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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 52804
   :PG.Title: The Squaw Man
   :PG.Released: 2016-08-14
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Julie Opp Faversham
   :DC.Title: The Squaw Man
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1906
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE SQUAW MAN
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   .. _`"THE SQUAW MAN"`:

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      :alt: Cover art

      Cover art

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   .. _`"'BIG FATHER—SEND FOR LITTLE HAL—HAL SEE THE RISING SUN'"`:

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      :alt: "'BIG FATHER—SEND FOR LITTLE HAL—HAL SEE THE RISING SUN'" See page 250

      "'BIG FATHER—SEND FOR LITTLE HAL—HAL SEE THE RISING SUN'" See page `250`_

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      The Squaw Man

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      A Novel

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      By
      Julie Opp Faversham

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      Adapted from the Play by
      Edwin Milton Royle

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      New York
      Grosset & Dunlap
      Publishers

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      Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers

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      Copyright, 1906, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

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      *All rights reserved.*

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      Published December, 1906.

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      TO
      WILLIAM FAVERSHAM

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`"THE SQUAW MAN"`_ . . . Cover Inlay

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`"'BIG FATHER—SEND FOR LITTLE HAL—HAL SEE THE
RISING SUN'"`_ . . . Frontispiece

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`"ALMOST AS ONE MAN THEY THRUST THEIR
REVOLVERS INTO BUD'S FACE"`_

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`"SHE DREW HERSELF UP CLOSE TO HIM, AND
SAID 'ME KILL 'UM'"`_

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`"'YES, DIANA. MY BOY—MY SON'"`_

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*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.*

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   HOME

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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   THE SQUAW MAN

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   CHAPTER I

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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."





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

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   CHAPTER II

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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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER III`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

That night at the opera, a new singer was to make
her début in "Carmen."  In Paris and America this
sloe-eyed Italian had made the sensation of the
half-century in her creation of the gypsy wanton.  The
brilliant throng in Covent Garden was alive with
anticipation.  The royalties were expected; indeed,
the queen herself had especially commanded this
reception for the gifted woman whom she had honored
as her guest on the Riviera, where this singing Rachel
had entranced her with the folk-songs and lullabies
of her beloved country.

All that the London season could assemble of wit,
beauty, and distinction was gathered in the
Opera-House.  The tiers of boxes were filling unusually
early.  Near the stage sat the Prime-Minister, a man
of strong artistic perceptions and a writer of
extraordinary talent.  His face, with the marked cleft in
the square chin, looked less dreamy than usual
to-night, and the large, pale-blue eyes, amusedly
surveyed the house.  He seemed to have slipped off the
yoke of tangled politics as he turned to his secretary,
who was pointing out to him the celebrities in the
stalls.

"There is the delightful American whom I met
last week at Lord Blight's."  As he spoke, he bowed
to the new American favorite, Mrs. Hobart Chichester
Chichester Jones, a radiant figure in scarlet, who
found many glasses levelled at her.

"Only an American would dress so originally,"
the minister replied.

The American wore a gown of clinging scarlet
fabric, the decidedly low-cut corsage showing the
perfection of the white shoulders and arms.  Around
her throat she had twisted one long rope of uncut
pearls and diamonds that reached below her waist,
and in the soft, waving, red-gold hair she had arranged
some daring scarlet geraniums.  With her pale skin
and great green eyes she enchanted London by her
unusual type.  Near her was the famous story-book
Duchess, as the most popular of the younger beauties
was called.  "Too good to be true," *Truth* declared
her, and indeed she seemed to have been especially
created to confirm the mode of the old-fashioned
romances extolling the grace and loveliness of an English
Duchess.  The crowd noticed the famous rubies that
shone like tiny flames against the white gown.

Here and there a Dowager gleamed like a shelf in a
Bond Street jeweller's shop, so promiscuous was her
array of gems.  The younger school of beauties with
more wisdom employed their jewels differently, using
them as an added tone of color or a touch of brilliance
to a costume.  In the stalls the art world was well
represented.  Painters and writers with a sprinkling
of actors and actresses, who were not playing, were
on hand to-night to greet the new-comer.  From the
gallery rail a crowd of eager, swarthy faces peered,
impatiently gesticulating to one another, because of
the failure of the curtain to ascend at the given time.
It was known that the prima-donna was a capricious
creature, often swayed by a mere whim from making
her appearance.  Once the death of a mocking-bird
had postponed her début as Marguerite.  Would she
really appear?

As the royalties entered the box, the excitement
was at fever-heat.  Henry with his mother impatiently
awaited Diana's arrival.

The overture began its sensuous, stirring appeal,
and before the cigarette-girl crossed the bridge in the
street scene, every seat and box was occupied.

The singer made the ill-starred Carmen a bewitching
and compelling wanton.  Who that saw her will
ever forget her delicious cajolery as she urged the
bewitched Don José to loosen the ropes that bound
her?  With her Habanera she eclipsed all predecessors
and made the role irrevocably hers.  The first
act ended with a storm of bravas from the gallery
and vociferous applause from the rest of the house.

It was not until the tumultuous ovation over the
first act had ceased that Diana's presence was noticed
by the audience.  Accompanied by her father, she
had arrived at the close of the overture, and had only
time to slip into her place before the curtain arose.
The walk in the rain had given her delicate skin a
touch of color and heightened the beauty of her tender
eyes, "so deeply blue that they were black," as Lord
Patrick Illington described them on his first meeting
at her presentation at Court.  Her bands of straight
hair were wound around her head; pale-green
draperies encircled her lithesome body, and the gardenia
blossoms in her hair gave her a fleeting likeness to
the water-sprite Undine.  In the horseshoe of
fashionable *mondaines* the fragrance of her beauty was
like that of a dew-sprayed rose.

Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones, with her
usual common-sense of seeing things as they were,
leaned towards the man beside her.

"That is a beauty—the real thing; no chic, no
gowning, no Paris wisdom of make-up, but a beauty.
I'm glad I've seen it."  She sank back as though
philosophically preparing for a Waterloo.

From his box the Prince noticed the daughter of
Sir Charles Marjoribanks whose services in diplomacy
in his youth were not forgotten.  Forthwith an
equerry was sent to Sir Charles and Diana inviting
them to visit the royal presence.

Diana was the social novelty of the season.  The
Prime-Minister remembered his classics as he dreamily
gazed at her and murmured, "Is this the face that
launched a thousand ships?"

From the back of the box, Henry watched Diana's
impression on the house.  His eyebrows were drawn
into horns of suppressed temper and there was an air
of brutal determination in his bearing.  Gradually
his expression cleared.  Diana's beauty that night
stirred the best in him.  He tried to dismiss the
events of the afternoon; he would be worthy of this
child-woman.  He set his shoulders square as though
preparing to fight unseen forces.

"Lucky fellow, Kerhill," one man confided to
another as they watched the crowd's sweeping glasses
pause constantly at Diana Marjoribanks's box and
saw the triumphant look on Henry's face.

The sinuous, commanding Carmen had reached
her triumphant entry with the toreador when the
mad Don José's dagger drew the purple stain on the
gold-embroidered gown.  Over the house a spell-bound
silence reigned.  As from an animal wounded
to the death, low sounds of agonized pain came from
the great actress—she forgot to sing, and the house
forgot that she was a singer in an opera comique.
For the moment it faced the realistic truth of a grim
tragedy.

Excited and intoxicated by the sensuous music,
Diana was hardly conscious that the opera was over.
She was like a child with the world for a great, colored
balloon.  As she came down the winding staircase she
was almost happy, and turned to smile at Henry, who
was by her side.  As she did so she saw him frown.
They reached the foot of the staircase, and found
their way half-barred by a dark, foreign-looking
woman robed in a spun-gold gown.  Diana noticed
the insolent, amused expression on her handsome
face, but at that moment her attention was diverted
by some one who spoke to her, and she only vaguely
noticed Henry's constrained bow, and the sudden
brutal flame in his eyes.

Only later, as she sleepily looked over at the park
in the dim light, did she remember that the woman in
cloth of gold at the bottom of the staircase was
strangely like the vivid, foreign-looking woman who
had flashed past her in the park as the storm broke.

The wedding took place at St. George's, Hanover
Square.  It was the first brilliant wedding of the
season and royalty honored it, not by sending a
deputy, but by its personal presence.  Diana passed
through the gay pageant and heard the conventional
words of well-wishers like one in a dream.  She
remembered being changed into a going-away frock—the
curious street crowd gathering around her as she
left the reception at the Park Lane house.  Then
as she entered the brougham she was conscious of
Henry's face drawn close to hers, and the old
frightened instincts that her father only a week ago had
soothed and quelled again took possession of her.
A great wall of fear closed in about her.

At last the carriage reached the station.

Diana leaned back in their compartment in the
train northbound for Scotland.  The bustle of the
outgoing crowds was holding Henry's attention as
she glanced over the afternoon paper, which gave a
prominent position to the brilliant wedding that had
taken place at St. George's only a few hours ago.

Suddenly she espied a name that made her heart
leap.  A brief paragraph told of the reward to be
conferred on Captain James Wynnegate, but a longer
account followed, giving details of his gallant work in
the Northwestern Hills.

A great longing to see the friend of her childhood
came over her.  She was ashamed that she had
forgotten him so long.

Henry entered the compartment, the guard closed
the door, and the train started on its journey.  Her
husband spoke to her and she answered him in an
absent manner.  The sudden remembrance of her
old playmate grew vividly and seemed to blot out
all else, as, following on her self-reproach for
forgetting him, came the thought, growing more poignant;
"Did Jim remember her?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

Jim lay in the hospital ward convalescing.  Of
the march back to the nearest hospital post, after
the fight which has taken place three months before
in the Northwestern Hills, when his name had been
flashed over Europe in praise of his magnificent
service to his flag, his mind held no memory.

Night after night in his delirium he lived again
through the scenes of the fight that had brought glory
to his name.  Now it was the evening before the battle,
when, acting upon information brought by the spy
Rham-shi, he and his men kept their long vigil, sitting
silently in their saddles the entire night awaiting the
onslaught of the fanatical natives across the hill.
Again it was early dawn, and in his fever-tossed dreams
he heard the roar of the voices as the assault began;
again he climbed to the summit of the hill and saw the
dreaded gun of the enemy that was riddling his men.
On—on he mounted.  He felt the warm blood ooze
down his body, the mists swim before his eyes, and
the stinging pain pierce his side.  In despair that he
might not reach the monster in time to prevent it
from completing its deadly work, his cry of agony
often rang out in the silent room.

"Oh, God, God, my men—my splendid men—give
me courage!"

Then his thoughts would wander to the hours when
he lay on the ground with the blood dripping from his
wound, and with the loaded carbine snatched from a
fallen trooper he brought down a tribesman at the
enemy's gun.  As he fell, another sprang forward—there
was another shot and still another as the tribesmen
went down before his sure aim.  There was but
one thought in his brain—to prevent the firing of the
gun, the devastation of his men.  Difficult and more
difficult it grew to lift the weakening arm.  He could
feel as he tossed on his couch the gurgle of the blood
that glued him to the ground.  He made an effort to
rise to his knees.  Another devil was about to load
the gun.  He must catch this one again—he must.
It was his last cartridge.  He stretched out his stiffening
arm feebly; he tried to pull the trigger, but his
strength failed him.  Then—one supreme effort, and
a report flashed through the air.  The rest was a
blank, but he had carried the day.

These delirious hours passed and there followed a
vague mid-air suspension of existence.  Of tangible
things he was no part.  The years of fighting were
forgotten.  He was back in the Fairies' Corner with
Diana, he saw the giant trees bending and whispering
in the starlight.  The smell of the damp earth
from the sun-hidden enclosure filled the sick-room, and
the vibrant, strong, compelling cry of the night-jar
echoed in his dreams.  Again, he and Diana listened
for the flutter of the fairies' wings in the tree-tops.
Gradually, even these mists cleared from his brain,
and to-day he waited with impatience the surgeon,
who was to decide whether he might obtain his leave.

The doctor found him sitting up in bed, his lean
hands idly resting on the coverlet.

"Well, doctor," he asked, "what is the verdict?
Am I to be allowed to join my regiment?"

The surgeon looked into the brave eyes.  Jim was a
wraith of the man who had gone into battle.  The
drawn cheek-bones were like high lights in the sunken
face, the gauntness of the body could be discerned
under the bedclothes, but the unflinching eyes held
the same expression of everlasting courage.  The
doctor took Jim's long, meagre hand.

"We are done with you, Wynnegate.  You fought
a bigger battle here on this cot than you did yon day
on the Hills, but you've won."

Jim only smiled.

"Your regiment is ordered home within a month,
and you must go to your station to join it.  Fighting
will be a little out of your line for a while.  I think
you'll find you need England—a summer of sunshine
in the open fields.  Then come back later to us again."  A
suspicious moisture clouded his glasses.  He was
a man many years older than Jim, and he had seen
his own boy go down at the head of his troops.  Still,
with the instinctive loyalty of the Englishman to his
country, he concluded, "We need such men as you,
my son."

The surgeon moved away.  Jim closed his eyes.
Presently he looked up.

He saw the long line of wounded men with here and
there a wasted, propped-up figure—the quiet nurses
passing and repassing.  He began to feel the pulsating
call of life again.  For him the sick-room existence
was ended; soon he would be back in the Fairies'
Corner; he could hear the flutter of their wings.

.. vspace:: 2

The men were in the mess.  Dunlap and Singleton
were stretched out in long, wicker-basket chairs.
Tomlinson was talking in an excited voice with several
officers of the Tenth Hussars.  "It means that Jim
will receive a mention and a damn fine one,"
Tomlinson was saying, as he leaned back in his chair and
gulped down his gin-and-seltzer.  Singleton called to
the orderly to bring a whiskey-and-soda.  Dunlap
leaned forward to Tomlinson as he asked:

"Is that absolutely sure?  We all know that Jim
has done fine work in his seven years here, but are
the powers above really going to commend his last
bit of pluck?"

