Chapter II: Part 2

These delirious hours passed and there followed a vague mid-air suspension of existence. Of tangible things he was no part. The years of fighting were forgotten. He was back in the Fairies' Corner with Diana, he saw the giant trees bending and whispering in the starlight. The smell of the damp earth from the sun-hidden enclosure filled the sick-room, and the vibrant, strong, compelling cry of the night-jar echoed in his dreams. Again, he and Diana listened for the flutter of the fairies' wings in the tree-tops. Gradually, even these mists cleared from his brain, and to-day he waited with impatience the surgeon, who was to decide whether he might obtain his leave.

The doctor found him sitting up in bed, his lean hands idly resting on the coverlet.

"Well, doctor," he asked, "what is the verdict? Am I to be allowed to join my regiment?"

The surgeon looked into the brave eyes. Jim was a wraith of the man who had gone into battle. The drawn cheek-bones were like high lights in the sunken face, the gauntness of the body could be discerned under the bedclothes, but the unflinching eyes held the same expression of everlasting courage. The doctor took Jim's long, meagre hand.

"We are done with you, Wynnegate. You fought a bigger battle here on this cot than you did yon day on the Hills, but you've won."

Jim only smiled.

"Your regiment is ordered home within a month, and you must go to your station to join it. Fighting will be a little out of your line for a while. I think you'll find you need England--a summer of sunshine in the open fields. Then come back later to us again." A suspicious moisture clouded his glasses. He was a man many years older than Jim, and he had seen his own boy go down at the head of his troops. Still, with the instinctive loyalty of the Englishman to his country, he concluded, "We need such men as you, my son."

The surgeon moved away. Jim closed his eyes. Presently he looked up.

He saw the long line of wounded men with here and there a wasted, propped-up figure--the quiet nurses passing and repassing. He began to feel the pulsating call of life again. For him the sick-room existence was ended; soon he would be back in the Fairies' Corner; he could hear the flutter of their wings.

The men were in the mess. Dunlap and Singleton were stretched out in long, wicker-basket chairs. Tomlinson was talking in an excited voice with several officers of the Tenth Hussars. "It means that Jim will receive a mention and a damn fine one," Tomlinson was saying, as he leaned back in his chair and gulped down his gin-and-seltzer. Singleton called to the orderly to bring a whiskey-and-soda. Dunlap leaned forward to Tomlinson as he asked:

"Is that absolutely sure? We all know that Jim has done fine work in his seven years here, but are the powers above really going to commend his last bit of pluck?"

"The powers above," thundered Tomlinson, who loathed being doubted, "not only mean to commend him, but they mean to decorate him with the bronze cross itself. I had it from Watkins."

A long whistle greeted this bit of news. Watkins was not apt to talk without positive information.

Tomlinson was fairly bursting with enthusiasm and importance. For him station life in India meant gossip--good or bad news--so long as it was news. He could work himself into a fever of enthusiasm, get all the glory out of another man's receiving a decoration, and rejoice as though it had been given to himself. He only asked that it should occur in his station. "Tommy," as he was called, had been known to incite blackballing from his club against a man whom he had never seen, because no opposition was made. It meant news, and the passing of the word from one mess to another. When the man was blackballed, Tomlinson, in a high fever of indignation, sought the downed man and became so incensed with sympathy that he threatened to resign from a club that could offer such indignities: by that time he had forgotten that he had caused it. At the moment he was basking in the glory of Jim's coming honors. He took another gin-and-seltzer.

"By George! he was down and done for when he came here from the hospital," Dunlap said. "Never saw such a goner. But he's picked up tremendously during the past month."

Singleton took his whiskey-and-potash from the orderly.

"Strange," he continued, as he sat up, glass in hand. "Wynnegate is so eager to go back: never saw anything like it. Seems as though this illness had knocked soldiering out of him, and he was such a keen one before."

"Mighty fortunate the regiment's time was up and we're ordered home. Talk about Jim's being glad--Gad! it means something to see those kiddies of mine. Wonder if the little beggars will remember me," Dunlap mused.

After three gins-and-seltzers, it was time for Tomlinson to listen to Dunlap about his children. He had heard it all before. He had come from his own mess with the news about Jim. That was all that interested him, so he got up to go.

"Who'll play polo this evening?" he asked.

Singleton promised he would.

"I'll walk back with you," Tomlinson said.

They started to leave, but catching sight of an orderly with a mail-bag, Singleton let Tomlinson go on alone.

