  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [image] "'BIG FATHER—SEND FOR LITTLE HAL—HAL SEE THE RISING SUN'" See page The Squaw Man A Novel By Adapted from the Play by New York Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers Copyright, 1906, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved. Published December, 1906. TO ILLUSTRATIONS The illustrations in this book are reproduced from photographs of scenes in the play, made by Hall's Studio, New York; the cover inlay by Morrison, Chicago. HOME THE SQUAW MAN CHAPTER I It was Jim's last day at home. He stood in the centre of the fragrant garden and watched the glory of color suffusing the Surrey hills towards the west. With a sigh he turned away and walked to the house. "Where's Diana?" he called, as he came from the garden through the casement-window of the library. "Diana—why, she's in bed an hour ago, I should hope," replied his aunt, Lady Elizabeth Kerhill. "She and Mabel went with Bates to see the decorations and then said good-night. Surely you didn't expect me to allow the children to stay up for the ball?" Mabel was her daughter; Diana Marjoribanks was a young girl of thirteen, who had come to visit her. "Poor imps! they were so excited all day, and followed me about the gun-room where I was doing some packing. They wanted me to coax you to allow them to see the ball, and the tenantry welcome Henry to-night." Lady Kerhill elevated her eyebrows in questioning amazement at Jim, as she nervously twisted the lace of her gown, and with an impatient gesture motioned the subject aside. She was a tall, angular woman, with a profile like the head on a bronze coin; there was a suggestion of the eagle in her personality, and by her friends she was likened to the famous Sarah Churchill, the first Duchess of Marlborough. To-night her face showed that anxious thoughts were crowding in on her as she apprehensively watched the big, carved oak door leading into the hall. Jim knew his aunt's firmness of character, and as silence followed his words, he feared further discussion was useless; but the wistful faces of the children at tea-time in the nursery, as they coaxed him to plead for them to see the fun, made him venture a final appeal. "You know, Aunt, Sir Charles brought Di over to stay with Mabel so that she might see the festivities and incidentally say good-bye to me, so you might turn angel and let Diana dance once with me at the very beginning of the ball. I sha'n't see my little playfellow for ages, you know." A sound from outside held Lady Elizabeth's attention more intently than Jim's pleading words. He crossed to her in the window-enclosure and laid his hand caressingly on her shoulder. "The Colonel wired me that we were leaving Paddington at nine to-morrow morning, and India is a long way off, Auntie mine." "Nonsense," answered Lady Elizabeth, as she rose from the deep window-seat. "You are almost twenty, and Diana is only a babe—isn't she, Henry?" She glanced up and appealed to the young man who rather noisily entered the library. "Who's a babe? Diana? Why, mater, she's a little witch, and I promised her I'd let her see the illuminations at ten and then old Burrow should carry her off to bed." Henry Wynnegate, seventh Earl of Kerhill, dropped into a great settle close to the fire. The ball was for the tenantry in celebration of his return, after five years' absence with his regiment. He was a tall, heavy-set young soldier of seven-and-twenty, with the famous Wynnegate beauty, but it was marred by the shifting expression of his rather deep-set eyes and the heavy lines about his mouth. Self was his god: it showed in every expression of his face and in every action of his life. Jim Wynnegate, his cousin, the son of the younger brother of the late Earl, Henry's father, turned from the window as Henry entered. In the young boy's face—for he seemed younger than his years—one could easily trace the family resemblance; but Jim, with his great, clean spirit shining in his honest gray eyes, invited confidence and won it, from a mongrel dog to a superior officer. He was taller than Henry, and as slim as a young sapling. The delicate, sensitive mouth was balanced by a strong chin. In the oak-lined room, grown almost black with age, the candle-lights flickering in the heavy brass sconces, stood these three last descendants of a great family. The Earl's brother, Dick Wynnegate, had run away with the daughter of an impecunious colonel. A few years later, while on service in India, he was shot, and the young wife lived only to bring the tiny boy Jim home and to leave him with her husband's brother. Even then the fortunes of the Wynnegates were somewhat impaired, but the old Earl had taken the boy to his heart, and on his death had confided him to his wife to share their fortune with his son Henry. His last words were, "Be good to poor Dick's