Kitabı oku: «The Squaw Man», sayfa 6

CHAPTER X

In the Towers four desperate souls fought their battle, and to none of them did the dawn bring comfort. In her room Lady Elizabeth sat motionless before her open window, and, like Agrippina, saw the long line of destruction that the child she had borne had brought to her and to her house. Shortly before the end of the evening's entertainment, she had received a message from Henry, begging to be excused, as a matter of great importance had arisen which prevented him from remaining with his guests.

Once she thought of venturing to go to him, as she listened to his restless pacing above her, but fear of his displeasure and a physical shrinking from a painful scene forced her to keep her watch alone. To-night's confession of his use of the Fund was the gravest of his many offences; she could not shake herself free of its grave consequences. Along with it came the memory of the faces of Jim and Diana as she had last seen them at midnight. The guests had departed; Diana was entering her own apartments, while from the landing Lady Elizabeth could see Jim below her as he started for the garden. Both their faces were stamped with a new, vital truth which, in its immensity, they seemed to find difficult to grasp. She recalled the wistful, inquiring expression of Diana's look as she turned to call her good-night to Jim. Even more vividly she recalled the answer of his eyes. The mute, unspoken thoughts that lay there were haunting her now with their tragic possibilities. A numb fear possessed her.

Above her, Henry's monotonous steps continued; her imagination began to play tricks with her. The steady tread above seemed to change into the tentative, faltering toddle of a baby boy; she remembered that the room over her was the old nursery, now used by Henry for his own apartment. How often she and his father had listened and rejoiced at the stumbling efforts which they could hear in the early morning! The terrible sympathy of a mother's sorrowing womb, that can reach the most poignant of all human anguish, caused her suddenly to start to her feet; a physical craving to hold again the tiny body firm against her own, and ease this suffering, overpowered her. She could hear the broken steps of the long ago; she could see only the naked, mottled body of the sturdy chap that she had so often clasped close and smothered with her kisses. She stretched out her arms as if in search of it. The longing to touch again the soft warm flesh of her own creation became intense, from her wildly beating heart to the tightly contracted throat there grew a spasm of pain that ended in a long, broken sob. She forgot all the years of suffering, the disappointments, and to-night's crowning tragedy of Henry's wilful treachery to her and his house.

She was the young mother again. The half shy, inquiring face of the babe with its tight corkscrew curls, as she had seen him first walk across the long nursery to fall into her arms at the open doorway, was all that she could remember. Other ghosts crowded into the room; the husband of her love-days – for Elizabeth Kerhill had passionately loved her boy's father – stood, as he often had stood, close behind her at the nursery door and joyed with her at the beauty of its tiny occupant. The old wound, which nature mercifully in the passage of years had alleviated, again ached as it had in the first hours of her great sorrow at his death.

Suddenly the pacing above ceased. She became conscious of a terrible anxiety to know why; she feared the stillness; the steady beat had been an unconscious comfort. Her tired brain grew more fanciful. Did she imagine or did she really see the pale spectre of her husband at the farther end of the room beckoning her to follow him? He seemed to open the door into the corridor and disappear into the gloom. There was a slight movement from above, significant in its abruptness; it was as though a quick decision had been made by Henry. Down the corridor she fled, obeying a compelling instinct. The pale mist of the first streaks of dawn was struggling through the distant windows. She remembered a similar hurried rush to the nursery, when the tiny, twisted body was attacked with writhing convulsions. Quickly she sped along the hallway, around a twisted enclosure, and up the broad staircase until she reached the nursery. Without a pause she swung open the heavy oak door; then she knew why the warning had come to her.

At the creaking of the door, Henry started; he was unaware that it had remained unlocked. For a moment he stared at his mother as though she were an apparition. He was standing near the open drawer of a huge desk; the glint of fire-arms in it shone clear against the flicker of the spluttering candles. He made no attempt to move. His eyes were held by the figure at the door, but no words came from the moving lips of Lady Elizabeth. Instinctively, both their glances went to the open drawer with its certain means of death. Henry turned away; he tried to close the case. Through the silent room came the sobbed name of his childhood days.