"See you at six for polo, Tommy; and I say, send any of our fellows in that you see. Tell them the post is in," he called as he saw Jim's long, loose-jointed stride across the road.

A blazing sun beat down on Jim as he crossed to the mess. The April weather was anticipating India's most wearing heat. But only vaguely he noted the ominous lead-colored sky, with its promise of dust storms. The green of England filled his vision. Since the days in the hospital, his thoughts had recurred incessantly to Diana. A picture in an illustrated paper, picked up in his ward, showed him Miss Diana Marjoribanks as a beautiful young girl--little Diana no longer. There was the same Madonna face, but more exquisitely fair than the child he had left had promised to be. He hardly cared to admit to himself how much the picture had stirred him.

When he entered the mess he found the men in groups, absorbed in their letters. Singleton and Dunlap both called to him.

"There are two for you, Jim."

Letters did not often come his way. When he first left England, several child's letters had come from Diana--these he had answered. He never heard from Henry, and his aunt wrote seldom.

"Dinningfold." He saw the familiar old postmark. It was from Lady Elizabeth, then. Boyishly, he fingered its ample thickness. It was good of her to write such a budget, he thought, as he tore it open. The chatter of voices about him fell unheeding on his ears as the men read their letters.

"God! Breese is dead--dropped down quite suddenly at the club," Singleton remarked as he turned a page of the letter he was reading.

His words were almost drowned by an eager, exulting cry. Half the fellows turned toward Dick Farninsby. He was usually so quiet. To-night his young, fair face was the color of a puppy.

"I've come into the money," he stammered.

Every one knew that Farninsby's uncle had been an old reprobate and that Dick had had a close pinch on his meagre allowance. They also knew that a pretty girl was waiting for him at home. A buzz of congratulations followed. But Tim took no part in them. He was reading his aunt's letter.

"... We are so sorry that you won't be home in time for the wedding. Diana and Henry are to be married. It will be a London wedding. Diana has grown into a beautiful girl and will make a worthy wife for Henry and a charming mistress of Maudsley Towers...."

As he read, the page became a dancing mass of hieroglyphics. The men were beginning to light their cigarettes and pipes as they called bits of news to one another from the English papers. He tried hard to make the strange letters shape themselves and form words. He reread them. "Diana and Henry are to be married." He turned the page. "On the 30th of April," it said. To-day was the 2d of May.

Several of the men started for the polo-fields. Some one called, "What's your news, Wynnegate?" He forgot to answer. He crushed the letter in his hand and left the mess. Mechanically he put the unopened letter from headquarters, with the news of his brilliant reward, in his pocket. Across the polo-fields he could see the heavy atmosphere gathering in great clouds. A dust-storm was nursing its imminent wrath.

It all seemed far away from the Fairies' Corner.

*CHAPTER V*

Since the day in his mess when Jim read the news of Diana's approaching marriage to Henry, he had been immersed in a strange dreariness of feeling and a curious indifference to the homeward-bound journey. Night after night he stood alone on the forward-deck of the _Crocodile_ bound from Bombay for England, and heard the soldiers singing their camp-songs, their strong, rough voices growing tender as they sang their cockney ballads of home. But they roused no responsive echo in Jim; watching the Southern Cross in the sky, his thoughts often drifted back to the seven years of fighting with their sun-scorched days of fatigue and danger, full of work that drained body and brain. He almost wished that he were returning to them.

One night at Ismailia the pendulum of his emotions swung back from this indifference to the first hours of joy that he had experienced when he received the news that his regiment was ordered back. The ship had anchored there for a few hours to obtain supplies. With Dunlap and Singleton he went ashore to the little hotel with its Continental atmosphere of cheap table-d'hote dinners and slipshod Italian waiters. It was a shaky wooden building, built around an inside court, with balconies over which clambered in exuberance pale, waxy tea-roses, while the front of the building hung over a cypress-tree garden.

The indifferently good but pretentious meal was served in the tiny court. Dunlap's and Singleton's boisterous mood jarred Jim. He found himself watching the other guests of Monsieur Carlos' hostelry. At adjacent tables parties of tourists were making merry while waiting for the P.&O. steamer to carry them from Cleopatra's land to golden Italy, and from a dance-hall came the fantastic music of the nautch women's instruments. In half an hour the hotel was empty of all the diners save Jim, who lingered until the shabby proprietor, Monsieur Carlos, informed Monsieur le Capitaine that after ten the court was closed, but the verandas were at Monsieur's disposal for his kummel and cigarettes. Jim ascended the creaking staircase to the broad veranda partly hidden from the road by its screen of blooming roses gleaming like stars against the shadowed foliage. Here and there a tight, pink-tipped bud shone like a tiny flame.

