and the
house-party would disperse. If only Petrie would come.
"No news, good news;" over and over he tried to comfort himself with the
old saw.
Lady Elizabeth, if she had remembered, would have warned him of the
intended presentation, but the night with its torturing memories had
made her forget utterly the surprise arranged by the Bishop and Sir
John.
Henry looked at his watch--it was past four. Would Petrie never come?
He cursed the hour in which he had listened to the tempting voice that
urged him to speculate in a mine controlled by Hobbes. He remembered the
night he had finally agreed to enter into the game, and--then, a loss
here and an unexpected blow there had disastrously crippled his
resources.
Money had been necessary to protect the already invested fortune. The
Fund was under his control--Why not use it temporarily? He used the
word "borrow" to his mother, and he had tried for weeks to ease his mind
with the same word, but he knew that the world had an ugly name for such
"borrowing." Wherever he turned he could see five blazing letters--the
flaming stigma was beginning to burn in his brain. Was there no way of
protecting himself a little longer? He closed his eyes and tried to
think.
No, it would be impossible to evade the request of the committee. To
elude the young curate, Chiswick, had not been difficult. On the plea
of his devotion to the cause, he had succeeded in controlling all the
papers and accounts for the past week, but now--a cold perspiration
began to ooze over his body; it was followed by hot flashes that
tormented him like the five fantastic little demons ever before his
vision, as they twisted, contorted, shaped, and reshaped themselves into
one hideous imputation. An hour before, he had promised to give to his
secretary the keys of his desk; to put off the auditing any longer would
have aroused suspicion. His only hope now was that perhaps the
absorbing interest in the last day of the manoeuvres would give him
another twenty-four hours leeway. If Petrie brought reassuring news he
might be able to realize the necessary amount and prevent discovery. He
poured himself some brandy. Just as he raised the glass, Bates
announced:
"Mr. Petrie, my lord."
The glass slipped to the ground; Bates stooped to remove the fragments.
Johnston Petrie advanced with perfect composure and shook Henry's
trembling hand.
"Your lordship," he said. Then both men waited until Bates disappeared
towards his quarters. To Henry the moment seemed an eternity.
They were alone, and yet neither spoke. Through Petrie's mind ran a
memory of having stood there long ago and conferred with the late Earl,
while the man before him as a boy sat on his father's knee. He knew
nothing of Henry's use of the Fund; he only knew that he was bringing
news of a big loss to his client. Henry's face as he grasped Petrie to
steady himself, told him something of the importance attached to his
report.
"Well, Petrie, well? Speak--man. Don't you see you are killing me?
Hobbes--what of Hobbes?"
Truthfully, Petrie answered: "Hobbes is a fugitive--the whole scheme was
a gigantic swindle. Every penny invested is irremediably lost."
Almost before he had finished speaking, from the various side-paths
leading towards them came the sound of voices. Henry made a staggering
movement as though to escape towards the house, but his way was blocked
by Sadie Jones, who had gone at the Bishop's request to fetch Diana. As
Henry stared at the advancing groups he saw himself already convicted.
What was the meaning of this unusual gathering of officers and men
silently falling into lines behind the circle of friends who surrounded
him? He supported himself by his chair. Petrie quickly realized the
situation as he saw a sergeant approaching with an open case containing
the gift of the big loving-cup. He tried to reach Henry, but Lady
Elizabeth anticipated him. She had recalled too late the demonstration
arranged to take place at tea-time. There was a moment's hush. A little
way off the servants were gathering to witness the honor shown to their
master, and the enclosure about Henry was quickly crowded.
Henry clung to his support. He could distinguish all the faces quite
plainly, except Jim's. Where was Jim? Muffled, as though coming from a
long distance, he heard the Bishop's voice:
"My lord, I am so overwhelmed with the significance of this delightful
occasion and my own imperfections as a speaker, that I could have wished
my task to have fallen into better hands. But when I was approached in
the sacred name of charity and of that noble cause so dear to all our
hearts, the relief and succor of the widows and orphans of the brave men
who have given their lives in the smoke of battle, I felt I ought to be
sustained by your own noble example. I will not dwell on the lofty
nature of your lordship's services to the Fund--"
Henry's impassiveness began to desert him: "Liar! liar!" shrieked the
little demons as they came in a swarm towards him. He closed his eyes.
"In accepting this very beautiful loving-cup," droned the Bishop.
But it had gone too far. His greatest pride--his regiment, his men,
their Fund--was his greatest dishonor. Better discovery--anything
rather than this awful continuation. He swayed--Petrie caught him;
there was a moment's surprised ejaculation from the crowd.
Lord Kerhill was ill. The heat had been intense during the afternoon
drill. It was noticed then that he was unwell--and so the tactful
excuses went from one to another as Henry was assisted by Petrie to the
library. But Lady Elizabeth, with some hurried orders to Petrie, turned
to the assembled guests.
"My lord Bishop, some one has said 'speech is but broken light falling
on the depths of the unspeakable.' This in thanks for the great honor
done our house. I am sure my son's inability to reply is more due to
your eloquent tribute than to his slight indisposition. Won't you allow
the tea to be served? Lord Kerhill will, I am sure, join you very
shortly."
Imperiously she took command of the situation, and soon the waiting
servants were dispensing tea, while the guests discussed the beauties of
the cup that lay in its velvet case, as if nothing unusual had happened.
Then quietly she made her way to Henry. She found him alone, and
motioned him to follow her into a small room adjoining the library; it
had been a prayer-closet in the past for a devout Kerhill, but during
recent years it had been used as a smoking-den, with old sporting-prints
and curious whips and spurs in place of the _prie-dieu_ and the
crucifix. Drawing the bolt across the oak door, Elizabeth Kerhill turned
and faced her son.
"Henry, what is it?"
"The South American Security Company--a swindle. Hobbes a fugitive--for
me exposure."
Lady Elizabeth realized that if salvation were to come to him it must be
through her.
"To prevent this exposure, you must not lose your self-control. We must
think--not feel--think what we can do," she began.