boy." The estates were entailed, so no provision could be made by him for Jim, but Lady Kerhill, in her cold, just fashion, had tried to make Dick's boy happy. Deep in his heart, Jim remembered the years that followed; remembered the selfish domination of the elder boy; remembered the blind adoration of his aunt for her son, the bearer of the torch, who was to carry on the golden light of the house of Kerhill. In the Anglo-Saxon idolatry of the Countess of Kerhill for the male of the family, all the old traditions and beliefs were justified. Her boy—-the man-child who was to be the head of the house—was her obsession. The tiny, flower-like girl who came shortly before her husband's death, learned soon to turn to Cousin Jim for comfort when her brother carelessly crushed her little joys, as he selfishly planned and fought for his own gratification. Instinctively Jim watched his aunt, who, at Henry's word, had started to move towards him. "Of course, if you care to go and fetch Diana, I shall be happy," Lady Kerhill said. Henry lounged back in his chair. "Well, if I forget, Jim can remember for me—eh, Jim?" Lady Kerhill's face became grave as she leaned over Henry's chair and closely studied the flushed face. She found there confirmation of the fear that had preyed on her mind for the past half-hour. "Oh, Henry, you've broken your word," she whispered. The reckless challenge of Henry's dark eyes as he moved impatiently in his chair was his only answer. Then in a burst of ill-concealed resentment he rose: "Don't nag, mother." He swayed slightly as he crossed to the open casement. As Jim turned to him, he sullenly pushed him aside. "And don't you preach," he muttered, as he started for the garden. Jim quickly caught him by the shoulder, "Pull yourself together, Henry. It's eight o'clock and the people are gathering in the park." Henry's only reply was a snarl as he disappeared in the shadow of the trees. The broad window opened level on an Old World garden that led into the great park beyond. The late twilight of the July night was bathing park and garden in a curious, unearthly light which made strange spectres of the slowly waving yew-trees. The scent of the rose-bushes, the call of the late nightingale to his mate, and the ghostly sundial, sentinel-like, guarding the old place, made a fitting environment for Maudsley Towers. On a slight hill beyond the park, Jim could see the ruins of the famous Norman church. To the right, at the farther end of the garden, was the Fairies' Corner. There among the trees the fairies of the field were supposed to sleep, and to listen to and grant the requests of the children, who had the courage to venture to them at even-tide. Jim's thoughts were busy to-night; all the old memories seemed to tug at his heartstrings. He had carried Diana Marjoribanks there on her first visit to the Towers. She was six then and he was twelve. She had clung to him and hid her head on his shoulder—the tiny body had stiffened with fear—as they made their way to the dark enclosure of the trees. He could still hear her prayer. "Dear Fairy, please make Henry kinder to poor Jim, poor Mabel, and poor me!" Even then, Henry had been the little tyrant of the Towers. And yet to-night Henry's wish, as of old, was law to his mother. She conceded Diana to him at his first careless request, although in all probability he would forget the longing child in the nursery—forget his promise to give her pleasure, as he had forgotten so often when he was a boy. Jim roused himself; as he turned to Lady Elizabeth he caught a glimpse of her with the mask off, the bitter disappointment of the mother's heart showing in every line of her proud face. He crossed to her, but the sound of carriage-wheels turning into the driveway heralded the approach of the first arrivals, and before Jim could speak the doors were thrown open to the guests. Lady Elizabeth gave one look of appeal to Jim. It said: "Help Henry and me!" Up-stairs in the right wing of the old house, a tall, slender child crouched close to the nursery window. She had crept from her cot, and, wrapped in a coverlet, waited, and clung to the belief that Henry would come for her. Jim had said he would try, but Henry had promised. She was old enough to know that what Henry desired he obtained. Her little face was pressed closer and closer to the window as she listened to the swelling music and saw the guests thronging towards the park. Carriage after carriage brought its load of finery, until the child fancied that the entire county must be gathered below. She could see through the climbing roses down into the library, which jutted out at a sharp angle almost opposite to the nursery window. But of Jim or Henry she could catch no glimpse. The stars began to creep out and blink at the tiny figure in the window-seat. Gradually the entire house grew quiet. All—even the servants—had