"Ba-ba! Ba-ba!"

He felt her strong arms fasten tight around him; unresisting, he was gathered up close against the trembling body of his mother, as she drew him down into a big settle. He made no attempt to speak. He heard only the name of his babyhood in his mother's moans, as she pressed his tense face to hers, kissed the faunlike ears, while her hands strayed, as they used to do, over the long limbs that, relaxed, lay helpless against hers. The old nursery again held her treasure, and mechanically the tremulous lips fell to crooning a long-forgotten lullaby.

Gradually he slept with his head on her breast. Straight and stiff the early shadows found her, while the bitter tears furrowed her face, as she held her child, warm and alive, against her heart. During the long hours of her vigil she heard distinctly the crunching of footsteps on the gravel-walk outside as some one passed and repassed the east wing. But she was little concerned with the world without.

Below, unconscious of the tragedy so close to him, Jim, whose step it was Lady Kerhill had heard on the gravel-path, fought through the long night for his right to happiness. His entire horizon seemed blocked by the unyielding figures of Lady Elizabeth and Henry; behind them, tantalizing him with the sweetness of the vision, he could see Diana's face illumined with its new light of wonder. The heavy dews, which gave to the old garden its fragrant, green, sweet odors, drenched him as he paced along the path under the giant trees. He was insensible to his wet clothes – to the tumbled hair which the dampness knotted about his head in kinky curls. The tangle of his thoughts proved too difficult for him to unravel; the night had been so charged with emotions that he could hardly look truthfully into his own heart. The hours passed as he paced restlessly, dazed and overwhelmed by the chaotic uprooting of all his being. Aimlessly he at last wandered towards the Fairies' Corner, and sought rest on the rudely fashioned seat, dented and marked with his boyish carvings. There he lay haunted by intangible dreams until, overcome by weariness, he crept close into his old corner and slept.

The strong orange shafts of sunrise were lighting up the hill-side opposite Diana's window as she stealthily crept down and let herself out of the silent house into the garden. The mounds close to the Towers were covered with great splashes of heather, while the moor beyond dipped and stretched far away like a trailing, purple, overblown, monster flower, which seemed, mushroom-like, to have sprung up during the night. Diana's first sight of the brilliant coloring that came every July to the heather-covered hill-side, brought now as always bitter memories of her first summer in Scotland, where as a young bride the illusions of her virgin mind and heart had been shattered by Henry.

She turned away from its flaunting beauty with a shudder. No memories of the past had been hers during the night; why should she allow the old pain and heartache to come back? She alone in the great house had given herself up to delicious reveries that tempted her; every thought of Henry, her father, and the ties that bound her, she ignored. She never questioned what had changed her since she had left Henry, outraged at his vile suspicions. Why probe into the cause of her happiness? Enough that she could rejoice, silently, if need be, without a reason acknowledged even to herself, for her joy. But the dawn brought with it only feverish longing to reach the cool of the hill-side, and now the blooming riot of purple tones had struck at her like a menacing ghost. She plunged into a thicket, and, sinking knee-deep in its luxuriant growth, made her way across a yellow meadow. Finally she reached the copse of trees through which she could see the Elizabethan gables of the back of the house.

Oh, the beauty of the unstained day! Like every weary wayfarer exploring for the first time since childhood the fresh virgin country-side, her soul cried aloud its appreciation of this beauty of soft green, wet glistening flowers, crystal clear air, and what is utterly unknown save to the frequenters of the first hours of dawn in forests and glades, the ecstatic perfume of the early breezes. Across the hedges from their kingdom, the flower-garden, came these ripples of scented air, heavy with the breath of honeysuckle, rose, phlox, and heliotrope.

Like Jim, she unconsciously turned to the Fairies' Corner. As she reached the narrow aperture, and its wet earthy smell drowned the sweet, sensuous odors of the garden blossoms, she espied the sleeping figure on the old bench. At the unexpected discovery she gave an involuntary exclamation. Jim was lying on his back, with his head on his arm, all the wet stain of the night passed in the garden showing on his unchanged evening clothes, while the unkempt hair gave a curious boyishness to his face.

