CHAPTER VIIUpon the expiration of his sick leave, Jim returned to his regiment, stationed at Dorden, a few miles from Dinningfold. He found the situation but little changed at the Towers. Henry's uncertain moods made Jim's visits a doubtful pleasure, but since his first day at Pont Street there had been no decided outbreak on his cousin's part.The autumn brought with it the calamitous war in South Africa, and all thoughts were concentrated on preparing the Yeomanry of the country to be ready to join the Regulars in the field. Jim's services were readily enlisted by Henry, and in the organization of the county's Yeomanry he became an active force. His work often required him to spend days at the Towers.With the passing of the last days of the old year, Henry's moodiness increased; even Lady Elizabeth seemed hopeless and unable to avert them, and Jim could see the bitter disillusionment that Diana daily encountered. During the winter Henry's attitude towards Diana changed; her presence was an irritation to him. At times he made every effort to regain his lost footing, but again and again he forfeited the newly acquired grace which her clemency granted. Days of absence from the Towers were now not uncommon. The light gradually faded from Lady Elizabeth's face, leaving it a haunting gray mask. But no word was spoken by either of the women to Jim. Both were indefatigable in their efforts to relieve the condition of the soldiers freezing on the African veldt. A fund was started in the county to be used for the widows and orphans of the fighting men, and Henry was placed at the head of it.In London the innumerable bazaars and fêtes given to swell the various funds of relief were the principal functions of the fashionable world. Jim, who had just returned from a visit to Scotland over the holiday season, was standing near a stall in Albert Hall, presided over by Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones. As she eagerly turned towards him there was no doubt of the American woman's desire to gain his approbation. A friendship had sprung up between them since Jim's return from India, and her frankness amused him. It was Sadie Jones's second year in London, and the half of the great houses that had been denied her the previous year were now open to her and she was a much sought personage at their festivities.Whether this was due to her insouciant face with its tip-tilted nose, or the slight lisp that made her American accent seem so fetching, her friends could not decide. Her enemies—and Sadie Jones had them at Battle Creek—declared it was her charming characteristic of never remembering a social slight; of generously forgiving the offender and in true Christian spirit offering the other cheek. They forgot what Jim and her sponsors in London could plainly see—it was her frankness that razed to the ground her social barrier. When she spoke quite frankly of a boarding-house her mother had kept in a mining-town where Hobart Jones had been a paying guest, and told in picturesque exaggeration of her starved youth and pitiful hatred of her environment—of the longing to escape to the great life of Europe with its men and women of tradition—she disarmed the gossips. She frankly acknowledged what was her detractors' store of tittle-tattle. It was a unique game and it won.Jim watched her with tolerant interest as she inveigled a young guardsman into giving a substantial donation to the cause. As he idly surveyed the scene he wondered at Diana's failure to attend the fête. The tired women who had been in attendance were disposing of the remains of their stock. The eager crowd that had thronged the hall and paid a half-crown to be served tea by a duchess, or to see a peeress act as barmaid in rivalry to a popular Rosalind of the stage, was gradually thinning out.Jim started to leave the flag-bedecked hall with its litter of packages and debris-strewn floor as proofs of the day's profitable traffic. Sadie Jones, who had been skilfully effecting her sales and keeping him in sight, turned to him."Wait and drive home with me to dinner. The brougham's at the door. I have news for you of Lady Kerhill. I have just returned from a visit."Mrs. Jones lived in a box of a house in Curzon Street. It was a setting especially designed to suit her small, birdlike personality. But Jim's stalwart frame seemed grotesquely out of proportion in the small French salon. The dinner was an amusingtête-à-têtewith Sadie at her most vivacious best, telling anecdotes of the plains she loved."Sometimes I long for the smell of the alkali. It chokes one, but I find the fogs far harder to swallow. I was bred to it."Hitherto her descriptions of the prairie had often made Jim long to see the country she painted so vividly. Suddenly she turned to Jim and with quick decision said:"I can't understand your Englishman's point of view. Why, in America, if Hoby Jones had treated me as Lord Kerhill is treating his wife, there would be ructions. Yes, ructions," she calmly went on, in answer to Jim's look of amazement. "Lord Kerhill is your cousin, I know, but Lady Kerhill is an angel. Why don't you do something?"For a moment Jim could not quite grasp her