joined the revelry in the park. The music crashed louder. Fiery showers of illumination could be seen shooting and flaming into the sky. It grew cold. Tighter she drew the coverlet and held closer the small puppy that nestled warm in her arms and slept. In the adjoining room Mabel, Lady Kerhill's little daughter, lay fast asleep. "It's Jim's last night. I must say good-bye," the child whispered to the fleecy white bundle in her arms. "I must keep awake and say good-bye." Fainter grew the music, darker the sky, and heavier the curved eyelids. Slowly, with a sigh the child slipped to the floor, and the brown head pillowed itself on the cushioned window-seat. Diana slept. In the park, the tenantry, eager to meet their young master, were shouting themselves hoarse. A speech of welcome followed the dazzling illuminations. Over it all, Lady Elizabeth, with Sir Charles Marjoribanks, presided. Diana and her father lived on a neighboring estate, and Sir Charles had come to-night to rejoice with his old friend on the return of her son. Sir Charles was a man of slender physique, with a gentle, winning manner; extremely delicate in health, he led for the most part a secluded life, and since the death of his wife, at Diana's birth, went little into the social world. Diana's childhood had been almost as lonely as Jim's had been in his aunt's home. To-night Sir Charles delighted in seeing the house of Wynnegate honored. He scarcely noted the reckless demeanor and wild spirits of Henry as unusual; only for Jim and Lady Elizabeth was it a night of anxiety. Never for a moment did Henry escape Jim's watchful eyes; slip after slip made by Henry was covered by Jim's tact and thoughtfulness, and with simple dignity he carried the night to success. Only when he stood aside and saw Henry receive the demonstrations of the county and tenantry did the bitterness of his position force itself upon him. Not once did Henry remember his promise to the child waiting for him. Jim remembered; but the look of appeal from his aunt, and the sullen defiance of Henry, kept him close to his cousin's side. The final bars of the last dance were dying away and the ball was drawing to its brilliant end. In the east, a pale streak of light was beginning to show over the horizon. Sir Charles, half an hour before, had gone to his room. Exhausted by the long evening's anxiety and late festivities, Lady Kerhill forgot that Jim was to leave early in the morning and that she would not see him again, and had retired to her own apartment. In the great hall, tired and excited groups of guests were saying good-night. "It's good-bye for Jim," Sir John Applegate, Diana's cousin, called as the last carriage drove away. A half-whimsical smile played over Jim's face. Then some one remembered that he was leaving England. As he turned from the door, he met the eyes of his cousin fastened on him, all the latent rebellion rising to the surface. Henry Kerhill was sober enough to know that Jim had watched and guarded him through the entire night, and had stood between him and disgrace. As he leaned against the tall mantel, the bitter consciousness that the young boy had proved himself of fine mettle, ate like acid into his feverish brain. He dug his hands deep into his pockets, then with a lurch he pulled himself together. Without a word he turned, crossed to the twisted staircase, and grasping the oak rails, slowly ascended. From the landing came the slam of a heavy door, and Jim knew that he was alone. So this was the end. The striking of the bell in the church-tower reminded him that it was now four o'clock and that he was to leave at six. His luggage had been sent on ahead the previous day. He changed quickly, without disturbing the tired servants, and in half an hour was ready to walk to the station. As he came down the broad staircase, lined with portraits of the ancestors of the house of Wynnegate, a slight noise in the corridor leading off from the broad landing attracted him. Before he could turn, a low voice called: "Jim—Jim!" It was Diana. Standing there in the dim light of the corridor, she made an entrancing picture. With the parted hair falling away from the low brow, around the oval face, and the far-apart blue-black eyes, she looked like the child Madonna of Rosetti's "Annunciation." The coverlet was drawn close about her, the puppy still hidden under its folds. "It's Di, Jim," she whispered as she hurried to him. "I waited and waited for you—I knew you were going away and I wanted to say good-bye. Burrow promised that she would let me see you, but she's fast asleep, and so is Mabel. I tried to wake them but I couldn't." The little figure cuddled into his arms. Jim's heart was very full as he looked at the frail child in the early dawn, the shadows of a restless night showing on her delicately modelled face. He drew her into a window-enclosure, and wrapping