"The powers above," thundered Tomlinson, who
loathed being doubted, "not only mean to commend
him, but they mean to decorate him with the bronze
cross itself.  I had it from Watkins."

A long whistle greeted this bit of news.  Watkins
was not apt to talk without positive information.

Tomlinson was fairly bursting with enthusiasm and
importance.  For him station life in India meant
gossip—good or bad news—so long as it was news.
He could work himself into a fever of enthusiasm, get
all the glory out of another man's receiving a decoration,
and rejoice as though it had been given to himself.
He only asked that it should occur in his station.
"Tommy," as he was called, had been known to
incite blackballing from his club against a man whom
he had never seen, because no opposition was made.
It meant news, and the passing of the word from one
mess to another.  When the man was blackballed,
Tomlinson, in a high fever of indignation, sought
the downed man and became so incensed with
sympathy that he threatened to resign from a club that
could offer such indignities: by that time he had
forgotten that he had caused it.  At the moment he was
basking in the glory of Jim's coming honors.  He
took another gin-and-seltzer.

"By George! he was down and done for when he
came here from the hospital," Dunlap said.  "Never
saw such a goner.  But he's picked up tremendously
during the past month."

Singleton took his whiskey-and-potash from the
orderly.

"Strange," he continued, as he sat up, glass in hand.
"Wynnegate is so eager to go back: never saw
anything like it.  Seems as though this illness had
knocked soldiering out of him, and he was such a keen
one before."

"Mighty fortunate the regiment's time was up and
we're ordered home.  Talk about Jim's being glad—Gad! it
means something to see those kiddies of mine.
Wonder if the little beggars will remember me,"
Dunlap mused.

After three gins-and-seltzers, it was time for
Tomlinson to listen to Dunlap about his children.
He had heard it all before.  He had come from his
own mess with the news about Jim.  That was all
that interested him, so he got up to go.

"Who'll play polo this evening?" he asked.

Singleton promised he would.

"I'll walk back with you," Tomlinson said.

They started to leave, but catching sight of an orderly
with a mail-bag, Singleton let Tomlinson go on alone.

"See you at six for polo, Tommy; and I say, send
any of our fellows in that you see.  Tell them the post
is in," he called as he saw Jim's long, loose-jointed
stride across the road.

A blazing sun beat down on Jim as he crossed to the
mess.  The April weather was anticipating India's
most wearing heat.  But only vaguely he noted the
ominous lead-colored sky, with its promise of dust
storms.  The green of England filled his vision.
Since the days in the hospital, his thoughts had
recurred incessantly to Diana.  A picture in an
illustrated paper, picked up in his ward, showed him Miss
Diana Marjoribanks as a beautiful young girl—little
Diana no longer.  There was the same Madonna face,
but more exquisitely fair than the child he had left
had promised to be.  He hardly cared to admit to
himself how much the picture had stirred him.

When he entered the mess he found the men in
groups, absorbed in their letters.  Singleton and
Dunlap both called to him.

"There are two for you, Jim."

Letters did not often come his way.  When he first
left England, several child's letters had come from
Diana—these he had answered.  He never heard
from Henry, and his aunt wrote seldom.

"Dinningfold."  He saw the familiar old postmark.
It was from Lady Elizabeth, then.  Boyishly, he
fingered its ample thickness.  It was good of her to
write such a budget, he thought, as he tore it open.
The chatter of voices about him fell unheeding on his
ears as the men read their letters.

"God!  Breese is dead—dropped down quite suddenly
at the club," Singleton remarked as he turned
a page of the letter he was reading.

His words were almost drowned by an eager,
exulting cry.  Half the fellows turned toward Dick
Farninsby.  He was usually so quiet.  To-night his
young, fair face was the color of a puppy.

"I've come into the money," he stammered.

Every one knew that Farninsby's uncle had been
an old reprobate and that Dick had had a close pinch
on his meagre allowance.  They also knew that a
pretty girl was waiting for him at home.  A buzz of
congratulations followed.  But Tim took no part in
them.  He was reading his aunt's letter.

"... We are so sorry that you won't be home in time
for the wedding.  Diana and Henry are to be married.
It will be a London wedding.  Diana has grown into
a beautiful girl and will make a worthy wife for
Henry and a charming mistress of Maudsley Towers...."

As he read, the page became a dancing mass of
hieroglyphics.  The men were beginning to light their
cigarettes and pipes as they called bits of news to one
another from the English papers.  He tried hard to
make the strange letters shape themselves and form
words.  He reread them.  "Diana and Henry are
to be married."  He turned the page.  "On the
30th of April," it said.  To-day was the 2d of May.

Several of the men started for the polo-fields.  Some
one called, "What's your news, Wynnegate?"  He
forgot to answer.  He crushed the letter in his hand
and left the mess.  Mechanically he put the
unopened letter from headquarters, with the news of his
brilliant reward, in his pocket.  Across the polo-fields
he could see the heavy atmosphere gathering in great
clouds.  A dust-storm was nursing its imminent wrath.

It all seemed far away from the Fairies' Corner.





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.. _`CHAPTER V`:

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   CHAPTER V

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Since the day in his mess when Jim read the
news of Diana's approaching marriage to Henry,
he had been immersed in a strange dreariness of
feeling and a curious indifference to the
homeward-bound journey.  Night after night he stood alone
on the forward-deck of the *Crocodile* bound from
Bombay for England, and heard the soldiers singing
their camp-songs, their strong, rough voices growing
tender as they sang their cockney ballads of home.
But they roused no responsive echo in Jim; watching
the Southern Cross in the sky, his thoughts often
drifted back to the seven years of fighting with their
sun-scorched days of fatigue and danger, full of work
that drained body and brain.  He almost wished that
he were returning to them.

One night at Ismailia the pendulum of his emotions
swung back from this indifference to the first hours
of joy that he had experienced when he received the
news that his regiment was ordered back.  The ship
had anchored there for a few hours to obtain supplies.
With Dunlap and Singleton he went ashore to the
little hotel with its Continental atmosphere of cheap
table-d'hôte dinners and slipshod Italian waiters.
It was a shaky wooden building, built around an
inside court, with balconies over which clambered in
exuberance pale, waxy tea-roses, while the front of
the building hung over a cypress-tree garden.

The indifferently good but pretentious meal was
served in the tiny court.  Dunlap's and Singleton's
boisterous mood jarred Jim.  He found himself
watching the other guests of Monsieur Carlos'
hostelry.  At adjacent tables parties of tourists were
making merry while waiting for the P.&O. steamer
to carry them from Cleopatra's land to golden Italy,
and from a dance-hall came the fantastic music of the
nautch women's instruments.  In half an hour the
hotel was empty of all the diners save Jim, who
lingered until the shabby proprietor, Monsieur Carlos,
informed Monsieur le Capitaine that after ten the
court was closed, but the verandas were at
Monsieur's disposal for his kummel and cigarettes.  Jim
ascended the creaking staircase to the broad veranda
partly hidden from the road by its screen of blooming
roses gleaming like stars against the shadowed foliage.
Here and there a tight, pink-tipped bud shone like
a tiny flame.

The moon had risen and illumined the entire place
with an uncanny brilliance, turning the night into an
unreal day.  Jim sank into a chair.  The air was
heavy with the perfume of the rose-trees.  In the
distance he could hear the barbarous clash of the
dancing women's cymbals.  It was their trade-night with
two ships in the harbor.  Jim took from his pocket a
leather portmonnaie and drew from it the picture of
Diana that he had cut from the paper in the hospital.

He had never willingly thought of her since the day
he received his aunt's letter.  As he sat on the deserted
veranda, with the torn page lying on his knee, he was
conscious of a sudden, intangible feeling of
apprehension.  Diana was the tenderest memory of his
boyhood.  Why did he fear this marriage with
Henry?  Vainly he studied the picture, trying to gain
from the cheap illustration some knowledge of the
woman into which Diana had grown.  He tried
honestly to face the truth of his great anxiety
concerning the marriage.  He knew that through his
convalescence when the longing to go home had
overmastered the soldier in him, the thought of renewing
his friendship with Diana had been his happiest
anticipation.  He sought to reassure himself that his
disappointment was selfishness—that he feared to
find Diana absorbed in new interests, with his place
completely crowded out of her life.  Then a vision
of Henry, sullen and defiant as he had last seen him,
flashed before him....  Yet might not Henry's
character have been redeemed by his love for Diana?  Jim
knew that the meagre fortune of Sir Charles Marjoribanks
could not be a material factor in the marriage.
This proved his most reassuring thought.  Then his
memory reverted to Diana, and he recalled the child
Di, who had clung to him on the morning of his
departure and begged him to return.  He remembered
how as a boy he had often played that he was her
knight, and fought the unseen foes that were supposed
to lurk in the alleyways of the giant trees.  Was it
a prophetic vision of the future?

He rose from his chair.  Sweeping clouds were
rolling over the pale moon.  The desolation of the
place grew more terrible.

Far out at sea he could see the black phantom ship
now appearing, now disappearing.  It seemed at the
mercy of the heavy vapors that at times touched its
topmasts.  The desire to reach England again grew
strong in him.  He felt he had a purpose to fulfil.

A half-hour passed.  Suddenly the moon swept
from under a heavy cloud, shaped like the wing of
a monster bird.  Across the road he could see the
straggling groups of travellers returning from the
festivities.  Their tired, excited voices reached him,
and he was glad to escape from the hotel and make
his way to the waiting dinghy.  Dunlap and Singleton
joined him, and as he leaned back in the skiff,
strong and incessant as the incoming tide that beat
against the boat grew the strength of his resolve.
Diana should obtain happiness if he could serve her
to that end.

Three weeks later the *Crocodile* swung into the
harbor at Portsmouth.  A symphony in blues and
greens greeted Jim's eyes as they anchored within
sight of the Victory.  An English June sky with
riotous blues—from the palest flaky azure to the
deepest turquoise—hung in the heavens over a vivid green
sea.  The very atmosphere seemed floating about in
nebulous clouds of pearly tinted indigo.  To Jim it
was like the beauty of no other land.

Towards evening Jim reached London.  The
town was alive with the roar and rush of hansoms
and crowded 'buses carrying the day's workers to
their homes.  His cab turned from St. James's Park
into the Mall towards his club.  How he loved the
gray, majestic beauty of the place!

The expected arrival of the *Crocodile* had been duly
noticed by the papers, and his part in the brilliant
work of his regiment warmly commended.  At the
club he found letters of welcome awaiting him.
Among them was one from Diana, urging him to
come to them at once.  It seemed the letter of a
woman calm in her established womanhood.  "Henry
and I," it said, "will be so happy to see you to-morrow
at luncheon at two o'clock.  Do come."  The letter
further told him that Lady Elizabeth and Mabel
were staying at the Towers.  "Henry wanted a
town-house, so we are settled at Pont Street for the
season."

Late that night Jim sat alone in his club, and wrote
an answer to Diana's letter.  He spoke of his pleasure
in being able to go to them on the morrow, but its
phrases gave no sign of his intense feeling and his
great desire for her happiness.  He left the club and
walked to the pillar-box opposite.  He slipped the
letter into the slit of the box, and slowly retraced his
steps.  A slight haze was beginning to creep over
the city, and in the distance it looked as though a
gauze theatre-drop was shutting off the scene from
the spectators.

Jim was loath to leave the streets.  There was an
enchantment for him in the smoky atmosphere that
intoxicated him.  The call of London was in his blood.
As he crossed the quiet Square near the Mall, he
stretched out his arms, and youth and the joy of
life rang out in one great cry—Oh, it was good to be
home!





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.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

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   CHAPTER VI

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Jim slept but little that night.  In the morning
his first thought was to reach the War Office,
which he did almost before that dignified machine
was prepared to receive him.  A rumor was afloat
that the Tenth Hussars might have to start shortly
for South Africa, but he found that the gossip had
been greatly exaggerated.  Even if troops were sent
out, he was assured that the Tenth Hussars were
immune from active service for a long period.  He
rejoiced at the news, for he was tired of foreign service.
His long illness had left him shaken and requiring
a much-needed rest for recuperation.

At the War Office he learned that Henry had
resigned his regiment and was at the head of the
Surrey Yeomanry, with headquarters near the Towers.
This argued well, he told himself; it meant work and
responsibility for Henry that would engage his
interest and surely win him away from his old, reckless
way of living.

The morning slipped away with its many demands
on his first day in town.  His hansom turned into
Sloane Street only as a clock near by struck two.  In
a few minutes the door of the Pont Street house
was opened to him, and he was ushered into the
library.

He dropped lightly into an arm-chair near a table
heaped with books.  Suddenly a door opened as
though at the end of a corridor.  He distinctly heard
voices raised in strong argument behind the hangings;
one sounded like Henry's; a half-suppressed oath
followed.

"It's no use," the voice went on.  "You must do
as I say.  Don't preach."  He could not hear the
words that followed.  Jim wished it were possible
to make known his presence in the room.  He crossed
to the farther window to avoid hearing the remainder
of the conversation, but the clear and incisive words
of the first speaker—this time Jim knew it was
Henry—again struck his ears sharply.

"I must have the money, Petrie; make what explanation
you like, but send it to me within a week.
It's useless arguing.  I've lost heavily in
speculation.  Here are the papers."  The opening and
slamming of several drawers followed.  To Jim the
words that he had just heard were like a knell to his
hopes of the past week for Diana's happiness.  So
this was the truth!  Another mortgage!  He knew
enough of the involved condition of the estate to dread
the possibilities of that word.

As Jim sat in the window-seat facing the street, he
was so absorbed in his reflections that he did not hear
the door open.  With a start he felt a pair of hands
clasped over his eyes.

"Guess!" the low voice said.

He answered, quickly, "Di!"

"Yes, it's Di, Jim; and such a happy Di to see you
again."