irrelevant outburst. Then he learned that Diana's failure to appear at the bazaar was due to days of accumulated anxiety at the Towers. Henry had been away for a week without a word of explanation to those at home."Of course," Sadie Jones continued as she leaned back and puffed her cigarette, "I know the truth. We all do here in town. He's drinking inordinately and leading a most flagrant life. An earl may be a stable-boy, I find, and Kerhill is certainly behaving like one. Lady Elizabeth is trying to cover up the situation, and Lady Kerhill seems dazed by recent events."Of the sincerity of her interest in Diana, Jim could have no doubt. Under her frivolities she had an appreciation of what was fine in men and women. As she talked she was carefully watching the effect of her words on Jim; her instinct had long ago told her that Jim's interest in Diana was no usual one—how unusual she did not care to probe. She knew that he was the one person who might have an influence over Henry; she also knew that by this conversation she might be stirring up a situation that would far from benefit her, but she played the game fair. She was rich—Jim was almost poor. Often she wondered and hoped—but so far her dreams, she knew, were built alone upon her desires.They talked for another hour, and when Jim left the Curzon Street house he promised Sadie Jones he would see Henry. From her window Sadie watched him swinging down the street. She had tried to serve Diana, but, she asked, what had she accomplished for herself? She lighted another cigarette and settled her foot against the fender. She was thinking of Jim's face as he had listened to her talk about Diana.The fire burned gray. A line of "dead soldiers," as the boys at Battle Creek had called the half-burned cigarettes, lay on the hearthstone—a tribute to the length of her reverie. Another expression of the boys at home came back forcibly to her as she left the room and crossed to her bedchamber. After all, she had been "dead game." Gain or loss, she did not regret her evening's work.As Jim walked along Piccadilly, he knew that Henry'sliaisonswere now town-talk. It was useless to close his eyes to the suspicions of the past month. Sadie Jones represented the world's opinion, and what she tried to warn him about would soon be brutally brought to Diana's knowledge. At the club he could find no news of Henry. All night he thought out the question of the wisdom of his approaching Henry, but the strength of his determination only grew as the gray of the dawn increased.The following morning he called at Pont Street. He found Henry lingering over some breakfast. A brandy-glass and empty soda-bottle aroused Jim's suspicions, while the bloated circles under Henry's eyes, and his yellow, discolored skin, were unmistakable proofs of a recent debauch. As Jim entered, Henry looked up with surprise."Didn't expect you back so soon," he said, after their strained greetings. Henry seemed ill at ease. "Anything up?" he went on, as Jim didn't speak.There was a moment's portentous silence."Henry," Jim began, very calmly, "I've got to speak to you about certain matters."Henry, who had been shifting about in his chair, became motionless. His clinched hands strained purple as he grasped the chair rail."About the—Yeomanry—work?" he half stammered while his eyes furtively sought Jim's face.But Jim, who was thinking only of Diana and the difficulty of alluding to Henry's recent conduct, failed to notice his faltering words and frightened expression."Oh no—no," he answered. "That's going on all right, I hear." He hesitated. Then with a quick breath he said, "It's no use. I've got to blurt out what's troubling me. All the town is talking about your life; its flagrance, its indecencies. Do you realize that it will soon reach Diana, and that Lady Elizabeth is quivering under the strain of a certain amount of knowledge which she is hiding, and is dreading further disclosures?"As Jim spoke he seemed to gain courage. "Don't speak. Let me have my say," he quietly commanded as Henry rose and attempted a blustering manner. "I am the only man close to Lady Elizabeth and Diana. For Sir Charles to become aware of this scandalous condition of affairs would be disastrous. You know that perfectly. Now tell me, in God's name, why you married Di if you wished to lead this life?" He paused. "Can't you pull yourself together? It's not too late. So far nothing definite is known to either Di or Lady Elizabeth, and you may trust me." He rose and crossed to Henry. "It's all true, I suppose—what I'm accusing you of—isn't it?" There was no answer. He laid his hand on Henry's shoulder. "Tell me that it's over and that you mean to go straight."Henry turned. All his rebellion seemed to have slipped from him. Suddenly he dropped into a chair and buried his head in his hands."I'm not fit—not fit, do you hear?