Diana waited for him to move, but her surprised ejaculation had failed to awaken him. How big and wonderful he was! The thick lashes swept his brown face with its dull touch of red showing under the olive skin. As she bent over him and was about to touch his hand to arouse him he opened his eyes.

He had been dreaming that he was in the hospital in the Hills after the fight, and in his delirium he was back at the Fairies' Corner with Diana – and there she stood looking at him, but his eyes seemed unable to grasp the reality of the moment.

"Jim, Jim," she said.

It was no dream. With a rush of memory it all came back to him. He quickly rose to his feet and came towards her, impelled by an uncontrollable force. Cobwebs of sunlight were making glinting spaces against the gray-and-green enclosure; a movement began in the tree-tops that brought back the childish reminiscence of the rustling fairy wings. He forgot everything. He only knew that she stood there like an essence of delight to ease his aching being. The still wonder of the evening before was again shining in her luminous face.

He lifted her hands to his shoulders, and held them fast there. To her awakening womanhood he seemed like a young god of nature, who had bathed in the primeval springs and had arisen glorified and overwhelming in his forcefulness. They stood speechless, their gaze fastened each on the other's face, while the moments slipped away. How long they stood there neither realized: the burning intensity of the moments told them more than any words could have conveyed. Both now knew the truth – it downed them with its unflinching eyes; they knew that they were peering close into the core of life, that they had touched at the vital springs of the Great Game. Strong and incessant as the beat of the swaying tree-tops, the bitter knowledge was forced upon them that they could no longer, even to themselves, play a part. Their months of unconscious self-deception had that night been slain; each knew that love triumphant had come into his own.

From the camp in the park beyond came the sound of the bugle calling the men to their early morning duties. It roused Jim and Diana to the consciousness of the workaday world. Diana was the first to move; she slipped her hands away from his shoulders, while she still had the strength to do so. Jim silently started towards her, his eyes showing the surrender of his love. She could read all that they asked; her name broke from his lips in tender reiteration.

"Di, dear – dear Di!"

But this time the out-stretched hands waved him back.

"No, no!" she cried, and down the long copse she fled from him.

Alone, Jim realized that they had been on the edge of a great precipice. Gradually it came upon him that there was only one way to save himself – to save Diana; he must go away. When, how – it all mattered little – later he would decide that. He managed to reach his room unobserved. How could he face the day's responsibilities, he asked himself, as he heard rising from below the sounds of the life of the house, and knew that the duties of the camp were awaiting him.

Towards noon in his tent a letter was brought to him. It was from Diana. Trembling he tore it open and read:

"DEAR JIM – Our meeting this morning has revealed me to myself. If you can find it in your interest, I hope you will leave England. I cannot trust myself to say anything more but good-bye. DIANA."

"Revealed me to myself," he repeated. "Oh, Diana, Diana," he whispered.

Yes, he must go.

CHAPTER XI

"When Mr. Petrie comes, show him to me here," Henry gave orders to Bates.

It was late in the afternoon and he was alone in the rose enclosure – the library had proved too stifling. He had managed to attend the afternoon's drill, and discharge without comment the duties required of him by his guests. The Bishop and a great number of visitors were still in the park. Diana, on the plea of illness, had remained in her room, but had sent word that she would be down at tea-time. Absorbed in his own reflections Henry hardly observed that Jim was passing the entire day in camp with the troops. That the farce of the day's pleasure was nearly over, was his most comforting thought; a few hours more and the house-party would disperse. If only Petrie would come.

"No news, good news;" over and over he tried to comfort himself with the old saw.

Lady Elizabeth, if she had remembered, would have warned him of the intended presentation, but the night with its torturing memories had made her forget utterly the surprise arranged by the Bishop and Sir John.