As he turned he half expected to see the tiny child
as he had last seen her, with the puppy in her arms
calling, "It's Di, Jim."  For a moment they stood
holding each other's hands and only the eyes of the
two spoke.  The thoughts of both involuntarily went
back to their last meeting.  They realized that
unconsciously they had taken up their childhood manner.
Slowly their hands unclasped and Diana was the first
to speak.

"Oh, Jim, I should hardly know you.  You are so
big, so strong, and yet—you look as though you had
been very ill; have you?"

She studied Jim's face closely, gaunt and drawn,
but with the eyes still like gray pools of suppressed
fire.  Jim forgot the troubled thoughts that Henry's
words had aroused.  He only knew that Diana stood
before him, young and beautiful.  He threw back
his head and laughed; it was the ringing, joyous laugh
of a boy.

"And I almost thought, as I turned, that I could
see my little Di," he said.

The memory of the delicate child faded into the
tall, strong figure before him.  Quickly he noted the
complexities of her face; its newly acquired look of
womanhood seemed curiously incongruous with the
rest of her personality.  He saw in her eyes a haunting
expression of marked patience.  The new acquaintance
of the grown man and woman had adjusted itself.

"Oh, Jim, I'm so proud of you," Diana said, gravely.
"You have really done something with your life that
is worth while."

"Which means, I suppose, that the rest of us have
not," a voice said.

Jim and Diana turned as Henry spoke.  He was
standing in the doorway.  Jim noticed with satisfaction
that his eyes rested on Diana in unquestionable
gratification.  Perhaps, after all, Henry's love for
Diana was real.  He remembered that his aunt, in her
letter, had written of her great faith in this marriage
for Henry's happiness—indeed, he well remembered
that the letter seemed to insist upon the benefits
Henry would derive from the marriage.  He wondered
what it had meant for Diana.

"Welcome to the hero," Henry chaffingly said, as
he crossed to Jim's side.

An underlying nervous excitement, at once apparent
to Jim, clung to Henry's manner.  Otherwise his
greeting was more than reassuring.

"Did you finish your business interview?" Diana
questioned.  A shade of displeasure showed on
Henry's face as he answered:

"Yes, yes, I had more than enough of it."

"We postponed luncheon," Diana explained to Jim,
"because Henry found his solicitor wished to see him
about some repairs needed on the estate.  The
request was urgent, Henry said, and I knew you would
not mind the delay."

For a moment Jim felt as if Henry must read the
thoughts that blazed so fiercely in his mind.  So this
was Henry's way of deceiving Diana.  He tried to
control his face so that it might give no sign of the
disgust he felt.  Henry had turned away; Jim could
see him nervously twisting his mustache; Diana was
smiling tenderly on Henry as though in approval of
his morning's benevolent work.  Jim, reading between
the lines, saw Henry wince at the dishonestly gained
approbation; and decided that Henry was vulnerable
where his desire to gain her respect was concerned.
This was so much in his favor, at all events.

An hour later, as they sat over their coffee, Henry
began explaining to Jim his work with the Yeomanry.
If Jim stayed at home he wanted him to join in this
splendid service to England.

"We shall need these men later, mark me.  The
situation in Africa is threatening."  Then followed
a discussion of their plans.

Henry's career as a soldier, Jim remembered, had
promised well, but he also remembered certain periods
of riotous living that had brought him for a time
under the ban of the authorities.

As Henry elaborated his scheme to perfect the
Yeomanry in their county, Jim acknowledged that there
was no question of his undoubted ability to be in
command.  He succumbed to the strong personal charm
of his cousin.  Surely Henry would control himself
and make a worthy showing of his life yet.  In Jim's
heart was the silent prayer that it might be so, and that
perhaps he could help him to attain this result.

Diana, listening, was happy in the apparent new
bond between the cousins.  She had been so eager
for this: that Jim should be with them as he had been
when he was a boy.  Since her marriage, her life had
been full of pleasant days, with only here and there the
pin-prick of the old, frightened instincts.  It usually
occurred when Henry was in one of his black moods.
Up to the present he had tried to avoid her on these
occasions.  She strangely rebelled when she came to
realize that it was her beauty which gave him his
greatest pleasure.  That it was primarily her youth
and loveliness that delighted him, he made no effort
to conceal.  At times she admitted to herself that she
wished it were not so flagrant—this frank, pagan joy
of the senses which she invoked in him.  But, she
reasoned, if she allowed these thoughts to frighten her,
she was catching at shadows.  Of tangible facts there
was none; indeed, she found it impossible to explain
satisfactorily these doubts and regrets.

Jim was promising Henry that he would think
seriously of the Yeomanry work, when Diana suddenly
remembered that Henry and she were due at a studio
to see a portrait of hers that was soon to be exhibited.
At that moment a note was brought to Henry.  Jim
observed the quick contraction of Henry's brows
and the sharp biting of his lips as he read it.  Henry
crumpled the letter.  "Jim can take you," he
brusquely said.  "This note is of importance and
requires my immediate attention.  It's concerning
my interview of this morning."

Diana's face showed her disappointment.

"But this is the third time that you've broken your
appointment with me, and you promised Mr. Bond
that you would surely give your decision on the picture
to-day," Diana protested.  "Besides, it is difficult for
me to take all the responsibility in the matter, and the
picture must be sent to-day to the exhibition.  Do
meet me there later, Henry."

Henry had been fighting the Furies for days; his
financial worries were now vital to his honor.  Into his
eyes came the brutal flash that Jim knew so well, and
he hurriedly intervened, "I'll go with you, Di, with
pleasure, if I can be of the slightest service to you."

Instead of helping the situation, Jim found that his
quick acquiescence, although suggested by Henry,
had the effect of further irritating him.  Henry turned
from the door, to which he had crossed, with the
crumpled note in his hand; all the old, domineering,
rebellious temper struck flame.

"There!  You have Jim.  What more can you
wish?  Your hero's opinion will no doubt interest you
far more than mine, so don't talk rot about your
disappointment."

Diana stood silent, amazed at her husband's
uncalled-for fury.  Jim found it impossible to speak.
The servant returned to see if the answer to the note
was ready.

Henry contended for a few seconds with a tempestuous
remorse as strong as the flare of his nervous
outbreak; he bitterly regretted his lack of control.
He had tried to conceal the strain he had been under
all the day; to be thwarted as he apparently was by
the news from Petrie, was to arouse the demons of
destruction in him—destruction to himself as well as
to those near him.  He cursed himself as the victim
of his own folly; but to see Jim master of the situation
roused the old rebellion of his boyhood.  A movement
from the waiting servant recalled him, and with
a few words of half-muttered apology he hurriedly
left the room.  A moment later they heard him drive away.

From so small a matter so great a consequence had
arisen.  This insight into Henry's nature again showed
Jim the quicksands on which Diana's happiness was built.

To Diana the incident was embarrassing, but with
infinite tact she made no allusion to it.  Jim
marvelled at the quiet control with which she deftly
turned it aside.

The carriage was announced.

"Will you come, Jim?" Diana asked.

He hesitated.

"Do," she coaxingly said, "it would help me."

Under the calm, serious face he could see the
tremulous expression that showed her quivering, hurt
feelings.  The tender eyes held him fast.  Still he
hesitated.  As in a moment of prevision he was
urged to say no; it seemed as though he were starting
on a way that led him into darkness.  The absurd
compelling force fastened around him in a tight grip;
he tried to stammer a few words; he was irritated by
his apparent stupidity, then he heard Diana say:
"Let me decide for you."

As she spoke, a shaft of golden light penetrated the
room.  Why should he not go?  He quickly threw off
the intangible feeling of fear.  He told her he was
only too happy to be of service.  It was a warm,
mellow, summer day, and the soft, alluring air quickly
lulled Jim into a tranquil mood.

As they stood before the portrait, Jim knew that it
was one of the painter's true inspirations.  The simple
brown gown in which Diana had been painted brought
out the gold in the bands of her straight hair.  It
faded away into a dull background, leaving only her
luminous face in high relief.  The painted oval
contour and the curved lips were there in all their
beauty; but the shadowy eyes unconsciously showed the
troubled soul.  It was a portrait of Diana older in
years and experience.  The painter seemed to have
passed by her obvious youth and divined her in her
maturity.  Curiously enough, the portrait stirred Jim
more than his meeting with Diana had done.

When they descended to the carriage, Diana said,
"Come and drive—not in the park, but let us go
along the Embankment, across the bridge towards
Richmond.  I long for a breath of the country."  This
time he made no effort to resist her appeal.

As they drove, Jim learned from Diana the news
about Sir Charles.  His ill health had greatly
increased, and a London specialist's opinion had been
far from sanguine.  He gathered that Diana felt it
was the beginning of the end; as she spoke, Jim could
read the anguish of her thoughts.  Once she turned
to him and said:

"I have so few to love."

Soon they found themselves talking merrily over
gay reminiscences of their childhood days.  The
hours slipped by, and it was only the deepening of the
shadows that reminded Diana that she was entertaining
the Prime-Minister that night at a large dinner-party.
The return home was quickly made.

"Won't you dine with us, Jim?" Diana asked, as
they reached Pont Street.  "We can easily lay an
extra cover."

But Jim, feeling that it would be better not to see
Henry that night, pleaded an engagement at his club.
He left Diana with a promise to see her soon.

That night he forgot her unusual beauty; he
remembered only the fragrance of her personality.
During the following week he obtained a leave of
absence, and with Singleton planned to go abroad.
Why he did this he could not quite explain.  He saw
Diana and Henry only once before leaving for his
holiday.  That was in June.





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.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

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   CHAPTER VII

.. vspace:: 2

Upon the expiration of his sick leave, Jim
returned to his regiment, stationed at Dorden, a
few miles from Dinningfold.  He found the situation
but little changed at the Towers.  Henry's uncertain
moods made Jim's visits a doubtful pleasure, but since
his first day at Pont Street there had been no decided
outbreak on his cousin's part.

The autumn brought with it the calamitous war
in South Africa, and all thoughts were concentrated
on preparing the Yeomanry of the country to be ready
to join the Regulars in the field.  Jim's services were
readily enlisted by Henry, and in the organization of
the county's Yeomanry he became an active force.
His work often required him to spend days at the
Towers.

With the passing of the last days of the old year,
Henry's moodiness increased; even Lady Elizabeth
seemed hopeless and unable to avert them, and Jim
could see the bitter disillusionment that Diana daily
encountered.  During the winter Henry's attitude
towards Diana changed; her presence was an irritation to
him.  At times he made every effort to regain his lost
footing, but again and again he forfeited the newly
acquired grace which her clemency granted.  Days
of absence from the Towers were now not uncommon.
The light gradually faded from Lady Elizabeth's face,
leaving it a haunting gray mask.  But no word was
spoken by either of the women to Jim.  Both were
indefatigable in their efforts to relieve the condition
of the soldiers freezing on the African veldt.  A fund
was started in the county to be used for the widows
and orphans of the fighting men, and Henry was
placed at the head of it.

In London the innumerable bazaars and fêtes given
to swell the various funds of relief were the principal
functions of the fashionable world.  Jim, who had
just returned from a visit to Scotland over the holiday
season, was standing near a stall in Albert Hall,
presided over by Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester
Jones.  As she eagerly turned towards him there was
no doubt of the American woman's desire to gain his
approbation.  A friendship had sprung up between
them since Jim's return from India, and her frankness
amused him.  It was Sadie Jones's second year in
London, and the half of the great houses that had been
denied her the previous year were now open to her
and she was a much sought personage at their festivities.

Whether this was due to her insouciant face with
its tip-tilted nose, or the slight lisp that made her
American accent seem so fetching, her friends could
not decide.  Her enemies—and Sadie Jones had
them at Battle Creek—declared it was her charming
characteristic of never remembering a social slight;
of generously forgiving the offender and in true
Christian spirit offering the other cheek.  They
forgot what Jim and her sponsors in London could
plainly see—it was her frankness that razed to the ground
her social barrier.  When she spoke quite frankly of a
boarding-house her mother had kept in a mining-town
where Hobart Jones had been a paying guest, and told
in picturesque exaggeration of her starved youth and
pitiful hatred of her environment—of the longing to
escape to the great life of Europe with its men and
women of tradition—she disarmed the gossips.  She
frankly acknowledged what was her detractors' store
of tittle-tattle.  It was a unique game and it won.

Jim watched her with tolerant interest as she
inveigled a young guardsman into giving a substantial
donation to the cause.  As he idly surveyed the scene
he wondered at Diana's failure to attend the fête.
The tired women who had been in attendance were
disposing of the remains of their stock.  The eager
crowd that had thronged the hall and paid a
half-crown to be served tea by a duchess, or to see a
peeress act as barmaid in rivalry to a popular
Rosalind of the stage, was gradually thinning out.

Jim started to leave the flag-bedecked hall with its
litter of packages and debris-strewn floor as proofs
of the day's profitable traffic.  Sadie Jones, who had
been skilfully effecting her sales and keeping him in
sight, turned to him.

"Wait and drive home with me to dinner.  The
brougham's at the door.  I have news for you of
Lady Kerhill.  I have just returned from a visit."

Mrs. Jones lived in a box of a house in Curzon Street.
It was a setting especially designed to suit her small,
birdlike personality.  But Jim's stalwart frame seemed
grotesquely out of proportion in the small French
salon.  The dinner was an amusing *tête-à-tête* with
Sadie at her most vivacious best, telling anecdotes of
the plains she loved.

"Sometimes I long for the smell of the alkali.  It
chokes one, but I find the fogs far harder to swallow.
I was bred to it."

Hitherto her descriptions of the prairie had often
made Jim long to see the country she painted so
vividly.  Suddenly she turned to Jim and with quick
decision said:

"I can't understand your Englishman's point of
view.  Why, in America, if Hoby Jones had treated
me as Lord Kerhill is treating his wife, there would be
ructions.  Yes, ructions," she calmly went on, in
answer to Jim's look of amazement.  "Lord Kerhill
is your cousin, I know, but Lady Kerhill is an angel.
Why don't you do something?"