—for Di. I married her because I loved her. Yes, I did. But you don't know what it is to fight daily the devil's desire. God! what do you know about it? I am in the meshes. I have sunk lower and lower. You want to know about this woman the world links with my disgrace. Well, I tried to break with her when I married Di—I swear I did—but I can't. She is like a dog that one has grown attached to—you can't fling it out of your life completely. There has always been a wall between Diana and me. I tried in the beginning to reach her, but she's afraid of me—I know it."As the torrent of words choked him, he stopped with a quick passion of agony. He was sincere in this confession of his weakness; Jim could not doubt him, though he was astonished at the admission. He had expected Henry to assail him with hard words and insolent denials. The acknowledged truth was sickening. Henry mechanically took some brandy; he seemed a vibrating bundle of torments.Jim watched him closely. "I don't want to preach, Henry," he said, "but when you stop that,"—he pointed to the half-empty flask—"you'll have half conquered yourself, and the rest will be far easier. This drinking will pull you into days of horror, days that would mean desolation to us all."He hesitated. Henry crossed to the chimney and leaned against it with his back to Jim."There is every chance for you," continued Jim. "In three months you can have regained your place with Di, and think—think what it would mean to your mother."Henry did not move; his head was resting on his outstretched arms, lying across the mantel edge. The broken figure of Henry touched Jim deeply. "It's all right, old man. We'll forget this. Forgive my frankness, but, after all, your interests are mine; your mother and your home were mine, and Di—was like a little sister, so I had to speak. I'll not say another word. I'm off." And almost before Henry could realize it, Jim had left him—left him with the dull burning in his heart and brain.So Jim knew. It had been a relief to acknowledge his pent-up remorse, but he was more deeply involved than his cousin suspected. Jim knew but half; the other half, with its awful, dreaded discovery, walked ever beside him. He made a sudden rush to the door as though to recall Jim, to unburden himself and be saved, but the momentary impulse died. He stumbled heavily into a chair; it was useless. He alone could save the situation, and the half that Jim knew would be bitter enough to face in his daily companionship with him.August came with its heather-clad hills, but England rejoiced less than usual in the beauty of the great flower-garden which the entire country-side resembled. Over it all hung the tragic symbol of war. The call of Africa for men had been appalling. In the park of the Towers a detachment of Yeomanry were encamped for a fortnight's training, and the restful beauty of the place for days had been broken by the firing manoeuvres of the men. To-night all was quiet, with only the sounds from the men in their tents faintly reaching the Towers. Henry was giving a dinner to the officers in command and coffee was being served in the garden. A flaming border of evening primroses were opening their yellow, cuplike blossoms, In the distance a boy's clear voice was singing:"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."Lady Elizabeth had gathered a house-party to see the afternoon's manoeuvres and to remain for the dinner. The Bishop leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his apron; his short, lean legs were stretched out comfortably—the Kerhills knew how to entertain the Church, he was convinced. Near him sat Sir John Applegate and Mrs. Chichester Chichester Jones. Close to a great bed of white pansies, with scarlet standard roses gleaming like sentinels over the delicate white blossoms, were Mabel, Diana, and Mr. Chiswick, the young ascetic curate. Henry, who was standing near Lady Elizabeth, kept his eyes moodily on the ground. Sir Charles, with a heavy shawl wrapped around him, was stretched out in a long basket-chair. The air was so still that the moving of a bird in its nest or the rustling of a leaf disturbed its silence."God bless you, Tommy Atkins—Here's a country's 'ealth to you."The voice ceased.Sir John had been telling a story to Mrs. Jones of the mule who drew a pension from the American government."Heard that story in America. Rather good, eh, Mrs. Hobart Chi—" ignominiously he stood stricken by the American name. The Bishop, seeing his bewilderment turned quickly and whispered the dreadful cognomen. As Sir John finished the broken sentence there was a quiet laugh.Henry leaned over his mother. "Mater," he said, "Don't you think that Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones would make a ripping match for Jim? I wish you'd try and make an opportunity to help it along."As he spoke he already saw the gold from the Battle Creek mines pouring into the coffers of the house of Kerhill. Lady Elizabeth looked up with sudden comprehension. The American was charming; her look reassured Henry."Most assuredly. I'll do what I can."From the drawing-room came the sound of music. An impromptu dance had been arranged by Diana for the young people, who were beginning to arrive. At a message from Bates she quietly went towards the open casement to meet her guests. Henry followed.As the others started to follow, Sir John and the Bishop held a whispered consultation. Then the Bishop, bursting with importance, turned to Sir John and said:"Shall we take the ladies into our confidence, Sir John?""By all means, Bishop; yes, do."Mabel and Mrs. Jones joined in the supplication."Kerhill's brother officers," the Bishop began, "have purchased a very beautiful loving-cup in appreciation of his work for the fund, which we have arranged to present to-morrow afternoon to the Earl.""Oh, how charming, and what a delightful surprise!" Lady Elizabeth said. These moments of joy in Henry were rare events in her existence."But," said Sadie Jones, "isn't Captain James Wynnegate to get a loving-cup, too?"Sir John answered, "Oh, he's only the secretary of the fund."