The moon had risen and illumined the entire place with an uncanny brilliance, turning the night into an unreal day. Jim sank into a chair. The air was heavy with the perfume of the rose-trees. In the distance he could hear the barbarous clash of the dancing women's cymbals. It was their trade-night with two ships in the harbor. Jim took from his pocket a leather portmonnaie and drew from it the picture of Diana that he had cut from the paper in the hospital.

He had never willingly thought of her since the day he received his aunt's letter. As he sat on the deserted veranda, with the torn page lying on his knee, he was conscious of a sudden, intangible feeling of apprehension. Diana was the tenderest memory of his boyhood. Why did he fear this marriage with Henry? Vainly he studied the picture, trying to gain from the cheap illustration some knowledge of the woman into which Diana had grown. He tried honestly to face the truth of his great anxiety concerning the marriage. He knew that through his convalescence when the longing to go home had overmastered the soldier in him, the thought of renewing his friendship with Diana had been his happiest anticipation. He sought to reassure himself that his disappointment was selfishness--that he feared to find Diana absorbed in new interests, with his place completely crowded out of her life. Then a vision of Henry, sullen and defiant as he had last seen him, flashed before him.... Yet might not Henry's character have been redeemed by his love for Diana? Jim knew that the meagre fortune of Sir Charles Marjoribanks could not be a material factor in the marriage. This proved his most reassuring thought. Then his memory reverted to Diana, and he recalled the child Di, who had clung to him on the morning of his departure and begged him to return. He remembered how as a boy he had often played that he was her knight, and fought the unseen foes that were supposed to lurk in the alleyways of the giant trees. Was it a prophetic vision of the future?

He rose from his chair. Sweeping clouds were rolling over the pale moon. The desolation of the place grew more terrible.

Far out at sea he could see the black phantom ship now appearing, now disappearing. It seemed at the mercy of the heavy vapors that at times touched its topmasts. The desire to reach England again grew strong in him. He felt he had a purpose to fulfil.

A half-hour passed. Suddenly the moon swept from under a heavy cloud, shaped like the wing of a monster bird. Across the road he could see the straggling groups of travellers returning from the festivities. Their tired, excited voices reached him, and he was glad to escape from the hotel and make his way to the waiting dinghy. Dunlap and Singleton joined him, and as he leaned back in the skiff, strong and incessant as the incoming tide that beat against the boat grew the strength of his resolve. Diana should obtain happiness if he could serve her to that end.

Three weeks later the _Crocodile_ swung into the harbor at Portsmouth. A symphony in blues and greens greeted Jim's eyes as they anchored within sight of the Victory. An English June sky with riotous blues--from the palest flaky azure to the deepest turquoise--hung in the heavens over a vivid green sea. The very atmosphere seemed floating about in nebulous clouds of pearly tinted indigo. To Jim it was like the beauty of no other land.

Towards evening Jim reached London. The town was alive with the roar and rush of hansoms and crowded 'buses carrying the day's workers to their homes. His cab turned from St. James's Park into the Mall towards his club. How he loved the gray, majestic beauty of the place!

The expected arrival of the _Crocodile_ had been duly noticed by the papers, and his part in the brilliant work of his regiment warmly commended. At the club he found letters of welcome awaiting him. Among them was one from Diana, urging him to come to them at once. It seemed the letter of a woman calm in her established womanhood. "Henry and I," it said, "will be so happy to see you to-morrow at luncheon at two o'clock. Do come." The letter further told him that Lady Elizabeth and Mabel were staying at the Towers. "Henry wanted a town-house, so we are settled at Pont Street for the season."

Late that night Jim sat alone in his club, and wrote an answer to Diana's letter. He spoke of his pleasure in being able to go to them on the morrow, but its phrases gave no sign of his intense feeling and his great desire for her happiness. He left the club and walked to the pillar-box opposite. He slipped the letter into the slit of the box, and slowly retraced his steps. A slight haze was beginning to creep over the city, and in the distance it looked as though a gauze theatre-drop was shutting off the scene from the spectators.

Jim was loath to leave the streets. There was an enchantment for him in the smoky atmosphere that intoxicated him. The call of London was in his blood. As he crossed the quiet Square near the Mall, he stretched out his arms, and youth and the joy of life rang out in one great cry--Oh, it was good to be home!