Henry looked at his watch – it was past four. Would Petrie never come? He cursed the hour in which he had listened to the tempting voice that urged him to speculate in a mine controlled by Hobbes. He remembered the night he had finally agreed to enter into the game, and – then, a loss here and an unexpected blow there had disastrously crippled his resources.

Money had been necessary to protect the already invested fortune. The Fund was under his control – Why not use it temporarily? He used the word "borrow" to his mother, and he had tried for weeks to ease his mind with the same word, but he knew that the world had an ugly name for such "borrowing." Wherever he turned he could see five blazing letters – the flaming stigma was beginning to burn in his brain. Was there no way of protecting himself a little longer? He closed his eyes and tried to think.

No, it would be impossible to evade the request of the committee. To elude the young curate, Chiswick, had not been difficult. On the plea of his devotion to the cause, he had succeeded in controlling all the papers and accounts for the past week, but now – a cold perspiration began to ooze over his body; it was followed by hot flashes that tormented him like the five fantastic little demons ever before his vision, as they twisted, contorted, shaped, and reshaped themselves into one hideous imputation. An hour before, he had promised to give to his secretary the keys of his desk; to put off the auditing any longer would have aroused suspicion. His only hope now was that perhaps the absorbing interest in the last day of the manoeuvres would give him another twenty-four hours leeway. If Petrie brought reassuring news he might be able to realize the necessary amount and prevent discovery. He poured himself some brandy. Just as he raised the glass, Bates announced:

"Mr. Petrie, my lord."

The glass slipped to the ground; Bates stooped to remove the fragments. Johnston Petrie advanced with perfect composure and shook Henry's trembling hand.

"Your lordship," he said. Then both men waited until Bates disappeared towards his quarters. To Henry the moment seemed an eternity.

They were alone, and yet neither spoke. Through Petrie's mind ran a memory of having stood there long ago and conferred with the late Earl, while the man before him as a boy sat on his father's knee. He knew nothing of Henry's use of the Fund; he only knew that he was bringing news of a big loss to his client. Henry's face as he grasped Petrie to steady himself, told him something of the importance attached to his report.

"Well, Petrie, well? Speak – man. Don't you see you are killing me? Hobbes – what of Hobbes?"

Truthfully, Petrie answered: "Hobbes is a fugitive – the whole scheme was a gigantic swindle. Every penny invested is irremediably lost."

Almost before he had finished speaking, from the various side-paths leading towards them came the sound of voices. Henry made a staggering movement as though to escape towards the house, but his way was blocked by Sadie Jones, who had gone at the Bishop's request to fetch Diana. As Henry stared at the advancing groups he saw himself already convicted. What was the meaning of this unusual gathering of officers and men silently falling into lines behind the circle of friends who surrounded him? He supported himself by his chair. Petrie quickly realized the situation as he saw a sergeant approaching with an open case containing the gift of the big loving-cup. He tried to reach Henry, but Lady Elizabeth anticipated him. She had recalled too late the demonstration arranged to take place at tea-time. There was a moment's hush. A little way off the servants were gathering to witness the honor shown to their master, and the enclosure about Henry was quickly crowded.

Henry clung to his support. He could distinguish all the faces quite plainly, except Jim's. Where was Jim? Muffled, as though coming from a long distance, he heard the Bishop's voice:

"My lord, I am so overwhelmed with the significance of this delightful occasion and my own imperfections as a speaker, that I could have wished my task to have fallen into better hands. But when I was approached in the sacred name of charity and of that noble cause so dear to all our hearts, the relief and succor of the widows and orphans of the brave men who have given their lives in the smoke of battle, I felt I ought to be sustained by your own noble example. I will not dwell on the lofty nature of your lordship's services to the Fund – "

Henry's impassiveness began to desert him: "Liar! liar!" shrieked the little demons as they came in a swarm towards him. He closed his eyes.

"In accepting this very beautiful loving-cup," droned the Bishop.

But it had gone too far. His greatest pride – his regiment, his men, their Fund – was his greatest dishonor. Better discovery – anything rather than this awful continuation. He swayed – Petrie caught him; there was a moment's surprised ejaculation from the crowd.

