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.