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 passé—"Jim began humming the tune; he crossed to Lady Elizabeth and lightly put his arm about her as he said:"Well, Auntie mine?"CHAPTER VIIILady Elizabeth watched Jim with curiosity. The voice from the drawing-room grew louder:"Tout casse, tout passé—"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 letmeforget 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.Henry's words followed close: "Have we been gone very long?""Oh no—but you see they have stopped bridge, and the men want to talk to you about the Fund. They are all so proud of our extraordinary result. They want a statement published so that they can gloat over the envy of the other regiments."Published—a statement!" but Diana, who was bending over some roses, hardly noticed the strained speech, and Lady Elizabeth motioned him to restrain his agitation."First, I believe," Diana continued as she seated herself, "there is a committee or somebody to go over the accounts and what do they call it—?""Audit them," Henry found himself mechanically saying."Yes, that's it. They want to know when it will be convenient to-morrow for you, Henry."Quite vaguely he said, "Oh yes—for me."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 VII
Upon the expiration of his sick leave, Jim returned to his regiment, stationed at Dorden, a few miles from Dinningfold. He found the situation but little changed at the Towers. Henry's uncertain moods made Jim's visits a doubtful pleasure, but since his first day at Pont Street there had been no decided outbreak on his cousin's part.
The autumn brought with it the calamitous war in South Africa, and all thoughts were concentrated on preparing the Yeomanry of the country to be ready to join the Regulars in the field. Jim's services were readily enlisted by Henry, and in the organization of the county's Yeomanry he became an active force. His work often required him to spend days at the Towers.
With the passing of the last days of the old year, Henry's moodiness increased; even Lady Elizabeth seemed hopeless and unable to avert them, and Jim could see the bitter disillusionment that Diana daily encountered. During the winter Henry's attitude towards Diana changed; her presence was an irritation to him. At times he made every effort to regain his lost footing, but again and again he forfeited the newly acquired grace which her clemency granted. Days of absence from the Towers were now not uncommon. The light gradually faded from Lady Elizabeth's face, leaving it a haunting gray mask. But no word was spoken by either of the women to Jim. Both were indefatigable in their efforts to relieve the condition of the soldiers freezing on the African veldt. A fund was started in the county to be used for the widows and orphans of the fighting men, and Henry was placed at the head of it.
In London the innumerable bazaars and fêtes given to swell the various funds of relief were the principal functions of the fashionable world. Jim, who had just returned from a visit to Scotland over the holiday season, was standing near a stall in Albert Hall, presided over by Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones. As she eagerly turned towards him there was no doubt of the American woman's desire to gain his approbation. A friendship had sprung up between them since Jim's return from India, and her frankness amused him. It was Sadie Jones's second year in London, and the half of the great houses that had been denied her the previous year were now open to her and she was a much sought personage at their festivities.
Whether this was due to her insouciant face with its tip-tilted nose, or the slight lisp that made her American accent seem so fetching, her friends could not decide. Her enemies—and Sadie Jones had them at Battle Creek—declared it was her charming characteristic of never remembering a social slight; of generously forgiving the offender and in true Christian spirit offering the other cheek. They forgot what Jim and her sponsors in London could plainly see—it was her frankness that razed to the ground her social barrier. When she spoke quite frankly of a boarding-house her mother had kept in a mining-town where Hobart Jones had been a paying guest, and told in picturesque exaggeration of her starved youth and pitiful hatred of her environment—of the longing to escape to the great life of Europe with its men and women of tradition—she disarmed the gossips. She frankly acknowledged what was her detractors' store of tittle-tattle. It was a unique game and it won.
