THE SQUAW MAN (continued 2)

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 VIII

Lady 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 let me forget it."

Lady Elizabeth heard the last words and wondered. The ugly horns on his brows showed the irritable state of his mind.

"Well," he quietly said, "what did Jim say to the American widow? It isn't often that a man without a title gets a chance like that." There was a moment's silence. Lady Elizabeth would have preferred to have this conversation at another time; her mind was anxious about Henry's recent words—what did they forebode? But Henry settled himself in a big chair, and she saw that he was anxious to learn the result of her interview with Jim.

"He declines positively," she answered.

Then the passion he had been fighting to keep under broke loose. He rose and began pacing the walk.

"Not an atom of consideration for me—eh? In the hopeless struggle I make to live up to the traditions of my race?" Henry could always work himself up into a great burst of self-pity.

"Jim is an anarchist in his talk, but an angel at heart. He always ends by doing the right thing."

This defence of Jim caused Henry to stop in his walk. That his mother should advocate the goodness of Jim was a new victory for his cousin.

"Jim likes to play the saint, confound him," he barked, "but waking or sleeping, he never takes off his halo."

Lady Elizabeth crossed to him. "He says he has no desire to marry at present."

"That's the sickly sentimental pose of the man who loves a woman beyond his reach," Henry answered.

Like a flame of illumination the innuendo of his words brought their meaning to Lady Elizabeth. She remembered so much and yet so little in Jim's actions of late, but all tended towards a horrible suspicion. She could still see Jim's face as he watched Diana earlier in the evening. It was not the face of a lover in the usual sense. It was a face glorified by an unconscious devotion to a great ideal. All she could stammer was:

"You mean—"

But Henry, who had blurted out in a heat of temper more than he felt he had reason for, tried to ignore the question and the look of sudden bewilderment in her eyes. He moved restlessly in his chair as he said:

"Never mind, mother; it doesn't matter."

But Lady Elizabeth went to him, and, with her arms about him, whispered, "My son, you are nervous, pale, distrait. You have been so for some time. I haven't spoken of it for fear of annoying you, but others are beginning to speak of it. What is it?" She drew his head back until it rested against her breast. "Can't you trust your mother?"

Instead of a restive withdrawal from her embrace, he let her soothe his head with her half-trembling hands. Why not tell her what he suspected?

"Have you seen Jim and Diana much together?"

"Not more than always," was her reassuring reply.

"But, mother, have you observed them when they are together?"

Lady Elizabeth slipped down on the seat beside him.

"My boy, your suspicions are morbid and unjust. You ought to be ashamed of them," she gently urged. In her heart she feared for him and his happiness with Diana. She had seen the girl gradually sicken and turn away from her life with Henry. Great provocation, she knew, had been given Diana, but at present it was wiser not to discuss this with him, but to calm him.

Suddenly he leaned forward and buried his face on his arms.

"Mother, I love Diana. I have my faults, but that is the best of me. I love her desperately. Oh, I know you're going to say that at times I haven't proved by my actions that I cared for her, but it's because I knew from the beginning that I never could reach her. Does she love me? No, I can't deceive myself. She was devilled into marrying me for the damned title. I know that now. The best I can hope for is that she should not utterly despise me, and I want a chance to win her love—my God, how I want it! Everything that Jim does pleases her. She admires him; I can see it clearly." He paused as the whirlwind of words swept from him; he rose, and towered over his mother. "That admiration belongs to me. You've spoiled me, mother. I've always had what I wanted, and now I'm the victim of it. I'm the selfish monster that takes everything while St. James stands modestly in the background. Oh, don't you see you have made him her hero, not me?"

He began to move restlessly about the rose paths, Lady Elizabeth following. Indulgently she linked her arm through his. Although a fear was beginning to persuade her of the truth of his wild words, still, she argued, he greatly exaggerated. That he cared so deeply for Diana promised well for the future, and, with her aid, Diana would soon be convinced of Henry's worthiness.

"My dear boy," she said, "is that all you have to worry over?"

"No, mother, no—I wish to God it were."