the heavy curtains about her, held her fast. "Say something," the sweet voice coaxed. "I shall miss you so and wait for you to come back. You will come back, won't you?" Jim's only answer was to press the little head close to his heart. In all the great house, she alone had cared to say good-bye—to wish him in her child's way godspeed. "See," Diana continued as she opened her arms, "here is something for you to take away with you, so that you sha'n't be lonely any more." She opened her arms and held up the soft roll of fur with its blinking eyes and pink-tipped nose. "Di, dear Di," Jim whispered, as he patted the towsled hair. Quite seriously her big eyes searched Jim's face to be sure that her gift truly won approval. The church clock boomed the hour of five. Jim hurriedly rose and slipped the dog into his coat-pocket. "Good-bye, Di, and God bless you!" She clung quietly to him with her arms tight around his neck for a long time; then the little face quivered, and in a burst of tears she sank back among the cushions of the window-seat. Jim hesitated a moment, then with a final pat on the dear head, hurriedly reached the doorway and was out on the high-road. From a turn at the top of the common he caught a last glimpse of the great house, and in the big window of the hall could see the faint outline of the white figure still huddled among the cushions. All the suppression of the past days gave way. With a cry, Jim threw himself down on the damp ground and convulsive sobs shook his body. It had all been his—his home, his country—and he was leaving it without a friend, without a loving hand or voice to cheer him. He suddenly felt a damp nose thrust into his hand, and a soft tongue began to lap his face as though in sympathy. The tiny puppy had fallen from his pocket and crawled on to his shoulder. He rose to his feet and picked up the fluffy ball; something in the round, pulpy mass made him laugh. "So I've found a friend, have I? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" The dog gave a faint yelp in reply and began to lick his hand. Holding the dog close to him, Jim walked on, all the boy in him welling up to meet the promise of the new day. Suddenly he stopped as he neared the station platform, and stroking gently the soft fur, he whispered: "I'll call you Di." CHAPTER II It was London in full swing. A wild April shower had sprung up and was quickly driving people into the shelter of passing hansoms. There was a sudden exodus from the park of gayly gowned women, hurrying to their waiting carriages. Bewildered nurses gathered their young charges into protecting corners. Only a few minutes before it had been radiant sunshine. Open high-swung see-victorias, with their powdered, liveried men on the boxes, and unprotected occupants driving from a royal house to a ducal assemblage, were caught in the congested mass of hansoms, top-heavy 'busses, and passing carts. Stalwart, blue-coated giants were trying to stem the rush and scramble. Diana crossed from the couch where she had been sitting to the open window. In a week's time she was to be married. She held a note in her hand, which had just come by messenger. It was from Henry. He could not take her to Ranelagh as he had planned, he wrote. Unexpected business had arisen, but he would see her later in the evening. The room in which Diana stood faced Hyde Park. The house was one of those built a century ago by the mad Duke of Delford, and was famous for the purity of its architecture. On this spring day the front looked like a hanging garden, so abundant and exquisite were the large boxes of trailing flowers. The room with its Adam ceiling and mantel, its crimson brocade curtains against the pale-cream walls, its rare specimens of Sheraton and Chippendale and precious bits of china, made a harmonious setting for Diana in her dove-colored gown. Bowls of yellow jonquils and daffodils gleamed like golden bits of imprisoned sunlight on slender-legged tables. Diana was alone. Lady Dillingham, her aunt, and the mistress of the Park Lane House was confined to her room with a sharp attack of gout. From the window looking out across the park, the rain glinted like a fine sheet of steel. It beat down the great beds of flaming hyacinths and daffodils that lined the park walk with their glory of purple and yellow. The blue-and-white fleecy sky of a past half-hour now hung over the town like a dirty ship's sail, with puffing, dun-colored clouds sweeping past. Diana half consciously watched the amusing scurry of the passers-by. Through the long, open windows protected by a projecting balcony she could hear the splashing of the rain against the pavement. The confusion of carriages began to straighten itself out. The hurrying crowds disappeared as though swallowed up in the drenched ground. What had been a fantastic, brilliantly colored panorama was now a desolate