For a moment Jim could not quite grasp her
irrelevant outburst.  Then he learned that Diana's
failure to appear at the bazaar was due to days of
accumulated anxiety at the Towers.  Henry had
been away for a week without a word of explanation
to those at home.

"Of course," Sadie Jones continued as she leaned
back and puffed her cigarette, "I know the truth.
We all do here in town.  He's drinking inordinately
and leading a most flagrant life.  An earl may be a
stable-boy, I find, and Kerhill is certainly behaving
like one.  Lady Elizabeth is trying to cover up the
situation, and Lady Kerhill seems dazed by recent
events."

Of the sincerity of her interest in Diana, Jim could
have no doubt.  Under her frivolities she had an
appreciation of what was fine in men and women.
As she talked she was carefully watching the effect
of her words on Jim; her instinct had long ago told her
that Jim's interest in Diana was no usual one—how
unusual she did not care to probe.  She knew that he
was the one person who might have an influence over
Henry; she also knew that by this conversation she
might be stirring up a situation that would far from
benefit her, but she played the game fair.  She was
rich—Jim was almost poor.  Often she wondered
and hoped—but so far her dreams, she knew, were
built alone upon her desires.

They talked for another hour, and when Jim left
the Curzon Street house he promised Sadie Jones he
would see Henry.  From her window Sadie watched
him swinging down the street.  She had tried to serve
Diana, but, she asked, what had she accomplished for
herself?  She lighted another cigarette and settled
her foot against the fender.  She was thinking of Jim's
face as he had listened to her talk about Diana.

The fire burned gray.  A line of "dead soldiers,"
as the boys at Battle Creek had called the half-burned
cigarettes, lay on the hearthstone—a tribute to the
length of her reverie.  Another expression of the boys
at home came back forcibly to her as she left the room
and crossed to her bedchamber.  After all, she had
been "dead game."  Gain or loss, she did not regret
her evening's work.

As Jim walked along Piccadilly, he knew that
Henry's *liaisons* were now town-talk.  It was useless
to close his eyes to the suspicions of the past month.
Sadie Jones represented the world's opinion, and what
she tried to warn him about would soon be brutally
brought to Diana's knowledge.  At the club he could
find no news of Henry.  All night he thought out the
question of the wisdom of his approaching Henry,
but the strength of his determination only grew as the
gray of the dawn increased.

The following morning he called at Pont Street.
He found Henry lingering over some breakfast.  A
brandy-glass and empty soda-bottle aroused Jim's
suspicions, while the bloated circles under Henry's
eyes, and his yellow, discolored skin, were unmistakable
proofs of a recent debauch.  As Jim entered,
Henry looked up with surprise.

"Didn't expect you back so soon," he said, after their
strained greetings.  Henry seemed ill at ease.  "Anything
up?" he went on, as Jim didn't speak.

There was a moment's portentous silence.

"Henry," Jim began, very calmly, "I've got to
speak to you about certain matters."

Henry, who had been shifting about in his chair,
became motionless.  His clinched hands strained
purple as he grasped the chair rail.

"About the—Yeomanry—work?" he half stammered
while his eyes furtively sought Jim's face.

But Jim, who was thinking only of Diana and the
difficulty of alluding to Henry's recent conduct, failed
to notice his faltering words and frightened expression.

"Oh no—no," he answered.  "That's going on
all right, I hear."  He hesitated.  Then with a quick
breath he said, "It's no use.  I've got to blurt out
what's troubling me.  All the town is talking about
your life; its flagrance, its indecencies.  Do you
realize that it will soon reach Diana, and that Lady
Elizabeth is quivering under the strain of a certain
amount of knowledge which she is hiding, and is
dreading further disclosures?"

As Jim spoke he seemed to gain courage.  "Don't
speak.  Let me have my say," he quietly commanded
as Henry rose and attempted a blustering manner.
"I am the only man close to Lady Elizabeth and
Diana.  For Sir Charles to become aware of this
scandalous condition of affairs would be disastrous.
You know that perfectly.  Now tell me, in God's
name, why you married Di if you wished to lead this
life?"  He paused.  "Can't you pull yourself together?
It's not too late.  So far nothing definite is
known to either Di or Lady Elizabeth, and you may
trust me."  He rose and crossed to Henry.  "It's
all true, I suppose—what I'm accusing you of—isn't
it?"  There was no answer.  He laid his hand on
Henry's shoulder.  "Tell me that it's over and that
you mean to go straight."

Henry turned.  All his rebellion seemed to have
slipped from him.  Suddenly he dropped into a chair
and buried his head in his hands.

"I'm not fit—not fit, do you hear?—for Di.  I
married her because I loved her.  Yes, I did.  But you
don't know what it is to fight daily the devil's desire.
God! what do you know about it?  I am in the
meshes.  I have sunk lower and lower.  You want
to know about this woman the world links with my
disgrace.  Well, I tried to break with her when I
married Di—I swear I did—but I can't.  She is like
a dog that one has grown attached to—you can't fling
it out of your life completely. There has always been
a wall between Diana and me.  I tried in the beginning
to reach her, but she's afraid of me—I know it."

As the torrent of words choked him, he stopped with
a quick passion of agony.  He was sincere in this
confession of his weakness; Jim could not doubt him,
though he was astonished at the admission.  He had
expected Henry to assail him with hard words and
insolent denials.  The acknowledged truth was
sickening.  Henry mechanically took some brandy; he
seemed a vibrating bundle of torments.

Jim watched him closely.  "I don't want to preach,
Henry," he said, "but when you stop that,"—he
pointed to the half-empty flask—"you'll have half
conquered yourself, and the rest will be far easier.
This drinking will pull you into days of horror, days
that would mean desolation to us all."

He hesitated.  Henry crossed to the chimney and
leaned against it with his back to Jim.

"There is every chance for you," continued Jim.
"In three months you can have regained your place
with Di, and think—think what it would mean to
your mother."

Henry did not move; his head was resting on his
outstretched arms, lying across the mantel edge.  The
broken figure of Henry touched Jim deeply.  "It's
all right, old man.  We'll forget this.  Forgive my
frankness, but, after all, your interests are mine; your
mother and your home were mine, and Di—was like
a little sister, so I had to speak.  I'll not say another
word.  I'm off."  And almost before Henry could
realize it, Jim had left him—left him with the dull
burning in his heart and brain.

So Jim knew.  It had been a relief to acknowledge
his pent-up remorse, but he was more deeply involved
than his cousin suspected.  Jim knew but half; the
other half, with its awful, dreaded discovery, walked
ever beside him.  He made a sudden rush to the door
as though to recall Jim, to unburden himself and be
saved, but the momentary impulse died.  He stumbled
heavily into a chair; it was useless.  He alone could
save the situation, and the half that Jim knew would
be bitter enough to face in his daily companionship
with him.

August came with its heather-clad hills, but England
rejoiced less than usual in the beauty of the great
flower-garden which the entire country-side resembled.
Over it all hung the tragic symbol of war.  The call of
Africa for men had been appalling.  In the park of
the Towers a detachment of Yeomanry were encamped
for a fortnight's training, and the restful
beauty of the place for days had been broken by the
firing manoeuvres of the men.  To-night all was quiet,
with only the sounds from the men in their tents faintly
reaching the Towers.  Henry was giving a dinner to
the officers in command and coffee was being served
in the garden.  A flaming border of evening
primroses were opening their yellow, cuplike blossoms,
In the distance a boy's clear voice was singing:

   |  "Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,
   |  You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."
   |

Lady Elizabeth had gathered a house-party to see
the afternoon's manoeuvres and to remain for the
dinner.  The Bishop leaned back in his chair and
folded his hands over his apron; his short, lean legs
were stretched out comfortably—the Kerhills knew
how to entertain the Church, he was convinced.  Near
him sat Sir John Applegate and Mrs. Chichester
Chichester Jones.  Close to a great bed of white
pansies, with scarlet standard roses gleaming like
sentinels over the delicate white blossoms, were
Mabel, Diana, and Mr. Chiswick, the young ascetic
curate.  Henry, who was standing near Lady
Elizabeth, kept his eyes moodily on the ground.  Sir
Charles, with a heavy shawl wrapped around him, was
stretched out in a long basket-chair.  The air was so
still that the moving of a bird in its nest or the rustling
of a leaf disturbed its silence.

   |  "God bless you, Tommy Atkins—
   |  Here's a country's 'ealth to you."
   |

The voice ceased.

Sir John had been telling a story to Mrs. Jones of
the mule who drew a pension from the American
government.

"Heard that story in America.  Rather good, eh,
Mrs. Hobart Chi—" ignominiously he stood stricken
by the American name.  The Bishop, seeing his
bewilderment turned quickly and whispered the
dreadful cognomen.  As Sir John finished the broken
sentence there was a quiet laugh.

Henry leaned over his mother.  "Mater," he said,
"Don't you think that Mrs. Hobart Chichester
Chichester Jones would make a ripping match for
Jim?  I wish you'd try and make an opportunity to
help it along."

As he spoke he already saw the gold from the Battle
Creek mines pouring into the coffers of the house of
Kerhill.  Lady Elizabeth looked up with sudden
comprehension.  The American was charming; her look
reassured Henry.

"Most assuredly.  I'll do what I can."

From the drawing-room came the sound of music.
An impromptu dance had been arranged by Diana
for the young people, who were beginning to arrive.
At a message from Bates she quietly went towards
the open casement to meet her guests.  Henry followed.

As the others started to follow, Sir John and the
Bishop held a whispered consultation.  Then the
Bishop, bursting with importance, turned to Sir John
and said:

"Shall we take the ladies into our confidence, Sir John?"

"By all means, Bishop; yes, do."

Mabel and Mrs. Jones joined in the supplication.

"Kerhill's brother officers," the Bishop began,
"have purchased a very beautiful loving-cup in
appreciation of his work for the fund, which we have
arranged to present to-morrow afternoon to the
Earl."

"Oh, how charming, and what a delightful surprise!"
Lady Elizabeth said.  These moments of joy
in Henry were rare events in her existence.

"But," said Sadie Jones, "isn't Captain James
Wynnegate to get a loving-cup, too?"

Sir John answered, "Oh, he's only the secretary of
the fund."

The waltz tune, with its enticing beat, grew louder
and louder, and soon the garden was deserted by all
save Sir Charles, who remained there absorbed in his
thoughts.

Diana, having seen her guests dancing, and fearful
that her father might remain too long in the garden,
hurriedly returned to him.  She stood in the open
window and tenderly watched the closely wrapped
figure.  The moonlight intensified his pallor; it had
been an event that he should come to them that night.
She saw him smile.

"Well, father," she said, "are you having a happy
time?"

He rose and drew her close to him.  "My dear
child, I can't tell you how much this has pleased me.
It is a great joy to me to know that my daughter is
married to the distinguished head of one of our great
families, a man so loved, so honored—a pillar of
society, and a bulwark of the empire."

Never for a moment had he suspected the misery of
Diana's marriage.  Not a quiver of emotion showed
on her calm face as she drew her arm into his and
said, quietly, "Yes, father."

"I haven't forgotten your opposition to this match,"
but Charles continued, "although I dare say you have,
my dear, and I am naturally pleased that events have
vindicated me.  Your husband cuts a noble figure
in the world, and I am grateful beyond words to see
you so happy."

As Diana gradually led Sir Charles from his seat
to the house, she again answered, "Yes, father."

During the past months her life had grown more
dreary.  If it had not been for Jim—dear Jim—what
would she have done?  Her fragrant mind had
never been disloyal to Henry.  Often she had longed
to go to her father, but her solicitude for him
prevented her from bringing disaster to him.  As they
reached the door Lady Elizabeth called:

"Have you seen Jim, Diana?"

Jim had been down in the park doing some service
for a sick trooper; Diana explained this to Lady
Elizabeth.  He had promised to return in time for
the dancing.

"By-the-way, my dear," Lady Elizabeth began,
"if you get an opportunity, I wish you would say a
judicious word in praise of Mrs. Hobart Chichester
Chichester Jones.  Jim, you know, sets such an
extraordinary value on your opinion."

A quick feeling of dislike filled Diana—why, she
could not explain.

"What do you wish me to do?" she said.  "Praise
her American accent or her American money?"  Before
she had finished the sentence she was ashamed.
She really liked Sadie Jones; the sneer had been
unworthy.  She was about to retract her words when
Jim hurriedly came up the garden-walk.  As she
entered the library with Sir Charles he called:

"Don't forget our waltz, Diana."

"I won't, Jim."

Lady Elizabeth sank on to the stone bench.  She
watched Jim, whose eyes were still following Diana's
receding figure.  This was the moment in which she
might serve Henry.  In the music-room Sadie Jones
was singing:

   |  "Tout lasse, tout passé—"
   |

Jim began humming the tune; he crossed to Lady
Elizabeth and lightly put his arm about her as he
said:

"Well, Auntie mine?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII

.. vspace:: 2

Lady Elizabeth watched Jim with curiosity.
The voice from the drawing-room grew
louder:

   |  "Tout casse, tout passé—"

deeper grew Jim's voice as he softly sang the refrain.
Quite abruptly Lady Elizabeth began:

"She's a fine woman, Jim."

As she spoke, Jim caught sight of Diana crossing
to the piano in smiling approbation as the song ceased,
and answered:

"Diana?"

"Diana!  Nonsense!"  Again she watched Jim's
face, but its grave serenity gave no sign.  "I mean
Mrs. Hobart Chichester Chichester Jones.  She's
quite the type that men admire, is she not?"

"That's the most offensive thing that one woman
can say about another," Jim laughingly replied, as
he turned from watching the group in the
music-room—"isn't it, Auntie?"