*CHAPTER VI*

Jim slept but little that night. In the morning his first thought was to reach the War Office, which he did almost before that dignified machine was prepared to receive him. A rumor was afloat that the Tenth Hussars might have to start shortly for South Africa, but he found that the gossip had been greatly exaggerated. Even if troops were sent out, he was assured that the Tenth Hussars were immune from active service for a long period. He rejoiced at the news, for he was tired of foreign service. His long illness had left him shaken and requiring a much-needed rest for recuperation.

At the War Office he learned that Henry had resigned his regiment and was at the head of the Surrey Yeomanry, with headquarters near the Towers. This argued well, he told himself; it meant work and responsibility for Henry that would engage his interest and surely win him away from his old, reckless way of living.

The morning slipped away with its many demands on his first day in town. His hansom turned into Sloane Street only as a clock near by struck two. In a few minutes the door of the Pont Street house was opened to him, and he was ushered into the library.

He dropped lightly into an arm-chair near a table heaped with books. Suddenly a door opened as though at the end of a corridor. He distinctly heard voices raised in strong argument behind the hangings; one sounded like Henry's; a half-suppressed oath followed.

"It's no use," the voice went on. "You must do as I say. Don't preach." He could not hear the words that followed. Jim wished it were possible to make known his presence in the room. He crossed to the farther window to avoid hearing the remainder of the conversation, but the clear and incisive words of the first speaker--this time Jim knew it was Henry--again struck his ears sharply.

"I must have the money, Petrie; make what explanation you like, but send it to me within a week. It's useless arguing. I've lost heavily in speculation. Here are the papers." The opening and slamming of several drawers followed. To Jim the words that he had just heard were like a knell to his hopes of the past week for Diana's happiness. So this was the truth! Another mortgage! He knew enough of the involved condition of the estate to dread the possibilities of that word.

As Jim sat in the window-seat facing the street, he was so absorbed in his reflections that he did not hear the door open. With a start he felt a pair of hands clasped over his eyes.

"Guess!" the low voice said.

He answered, quickly, "Di!"

"Yes, it's Di, Jim; and such a happy Di to see you again."

As he turned he half expected to see the tiny child as he had last seen her, with the puppy in her arms calling, "It's Di, Jim." For a moment they stood holding each other's hands and only the eyes of the two spoke. The thoughts of both involuntarily went back to their last meeting. They realized that unconsciously they had taken up their childhood manner. Slowly their hands unclasped and Diana was the first to speak.

"Oh, Jim, I should hardly know you. You are so big, so strong, and yet--you look as though you had been very ill; have you?"

She studied Jim's face closely, gaunt and drawn, but with the eyes still like gray pools of suppressed fire. Jim forgot the troubled thoughts that Henry's words had aroused. He only knew that Diana stood before him, young and beautiful. He threw back his head and laughed; it was the ringing, joyous laugh of a boy.

"And I almost thought, as I turned, that I could see my little Di," he said.

The memory of the delicate child faded into the tall, strong figure before him. Quickly he noted the complexities of her face; its newly acquired look of womanhood seemed curiously incongruous with the rest of her personality. He saw in her eyes a haunting expression of marked patience. The new acquaintance of the grown man and woman had adjusted itself.

"Oh, Jim, I'm so proud of you," Diana said, gravely. "You have really done something with your life that is worth while."

"Which means, I suppose, that the rest of us have not," a voice said.

Jim and Diana turned as Henry spoke. He was standing in the doorway. Jim noticed with satisfaction that his eyes rested on Diana in unquestionable gratification. Perhaps, after all, Henry's love for Diana was real. He remembered that his aunt, in her letter, had written of her great faith in this marriage for Henry's happiness--indeed, he well remembered that the letter seemed to insist upon the benefits Henry would derive from the marriage. He wondered what it had meant for Diana.

"Welcome to the hero," Henry chaffingly said, as he crossed to Jim's side.

An underlying nervous excitement, at once apparent to Jim, clung to Henry's manner. Otherwise his greeting was more than reassuring.

"Did you finish your business interview?" Diana questioned. A shade of displeasure showed on Henry's face as he answered:

"Yes, yes, I had more than enough of it."

"We postponed luncheon," Diana explained to Jim, "because Henry found his solicitor wished to see him about some repairs needed on the estate. The request was urgent, Henry said, and I knew you would not mind the delay."