space. As Diana stood there, a rising resentment at the broken promise filled her mind. It was not because of the disappointment. So often, at the last moment, her plans had been changed by Henry's failure to keep his engagements with her. A sharp gust of wind blew its damp air into the room and made her shiver. She closed the window and walked to the open log fire. The spring days of an English climate still permitted this luxury within doors. As she sat before the hearth, the letter still in her hand hanging listlessly by her side, the door quietly opened and her father entered. On the previous day he had come up from the country to join Diana, who was visiting his sister while the necessary wedding preparations were being completed. The passing years had greatly aged Sir Charles. The delicate, high-bred face had grown more spiritual, and he seemed further aloof from material influences. With a pang Diana noticed the change. She rose and crossed to him, her tall figure hovering protectingly over the old man. The maternal instinct was deeply embedded in Diana's nature. Quite tenderly he took the young face in his withered but exquisitely modelled hands and kissed her. "Alone, dear?" he said. "I thought Henry was to take you to join some people at Ranelagh." "Henry has just sent me word that he is unexpectedly detained in the city." Something in her tone made Sir Charles wince. She was very beautiful, in a curious, contradictory way. Her tender, serious eyes suggested the Madonna, but her arched, full mouth made her a half Venus. More than tall, there was in the lithe, girlish figure an embodiment of latent reliance and vitality. Her usually calm face was disturbed at the moment by a look of intense perplexity. It seemed as though she were vainly trying to combat her doubts. She stood for a moment irresolute, then in a burst of tears she slipped down beside the big chair in which her father sat. "I can't marry Henry—I can't," she sobbed, as she hid her face in her hands. For a moment Sir Charles was startled; then, smiling at what he divined to be a lover's quarrel, he patiently patted the bent head as though humoring a wayward child. Absorbed in his own narrow life, he had no knowledge of men, and to him Henry Wynnegate was an ideal match for his motherless girl. He had known the late Earl well, and in the reflected glory of the parents he saw the son. His heart was set on seeing Diana safely moored in the house of Wynnegate and the brilliant position hers, which she could assume as the Countess of Kerhill. These tears, of course, were the foolish outcome of the afternoon's disappointment. He let her have her cry out; then gradually drew the slender hands from her face. "You are unreasonable, my child," he began. "Surely you can hope for no better husband than the son of my late friend. Why, I have known him from childhood. Think," he went on, "of his career as a soldier; of the respect of his tenantry; of his position in the world." He forgot the dominance of Lady Elizabeth, who, by her plans and generalship had commanded all these attributes for her son. "With his knowledge of life and the future assured him," he continued, "he can give you all that so far has been denied to you. What more can you desire, my dear?" Diana raised her tear-stained face and listened. He drew her close to him, his feeble body vibrating with sudden emotion as he said, "I am very feeble—far older than my years, and I long to see you safely placed." He waited a moment as though expecting a reply, but there was no answer to his appeal. "We are poor, Diana—very poor. I have carried a heavy burden for years. This marriage will make me supremely happy; it will make my remaining days peaceful." He paused. "You can trust me, dear, in this matter. Say that you can." Something in the tense, pathetic face forced back Diana's words of opposition. Perhaps she was wrong, There was no tangible reason for this rebellion that her perplexed mind could grasp. Her father, so gentle, so wise, so loving, could not be doubted. Sir Charles watched her eagerly. He loved her, but in his short-sighted desire for her happiness he failed to see the depths of her troubled heart. Almost convinced that her frightened instinct was wrong, Diana rose, and, with a gentle pressure of her father's hand, yielded to his importunities. Tactfully, and in silence, Sir Charles accepted her consent. A strained pause followed. Sir Charles reflectively sank into the cushions of his high-backed chair. He was sure that Diana's outburst was mere nervousness; it was often so with young, inexperienced girls before marriage. The excitement of the London life was a great fatigue to him. Even the muffled, vibrating roar that half penetrated into the dwellings of Mayfair, told on his sensitive nature. He closed his eyes. Diana's girlhood had been singularly isolated from the