She caught hold of him almost savagely, "Ah—" she gasped. Then the apprehensions that had torn her for days had been justified. She feared to question further. An overwhelming dread held her in its torturing grip. Henry started as though to leave her; his face was averted, she turned him towards her.

"Money again?" she asked.

"You know what the demands on me are. I couldn't disgrace my family by going into bankruptcy, and I had to have money. Well—I was foolish enough to borrow—"

Lady Elizabeth knew instinctively the words that would follow. Her hands clinched his arm so tight that he shrank under the pressure.

"Borrow, mind," he continued, "some of the Fund's money."

"The Relief Fund? Oh, Henry—"

The despair and horror of her tone caused him to put his arms protectingly about her. Even in his own blind fury at fate he could see her shrink from her stately strength into a feeble old woman. He tried to reassure her.

"Oh. it's really all right, mater. I'll be able to replace it.

"How?"

She clung to his arm. He could hear the quadrille's last quarters beginning; it would be impossible to continue this conversation much longer.

"You wouldn't understand, mother. You see, it's a stock transaction, but it's all right—bound to be. Hobbes, of Simpson & Hobbes, you know, gave me the tip. It was absolutely inside information."

Lady Elizabeth loosened her hold, and with a hopeless gesture moved away. Henry read her lack of faith in the enterprise.

"Oh, I took the trouble to verify it." He did not admit, however, that he had sought Petrie's advice only after the plunge, when the waiting had grown too fearful. "I'm expecting a telegram to-night—that's the reason I'm nervous. But I'll have enough to put back the sum I've borrowed, and a nice little fortune besides. Don't you worry." But even as he spoke the comforting words he seemed to lose the confidence which he was vainly trying to assume. The telegram should have arrived in the afternoon. He knew that Petrie, if his investigation had been at all hopeful, would have sent a reassuring word. Then, that the strength of his mother, upon which he had so often leaned, should crumble away as he confessed to her, that he should be forced to carry her anxieties instead of receiving her support, terrified him with its significance.

It was all quite palpable to Lady Elizabeth. His drawn face with eyes like burned-out flames showed how the fever of unrest and fear consumed him.

"Henry, you are trying to reassure yourself, not me," she said.

"No, no, mother, it isn't that." But it was useless, he could no longer play a part. "Yes, you're right," he acknowledged as he threw himself down on the great stone bench. "My God, the consequences!—the consequences!"

And Lady Elizabeth stood dumb and helpless. For the first time he held out his hands to her, and she was unable to grasp them in support. She could offer no respite to the torture of suspense he endured.

As they stood in silence, Diana came from the pergola, "Dear people, are you moon-struck? Our guests are missing you."

With an effort Lady Elizabeth turned, "Is the dance over?" she said.

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 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 passé, 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.

And Henry answered, calmly, "I must blow my brains out."

"Dear God!" her heart prayed as she watched him. His dull impassiveness frightened her more than any madness of rebellion; he meant this—it was no idle boast. Had she only delayed, not prevented, the contemplated tragedy of the night before? Tightly she buckled on her armor of mother-love. She must fight—fight him—the world, if necessary, but she must win. She put all the sickening hurt and broken courage behind her. She must obtain help—from whom? In the mean time she must distract and arouse him from this awful apathy of resignation to his disgrace. While these thoughts were flashing through her brain she answered:

"If—" she paused, she could not say the word. "If—that—" she half whispered, "would cover up the shame—but it wouldn't. No; no Earl of Kerhill must go into history as a—"

"Thief!" Henry supplied the word. It was a relief to speak it. "You might as well say it—no one else will hesitate to do so."

His voice shook, but he still maintained his stoicism.

"You had no intention to do wrong, my poor boy, I know it, but no one will believe that but your mother. It's my fault too in some way, I suppose." The agonized mother's consciousness of failure in shaping her child's character broke from her. "I'd willingly take the blame on my shoulders if I could."

He held her hands tighter. She knelt beside him.

"Let's see. No one has had anything to do with the Fund except you, Chiswick, and Jim"—-the thought of Jim brought reassurance. Jim perhaps could help them in some way to evade discovery. "Jim—Jim," she reiterated.