For a moment Jim felt as if Henry must read the thoughts that blazed so fiercely in his mind. So this was Henry's way of deceiving Diana. He tried to control his face so that it might give no sign of the disgust he felt. Henry had turned away; Jim could see him nervously twisting his mustache; Diana was smiling tenderly on Henry as though in approval of his morning's benevolent work. Jim, reading between the lines, saw Henry wince at the dishonestly gained approbation; and decided that Henry was vulnerable where his desire to gain her respect was concerned. This was so much in his favor, at all events.

An hour later, as they sat over their coffee, Henry began explaining to Jim his work with the Yeomanry. If Jim stayed at home he wanted him to join in this splendid service to England.

"We shall need these men later, mark me. The situation in Africa is threatening." Then followed a discussion of their plans.

Henry's career as a soldier, Jim remembered, had promised well, but he also remembered certain periods of riotous living that had brought him for a time under the ban of the authorities.

As Henry elaborated his scheme to perfect the Yeomanry in their county, Jim acknowledged that there was no question of his undoubted ability to be in command. He succumbed to the strong personal charm of his cousin. Surely Henry would control himself and make a worthy showing of his life yet. In Jim's heart was the silent prayer that it might be so, and that perhaps he could help him to attain this result.

Diana, listening, was happy in the apparent new bond between the cousins. She had been so eager for this: that Jim should be with them as he had been when he was a boy. Since her marriage, her life had been full of pleasant days, with only here and there the pin-prick of the old, frightened instincts. It usually occurred when Henry was in one of his black moods. Up to the present he had tried to avoid her on these occasions. She strangely rebelled when she came to realize that it was her beauty which gave him his greatest pleasure. That it was primarily her youth and loveliness that delighted him, he made no effort to conceal. At times she admitted to herself that she wished it were not so flagrant--this frank, pagan joy of the senses which she invoked in him. But, she reasoned, if she allowed these thoughts to frighten her, she was catching at shadows. Of tangible facts there was none; indeed, she found it impossible to explain satisfactorily these doubts and regrets.

Jim was promising Henry that he would think seriously of the Yeomanry work, when Diana suddenly remembered that Henry and she were due at a studio to see a portrait of hers that was soon to be exhibited. At that moment a note was brought to Henry. Jim observed the quick contraction of Henry's brows and the sharp biting of his lips as he read it. Henry crumpled the letter. "Jim can take you," he brusquely said. "This note is of importance and requires my immediate attention. It's concerning my interview of this morning."

Diana's face showed her disappointment.

"But this is the third time that you've broken your appointment with me, and you promised Mr. Bond that you would surely give your decision on the picture to-day," Diana protested. "Besides, it is difficult for me to take all the responsibility in the matter, and the picture must be sent to-day to the exhibition. Do meet me there later, Henry."

Henry had been fighting the Furies for days; his financial worries were now vital to his honor. Into his eyes came the brutal flash that Jim knew so well, and he hurriedly intervened, "I'll go with you, Di, with pleasure, if I can be of the slightest service to you."

Instead of helping the situation, Jim found that his quick acquiescence, although suggested by Henry, had the effect of further irritating him. Henry turned from the door, to which he had crossed, with the crumpled note in his hand; all the old, domineering, rebellious temper struck flame.

"There! You have Jim. What more can you wish? Your hero's opinion will no doubt interest you far more than mine, so don't talk rot about your disappointment."

Diana stood silent, amazed at her husband's uncalled-for fury. Jim found it impossible to speak. The servant returned to see if the answer to the note was ready.

Henry contended for a few seconds with a tempestuous remorse as strong as the flare of his nervous outbreak; he bitterly regretted his lack of control. He had tried to conceal the strain he had been under all the day; to be thwarted as he apparently was by the news from Petrie, was to arouse the demons of destruction in him--destruction to himself as well as to those near him. He cursed himself as the victim of his own folly; but to see Jim master of the situation roused the old rebellion of his boyhood. A movement from the waiting servant recalled him, and with a few words of half-muttered apology he hurriedly left the room. A moment later they heard him drive away.

From so small a matter so great a consequence had arisen. This insight into Henry's nature again showed Jim the quicksands on which Diana's happiness was built.

To Diana the incident was embarrassing, but with infinite tact she made no allusion to it. Jim marvelled at the quiet control with which she deftly turned it aside.

The carriage was announced.

"Will you come, Jim?" Diana asked.

He hesitated.

"Do," she coaxingly said, "it would help me."