"Not at all."  Lady Elizabeth fidgeted; he was
making it exceedingly difficult, she thought, as he
leaned over her, his laughing eyes teasing her.  "The
sensible view of things never appeals to you, Jim; so
I have hesitated to remind you that Sadie Jones is
exceedingly rich."

"Did you notice how deferential I was, Aunt?" Jim
lightly interrupted.  "Why, if you tell me more, I
shall scarcely dare to speak to her."

He drew Lady Elizabeth's arm through his; he
knew what was coming.  It amused him, and it also
irritated him a little, but he felt very tender
towards his aunt.  All the boyish hurt had been
forgotten.  Her great endurance of Henry's conduct,
her indomitable resolution to keep him well placed
in the eyes of men, deeply touched him.  After all,
in her devotion to Henry there was a magnificent
capacity for self-surrender.  During the past winter
Jim had grown strangely attached to his aunt, and
a great pity for the inevitable tragedy of her life lay
deep in his thoughts of the proud old woman.  He
patted her hand caressingly.

With almost a note of despair she said, "And I
invited her here for this visit especially for you, Jim."

"Do you think she would care to add to her already
abundant collection of names?"

He would not be serious, but Lady Elizabeth took
up his question literally.

"I think she would be very glad to ally herself with
one of the great families of England.  Besides," she
continued, as there was no reply, "such a marriage
would put you in a position to be of great service to
Henry and the family."

Jim distinctly saw Henry's purpose in this appeal.
It sickened him—this cold, devilish selfishness that
made his cousin use all things as a means to further
his own ends.  His spirit rose in revolt against his
aunt, who, he now saw, was seriously asking so grave
a sacrifice of him.  How lightly they played with
human destinies!  Then he conquered his sudden
passion.  He spoke in a tone of affectionate banter.

"You dear Aunt—Henry and the family are among
the earliest of my recollections.  I was taught Henry
and the family before my letters.  If I found a stray
dog, or made a toy, I was forced to hand it over to
Henry.  Why, I remember I gave up a brilliant
offer to enter commercial life—far better suited to my
small fortune than an army career—because it would
not lend dignity to Henry and the family."  The
hard tone he was struggling to keep down crept into
his voice.  "The woman I marry will have a right to
expect more of me than a profound respect for her
money and a laudable desire to promote Henry and
the family."

Lady Elizabeth perceived the suppressed irritation,
and was for a moment touched by Jim's reproaches.

"One must pay something for the glory and privilege
of belonging to a great family."

"Don't you think we pay too great a price, dear Aunt?"

"I have never shirked the sacrifices."

The worn, tremulous face looked up at Jim with
eyes that were unconscious confessors of the bitter
struggle her life had been.  He leaned towards her
and gently took her hand.

"No, dear Aunt, you haven't.  You deny yourself
everything.  Don't you think I can see that?  You
stint yourself to the point of shabbiness: why, your
wardrobe is positively pitiful!  And Mabel—the child
has had no proper education, no advantages; she has
never been anywhere, nor seen anything, nor had
anything—Henry needed the money."

"We have been as generous to you and Mabel as
we could, Jim.  We must keep up the dignity and
position of the head of the family."  Like a war-horse
sniffing the powder of battle-fields, at the words
"family" and "dignity of its head," Lady Elizabeth's
courage rose.  In the moonlight Jim could plainly see
the determined look grow on her face until it formed
granite-like lines.  The fox might eat her vitals, but
she would not whimper.  The torch of the family was
the light of her declining years, as it had been of her
youth.  It was useless to argue further, Jim told himself.
The music sounded a new dance.  It was an opportune
moment to escape.

"You've been a dear—I'm not complaining, only I
don't think we have the right to sacrifice an amiable
lady on the altar of our obligations."  He drew his
aunt towards him and leaned over the seat.  "Besides,
I have no desire to marry at present, so we won't
speak of this again, will we?"  As he spoke he kissed
her on the forehead.  "God bless you!  And now I
must be off to help Di with the dancing."

Lady Elizabeth rose.  It was impossible to resist
his tender charm, but his evident indifference to her
wishes vexed her.  He crossed to the casement and
Lady Elizabeth called:

"There's an occasional streak of stubbornness in you, Jim."

He smilingly called back.  "I think it runs in the
family, doesn't it, Aunt?"

As he went into the house, he passed Henry and
several of the men busily discussing the condition of
the Yeomanry, and the Relief Fund that was doing
such excellent work.  Here Henry proved himself
of worth—of his interest in the work there could be
no doubt.

As Lady Elizabeth stood alone in the garden, she
was conscious that her recent interviews with Jim had
been most unsatisfactory.  He had a way of not
taking the traditions of her life seriously; he discussed
and dismissed them lightly.  She knew that Henry
would be annoyed at Jim's indifference to this fortune
within his grasp, and she suspected that there was a
cause unknown to her for Henry's nervous and upset
condition.

She had no inclination to return to the dance; instead,
she crossed to the seat under the great oak-tree,
and drew her lace scarf close about her.  The garden
was quite empty.  In the distance the yew-trees, like
a line of ghostly, fantastic figures, seemed pregnant
with sinister forebodings.  She shivered; it was growing
slightly cold.  She could hear the dancers, and
from the card-players in the house came sounds of
more life and mirth.  Her recent desire to be alone
deserted her—the living warmth of the life of the
crowds within her reach attracted her.  The sadness
of the moaning wind in the trees she could dispel by
returning to her guests—she would do so and assist
Diana in her duties.  As she started to leave the rose
enclosure, Henry with Sir John came through the
open casement.

She noticed the strained look on Henry's face as he
said, "No, no, I haven't done it yet.  But we'll
prepare a statement in good time—leave it to me.  I'm
getting tired of the word Fund—the demands of the
work have been so incessant."

They reached Lady Elizabeth.  Henry's look quickly
told her that he wished to be alone.  She came to
his assistance as she said:

"Don't you believe him, Sir John.  He really thinks
of nothing else.  But won't you join the dancers?
I'm sure Diana will need you."

Henry quickly added, "Do, and forget the Fund
for a moment."  As Sir John disappeared he
muttered, "And let *me* forget it."

Lady Elizabeth heard the last words and wondered.
The ugly horns on his brows showed the irritable state
of his mind.

"Well," he quietly said, "what did Jim say to the
American widow?  It isn't often that a man without
a title gets a chance like that."  There was a
moment's silence.  Lady Elizabeth would have
preferred to have this conversation at another time;
her mind was anxious about Henry's recent words—what
did they forebode?  But Henry settled himself
in a big chair, and she saw that he was anxious to
learn the result of her interview with Jim.

"He declines positively," she answered.

Then the passion he had been fighting to keep under
broke loose.  He rose and began pacing the walk.

"Not an atom of consideration for me—eh?  In
the hopeless struggle I make to live up to the
traditions of my race?"  Henry could always work
himself up into a great burst of self-pity.

"Jim is an anarchist in his talk, but an angel at
heart.  He always ends by doing the right thing."

This defence of Jim caused Henry to stop in his
walk.  That his mother should advocate the
goodness of Jim was a new victory for his cousin.

"Jim likes to play the saint, confound him," he
barked, "but waking or sleeping, he never takes off
his halo."

Lady Elizabeth crossed to him.  "He says he has
no desire to marry at present."

"That's the sickly sentimental pose of the man who
loves a woman beyond his reach," Henry answered.

Like a flame of illumination the innuendo of his
words brought their meaning to Lady Elizabeth.  She
remembered so much and yet so little in Jim's actions
of late, but all tended towards a horrible suspicion.
She could still see Jim's face as he watched Diana
earlier in the evening.  It was not the face of a lover
in the usual sense.  It was a face glorified by an
unconscious devotion to a great ideal.  All she could
stammer was:

"You mean—"

But Henry, who had blurted out in a heat of temper
more than he felt he had reason for, tried to ignore the
question and the look of sudden bewilderment in her
eyes.  He moved restlessly in his chair as he said:

"Never mind, mother; it doesn't matter."

But Lady Elizabeth went to him, and, with her arms
about him, whispered, "My son, you are nervous, pale,
distrait.  You have been so for some time.  I haven't
spoken of it for fear of annoying you, but others are
beginning to speak of it.  What is it?"  She drew his
head back until it rested against her breast.  "Can't
you trust your mother?"

Instead of a restive withdrawal from her embrace,
he let her soothe his head with her half-trembling
hands.  Why not tell her what he suspected?

"Have you seen Jim and Diana much together?"

"Not more than always," was her reassuring reply.

"But, mother, have you observed them when they
are together?"

Lady Elizabeth slipped down on the seat beside him.

"My boy, your suspicions are morbid and unjust.
You ought to be ashamed of them," she gently urged.
In her heart she feared for him and his happiness with
Diana.  She had seen the girl gradually sicken and
turn away from her life with Henry.  Great provocation,
she knew, had been given Diana, but at present
it was wiser not to discuss this with him, but to calm
him.

Suddenly he leaned forward and buried his face on
his arms.

"Mother, I love Diana.  I have my faults, but that
is the best of me.  I love her desperately.  Oh, I
know you're going to say that at times I haven't
proved by my actions that I cared for her, but it's
because I knew from the beginning that I never could
reach her.  Does she love me?  No, I can't deceive
myself.  She was devilled into marrying me for the
damned title.  I know that now.  The best I can
hope for is that she should not utterly despise me, and
I want a chance to win her love—my God, how I want
it!  Everything that Jim does pleases her.  She
admires him; I can see it clearly."  He paused as the
whirlwind of words swept from him; he rose, and
towered over his mother.  "That admiration belongs
to me.  You've spoiled me, mother.  I've always had
what I wanted, and now I'm the victim of it.  I'm
the selfish monster that takes everything while
St. James stands modestly in the background.  Oh,
don't you see you have made him her hero, not me?"

He began to move restlessly about the rose paths,
Lady Elizabeth following.  Indulgently she linked
her arm through his.  Although a fear was beginning
to persuade her of the truth of his wild words, still, she
argued, he greatly exaggerated.  That he cared so
deeply for Diana promised well for the future, and,
with her aid, Diana would soon be convinced of
Henry's worthiness.

"My dear boy," she said, "is that all you have to
worry over?"

"No, mother, no—I wish to God it were."

She caught hold of him almost savagely, "Ah—"
she gasped.  Then the apprehensions that had torn
her for days had been justified.  She feared to
question further.  An overwhelming dread held her in
its torturing grip.  Henry started as though to leave
her; his face was averted, she turned him towards her.

"Money again?" she asked.

"You know what the demands on me are.  I couldn't
disgrace my family by going into bankruptcy, and I
had to have money.  Well—I was foolish enough to
borrow—"

Lady Elizabeth knew instinctively the words that
would follow.  Her hands clinched his arm so tight
that he shrank under the pressure.

"Borrow, mind," he continued, "some of the Fund's
money."

"The Relief Fund?  Oh, Henry—"

The despair and horror of her tone caused him to
put his arms protectingly about her.  Even in his own
blind fury at fate he could see her shrink from her
stately strength into a feeble old woman.  He tried
to reassure her.

"Oh.  it's really all right, mater.  I'll be able to
replace it.

"How?"

She clung to his arm.  He could hear the quadrille's
last quarters beginning; it would be impossible to
continue this conversation much longer.

"You wouldn't understand, mother.  You see, it's
a stock transaction, but it's all right—bound to be.
Hobbes, of Simpson & Hobbes, you know, gave me
the tip.  It was absolutely inside information."

Lady Elizabeth loosened her hold, and with a hopeless
gesture moved away.  Henry read her lack of
faith in the enterprise.

"Oh, I took the trouble to verify it."  He did not
admit, however, that he had sought Petrie's advice
only after the plunge, when the waiting had grown
too fearful.  "I'm expecting a telegram to-night—that's
the reason I'm nervous.  But I'll have enough
to put back the sum I've borrowed, and a nice little
fortune besides.  Don't you worry."  But even as he
spoke the comforting words he seemed to lose the
confidence which he was vainly trying to assume.
The telegram should have arrived in the afternoon.
He knew that Petrie, if his investigation had been
at all hopeful, would have sent a reassuring word.
Then, that the strength of his mother, upon which he
had so often leaned, should crumble away as he
confessed to her, that he should be forced to carry her
anxieties instead of receiving her support, terrified
him with its significance.

It was all quite palpable to Lady Elizabeth.  His
drawn face with eyes like burned-out flames showed
how the fever of unrest and fear consumed him.

"Henry, you are trying to reassure yourself, not
me," she said.

"No, no, mother, it isn't that."  But it was useless,
he could no longer play a part.  "Yes, you're
right," he acknowledged as he threw himself down on
the great stone bench.  "My God, the consequences!—the
consequences!"

And Lady Elizabeth stood dumb and helpless.
For the first time he held out his hands to her, and
she was unable to grasp them in support.  She could
offer no respite to the torture of suspense he endured.

As they stood in silence, Diana came from the
pergola, "Dear people, are you moon-struck?  Our
guests are missing you."

With an effort Lady Elizabeth turned, "Is the
dance over?" she said.

Henry's words followed close: "Have we been
gone very long?"

"Oh no—but you see they have stopped bridge,
and the men want to talk to you about the Fund.
They are all so proud of our extraordinary result.
They want a statement published so that they can
gloat over the envy of the other regiments.

"Published—a statement!" but Diana, who was
bending over some roses, hardly noticed the strained
speech, and Lady Elizabeth motioned him to
restrain his agitation.

"First, I believe," Diana continued as she seated
herself, "there is a committee or somebody to go over
the accounts and what do they call it—?"

"Audit them," Henry found himself mechanically
saying.

"Yes, that's it.  They want to know when it will
be convenient to-morrow for you, Henry."

Quite vaguely he said, "Oh yes—for me."

In his work for the Yeomanry and his characteristic
British loyalty to his men, Diana found one great
virtue to be proud of in Henry.  She realized this as
she heard the men discussing his efforts.  For several
days a growing feeling of pity for his misspent life had
taken hold of her as she saw what he really could do
when he willed.