world. Shortly after Jim's departure for India, she had been sent abroad to a school on the Continent. She had usually spent the summers with her father at some peaceful, out of the way corner. Her education completed, she had returned during the April previous, to the quiet life of her father's home. There followed the lonely weeks with her awakening womanhood crying out for comprehension. Then one day Henry Wynnegate returned to the Towers. She had only a vague memory of the subsequent days of amusement that passed so quickly. All that her youth and gayety had so long desired was given her. She was unconsciously swept on by the passion of Henry's love and could hardly recall when she promised to be his wife. That was in the autumn. At the beginning of the season she was presented at court. Her youth and beauty made a sensation, and her marriage was arranged to take place within a month. Eager to grasp the bloom of the fresh flower he had plucked, Henry would tolerate no delay. Backed by the dominant influence of his mother, who in Diana saw not only the gratification of Henry's desires, but a gracious bearer of his name, and, with the persuasion of Sir Charles, Diana acquiesced to an early marriage. She was in love with love, not with the man, and her loveliness and the purity of her fresh young soul made her idealize the best of Henry's shifting, many-sided nature. Sir Charles dozed peacefully. Diana, with feverish cheeks and burning eyes, longed to escape from the warm room. Through the closed windows she could see that the rain had ceased. She wanted to be alone, to calm the battling emotions of the past hour. As she tiptoed to the door, it was thrown open, and the Countess of Kerhill and Lady Mabel Wynnegate were announced. Sir Charles aroused, rose quickly from his chair to greet the visitors. "My dear," Lady Kerhill began, as she entered the room and embraced Diana, "we are going to ask you for our tea at once if you will take pity on us. Such an afternoon! We were obliged to turn back from Ranelagh because of the storm. Fortunately we had a closed carriage, but Mabel and I were so anxious to know whether you and Henry had started before the shower sprang up"—with a quick look of surprise about the room, she exclaimed, "Why, where is Henry?" Diana rang the bell for tea. "I had a note from Henry, dear Lady Elizabeth, saying he was detained by some unexpected business." Sir Charles noticed with great satisfaction Diana's superb control. Her rebellious mood, as he surmised, had been a mere whim. For a moment a half-frightened look came into Lady Elizabeth's eyes. She was never quite sure of Henry, but even to herself she never admitted it. She had cast him for a role that he neither suggested nor attempted to play, but she never flinched before the duty of wilfully blinding herself to these truths. Her love and her belief would win, and out of it all would be created the son she so desired Henry to be—that was her unconscious prayer. She threw off the moment's anxiety. "No doubt it is a busy week for Henry," she said. She crossed to a chair near the fire, and with the announcement of tea began to gossip with Sir Charles. Mabel moved close to Diana's side at the tea-table. She had grown into a fairy-like creature, with exquisite, youthful coloring. Very shy and utterly subordinate to her mother and brother, she lavished upon Diana a great affection in return for her sympathy. She stole shy glances at Diana's unusual color, as the latter poured the tea mechanically, but joined little in the conversation. Diana caught Mabel's eyes wonderingly fastened upon her. She could no longer endure the close room. "I must get a breath of air. Can Mabel go with me?" she said, as she rose from her untouched tea. Sir Charles was explaining to Lady Elizabeth some details of the previous night's rowdy conduct at the House. They both paused for a moment. "Do take a turn with Mabel in the park," said Sir Charles. "It will refresh you." "Remember we are due at the opera to-night," Lady Elizabeth said, as she rose. Sir Charles protested. "But it's just why I'm going myself," Lady Elizabeth confessed. "I'll send the carriage back for Mabel." A few minutes later Diana and Mabel entered the park. The pungent smell of the damp earth filled the air. Great crimson and yellow pools of color dotted the ground; they were the battered-down blossoms of the afternoon. Some stronger plants than the others were lifting their swaying stems. The paths were covered with bruised leaves, and from the branches came the drip-drip of the gleaming rain-drops. At times under interlaced branches it seemed as though the storm still continued, so heavy was the splashing of the drenched trees. The usually crowded meeting-ground of fashion was practically deserted; even the guards had not left their corners of refuge. Here and there a stray gardener in a by-path