Henry answered her unspoken thought. "Jim and I quarrelled last night."

"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.

But Jim evaded all further words. "Leave me. Later I'll see Henry."

The dressing-bell sounded. He led her to the door, opened it, and watched her pass down the long corridor with its portraits of the dead Wynnegates lining the walls. But Jim made no effort to obey the summons of the bell. He returned to the prayer-closet; he wanted to be alone.

In his dressing-room Henry received two messages. One was from his mother, it said, "Courage"; the other note read: "Come to the prayer-closet at ten.—Jim."

At dinner Diana strained her eyes in vain down the long table, and then watched the great doors for Jim's appearance, but to no purpose. Had he obeyed her note? By the desolation of her heart she knew that she had not wished such swift obedience.

CHAPTER XII

The clock was striking ten, and Jim was waiting for Henry in the prayer-closet. He had arranged all the details of his departure. It was as though he carried a dead soul, so calm and void had been his feelings for the past hours. He had stayed away from the dinner-party on some pretext, and his man had already started for London with his luggage to be left at his club. When the servant returned the following morning, as he supposed to accompany his master back to town, he would find him gone. By the time the discovery of the deficit was made, Jim would be aboard the steamer that was to carry him across the Atlantic.

Sounds from the drawing-room told him that dinner was over. He sat twirling his travelling hat; on a chair near by lay his coat. The chimes of the last notes of the church-bell were dying away as Henry hurriedly entered. Jim looked up and studied his cousin's face, and he saw by his manner that some word of hope must have reached him from Lady Elizabeth. Save for a half-suppressed exclamation from Henry as he noticed Jim's travelling clothes, neither of the men spoke. Henry flung himself into a chair; he could feel Jim's eyes on his face.

"Damn it, why don't you speak?" he finally gasped, when he could no longer endure the situation.

Jim quietly asked, "Have you made your peace with Diana?"

"What would be the use now?" He knew that his mother had told Jim the truth. Why did Jim not refer to it? Perhaps there was, as his mother suggested, a way out of this; if so, why in Heaven's name should the torture be continued. But Jim remained silent. "You think of nothing but Diana—Diana—Diana." With the last call of her name it became a wail. Henry had learned during the past hours what suffering could mean—he was beginning to know what life tempered with discipline might have meant for him. "When I stand dishonored before the world, it will be easy for you to take her from me. Is that what you are thinking?" He began excitedly to pace the room.

"Not exactly," Jim answered, without moving from his bent position; "I was wondering whether you can be trusted with Diana's future. I believe you love her after a fashion."

Henry stopped in his walk in front of Jim. "And I know that you love her."

Jim moved from the position that told how spent he was, and raised himself to his cousin's height. "Yes," he said, "but not quite in the way you mean. I am about to show you how I love her."

Something in the simple directness of his words made Henry lower his eyes. He threw himself into a chair and with averted head listened to what his cousin had to say.

"It's too late for Diana to find out what a blackguard you are, Henry." Henry only dropped his head lower on his hands. "I wonder if you will enter into an honest conspiracy to keep her in happy ignorance to the end," Jim continued.

"What are you driving at?" Henry asked. He almost knew the words that were to follow, but he hardly dared believe that what he surmised could be true.

"I am thinking that under certain conditions I will disappear—leave England; as secretary of the Fund my action would be practically a confession of guilt."

Jim could hardly hear the strained question that followed.

"Your conditions?"

"That you give up gambling of every kind; that you drop your mistress, shut up her establishment, and give up your other liaisons for good and all; that you make a will leaving everything you have, except what is entailed, to Diana; and that you give me a written and signed confession that you embezzled this money; that for the above considerations I consented to assume the appearance and responsibility of the guilt, and that if you do not keep the agreement you have made with me, I am at liberty to appear at any time and make known the truth."

Henry rose and stood looking silently at Jim. Vaguely he began to grasp the tremendous power of Jim's loyal love. He could find no word—the clock chimed the quarter-hour.

"Well?" Jim asked.