Lord Kerhill was ill. The heat had been intense during the afternoon drill. It was noticed then that he was unwell – and so the tactful excuses went from one to another as Henry was assisted by Petrie to the library. But Lady Elizabeth, with some hurried orders to Petrie, turned to the assembled guests.

"My lord Bishop, some one has said 'speech is but broken light falling on the depths of the unspeakable.' This in thanks for the great honor done our house. I am sure my son's inability to reply is more due to your eloquent tribute than to his slight indisposition. Won't you allow the tea to be served? Lord Kerhill will, I am sure, join you very shortly."

Imperiously she took command of the situation, and soon the waiting servants were dispensing tea, while the guests discussed the beauties of the cup that lay in its velvet case, as if nothing unusual had happened. Then quietly she made her way to Henry. She found him alone, and motioned him to follow her into a small room adjoining the library; it had been a prayer-closet in the past for a devout Kerhill, but during recent years it had been used as a smoking-den, with old sporting-prints and curious whips and spurs in place of the prie-dieu and the crucifix. Drawing the bolt across the oak door, Elizabeth Kerhill turned and faced her son.

"Henry, what is it?"

"The South American Security Company – a swindle. Hobbes a fugitive – for me exposure."

Lady Elizabeth realized that if salvation were to come to him it must be through her.

"To prevent this exposure, you must not lose your self-control. We must think – not feel – think what we can do," she began.

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

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

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

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

His voice shook, but he still maintained his stoicism.

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

He held her hands tighter. She knelt beside him.

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

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

"Quarrelled – about what?"

"Diana."

"Diana?"

"They were spooning last night – I caught them. He loves Di" – and under his breath he cursed him. She hardly heard the last words. Jim loved Diana – her resolve was formed. She must see Jim.

"Henry, try to control yourself and return to our guests. Let no one leave this afternoon under the impression that you are in trouble."

"Why – " he began to expostulate – but she had already left the prayer-closet and was pulling the faded bell-rope in the library. A servant quickly answered.

"Tell Captain Wynnegate that I wish to speak to him here." Quietly she commanded Henry, "Leave this to me."

At first he was inclined to refuse; then touched by her supreme devotion, and partly because he dreaded an interview with Jim, he agreed to return to the garden.

"You've pulled me out of many a scrape, mother," he said, as he drew her close to him. "God – if you gain time for me in this" – with the words, hope began to revive.

"Go," she only answered as she pointed him to his duty.

Furtively, from behind the curtains, she watched him join the Bishop. She dreaded to lose sight of him; the awful vision was ever before her. Her mind swung chaotically from her fear of the previous night to the salvation that must be gained for Henry. Could Jim help? What if all that remained of the estate were to be sold, and Jim were willing to give what he could – what if the years that followed were bereft of all save honor! Why should she not attempt this? But even as she reasoned she knew it was useless; all save the entailed portions of Henry's inheritance were involved. She heard Jim's step ringing along the corridor.

"Bates says you want me, Aunt."

As Jim stood before her, his face, with the purple shadows under his eyes and its grim resoluteness, told her much. Yes – he loved Diana. Her keen eyes, that took in every phase of the boy's nature and every expression of his face, could easily see the desperate marks which the struggle of the night had left upon him.

"Jim, Henry tells me that you have quarrelled; but for the moment we must forget all personal differences. We are face to face with a crisis which affects us all; you alone can help us to save the family from dishonor."

"Ah, so Henry has been gambling again," Jim vaguely answered. Did this mean further anxiety for Diana? He was conscious of a curious light-headedness that made all of the day's work – even this possible unhappiness for his aunt and Diana – seem faint and blurred. The dead-level of his tone made Lady Elizabeth answer, sharply:

"Worse – infinitely worse than a card debt. Henry has borrowed an enormous sum of money which it is absolutely impossible for him to repay."

"Borrowed? I had no idea Henry's credit was so good."