was pityingly regarding his damaged beds. The fresh, wet air blew against Diana's face and calmed her troubled spirit. Mabel linked her arm through Diana's: neither spoke. On and on they walked, in and out of deserted side-paths, until a turn in the road brought them opposite to the Serpentine Bridge, and they faced the public driveway of the park. A gust of wind blew across the ground a deluge of broken boughs; it caused them to hesitate on the edge of the crossing. Mabel started forward as a cab dashed towards them at a tremendous speed. "Why, Di, there's Henry in that hansom," Mabel gasped, as she blew a tangle of loosened hair out of her eyes. But Diana could only see the occupant nearest to her in the cab—it was a woman with a strangely interesting foreign face. "Nonsense," she answered, as she held firm the wind-blown hat. "Henry is in the city. You are mistaken, dear." As she spoke the storm began afresh. The wind blew the sodden blossom leaves and broken branches into a hurricane cloud around them. Grasping Mabel by the hand, Diana made her way against the violence of the wind and finally reached the entrance to the park. In the rush of keen air and the fight against it, everything else was forgotten. They quickly reached the house, and Diana saw Mabel drive away in the shelter of the waiting carriage. A few minutes later she was in her own room. She loosened her long, brown hair, and kneeling before the glowing fire held the wet coils to its warmth. On her bed lay a gown to be worn that night, and the light from the fire cast a delicate sheen over its folds. It flickered and blazed with merry bursts of flame, lighting up the old-fashioned chintz draperies of the quaintly furnished room. Through the closed window she could hear the faint splutter of the rain on the casement. As she leaned against the tall chair close to the fireplace, a soft, warm languor stole over her and the tension of her mind relaxed. The beauty of her present life stretched out innumerable magic wands that lulled into insensibility the frightened thoughts of the afternoon. Soothed by the warmth and comfort of the room after the fatigue of her walk against the gale in the park, she abandoned herself to pleasant, intangible dreams. A knock at the door aroused her. It was her aunt's maid, who carried a large box of flowers. Diana opened them; they were from Henry. Again they reiterated his apologies for the afternoon's disappointment. The perfume of the gardenias filled the room as she sank into a chair before her dressing-table and buried her face in the masses of delicate blossoms. The quiet servant gathered up the tangled hair. "Her ladyship would like you to come to her room before you leave for the opera," she said, as she drew the brush across the soft brown locks. Diana did not reply. Yes, she was admitting to herself she had been unreasonable, as her father said. Life was beautiful and wonderful, and she meant to gather all its sweetness and bloom. CHAPTER III The rain that battered down the glory of color into the soaked earth of the park had slashed and beaten black, struggling lines against the gray stone-wall of the buildings in Lincoln's Inn. The radiance of the sun never wholly penetrated the court, but to-day the old place seemed like a tomb. In one of the forbidding-looking dwellings, in his solicitor's chambers, sat Lord Kerhill. He glanced around the silent room, and aimlessly took in the array of large tin boxes, with their painted family names, piled high on the shelves encircling the walls. Conspicuous among them was his own. With the exception of a few unattractive pieces of solid mahogany and some large leather chairs, the room was almost empty. Its ugliness jarred him. As he sat there, his face in repose showed that the years had given an added touch of bitterness to his expression. He still retained his well-cut features, and their beauty of line was only a little marred by a certain heaviness that had recently developed. His dark mustache hid the weak mouth with its suggestion of sensuality; indeed, the whole man showed a strong tendency towards grossness as yet only noticeable to the careful observer. He still had the ineffable quality of charm, when he willed to exert it, which made his selfishness seem to many only the outcome of impulsive youthfulness. In a shamefaced way he admitted to himself now that he was in the wrong and that he had stupidly involved his affairs, but he comforted himself in the same moment, with the fatuousness of self-indulgence, that everything would work out all right. To tide over this difficulty or adjust and evade for a time the demand of the hour had been his policy for so long that he could not realize that an end was possible to the long tether he so often abused. He had come in response to an urgent summons. Opposite him, deeply absorbed in some papers, sat Johnston