"Quarrelled--about what?"
"Diana."
"Diana?"
"They were spooning last night--I caught them. He loves Di"--and under
his breath he cursed him. She hardly heard the last words. Jim loved
Diana--her resolve was formed. She must see Jim.
"Henry, try to control yourself and return to our guests. Let no one
leave this afternoon under the impression that you are in trouble."
"Why--" he began to expostulate--but she had already left the
prayer-closet and was pulling the faded bell-rope in the library. A
servant quickly answered.
"Tell Captain Wynnegate that I wish to speak to him here." Quietly she
commanded Henry, "Leave this to me."
At first he was inclined to refuse; then touched by her supreme
devotion, and partly because he dreaded an interview with Jim, he agreed
to return to the garden.
"You've pulled me out of many a scrape, mother," he said, as he drew her
close to him. "God--if you gain time for me in this"--with the words,
hope began to revive.
"Go," she only answered as she pointed him to his duty.
Furtively, from behind the curtains, she watched him join the Bishop.
She dreaded to lose sight of him; the awful vision was ever before her.
Her mind swung chaotically from her fear of the previous night to the
salvation that must be gained for Henry. Could Jim help? What if all
that remained of the estate were to be sold, and Jim were willing to
give what he could--what if the years that followed were bereft of all
save honor! Why should she not attempt this? But even as she reasoned
she knew it was useless; all save the entailed portions of Henry's
inheritance were involved. She heard Jim's step ringing along the
corridor.
"Bates says you want me, Aunt."
As Jim stood before her, his face, with the purple shadows under his
eyes and its grim resoluteness, told her much. Yes--he loved Diana.
Her keen eyes, that took in every phase of the boy's nature and every
expression of his face, could easily see the desperate marks which the
struggle of the night had left upon him.
"Jim, Henry tells me that you have quarrelled; but for the moment we
must forget all personal differences. We are face to face with a crisis
which affects us all; you alone can help us to save the family from
dishonor."
"Ah, so Henry has been gambling again," Jim vaguely answered. Did this
mean further anxiety for Diana? He was conscious of a curious
light-headedness that made all of the day's work--even this possible
unhappiness for his aunt and Diana--seem faint and blurred. The
dead-level of his tone made Lady Elizabeth answer, sharply:
"Worse--infinitely worse than a card debt. Henry has borrowed an
enormous sum of money which it is absolutely impossible for him to
repay."
"Borrowed? I had no idea Henry's credit was so good."
Elizabeth Kerhill saw that his mind was only half grasping what she was
trying to tell him--that he thought it only another of Henry's
peccadilloes. She laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Henry used the Fund to try to cover the loss of his last possession,
which he has sunk in a huge speculation."
Jim quickly looked up.
"The Fund--what Fund? Not the--"
"Yes, the Relief Fund."
"Why, that's embezzle--"
But his aunt's feverish hand stopped the word. She clung to Jim as she
piteously said, "Henry intended to replace it."
"Poor Diana! poor Diana!" The words slipped from him and then as he
looked at the terrible eyes full of this bitter knowledge he quickly
threw his arms protectingly about his aunt. "Poor Aunt! poor Aunt!"
"Yes, we women must bear our sins alone, and you men make us bear yours,
too."
"You have had your share, Aunt," he answered, as he caressed her hand.
He found it difficult to say more; he was so tired, yet he must struggle
to grasp what it all meant.
"It will ruin your prospects, too, Jim, I'm afraid. It will be
impossible for you to remain here after this." She began to understand
why she had sent for Jim. Like him, her mental condition was at its
lowest ebb--she, too, was exhausted. What were Jim's thoughts? Why
didn't he speak? There had been a new resolve on his face when he first
came in response to her summons.
"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," Jim roused himself to say. "I don't
represent anything. Besides--" he hesitated. He was leaving
England--why not tell the truth? The tragedy that the night had wrought
was far more difficult for him to face than this crime of Henry's. Then
into his tired brain came the knowledge of what all this would mean to
the woman he loved. "But Diana"--he continued--"she is a proud woman;
her father is a proud man--he is in delicate health. It will kill him.
You took from Diana her own proud name to give her ours. God--this
scandal will ring from one end of the empire to the other. Di, Di--" he
could think only of her now. "She's a city set on a hill--she'll be the
object of pity and the tattle of every back stair in England. It's
monstrous--it's monstrous!" Suddenly in the midst of his vehement
despair for Diana he became conscious that his aunt was watching him.
His entire cry had been selfishly for Diana. "Oh, forgive me--forgive
me!" he pleaded. "And you--what will become of you?"
"I don't believe I could survive it."
Why was she reflecting Henry, she asked herself. Did she hope to
accomplish with Jim what Henry last night had done with her?
"Hush, hush! You must not talk like that," Jim entreated.
Her strength was beginning to fail her. Jim placed her gently in a
chair.
"Jim, can't you help? Can't you think of some way to help us all?"
"What money I have wouldn't be a drop in the bucket. But you can have
it." He added, quietly, "I'm leaving England--don't question me
why--but I'm going."
Jim was going. He meant to sacrifice himself in any case to his great
love. If he had only gone before this discovery had been made--the
unspoken thought that had been struggling at the back of her
subconsciousness began to form words that, if she dared, would tempt him
to a greater sacrifice. Dare she go on? Even as she hesitated Henry
might be--almost she prayed that last night's intervention had been
denied her.
Knowing what she did, she must try to save her son--save her house. She
drew a quick breath. She rose and crossed to Jim, who was leaning
against the mantel; his figure drooped inert and helpless, hers grew
stronger and more rigid until she stood over him like a menacing figure
of fate. She took both of his unresisting hands in hers. There was no
mistaking the meaning of her words.
"Jim," she whispered. "I know you must go. I've known it for days. As
it must be, can't you think of some way to help--us"--she hesitated on
the word. "Can't you make a greater sacrifice? You are the only one who
can save us from ruin and dishonor. Will you?"
In silence he looked into her unflinching eyes. From her feverish brain
to his strained sensibilities came the unmistakable message. Was his
love great enough to serve to this end--to make this supreme immolation?
He threw back his head and closed his eyes. The seconds slipped
by--neither relaxed the hold each had on the other.
Yes, to serve--to give--that was love. Renunciation would mean the
salvation of so many--to Di, and the life of the delicate old man so
closely entwined with hers. The honor of his house--this proud old
woman! Through Henry, peace at least to Diana. What mattered his life
now--why not? But what he did must be done at once, he could brook no
delay. Again he looked deep into his aunt's eyes.
"Yes," he said, "I'll do it. It's the only way--the only way."
"God bless you!--God bless--" she sobbed, as she clung to his hand.