Jim watched her with tolerant interest as she inveigled a young guardsman into giving a substantial donation to the cause. As he idly surveyed the scene he wondered at Diana's failure to attend the fête. The tired women who had been in attendance were disposing of the remains of their stock. The eager crowd that had thronged the hall and paid a half-crown to be served tea by a duchess, or to see a peeress act as barmaid in rivalry to a popular Rosalind of the stage, was gradually thinning out.
Jim started to leave the flag-bedecked hall with its litter of packages and debris-strewn floor as proofs of the day's profitable traffic. Sadie Jones, who had been skilfully effecting her sales and keeping him in sight, turned to him.
"Wait and drive home with me to dinner. The brougham's at the door. I have news for you of Lady Kerhill. I have just returned from a visit."
Mrs. Jones lived in a box of a house in Curzon Street. It was a setting especially designed to suit her small, birdlike personality. But Jim's stalwart frame seemed grotesquely out of proportion in the small French salon. The dinner was an amusingtête-à-têtewith Sadie at her most vivacious best, telling anecdotes of the plains she loved.
"Sometimes I long for the smell of the alkali. It chokes one, but I find the fogs far harder to swallow. I was bred to it."
Hitherto her descriptions of the prairie had often made Jim long to see the country she painted so vividly. Suddenly she turned to Jim and with quick decision said:
"I can't understand your Englishman's point of view. Why, in America, if Hoby Jones had treated me as Lord Kerhill is treating his wife, there would be ructions. Yes, ructions," she calmly went on, in answer to Jim's look of amazement. "Lord Kerhill is your cousin, I know, but Lady Kerhill is an angel. Why don't you do something?"
For a moment Jim could not quite grasp her irrelevant outburst. Then he learned that Diana's failure to appear at the bazaar was due to days of accumulated anxiety at the Towers. Henry had been away for a week without a word of explanation to those at home.
"Of course," Sadie Jones continued as she leaned back and puffed her cigarette, "I know the truth. We all do here in town. He's drinking inordinately and leading a most flagrant life. An earl may be a stable-boy, I find, and Kerhill is certainly behaving like one. Lady Elizabeth is trying to cover up the situation, and Lady Kerhill seems dazed by recent events."
Of the sincerity of her interest in Diana, Jim could have no doubt. Under her frivolities she had an appreciation of what was fine in men and women. As she talked she was carefully watching the effect of her words on Jim; her instinct had long ago told her that Jim's interest in Diana was no usual one—how unusual she did not care to probe. She knew that he was the one person who might have an influence over Henry; she also knew that by this conversation she might be stirring up a situation that would far from benefit her, but she played the game fair. She was rich—Jim was almost poor. Often she wondered and hoped—but so far her dreams, she knew, were built alone upon her desires.
They talked for another hour, and when Jim left the Curzon Street house he promised Sadie Jones he would see Henry. From her window Sadie watched him swinging down the street. She had tried to serve Diana, but, she asked, what had she accomplished for herself? She lighted another cigarette and settled her foot against the fender. She was thinking of Jim's face as he had listened to her talk about Diana.
The fire burned gray. A line of "dead soldiers," as the boys at Battle Creek had called the half-burned cigarettes, lay on the hearthstone—a tribute to the length of her reverie. Another expression of the boys at home came back forcibly to her as she left the room and crossed to her bedchamber. After all, she had been "dead game." Gain or loss, she did not regret her evening's work.
As Jim walked along Piccadilly, he knew that Henry'sliaisonswere now town-talk. It was useless to close his eyes to the suspicions of the past month. Sadie Jones represented the world's opinion, and what she tried to warn him about would soon be brutally brought to Diana's knowledge. At the club he could find no news of Henry. All night he thought out the question of the wisdom of his approaching Henry, but the strength of his determination only grew as the gray of the dawn increased.