Elizabeth Kerhill saw that his mind was only half grasping what she was trying to tell him – that he thought it only another of Henry's peccadilloes. She laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Henry used the Fund to try to cover the loss of his last possession, which he has sunk in a huge speculation."

Jim quickly looked up.

"The Fund – what Fund? Not the – "

"Yes, the Relief Fund."

"Why, that's embezzle – "

But his aunt's feverish hand stopped the word. She clung to Jim as she piteously said, "Henry intended to replace it."

"Poor Diana! poor Diana!" The words slipped from him and then as he looked at the terrible eyes full of this bitter knowledge he quickly threw his arms protectingly about his aunt. "Poor Aunt! poor Aunt!"

"Yes, we women must bear our sins alone, and you men make us bear yours, too."

"You have had your share, Aunt," he answered, as he caressed her hand. He found it difficult to say more; he was so tired, yet he must struggle to grasp what it all meant.

"It will ruin your prospects, too, Jim, I'm afraid. It will be impossible for you to remain here after this." She began to understand why she had sent for Jim. Like him, her mental condition was at its lowest ebb – she, too, was exhausted. What were Jim's thoughts? Why didn't he speak? There had been a new resolve on his face when he first came in response to her summons.

"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," Jim roused himself to say. "I don't represent anything. Besides – " he hesitated. He was leaving England – why not tell the truth? The tragedy that the night had wrought was far more difficult for him to face than this crime of Henry's. Then into his tired brain came the knowledge of what all this would mean to the woman he loved. "But Diana" – he continued – "she is a proud woman; her father is a proud man – he is in delicate health. It will kill him. You took from Diana her own proud name to give her ours. God – this scandal will ring from one end of the empire to the other. Di, Di – " he could think only of her now. "She's a city set on a hill – she'll be the object of pity and the tattle of every back stair in England. It's monstrous – it's monstrous!" Suddenly in the midst of his vehement despair for Diana he became conscious that his aunt was watching him. His entire cry had been selfishly for Diana. "Oh, forgive me – forgive me!" he pleaded. "And you – what will become of you?"

"I don't believe I could survive it."

Why was she reflecting Henry, she asked herself. Did she hope to accomplish with Jim what Henry last night had done with her?

"Hush, hush! You must not talk like that," Jim entreated.

Her strength was beginning to fail her. Jim placed her gently in a chair.

"Jim, can't you help? Can't you think of some way to help us all?"

"What money I have wouldn't be a drop in the bucket. But you can have it." He added, quietly, "I'm leaving England – don't question me why – but I'm going."

Jim was going. He meant to sacrifice himself in any case to his great love. If he had only gone before this discovery had been made – the unspoken thought that had been struggling at the back of her subconsciousness began to form words that, if she dared, would tempt him to a greater sacrifice. Dare she go on? Even as she hesitated Henry might be – almost she prayed that last night's intervention had been denied her.

Knowing what she did, she must try to save her son – save her house. She drew a quick breath. She rose and crossed to Jim, who was leaning against the mantel; his figure drooped inert and helpless, hers grew stronger and more rigid until she stood over him like a menacing figure of fate. She took both of his unresisting hands in hers. There was no mistaking the meaning of her words.

"Jim," she whispered. "I know you must go. I've known it for days. As it must be, can't you think of some way to help – us" – she hesitated on the word. "Can't you make a greater sacrifice? You are the only one who can save us from ruin and dishonor. Will you?"

In silence he looked into her unflinching eyes. From her feverish brain to his strained sensibilities came the unmistakable message. Was his love great enough to serve to this end – to make this supreme immolation? He threw back his head and closed his eyes. The seconds slipped by – neither relaxed the hold each had on the other.

Yes, to serve – to give – that was love. Renunciation would mean the salvation of so many – to Di, and the life of the delicate old man so closely entwined with hers. The honor of his house – this proud old woman! Through Henry, peace at least to Diana. What mattered his life now – why not? But what he did must be done at once, he could brook no delay. Again he looked deep into his aunt's eyes.