"It's for her, Jim—for her—I understand that, and I'll try and have the future make up for the past, so that you'll never regret this." His voice broke—he leaned towards Jim and tried to grope for the hands that he could not see—"I was a dog to say what I did, but, by God! I'll keep my part of the agreement."

Jim nodded—he was beyond emotion. "Good; it's a bargain. Go to your room, make out a paper such as I have indicated, sign it and bring it to me here. Be quick," he added, "and I'll get away at once."

This time it was Jim who dropped into a chair and averted his head to avoid seeing Henry's out-stretched, pleading hand. He never raised his eyes until he heard the door click, then he went and unlocked a side entrance that led from the prayer-closet to the other side of the garden, and with his watch in his hand leaned against the open door and waited. Henry must not be too long; he was to leave by the midnight train, but before that he must make his pilgrimage. Across the garden he could see the waving tree-tops beckoning him, calling him with the mysterious powers of the night. Yes, he would make his start for the new life from the Fairies' Corner that led—whither?

Towards the carriage-drive Diana tenderly assisted Sir Charles, followed by Bates.

"Must you really go, father?"

"Yes, my dear, I must keep good hours, you know. These two days have been a great dissipation for me; but I've been well repaid; I can't tell you how much the delightful episode of the loving-cup pleased me. So now, good-night, my love." They had reached the entrance, "No, no," Sir Charles protested as Diana started to walk to the carriage with him, "Bates will take care of me." Then he gathered her close in his frail arms as he kissed her, and whispered, full of the pride he felt in the honors done to the house of Kerhill, "You see, it was all for the best, my dear—all for the best." And Diana made no answer. Ever since she had sent the note to Jim revealing the truth of her tortured heart she had seemed to gain a spiritual strength that helped to calm the aching call of her senses. She dared ask no question concerning Jim's absence, and her heart mocked her again with the truth that she had not meant him to obey her so implicitly.

She saw Sir Charles drive away. "Dear father," she whispered, "he must never know—never know—but it was all for the worst, my dear, all for the worst." Tears began to stain her face; they were the first in many days. She tried to control the passion of her grief but it was impossible; quivering sobs shook her in an hysterical outburst. To escape from the possible eyes of any chance meeting she quickly sought refuge in the rose-arbor. Hidden completely, she gave herself up to the relaxation of her sorrow. Finally, spent with her tears, she leaned against the damp foliage of the rose-screen, and an aftermath of calm followed her outburst. Suddenly she became conscious that Sir John Applegate and Mr. Chiswick were crossing to a bench near the sundial.

"My dear Chiswick," her cousin John was saying, "I'm greatly distressed. I've been obliged to ask you to give me a few moments here, and, indeed, I've asked Lady Elizabeth—as Kerhill seemed so ill to-day—to join us here."

Diana could distinctly hear every word, but with her tear-stained face it was impossible for her to make known her presence.

"You see, Chiswick," Sir John continued, "I presume that as Lord Kerhill's secretary you had his accounts in such shape that we could go over them at a moment's notice. When the keys were sent me this evening I gave an hour to glancing over the accounts before meeting the auditing committee to-morrow; as I've just told you, they seemed in a frightful tangle, and—"

"But, as I explained a moment ago, Sir John," Chiswick interrupted, "I really know nothing about the Fund; it was a pleasure for the Earl to do all the work—a labor of love—and he took the matter quite out of my hands. Captain Wynnegate, as secretary of the Fund, and Lord Kerhill have had absolute control of the business side of it."

"What you tell me amazes me; but no doubt there is an explanation which we will have from Kerhill later."

An intangible presentiment began to fasten its web about Diana. Lady Elizabeth came from the house; both men rose, and Diana watched eagerly.

"Lady Elizabeth, believe me I'm exceedingly sorry to trouble you, but—" then Sir John Applegate quite brusquely said: "I've had the books for the Fund's accounts, and there is, I'm afraid, trouble ahead for our Yeomanry. Lord Kerhill seems ill from overwork with the troops, so I've hesitated to trouble him to-night."