The following morning he called at Pont Street. He found Henry lingering over some breakfast. A brandy-glass and empty soda-bottle aroused Jim's suspicions, while the bloated circles under Henry's eyes, and his yellow, discolored skin, were unmistakable proofs of a recent debauch. As Jim entered, Henry looked up with surprise.
"Didn't expect you back so soon," he said, after their strained greetings. Henry seemed ill at ease. "Anything up?" he went on, as Jim didn't speak.
There was a moment's portentous silence.
"Henry," Jim began, very calmly, "I've got to speak to you about certain matters."
Henry, who had been shifting about in his chair, became motionless. His clinched hands strained purple as he grasped the chair rail.
"About the—Yeomanry—work?" he half stammered while his eyes furtively sought Jim's face.
But Jim, who was thinking only of Diana and the difficulty of alluding to Henry's recent conduct, failed to notice his faltering words and frightened expression.
"Oh no—no," he answered. "That's going on all right, I hear." He hesitated. Then with a quick breath he said, "It's no use. I've got to blurt out what's troubling me. All the town is talking about your life; its flagrance, its indecencies. Do you realize that it will soon reach Diana, and that Lady Elizabeth is quivering under the strain of a certain amount of knowledge which she is hiding, and is dreading further disclosures?"
As Jim spoke he seemed to gain courage. "Don't speak. Let me have my say," he quietly commanded as Henry rose and attempted a blustering manner. "I am the only man close to Lady Elizabeth and Diana. For Sir Charles to become aware of this scandalous condition of affairs would be disastrous. You know that perfectly. Now tell me, in God's name, why you married Di if you wished to lead this life?" He paused. "Can't you pull yourself together? It's not too late. So far nothing definite is known to either Di or Lady Elizabeth, and you may trust me." He rose and crossed to Henry. "It's all true, I suppose—what I'm accusing you of—isn't it?" There was no answer. He laid his hand on Henry's shoulder. "Tell me that it's over and that you mean to go straight."
Henry turned. All his rebellion seemed to have slipped from him. Suddenly he dropped into a chair and buried his head in his hands.
"I'm not fit—not fit, do you hear?—for Di. I married her because I loved her. Yes, I did. But you don't know what it is to fight daily the devil's desire. God! what do you know about it? I am in the meshes. I have sunk lower and lower. You want to know about this woman the world links with my disgrace. Well, I tried to break with her when I married Di—I swear I did—but I can't. She is like a dog that one has grown attached to—you can't fling it out of your life completely. There has always been a wall between Diana and me. I tried in the beginning to reach her, but she's afraid of me—I know it."
As the torrent of words choked him, he stopped with a quick passion of agony. He was sincere in this confession of his weakness; Jim could not doubt him, though he was astonished at the admission. He had expected Henry to assail him with hard words and insolent denials. The acknowledged truth was sickening. Henry mechanically took some brandy; he seemed a vibrating bundle of torments.
Jim watched him closely. "I don't want to preach, Henry," he said, "but when you stop that,"—he pointed to the half-empty flask—"you'll have half conquered yourself, and the rest will be far easier. This drinking will pull you into days of horror, days that would mean desolation to us all."
He hesitated. Henry crossed to the chimney and leaned against it with his back to Jim.
"There is every chance for you," continued Jim. "In three months you can have regained your place with Di, and think—think what it would mean to your mother."
Henry did not move; his head was resting on his outstretched arms, lying across the mantel edge. The broken figure of Henry touched Jim deeply. "It's all right, old man. We'll forget this. Forgive my frankness, but, after all, your interests are mine; your mother and your home were mine, and Di—was like a little sister, so I had to speak. I'll not say another word. I'm off." And almost before Henry could realize it, Jim had left him—left him with the dull burning in his heart and brain.
So Jim knew. It had been a relief to acknowledge his pent-up remorse, but he was more deeply involved than his cousin suspected. Jim knew but half; the other half, with its awful, dreaded discovery, walked ever beside him. He made a sudden rush to the door as though to recall Jim, to unburden himself and be saved, but the momentary impulse died. He stumbled heavily into a chair; it was useless. He alone could save the situation, and the half that Jim knew would be bitter enough to face in his daily companionship with him.