"You are a great man with the Tenth, Henry," she
said.  "To hear them talk, one would think you
carried the regiment in your pocket.  And the dear
mother there—to see her listen to your praises!  Oh,
well, it's very beautiful—you both had better go and
glory in some more.  The taste for adulation will
grow insatiable after this—won't it?"  As she spoke
she lifted her long, slender hands and fastened them
across her brows.  Henry came to her.  She was very
beautiful; an unusual pallor gave her face a delicate
spirituality.  In the dim light her soft white draperies,
the fluttering scarf ends, and the wreath of green leaves
made her seem half a sprite.

"Won't you return with us, Di?"

"No—I have a headache.  I'll stay here in the air
for a few moments."

As she spoke, Jim came towards them.

"The next is our dance, Diana.  Will you come?"

Henry answered for her with unmistakable sarcasm.

"Perhaps Jim will stay with you, Di, as you have
a headache."

And Jim innocently replied, "With pleasure; I've
really been doing duty quite assiduously in the way
of dancing."

He crossed to Diana's side.  Lady Elizabeth, who
had been trying to divert an awkward moment, drew
her arm through Henry's.  Henry looked at his
mother's face, which grew tender as her eyes rested
on him.

"I'm afraid my wife does not share your pleasure
in my praises, mater."

"Oh yes," Diana answered, "but you must not
expect a wife to have the illusions of a mother."  It
was lightly said, to cover up an apparent effort on
Henry's part to cause an embarrassing moment.

Lady Elizabeth took up the cue.  She glanced from
Jim to Diana, but they were beginning to talk; she
almost drew Henry forcibly away as she said with
forced gayety, "No—no one can love you as your
mother does, dear."

She little knew the prophetic truth of her words or
to what length her mother-love would lead her before
another day had passed at the Towers.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX

.. vspace:: 2

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:

.. vspace:: 2

"Impossible to give any definite news.  Still probing
matter.  Will be down to-morrow afternoon."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER X`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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:

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

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

Yes, he must go.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII

.. vspace:: 2

The clock was striking ten, and Jim was waiting
for Henry in the prayer-closet.  He had arranged
all the details of his departure.  It was as though
he carried a dead soul, so calm and void had been his
feelings for the past hours.  He had stayed away
from the dinner-party on some pretext, and his man
had already started for London with his luggage to be
left at his club.  When the servant returned the
following morning, as he supposed to accompany his
master back to town, he would find him gone.  By
the time the discovery of the deficit was made, Jim
would be aboard the steamer that was to carry him
across the Atlantic.

Sounds from the drawing-room told him that dinner
was over.  He sat twirling his travelling hat; on a
chair near by lay his coat.  The chimes of the last
notes of the church-bell were dying away as Henry
hurriedly entered.  Jim looked up and studied his
cousin's face, and he saw by his manner that some
word of hope must have reached him from Lady
Elizabeth.  Save for a half-suppressed exclamation
from Henry as he noticed Jim's travelling clothes,
neither of the men spoke.  Henry flung himself into
a chair; he could feel Jim's eyes on his face.

"Damn it, why don't you speak?" he finally gasped,
when he could no longer endure the situation.

Jim quietly asked, "Have you made your peace
with Diana?"

"What would be the use now?"  He knew that
his mother had told Jim the truth.  Why did Jim not
refer to it?  Perhaps there was, as his mother
suggested, a way out of this; if so, why in Heaven's name
should the torture be continued.  But Jim remained
silent.  "You think of nothing but Diana—Diana—Diana."  With
the last call of her name it became a
wail.  Henry had learned during the past hours what
suffering could mean—he was beginning to know
what life tempered with discipline might have meant
for him.  "When I stand dishonored before the
world, it will be easy for you to take her from me.
Is that what you are thinking?"  He began excitedly
to pace the room.

"Not exactly," Jim answered, without moving from
his bent position; "I was wondering whether you can
be trusted with Diana's future.  I believe you love
her after a fashion."

Henry stopped in his walk in front of Jim.  "And
I know that you love her."

Jim moved from the position that told how spent
he was, and raised himself to his cousin's height.
"Yes," he said, "but not quite in the way you mean.
I am about to show you how I love her."

Something in the simple directness of his words
made Henry lower his eyes.  He threw himself into
a chair and with averted head listened to what his
cousin had to say.

"It's too late for Diana to find out what a
blackguard you are, Henry."  Henry only dropped his
head lower on his hands.  "I wonder if you will enter
into an honest conspiracy to keep her in happy
ignorance to the end," Jim continued.

"What are you driving at?" Henry asked.  He almost
knew the words that were to follow, but he hardly
dared believe that what he surmised could be true.

"I am thinking that under certain conditions I will
disappear—leave England; as secretary of the Fund
my action would be practically a confession of guilt."

Jim could hardly hear the strained question that
followed.

"Your conditions?"

"That you give up gambling of every kind; that
you drop your mistress, shut up her establishment,
and give up your other liaisons for good and all; that
you make a will leaving everything you have, except
what is entailed, to Diana; and that you give me a
written and signed confession that you embezzled this
money; that for the above considerations I consented
to assume the appearance and responsibility of the
guilt, and that if you do not keep the agreement you
have made with me, I am at liberty to appear at any
time and make known the truth."

Henry rose and stood looking silently at Jim.
Vaguely he began to grasp the tremendous power
of Jim's loyal love.  He could find no word—the
clock chimed the quarter-hour.

"Well?" Jim asked.

"It's for her, Jim—for her—I understand that,
and I'll try and have the future make up for the past,
so that you'll never regret this."  His voice broke—he
leaned towards Jim and tried to grope for the hands
that he could not see—"I was a dog to say what I did,
but, by God! I'll keep my part of the agreement."

Jim nodded—he was beyond emotion.  "Good; it's
a bargain.  Go to your room, make out a paper such
as I have indicated, sign it and bring it to me here.
Be quick," he added, "and I'll get away at once."

This time it was Jim who dropped into a chair and
averted his head to avoid seeing Henry's out-stretched,
pleading hand.  He never raised his eyes until he
heard the door click, then he went and unlocked a
side entrance that led from the prayer-closet to the
other side of the garden, and with his watch in his
hand leaned against the open door and waited.
Henry must not be too long; he was to leave by the
midnight train, but before that he must make his
pilgrimage.  Across the garden he could see the
waving tree-tops beckoning him, calling him with the
mysterious powers of the night.  Yes, he would make
his start for the new life from the Fairies' Corner
that led—whither?

.. vspace:: 2

Towards the carriage-drive Diana tenderly assisted
Sir Charles, followed by Bates.

"Must you really go, father?"

"Yes, my dear, I must keep good hours, you know.
These two days have been a great dissipation for me;
but I've been well repaid; I can't tell you how much
the delightful episode of the loving-cup pleased me.
So now, good-night, my love."  They had reached
the entrance, "No, no," Sir Charles protested as
Diana started to walk to the carriage with him,
"Bates will take care of me."  Then he gathered her
close in his frail arms as he kissed her, and whispered,
full of the pride he felt in the honors done to the
house of Kerhill, "You see, it was all for the best,
my dear—all for the best."  And Diana made no
answer.  Ever since she had sent the note to Jim
revealing the truth of her tortured heart she had seemed
to gain a spiritual strength that helped to calm the
aching call of her senses.  She dared ask no question
concerning Jim's absence, and her heart mocked her
again with the truth that she had not meant him to
obey her so implicitly.

She saw Sir Charles drive away.  "Dear father,"
she whispered, "he must never know—never know—but
it was all for the worst, my dear, all for the worst."  Tears
began to stain her face; they were the first in
many days.  She tried to control the passion of her
grief but it was impossible; quivering sobs shook her
in an hysterical outburst.  To escape from the
possible eyes of any chance meeting she quickly sought
refuge in the rose-arbor.  Hidden completely, she
gave herself up to the relaxation of her sorrow.
Finally, spent with her tears, she leaned against the
damp foliage of the rose-screen, and an aftermath of
calm followed her outburst.  Suddenly she became
conscious that Sir John Applegate and Mr. Chiswick
were crossing to a bench near the sundial.

"My dear Chiswick," her cousin John was saying,
"I'm greatly distressed.  I've been obliged to ask you
to give me a few moments here, and, indeed, I've
asked Lady Elizabeth—as Kerhill seemed so ill
to-day—to join us here."

Diana could distinctly hear every word, but with
her tear-stained face it was impossible for her to make
known her presence.

"You see, Chiswick," Sir John continued, "I
presume that as Lord Kerhill's secretary you had his
accounts in such shape that we could go over them at
a moment's notice.  When the keys were sent me this
evening I gave an hour to glancing over the accounts
before meeting the auditing committee to-morrow;
as I've just told you, they seemed in a frightful tangle,
and—"

"But, as I explained a moment ago, Sir John,"
Chiswick interrupted, "I really know nothing about
the Fund; it was a pleasure for the Earl to do all the
work—a labor of love—and he took the matter quite
out of my hands.  Captain Wynnegate, as secretary
of the Fund, and Lord Kerhill have had absolute
control of the business side of it."

"What you tell me amazes me; but no doubt there is
an explanation which we will have from Kerhill later."

An intangible presentiment began to fasten its web
about Diana.  Lady Elizabeth came from the house;
both men rose, and Diana watched eagerly.

"Lady Elizabeth, believe me I'm exceedingly sorry
to trouble you, but—" then Sir John Applegate quite
brusquely said: "I've had the books for the Fund's
accounts, and there is, I'm afraid, trouble ahead for
our Yeomanry.  Lord Kerhill seems ill from overwork
with the troops, so I've hesitated to trouble him
to-night."

Lady Elizabeth's brows contracted; so it had come
so soon.  She must act at once—why not?  Jim had
agreed: perhaps he had already gone—everything was
at stake—one small misstep might prove fatal—how
far dared she venture?

"What you tell me comes to me as no great
surprise," she said.  Both men drew nearer to her,
Diana strained to hear the low words.  "The cause
of Kerhill's indisposition this afternoon was due to
this sudden discovery on his part.  Need I say, as
Captain Wynnegate had charge of the books, what it
means to Henry?  He and his cousin are alone
responsible, so my son feels that the honor of our house
is involved.  To-morrow he intended to lay the case
before you; he will.  I only ask that to-night you will
keep the matter quiet until our guests have departed.
Perhaps, after all, an investigation will prove quite
satisfactory and the shortage may be adjusted."  She
spoke more directly to Sir John; Chiswick, after all,
could do little harm.  "Indeed, I feel it is in all
probability a mistake, the result of overtired nerves."  Sir
John listened, he had a great respect for Elizabeth,
Countess of Kerhill; seriously he answered:

"I feel anxious, but you may rely absolutely on me.
In the morning I must see Henry—will you tell him
to meet me with Captain Wynnegate?  The matter
must be laid before the committee; there may be a
leakage in some out-of-the-way corner of another
department."  Lady Elizabeth acquiesced.  Sir John
went on, "I could only find confusion in the books;
consequently, I feel we need not be too seriously
alarmed.  By-the-way, where is Captain Wynnegate?"  Lady
Elizabeth shook her head.  Into both the men's
faces came a look of curious surprise.

"He has not been seen the entire day, save for a little
while quite early, in his tent."  Diana could feel the
condemnation in the silence that followed.

"Mr. Chiswick, Mr. Chiswick," it was Mabel's
voice calling from the open casement.  "You promised
to come back for the charades."

"Yes, you must both return—they will need you.
And, after all," Lady Elizabeth whispered as they
started for the house, "we have no doubt been
anticipating difficulties that do not exist."

The voices died away, and Diana left the rose-bower.
She had but one thought—she must find Jim at once.
Why, oh, why, had she written the note of the morning?
She stumbled across the heavy, thick sward.  In the
distance she could see a figure; it looked like Jim's;
he was coming from the Fairies' Corner over the green
to the entrance which in the morning had let her out
on to the purple moor.  Quickly she hurried to him,
staining her gown and delicate slippers in the wet
grass.

"Jim, Jim," she called, "where are you going?"  As
he turned she came close to him and repeated her
question.

"I'm taking your advice, Diana; I'm leaving
England—"

"Oh no, no," she eagerly interrupted, "I thought
so, but now you must stay—stay to protect your
honor.  I've just heard that the Fund—oh, it's not
you, I know, Jim, it's not you—not you—you couldn't
be—" her despairing cry stopped.  Still he made no
effort to comfort her.

Finally he said—"I must go."

What did it mean?  That he should go after the
revelation she had made to him—she understood that;
but now with his honor at stake it was different.
Into her mind there flashed an unanswerable
suspicion.  Was there some reason why he had so eagerly
acceded to her request; that even now, when she
asked him to remain, he still stood mute at her entreaties?

"Whether you go or stay, Jim, I do not expect ever
to see you alone again, and I'm glad of this chance to
bid you good-bye—forever.  I can never, never
believe that you are—Jim, if your hands are clean, if
you haven't robbed the soldiers' widows and orphans,
you may kiss me good-bye."

Into his eyes came the desire of his love as she had
seen it in the early morning in the Fairies' Corner.
This time she did not move; but Jim only bent low
over the out-stretched arms as he answered, "I must
go," and went away from her.

The circle of his boyhood was complete.  Again
he went along the same lane that he had travelled
ten years before; again the desolation brought by his
departure from his home, his country, hurt and
bruised his spirit.  Instead of the dawn, it was
midnight, with clouds sweeping sinisterly over the light
of the heavens, and instead of a boy's optimism he
carried a man's disillusions.