Petrie, the trusted solicitor of the Kerhill family since Henry's father came into the title. He was a large, powerfully built man of fifty-five, with a massive head, piercing black eyes under shaggy eyebrows, and close-cropped iron-gray curls above the shrewd face. Henry rose impatiently to go. As he did so, Petrie lifted his glasses on their black ribbon to his eyes, and said, "I'm exceedingly sorry, your Lordship, but you must give me time to look more closely into that affair before I can venture a final opinion as to the condition of the estate. Besides, I have several other matters of the gravest importance to question you about; they pertain to some business transactions you made recently without my knowledge, while you were abroad." He motioned his lordship to a chair as though to pursue deeper the conversation, and drew several documents from a drawer. Henry Kerhill fidgeted. "It's impossible, Petrie. Next week, after the wedding, or after we return from Scotland, I'll have leisure then to discuss these things with you, and I really mean this time to have you adjust everything and set me quite straight." Johnston Petrie shook his head. "Oh, I know," Henry continued, "I've been careless, but I mean to pull up. I'll start fair from next week." Johnston Petrie looked up sharply. He knew more of his client's career than Henry cared to remember. He had known him from boyhood, and his shrewd summing up of human nature could see only pitfalls ahead for Lady Elizabeth's son. He had tried in every way to stop the reckless living of his client. From the incessant demands made on the estate for large sums of ready money he knew that Henry Wynnegate, irritated by the conservative principles of his firm, had used outside help to prevent his family adviser from obtaining knowledge of some recent speculations. Long ago Johnston Petrie would have asked to be released from the responsibilities of the Kerhill affairs, out for a loyal devotion to his dead client, the late Earl, and a desire to protect Lady Elizabeth's fast diminishing rights. He was not in the least deceived by Henry's machinations, but wilfully allowed himself to seem blind to certain matters. He wished to be able to keep his hand at the lever, and argued with his brother that the end justified the means. Lady Elizabeth in a recent interview had assured him that the coming marriage would be the turning-point in Henry's career. Nevertheless, he feared her judgment. Something in Henry's attitude to-day had made him more apprehensive; it had been impossible to pin him down to a serious consideration of his affairs. Petrie determined to venture a final effort, by enrolling his brother's services to strengthen his admonitions. "Lord Kerhill," he said. "My brother is also most anxious to see you regarding some stocks you asked his advice about." He touched a bell; a clerk answered from an adjoining room. "Ask Mr. Malcolm Petrie to come to us. Say that the Earl of Kerhill is here." Henry chafed under the calm firmness of his solicitor. He had come in answer to an imperative note, and the discussion of his complicated affairs was extremely disagreeable. He was in no mood to continue it further. He moved to the door as Malcolm Petrie entered; a smaller counterpart of his brother, and a silent member of the firm, he took the same personal interest in the Kerhill affairs that his brother did. As he started to speak he was stopped by Henry. "It's no use. I can wait no longer. A most important engagement demands my leaving at once. Advise me by letter—it will reach me to-morrow." And before either of the men could urge upon him the necessity of being allowed to advise him on certain negotiations, he had reached the outer door of the chambers, mounted the few steps leading to the court, and was in the square where his cab was waiting. He cursed the dreariness of the day as the rain splashed him. For a moment he hesitated. They had detained him far too long, these croaking fogies in their stuffy office. His hand fumbled in his pocket where lay a letter with a message not to be disregarded. On its arrival at his club early in the afternoon the note to Diana had been despatched. The fury of haste that had made him so eager to escape from his business interview now deserted him. The rain drenched him in warm torrents. The driver on the box was a running stream, and from the horse came clouds of heavy steam. Then the momentary irresolution passed as he gave his orders to the impassive cabman. He leaned back in his cab, tearing into shreds the mauve letter with its gold monogram as he muttered, "It's for the last time, by God." The hansom started with a jerk. It rattled down an alley. To Henry the damp, dismal court looked more than ever like a graveyard. He was glad when they turned into the vortex of the Strand. |
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