Lady Elizabeth's brows contracted; so it had come so soon. She must act at once—why not? Jim had agreed: perhaps he had already gone—everything was at stake—one small misstep might prove fatal—how far dared she venture?

"What you tell me comes to me as no great surprise," she said. Both men drew nearer to her, Diana strained to hear the low words. "The cause of Kerhill's indisposition this afternoon was due to this sudden discovery on his part. Need I say, as Captain Wynnegate had charge of the books, what it means to Henry? He and his cousin are alone responsible, so my son feels that the honor of our house is involved. To-morrow he intended to lay the case before you; he will. I only ask that to-night you will keep the matter quiet until our guests have departed. Perhaps, after all, an investigation will prove quite satisfactory and the shortage may be adjusted." She spoke more directly to Sir John; Chiswick, after all, could do little harm. "Indeed, I feel it is in all probability a mistake, the result of overtired nerves." Sir John listened, he had a great respect for Elizabeth, Countess of Kerhill; seriously he answered:

"I feel anxious, but you may rely absolutely on me. In the morning I must see Henry—will you tell him to meet me with Captain Wynnegate? The matter must be laid before the committee; there may be a leakage in some out-of-the-way corner of another department." Lady Elizabeth acquiesced. Sir John went on, "I could only find confusion in the books; consequently, I feel we need not be too seriously alarmed. By-the-way, where is Captain Wynnegate?" Lady Elizabeth shook her head. Into both the men's faces came a look of curious surprise.

"He has not been seen the entire day, save for a little while quite early, in his tent." Diana could feel the condemnation in the silence that followed.

"Mr. Chiswick, Mr. Chiswick," it was Mabel's voice calling from the open casement. "You promised to come back for the charades."

"Yes, you must both return—they will need you. And, after all," Lady Elizabeth whispered as they started for the house, "we have no doubt been anticipating difficulties that do not exist."

The voices died away, and Diana left the rose-bower. She had but one thought—she must find Jim at once. Why, oh, why, had she written the note of the morning? She stumbled across the heavy, thick sward. In the distance she could see a figure; it looked like Jim's; he was coming from the Fairies' Corner over the green to the entrance which in the morning had let her out on to the purple moor. Quickly she hurried to him, staining her gown and delicate slippers in the wet grass.

"Jim, Jim," she called, "where are you going?" As he turned she came close to him and repeated her question.

"I'm taking your advice, Diana; I'm leaving England—"

"Oh no, no," she eagerly interrupted, "I thought so, but now you must stay—stay to protect your honor. I've just heard that the Fund—oh, it's not you, I know, Jim, it's not you—not you—you couldn't be—" her despairing cry stopped. Still he made no effort to comfort her.

Finally he said—"I must go."

What did it mean? That he should go after the revelation she had made to him—she understood that; but now with his honor at stake it was different. Into her mind there flashed an unanswerable suspicion. Was there some reason why he had so eagerly acceded to her request; that even now, when she asked him to remain, he still stood mute at her entreaties?

"Whether you go or stay, Jim, I do not expect ever to see you alone again, and I'm glad of this chance to bid you good-bye—forever. I can never, never believe that you are—Jim, if your hands are clean, if you haven't robbed the soldiers' widows and orphans, you may kiss me good-bye."

Into his eyes came the desire of his love as she had seen it in the early morning in the Fairies' Corner. This time she did not move; but Jim only bent low over the out-stretched arms as he answered, "I must go," and went away from her.

The circle of his boyhood was complete. Again he went along the same lane that he had travelled ten years before; again the desolation brought by his departure from his home, his country, hurt and bruised his spirit. Instead of the dawn, it was midnight, with clouds sweeping sinisterly over the light of the heavens, and instead of a boy's optimism he carried a man's disillusions.

From the park the light of the tent fires sent out flames that illumined the roadway, the swaying and rustling of the heavy trees made whispering sounds. Once at a turning he heard a boy's voice in the camp ringing out high above the moaning of the trees:

"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."

He clutched his arms about his head to deaden the sound and hurried on out into the roadway, stumbling and half-falling over the gnarled roots of the ancient trees.