From the park the light of the tent fires sent out
flames that illumined the roadway, the swaying and
rustling of the heavy trees made whispering sounds.
Once at a turning he heard a boy's voice in the camp
ringing out high above the moaning of the trees:

   |  "Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,
   |  You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."
   |

He clutched his arms about his head to deaden the
sound and hurried on out into the roadway, stumbling
and half-falling over the gnarled roots of the ancient
trees.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   EXILE

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII

.. vspace:: 2

Like a Tanagra figurine, Nat-u-ritch stood
silhouetted against the golden light of the
afternoon.  She was small and slender, and her pointed
face, in spite of the high cheek-bones, was delicately
modelled.  The eyes were long, but fuller than the
usual beady eyes of the Indian woman.  They seemed
far too big in proportion to the tiny person whose
body was swayed by the stifling breezes that swept
over the plains, raising a suffocating cloud or alkali
dust.  The heavy, embroidered, one-piece gown clung
to and slapped against the slight form, wrapping it in
lines of beauty.  Long, twisted ropes of blue-black
hair hung dank and straight on both sides of her
face and reached to her knees.

As the wind blew her gown one could see the copper-colored
legs, and through the scant sleeves could catch
a glimpse of the immature red-bronze arms of the
young girl.  In her hair a turquoise strand repeated
the touch of blue that was woven and interwoven in
the beading of her gown.  She was standing near the
trail that led to Maverick.  To the left and to the
right the plains stretched into an eternity of space.
Nat-u-ritch shaded her eyes with straight, stiffened
fingers, and from under the set hands gazed over the
country.  Towards the west a circular cloud, repeated
at intervals, told her that horsemen were making
their way to the cow town.  From behind a wickyup
close to her emerged an Indian chief—heavy, tall,
with the sublime dignity of the red man, unimpaired
even by the halting, swaying walk that told of his
surrender to the white man's fire-water.

Quietly Nat-u-ritch watched her father, Tabywana,
mount his pinto pony, his flapping scarlet chaps
gleaming against the white body of the animal.  He looked
neither to the right nor left, nor behind him, as
Nat-u-ritch followed with her eyes his disappearing form.
It was twenty-six miles into Maverick, and she knew
she must follow the trail that led there, but she made
no movement yet towards departure.  Immovable,
she stood and watched from under rigid hands an
alkali whirlwind swallow up the horse and his rider.

Her brain was busy with the problem that lay before
her.  For two days Cash Hawkins, the bad man of
the adjoining barren land, had been with her father;
for two nights Tabywana had drunk from the bottle
that the white man had brought to him.  Not once
for forty-eight hours had her father called her to him,
not once had he likened her to the flower of the tree
of his love—the spirit-mother.  She clinched her
long, narrow hands until they tore the fringes of her
robe.  The pleading, dumb look of her dark eyes
gave way to quick defiance; they seemed to become
chasms of gloom, unfathomable but determined;
they showed the decision and strength of which her
resolve was capable.

Her father was to sell that day a large herd of cattle
to Cash Hawkins.  Intuitively she knew what the two
days' visit from Hawkins would mean for them—despair
when her father realized the trick the white
man had played on him, scarcity of food and many
privations for her, then long weeks of silent suffering
for both.

Still she stood staring into the winding, desolate
land, the stretching heavens, the stretching plains—both
flat, straight, unbroken, like two skies.  A world
might be above one or under the other.  Could this
intermediate space of ambient atmosphere lay claim
to a life of fact and reality?

But no such thoughts came to Nat-u-ritch as she
watched the sandy face of the country.  The desert
was her home.  She had toddled across its burning
ground, following, as far as her baby strength would
permit, her father's pony.  In the solitude of the waste
land she had grown into womanhood.  She knew that
to-day's dreariness could be broken until the entire
place echoed and re-echoed to the life of the men
whose cattle thundered at their heels.  She had heard
the desert answer to the fanatical outburst of her
tribes; had seen the white men drive her people farther
and farther back.  For her and her people it had been
their refuge.

Suddenly she stretched out her delicate arms.  Her
figure grew erect.  From the distance came the
distinct beat of horse's hoofs; it passed so close within
her vision that she could easily distinguish the features
of the rider.  He was a stranger who had recently
settled there, the stranger whom she had first met at a
bear-dance down at the agency.

She remembered that with the squaw's privilege of
choosing her partner she had selected him.  She
remembered his eyes.  As she did so her own turned
and followed the man who, unlike the other horsemen
of the prairie, rose in his stirrups, and into her
sphinx-like face came a look of unutterable yearning.  She
watched the clouds of dust envelop him as they had
swallowed up her father, but this time she no longer
stood staring into the prairie.  Swiftly she caught her
pony, mounted him, and let him gallop across a trail
that led to a short cut to Maverick.

For a long time she lay flat on her animal, the hot
sun sizzling down on her clinging figure.  She only
drew her hair as a veil over her face, while her wistful
eyes watched the stranger across the plains as she sped
close on his track.  She was glad that she was gaining
ground, too long had she lingered after her father's
departure.  She soon reached the short cut, and a
wise smile lighted up her face.  She would be in
Maverick ahead of the man riding across the plains,
and she wondered whether she would see him at the
Long Horn saloon.  Then the smile died away; she
was not going to Maverick for that purpose.  First
she must find and guard her father from Cash
Hawkins's machinations; and then—

She tightened her hold on her pony.  She gave a
curious low cry to the animal.  His ears stood erect in
answer as Nat-u-ritch flashed across the sand track.

.. vspace:: 2

The man on the horse only vaguely saw Nat-u-ritch.
His thoughts were busy with the wearying
business of the day's shipping of cattle.  It was Jim's
second year at his ranch.  When he left England he
did not arrest his journey until he reached the Far
West—that Mecca of all Englishmen.  With the
small sum of money that he had lifted from his bank,
he had purchased a ranch near Green River, and
under the name of Carston had begun forming the
ties that now made up his life.

As he rode his face and body showed the beneficial
results of his work in the open.  The cow-boy clothes
seemed to have become almost part of him.  A certain
neatness and precision in his mode of wearing the
picturesque garments of the plains alone differentiated
him from the hundreds of wearers of flapping leather
chaps, flannel shirt, sombrero, and loosely knotted
kerchief.

Jim was wondering if his men had reached Maverick.
He had sent Big Bill, his foreman, on ahead
of him with a message from him cautioning them to
beware of being drawn into a quarrel with Cash
Hawkins, who he had learned would be there.  For
days the "boys'" anger had been incited by the
discovery made by Jim and Big Bill that Cash Hawkins
had been mixing his cattle with theirs, for Hawkins's
gain.  This complaint of "rustling" he found was
not uncommon.  Its penalty when proven was not a
pleasant one; the law was not consulted—punishment
was meted out by the cow-boys themselves.
But for the present Jim preferred to avert a fight
with Hawkins.  In the future he meant to take greater
precautions to protect his property.

As Jim rode he planned out many details of his
new life's work.  Thus often for days all other
thoughts would be blotted out.  It was a big game
to fight and win in this barren land.  It absorbed all
his time and vitality, and memories of dew-drenched
England were burned out in this dry, brilliant land
where the tender half-light was unknown and where
often his English eyes yearned in vain, when he
abandoned himself to the past, for a touch of the soft
gray of his own country in protest against the hard
brilliance of the sun and unending sand plains.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV

.. vspace:: 2

The Overland Limited swayed, creaked, and then
with a grunting of many chains drew to a sudden
stop before the Long Horn saloon at Maverick.
From the window the passengers peered at the desolate
cow town and wondered how long they were to be
delayed.

In their private car at the rear Diana, Henry Kerhill,
and Diana's cousin, Sir John Applegate, rose from
their seats to study the shipping-point for cattle, so
novel in its environment, as indeed their entire journey
in America had been for the past months.  The death
of a distant relative on Diana's side, who had left her
an unexpected legacy, had enabled her to retrieve
to a great extent their cramped fortunes.

Lady Elizabeth had lived only a short time to enjoy
the new improved condition of affairs.  She died in
the year following Jim's departure and vicarious
disgrace.  During the months previous to her death she
had grown grimmer and held herself more aloof.  A
stroke of paralysis one morning made her bedridden
and speechless; a merciful third stroke caused her
death within a month after her first attack.  She
never spoke, and seemed to find no consolation save
in Diana's presence.  The trip to America for a
much-needed change was principally taken, however,
on account of Henry, whose nervous condition the
medical attendants declared most serious.  The two
years had made scarcely a perceptible change in
Diana; in Sir John none at all.  But in Henry an
oppressive melancholy was rarely broken by the old
flashes.  Towards Diana he had faithfully kept his
word to Jim.  A truce was accepted, and he never
ceased in his pathetic endeavors to try to make her
happy.  If neither could honestly lay claim to a real
joy of life, still they had peace and dignity.  As he
stood near the window, the strong light showed how
much thinner and lined was his face.  A touch
of gray was distinctly visible along his temples
and was beginning perceptibly to streak his dark
hair.

"My, but it's a corker!" Sir John gasped, as he put
his head out of the window and the blinding heat
beat down on him.  There was a smile from Diana
at Sir John's acquired Americanism.  More British
than the Union-Jack itself, yet he was keen to gain
knowledge of the new country, and long conversations
with the servile black Sam were enlarging his vocabulary.
All three watched with curiosity the ramshackle
hostelry, which they could plainly descry from
one end of the car.

Diana turned to the men: "Do let us see the place.
I've always longed to have a real adventure at a way-place
off the beaten tourist track.  I'm so tired of the
sights that are arranged for one to be shocked at—at
so much a head."

They moved to the door, but the intense heat of the
day for a moment seemed to dampen their ardor.
Then, at Henry's solicitations, Diana was persuaded
to wait until he found out from an official the
possible length of their stop.

Within the Long Horn saloon the afternoon's heat
was apparently not felt by its inmates.  It was a
roughly hewn, wooden, three-cornered room with an
oak beam stretching across it.  Over this were thrown
saddles and blankets.  A bar extended along one side
of the room.  On the walls were grotesque and crude
pictures done in chalk, while other spaces were covered
with cheap, highly colored illustrations cut from the
papers that reached Maverick.  Tables for roulette
and faro were placed at set intervals.  The floor was
covered with a mixture of sand and sawdust, while
mounds of wood-dust were heaped near the bar, to be
used by the men as cuspidors.  It was clean in a
certain primitive fashion.  The glasses and bar
fixtures were not unpleasant.  The bartender, Nick,
an ex-prize-fighter, took a pride in his "emporium,"
as he called the saloon, and lavished a loving though
crude care on his possessions.

But the place was stained and soiled by the marks
of the tragic remnants of humanity that were housed
within its walls.  Around the gambling-tables on this
afternoon were groups of tattered specimens of the
various races.  Cow-boys at certain tables gave a
wholesome, virile note to the place, but the drift-wood
of a broken civilization was at this hour in larger
proportion than the ranchmen.  Among the battered
denizens from the world beyond that had strayed
into the saloon life was a parson in a frayed frock-coat,
who leaned in a neighborly way against the blue
shirt of a Chinaman, while a large negro with a face
like a black Botticelli angel grinned and gleamed his
white teeth in sport with a dago from Monterey.
In a chair in a farther corner a tenderfoot lay in a
drunken sleep in his soiled evening clothes, which he
had donned three nights before to prove to the
tormenting habitués of the place, who since then had not
allowed him to grow sober, that he was a gentleman.

A half-breed at a faro-table watched with tolerant
amusement the antics of those in his game to outwit
him.  The smell of the sawdust and the human mass
of unpleasantness grew stronger as the men played,
changed money, and Nick's corks flew and glasses
clinked.  Over the entire place there hung a curious
sense of respectability.  Low-muttered oaths were not
uncommon, but Nick, sturdy and grim, with his
watch-dogs—two large six-shooters—lying on the shelf
behind the bar, had a certain straightness of purpose
and a crude sense of right and wrong that won
respect from the heterogeneous mass of his followers.

The passing of the Limited would have caused a
sufficient amount of interest, but its stopping was a
momentous occasion.  The rude platform outside
was only a shipping-point for cattle, not a stopping-place
for through or passenger trains.  There was a
rush of some of the inmates from the room, but to a
number of them the game was at its vital point, and
Pete's lazy call of "jacks up" quickly chained the
attention of the more eager of the players.

But to Nick it meant new trade, and his battered
and scarred face grew into one ebullient smile as
McSorley, the engineer, in his jumpers, with
begrimed face and hands, and Dan, the dapper Pullman
conductor of the Overland Limited, entered the saloon.
McSorley was mopping his sweating face.

"Say, Dan, who's the English swells in the private?"
he asked, as he looked back at the luxuriously fitted
car.

"The Earl of Kerhill," Dan answered, as they veered
towards the bar.  "Been out to the Yellowstone.
The old man lets 'em have his private car.  Must be
the real thing, eh?"

McSorley grunted his approval of the noble freight
that he was carrying.  "Let's have a drink.  What's
yours, Dan?"

They reached the solicitous Nick.

"What 'll you have, gents?"

"A bottle of beer for me, Mac," Dan answered his
companion's question.  Then, with English tips still
a pleasant memory, he added, "But this is on me."

Nick began opening a bottle of beer, and its foaming
contents were soon filling the glasses.  As he served
he inquired: "What's up gents?  'Tain't often the
Overland Limited honors Maverick with a call!"

"Washout down the road," was McSorley's laconic
reply, as the cool liquid slid down his parched throat.

"Staying long?" Nick again asked, with visions of
many strangers visiting his bar.

Dan was surveying the place with an unsympathetic eye.

"Not longer than we can help, you bet," he answered.
"Expecting orders to move every minute."

But Nick was determined to be affable.  "Pity;
Maverick's worth seein'.  Who's in the parlor-car?"

"English people—Earl of Kerhill and party," Dan
replied.  Then he moved down the bar with McSorley,
both carrying their half-consumed beer.

A Southern cow-puncher, Pete, who had gone
from ranch to ranch, finding life too hard at each,
leaned back on his stool until he rested against one
end of the bar.  Through the windows he could see
Shorty, one of Jim Carston's men, coming along in
animated conversation with several other men of the
Englishman's ranch.

"In my opinion the calm serenity of this here
metropolis is about to be tore wide open."  A nudge
from Punk, the Chinaman, made him go on with the
shuffling.

