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.