EXILE

CHAPTER XIII

Like a Tanagra figurine, Nat-u-ritch stood silhouetted against the golden light of the afternoon. She was small and slender, and her pointed face, in spite of the high cheek-bones, was delicately modelled. The eyes were long, but fuller than the usual beady eyes of the Indian woman. They seemed far too big in proportion to the tiny person whose body was swayed by the stifling breezes that swept over the plains, raising a suffocating cloud or alkali dust. The heavy, embroidered, one-piece gown clung to and slapped against the slight form, wrapping it in lines of beauty. Long, twisted ropes of blue-black hair hung dank and straight on both sides of her face and reached to her knees.

As the wind blew her gown one could see the copper-colored legs, and through the scant sleeves could catch a glimpse of the immature red-bronze arms of the young girl. In her hair a turquoise strand repeated the touch of blue that was woven and interwoven in the beading of her gown. She was standing near the trail that led to Maverick. To the left and to the right the plains stretched into an eternity of space. Nat-u-ritch shaded her eyes with straight, stiffened fingers, and from under the set hands gazed over the country. Towards the west a circular cloud, repeated at intervals, told her that horsemen were making their way to the cow town. From behind a wickyup close to her emerged an Indian chief—heavy, tall, with the sublime dignity of the red man, unimpaired even by the halting, swaying walk that told of his surrender to the white man's fire-water.

Quietly Nat-u-ritch watched her father, Tabywana, mount his pinto pony, his flapping scarlet chaps gleaming against the white body of the animal. He looked neither to the right nor left, nor behind him, as Nat-u-ritch followed with her eyes his disappearing form. It was twenty-six miles into Maverick, and she knew she must follow the trail that led there, but she made no movement yet towards departure. Immovable, she stood and watched from under rigid hands an alkali whirlwind swallow up the horse and his rider.

Her brain was busy with the problem that lay before her. For two days Cash Hawkins, the bad man of the adjoining barren land, had been with her father; for two nights Tabywana had drunk from the bottle that the white man had brought to him. Not once for forty-eight hours had her father called her to him, not once had he likened her to the flower of the tree of his love—the spirit-mother. She clinched her long, narrow hands until they tore the fringes of her robe. The pleading, dumb look of her dark eyes gave way to quick defiance; they seemed to become chasms of gloom, unfathomable but determined; they showed the decision and strength of which her resolve was capable.

Her father was to sell that day a large herd of cattle to Cash Hawkins. Intuitively she knew what the two days' visit from Hawkins would mean for them—despair when her father realized the trick the white man had played on him, scarcity of food and many privations for her, then long weeks of silent suffering for both.

Still she stood staring into the winding, desolate land, the stretching heavens, the stretching plains—both flat, straight, unbroken, like two skies. A world might be above one or under the other. Could this intermediate space of ambient atmosphere lay claim to a life of fact and reality?

But no such thoughts came to Nat-u-ritch as she watched the sandy face of the country. The desert was her home. She had toddled across its burning ground, following, as far as her baby strength would permit, her father's pony. In the solitude of the waste land she had grown into womanhood. She knew that to-day's dreariness could be broken until the entire place echoed and re-echoed to the life of the men whose cattle thundered at their heels. She had heard the desert answer to the fanatical outburst of her tribes; had seen the white men drive her people farther and farther back. For her and her people it had been their refuge.

Suddenly she stretched out her delicate arms. Her figure grew erect. From the distance came the distinct beat of horse's hoofs; it passed so close within her vision that she could easily distinguish the features of the rider. He was a stranger who had recently settled there, the stranger whom she had first met at a bear-dance down at the agency.

She remembered that with the squaw's privilege of choosing her partner she had selected him. She remembered his eyes. As she did so her own turned and followed the man who, unlike the other horsemen of the prairie, rose in his stirrups, and into her sphinx-like face came a look of unutterable yearning. She watched the clouds of dust envelop him as they had swallowed up her father, but this time she no longer stood staring into the prairie. Swiftly she caught her pony, mounted him, and let him gallop across a trail that led to a short cut to Maverick.