August came with its heather-clad hills, but England rejoiced less than usual in the beauty of the great flower-garden which the entire country-side resembled. Over it all hung the tragic symbol of war. The call of Africa for men had been appalling. In the park of the Towers a detachment of Yeomanry were encamped for a fortnight's training, and the restful beauty of the place for days had been broken by the firing manoeuvres of the men. To-night all was quiet, with only the sounds from the men in their tents faintly reaching the Towers. Henry was giving a dinner to the officers in command and coffee was being served in the garden. A flaming border of evening primroses were opening their yellow, cuplike blossoms, In the distance a boy's clear voice was singing:
"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."
"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."
"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,
You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."
Lady Elizabeth had gathered a house-party to see the afternoon's manoeuvres and to remain for the dinner. The Bishop leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his apron; his short, lean legs were stretched out comfortably—the Kerhills knew how to entertain the Church, he was convinced. Near him sat Sir John Applegate and Mrs. Chichester Chichester Jones. Close to a great bed of white pansies, with scarlet standard roses gleaming like sentinels over the delicate white blossoms, were Mabel, Diana, and Mr. Chiswick, the young ascetic curate. Henry, who was standing near Lady Elizabeth, kept his eyes moodily on the ground. Sir Charles, with a heavy shawl wrapped around him, was stretched out in a long basket-chair. The air was so still that the moving of a bird in its nest or the rustling of a leaf disturbed its silence.
"God bless you, Tommy Atkins—Here's a country's 'ealth to you."
"God bless you, Tommy Atkins—Here's a country's 'ealth to you."
"God bless you, Tommy Atkins—
Here's a country's 'ealth to you."
The voice ceased.
Sir John had been telling a story to Mrs. Jones of the mule who drew a pension from the American government.
"Heard that story in America. Rather good, eh, Mrs. Hobart Chi—" ignominiously he stood stricken by the American name. The Bishop, seeing his bewilderment turned quickly and whispered the dreadful cognomen. As Sir John finished the broken sentence there was a quiet laugh.
Henry leaned over his mother. "Mater," he said, "Don't you think that Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones would make a ripping match for Jim? I wish you'd try and make an opportunity to help it along."
As he spoke he already saw the gold from the Battle Creek mines pouring into the coffers of the house of Kerhill. Lady Elizabeth looked up with sudden comprehension. The American was charming; her look reassured Henry.
"Most assuredly. I'll do what I can."
From the drawing-room came the sound of music. An impromptu dance had been arranged by Diana for the young people, who were beginning to arrive. At a message from Bates she quietly went towards the open casement to meet her guests. Henry followed.
As the others started to follow, Sir John and the Bishop held a whispered consultation. Then the Bishop, bursting with importance, turned to Sir John and said:
"Shall we take the ladies into our confidence, Sir John?"
"By all means, Bishop; yes, do."
Mabel and Mrs. Jones joined in the supplication.
"Kerhill's brother officers," the Bishop began, "have purchased a very beautiful loving-cup in appreciation of his work for the fund, which we have arranged to present to-morrow afternoon to the Earl."
"Oh, how charming, and what a delightful surprise!" Lady Elizabeth said. These moments of joy in Henry were rare events in her existence.
"But," said Sadie Jones, "isn't Captain James Wynnegate to get a loving-cup, too?"
Sir John answered, "Oh, he's only the secretary of the fund."
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 passé—"
"Tout lasse, tout passé—"
"Tout lasse, tout passé—"
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 passé—"
"Tout casse, tout passé—"
"Tout casse, tout passé—"
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 letmeforget 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.
Henry's words followed close: "Have we been gone very long?"
"Oh no—but you see they have stopped bridge, and the men want to talk to you about the Fund. They are all so proud of our extraordinary result. They want a statement published so that they can gloat over the envy of the other regiments.
"Published—a statement!" but Diana, who was bending over some roses, hardly noticed the strained speech, and Lady Elizabeth motioned him to restrain his agitation.
"First, I believe," Diana continued as she seated herself, "there is a committee or somebody to go over the accounts and what do they call it—?"
"Audit them," Henry found himself mechanically saying.
"Yes, that's it. They want to know when it will be convenient to-morrow for you, Henry."
Quite vaguely he said, "Oh yes—for me."
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.