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.