Under the calm, serious face he could see the tremulous expression that showed her quivering, hurt feelings. The tender eyes held him fast. Still he hesitated. As in a moment of prevision he was urged to say no; it seemed as though he were starting on a way that led him into darkness. The absurd compelling force fastened around him in a tight grip; he tried to stammer a few words; he was irritated by his apparent stupidity, then he heard Diana say: "Let me decide for you."

As she spoke, a shaft of golden light penetrated the room. Why should he not go? He quickly threw off the intangible feeling of fear. He told her he was only too happy to be of service. It was a warm, mellow, summer day, and the soft, alluring air quickly lulled Jim into a tranquil mood.

As they stood before the portrait, Jim knew that it was one of the painter's true inspirations. The simple brown gown in which Diana had been painted brought out the gold in the bands of her straight hair. It faded away into a dull background, leaving only her luminous face in high relief. The painted oval contour and the curved lips were there in all their beauty; but the shadowy eyes unconsciously showed the troubled soul. It was a portrait of Diana older in years and experience. The painter seemed to have passed by her obvious youth and divined her in her maturity. Curiously enough, the portrait stirred Jim more than his meeting with Diana had done.

When they descended to the carriage, Diana said, "Come and drive--not in the park, but let us go along the Embankment, across the bridge towards Richmond. I long for a breath of the country." This time he made no effort to resist her appeal.

As they drove, Jim learned from Diana the news about Sir Charles. His ill health had greatly increased, and a London specialist's opinion had been far from sanguine. He gathered that Diana felt it was the beginning of the end; as she spoke, Jim could read the anguish of her thoughts. Once she turned to him and said:

"I have so few to love."

Soon they found themselves talking merrily over gay reminiscences of their childhood days. The hours slipped by, and it was only the deepening of the shadows that reminded Diana that she was entertaining the Prime-Minister that night at a large dinner-party. The return home was quickly made.

"Won't you dine with us, Jim?" Diana asked, as they reached Pont Street. "We can easily lay an extra cover."

But Jim, feeling that it would be better not to see Henry that night, pleaded an engagement at his club. He left Diana with a promise to see her soon.

That night he forgot her unusual beauty; he remembered only the fragrance of her personality. During the following week he obtained a leave of absence, and with Singleton planned to go abroad. Why he did this he could not quite explain. He saw Diana and Henry only once before leaving for his holiday. That was in June.

*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 fetes 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 fete. 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 amusing _tete-a-tete_ with 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's _liaisons_ were 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 passe--"

Jim began humming the tune; he crossed to Lady Elizabeth and lightly put his arm about her as he said:

"Well, Auntie mine?"

*CHAPTER VIII*

Lady Elizabeth watched Jim with curiosity. The voice from the drawing-room grew louder:

"Tout casse, tout passe--"

deeper grew Jim's voice as he softly sang the refrain. Quite abruptly Lady Elizabeth began:

"She's a fine woman, Jim."

As she spoke, Jim caught sight of Diana crossing to the piano in smiling approbation as the song ceased, and answered:

"Diana?"

"Diana! Nonsense!" Again she watched Jim's face, but its grave serenity gave no sign. "I mean Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones. She's quite the type that men admire, is she not?"

"That's the most offensive thing that one woman can say about another," Jim laughingly replied, as he turned from watching the group in the music-room--"isn't it, Auntie?"

"Not at all." Lady Elizabeth fidgeted; he was making it exceedingly difficult, she thought, as he leaned over her, his laughing eyes teasing her. "The sensible view of things never appeals to you, Jim; so I have hesitated to remind you that Sadie Jones is exceedingly rich."

"Did you notice how deferential I was, Aunt?" Jim lightly interrupted. "Why, if you tell me more, I shall scarcely dare to speak to her."

He drew Lady Elizabeth's arm through his; he knew what was coming. It amused him, and it also irritated him a little, but he felt very tender towards his aunt. All the boyish hurt had been forgotten. Her great endurance of Henry's conduct, her indomitable resolution to keep him well placed in the eyes of men, deeply touched him. After all, in her devotion to Henry there was a magnificent capacity for self-surrender. During the past winter Jim had grown strangely attached to his aunt, and a great pity for the inevitable tragedy of her life lay deep in his thoughts of the proud old woman. He patted her hand caressingly.

With almost a note of despair she said, "And I invited her here for this visit especially for you, Jim."

"Do you think she would care to add to her already abundant collection of names?"

He would not be serious, but Lady Elizabeth took up his question literally.