"How many, Parson?" Pete queried.

The cadaverous face of the Parson, with its highly
colored nose, showing the cause of his cloth's disgrace,
turned to him.  Frayed and seedy as he was, he bore
the imprint of a gentleman.

"Dearly beloved brethren, three."

Again Punk nudged the others, who were inclined
to become too talkative.  They began indicating the
number of cards desired with their fingers while the
conversation continued.  Nick leaned over the bar
and watched Pete's hand.

"Cash Hawkins is in town!"  Pete gave the news
as though it were of moment.  They all knew what
Cash's visits usually meant.  An ominous whistle
followed.  They all looked at Nick.

"Bad medicine is this same Mr. Hawkins, particular
when he has his gun wid him.  Bedad, the
kummunity could spare him a whole lot without
missing him," Nick volunteered.

"If they provoke unto wrath Brother Carston's
outfit, my Christian friend, there will be some useful
citizens removed from our midst."  The Parson
approved of Jim as a remnant of his earlier days.  He
recognized in him one of his own class.

"And who the devil is Jim Carston?" Nick asked.

"Jim Carston?  Never seen Jim?  Oh yes, you
must have, although Jim don't frequent emporiums
much.  Why Jim's the English cow-boy.  First he
had a place about a hundred miles from here.  But
he's bought Bull Cowan's herd.  Bull stuck him—stuck
him good," Pete lazily informed the crowd.

"Sure!" said Nick.  "That's why Englishmen was
invented.  More power to 'em."

"Amen," hiccoughed the Parson, whose drinks
by this time had been numerous.  "The prosperity
of our beloved country would go plumb to Gehenna if
an all-wise Providence did not enable us to sell an
Englishman a mine or a ranch or two now and again."

"Say," Nick asked, seriously, "the Englishman
ain't a-goin' up agin Cash, is he now?"

"I call you, Parson," Pete calmly commanded, and
then raked in the pot.  "When the smoke has cleared
away I will venture an opinion as to who has gone
agin who," he resumed, as he pocketed the money.
"Jim and his outfit is here to ship some cattle to
Chicago.  I seed them all through the window, and
they ain't the kind to run away much."

There was a finality about Pete's words.  He might
be lazy and slow, but he was anxious to open another
pot, so he turned his back on Nick and began
shuffling the cards.  As he did so, three of Jim's
boys—Andy, Shorty, and Grouchy—entered.

"Come on boys and have a drink," Shorty yelled.

Andy was a wiry, slender German with tender,
romantic proclivities.  Grouchy, who seldom spoke,
and then only in a husky, low growl, was a massive
fellow and looked like a Samoan native, but was in
reality a product of a Hebrew father and an Irish
mother, while Shorty gained his name from his low
stature.  Brave as a lion and honest, with a face
from which twinkled the smallest and merriest of blue
eyes, he was the live wire of any ranch.

"What's your nose-paint, gents?" Nick asked, as he
greeted the new-comers.

"A little of that redeye," Shorty replied, and soon
he and his comrades were clinking glasses.  Several
cow-punchers joined them, and the place began to
resound to lively disputes concerning the rates on
cattle.

Dan and McSorley had finished their beer.

"How much?" Dan said.  His look plainly showed
his contempt for the saloon.  It was Nick's
opportunity to pay back the insult that had been quietly
levelled at him by the Pullman conductor's attitude
for the past quarter of an hour.

"One dollar," was Nick's quick reply.

"One dollar!" Dan repeated.  "For two glasses
of beer?"  He stepped back and his voice rose in
angry protest.  It attracted the attention of the others,
who were only too eager for a row.

"Why," Dan continued, "it was all collar, anyway."

Nick leaned over the bar and quietly said, "I didn't
charge nothin' for the collar, gent, I throwed that
in."  There was a laugh from the hangers-on at Nick's
witticism.  Nick flushed with approval and went on,
"Beer's our most expensive drink—comes all the way
from Cheyenne."

Dan, furious at being done, as he knew he was,
struck the bar with his fist.  "I won't pay it," he
said.

There was a hush about the room.  They didn't
often see any one venture to buck against Nick's
authority.

"Oh yes, you'll pay it, gent."  Nick's voice was
lower and calmer than Dan's.  He had turned while
Dan was speaking and was lovingly fingering his
six-shooter.  He lifted it from the shelf and laid it
carefully on the bar, keeping his hand well over the trigger.

McSorley nervously edged to Dan.  "Better pay
it; better pay it," he whispered.

Nick heard him.  "Yes," he added, "better pay
it.  Saves funeral expenses."

Dan knew enough of the country to know he was
at Nick's mercy.  He drew a silver dollar from his
pocket, and slapped it down on the bar.

"Well, I'll be ——!"  Dan started for the door,
followed by McSorley, who thought his companion's rage
ill-timed.  He wished he were back in his caboose.
As they reached the door Nick's voice rang out in
stentorian tones.

"Wait a minute!"  There was no gainsaying his
command.  Dan halted.  Nick, leaning far over the
bar, held in each hand a watch-dog.  "I don't allow
no tenderfoot to use bad language in my emporium.
We do strictly family trade and caters particular to
ladies and children."

Dan and McSorley stood under the levelled guns.
A shriek of mirth shook the crowd.  All had stopped
playing and were watching the situation.  Finally,
when there was no doubt as to the ridiculous position
of the train officials and the laugh had subsided, Nick
dropped the guns, and with a low bow turned from
the bar, leaving them free to go.  Dan and McSorley
quickly disappeared, Dan wildly expostulating while
McSorley vainly tried to calm him.

Nick went back to the players.

"Pete," he asked, "what has Cash got agin the
Englishman?"

Pete, nothing loath to tell his yarn, especially as he
had been winning all the afternoon, drawled the
information so that all at his table could hear.

"Well, Jim's outfit has been heard to openly express
the opinion that Cash can't tell the difference
between his cattle and Jim's."

"Rustling, eh?" the Parson interrupted.

Pete nodded.

"Serious business."

"Yes," said Pete.  "Serious—quite—in these here
parts.  I see the Englishman stand off a greaser down
at the agency, and I've got a wad of the long-green to
lay even money that Cash can't twist the British lion's
tail a whole lot—not a whole lot.  Any takers?"

Pete's eye was always keen to take up a "sure
thing."  The men with him fell into a dispute
concerning the respective merits of Jim versus Cash
Hawkins.

Meanwhile, seated at a table in the centre of the
room were Shorty, Andy, and Grouchy.  They had
heard nothing of Pete's and the Parson's conversation.
They were intent on a mild game and were awaiting
Big Bill, who was to meet them at the saloon.  None
of them saw Big Bill coming towards them until they
heard the slow, deep voice saying: "Boys, Cash Hawkins
is in town.  The boss asks as a special favor to
him that you will avoid Cash and his gang and try
to get out of town without a collision."

Bill was a giant, over six feet tall, with a great,
leonine head.  He had a strong face with piercing eyes.
The mouth, "a large gash," as Shorty described it,
could at times give vent to loud guffaws of laughter,
and at others frighten one as it straightened into two
lines of grim determination.  For two years he had
been Jim's right-hand man, and his devotion to the
boss was the most beautiful side of Bill's life.  Forty
years ago he had been born in a prairie saloon; the
woman who bore him died the night of his birth.  He
never knew who his father was, and the upbringing
he received was from a handful of miners who had
adopted him.  As soon as he could toddle he began
to try to do for himself.  Little errands he
volunteered, and long before most boys even on a ranch
were anything but a nuisance, Bill was contributing
gravely his share to the big game of life.  Save once,
to Jim, he never spoke of the past.  He had drifted
to Maverick twenty years ago, and except at intervals,
when he took a notion to better himself, he was
usually at the cow town.

On one of these occasions when he was trailing the
country he met Jim, who was looking for a man to
direct the practical side of his affairs.  Bill had never
met a gentleman who treated him as Jim did, and in
return he gave his body's strength and all the scheming
devotion of his brain in his endeavor to benefit
Jim's complicated affairs.

The three men looked up at Bill, who slid into a
chair at their table and started a new game with them.

"Say, Bill," Shorty began, "if Cash has his war-paint
on there ain't no use distributin' tracts on love
one another."

"Und, Bill," Andy added, "und say for peace—dot's
me, Andy.  But say, Bill, rustlin'—cattle
stealing—you know.  Particular when it's our cattle,
Cash has got a lot wit' a circle-star brand which
original is a big C for Carston.  Say," he wildly went
on, becoming more incoherent as his temper rose,
"und if we stand for it—you know—und say—we
got to git out of de business."

Grouchy leaned over to Bill and shook his head.
"Say, I wouldn't work for a man that would stand
for it."

Still Bill said nothing, but listened gravely to the
storm of protests that the message from Jim to the
boys had provoked.

"If the peace of a kummunity is worth a damn,
you got to shoot him up a whole lot.  It's this delicate
consideration for the finer feelings of bad men which
encourages 'em."  Shorty, in his nervous, jerky
manner, fairly shook the table with his vibrations of
rebellion.

Then Bill spoke.  He was in sympathy with the
boys, but he had his orders from the boss—that was
enough for him.

"Well, you know Jim.  It ain't likely he'd ask
you to show the white-feather nor to stand no
nonsense.  Only"—here Bill paused and said,
impressively, "don't drink mor'n you can help, and
avoid trouble if possible.  Them's the boss's orders."

As Bill was laying down the law for the men, the
saloon began to fill with curiosity-seekers from the
train.  The delay was evidently to be longer than had
at first been anticipated.  Shorty was the first to see
the humor of some of the new-comers.

"Gee, get on to the effete East.  Say," he called to
the rest of them, "get on to the tenderfeet."

They looked with childish glee at a quaint-looking
couple who were entering the saloon.  Mrs. Doolittle
was a prim, mild-mannered little woman with a saintly
smile.  She evidently was travelling in the West
for the first time.  Her husband, Hiram, was one of
the prosperous New England farmer class.  Pleased
with the entire condition of affairs, he beamed on the
cow-boys with great condescension.

Shorty, who scented some fun, whispered to Bill:
"D.C. brand.  Day Coach, savvy?"  As he watched
the odd pair he made his way towards them.  They
were quietly studying the place.  The pictures of
prize-fighters and ballet-girls that lined the walls
really shocked them, but it also tickled their sense of
the wickedness of their adventure.  They reached a
roulette-table with the game in progress.

"Why, Hiram!" Mrs. Doolittle ejaculated, as she
watched the players and surveyed the saloon, "this
is a gambling-hell."

Shorty, who with the others was closely watching
the strange adventurers and planning to tease
them, mocked them in an aside—"Well, I want to
know."

But Hiram was too intent on Faith's observations to
notice that they were becoming the centre of interest
in the place.

"Durned if it ain't," he affirmed, in a pleased tone.
Then, ashamed of his laxity, he added, "Want to git
out?"

"Why, Hiram, what a question!" Faith Doolittle
answered, severely, as she drew away from her
husband's out-stretched hand.  "'Tain't often one gets
a chance to see life.  I've read about Montey Carlo,
and here it is."

The boys were now all attention.  Andy whispered,
"Three card, eh; Montey Carlo here, eh!"  The
laugh began to be noticed by Hiram.

"Dear me," Faith Doolittle gravely remarked,
"and over there is rouletty, I suppose."

Shorty came forward.  He took off his large sombrero
and bowed low to the ground, in mock cavalier
fashion as he good-humoredly said, "No lady, that's
where they're voting for the most popular lady in the
Sabbath-school."  His sally was greeted with
applause.  Faith hardly noticed it; she had taken
Hiram by the arm and was trying to drag him to the
table.

Pete called to them, "That's not rouletty, that's
faro, lady."

The parson added, "So called after Pharaoh's daughter."

"Who found a little prophet in the rushes on the
bank," Shorty further explained.

But Faith was eagerly whispering to Hiram, "You
know, Hiram, frequently people by just putting down
fifty cents, or a dollar, walk out with millions."  Then
timidly she added, "I'd like to try it once."

"Faith Doolittle!" was all Hiram could exclaim,
so great was his surprise at his wife's request.  Truly,
he thought, women were strange cattle.  To think of
Faith, so quiet, so serene all these years, and then—to
see her now with flushed cheeks, hat awry, and an
eager, feverish look in her mild eyes as she tried to
draw him to the table.

"Oh," she pleaded, "only fifty cents' worth, Hiram.
There couldn't be any harm in fifty cents' worth."

Behind his great hand Shorty convulsed the others
by observing, "Mother's a sport, but father's near."

Hiram now realized that he must be firm and leave
this place that was affecting so strangely his wife's
conduct.

"You couldn't keep money got in that nefarious way,
even if you won it," he explained; "you're a
churchwoman."

"We could give some of it to the church," quickly
reasoned Faith; "and, Hiram, we could do such a lot
of good with a million.  Just try fifty cents'
worth."  She made a further attempt to reach the table.

"Come out of here, Faith Doolittle," stormed
Hiram, as he saw his protests were of no avail, "or
you'll have me going it in a minute."  He, too, began
to feel the tempting influence of the green cloth, the
glittering money-heaps, and the feverish gayety of the
ribald crowd.

As Hiram started to lead Faith to the door they
were stopped by Shorty.

"Nick," he called to the bartender, "my friends,
Mr. and Mrs. Hill—Bunkco Hill—of Boston."  The
slang name for the innocence of the couple caught the
crowd's fancy.  They quickly formed a circle around
them.

"Pleased to know you," Nick observed from the
bar.  "What's your drink?"  He began filling glasses
with whiskey.

This time Hiram's indignation was effectual.  Grasping
his now-frightened spouse by the arm, he fiercely
drew her away, the cow-boys laughingly letting them
go, with polite bows, and bits of advice called
good-naturedly after them.

It was the sport of children, as indeed these men
were to a great extent—crude, rough, but with a
sweetness not to be denied and a decency that it might seem
strange to find in such a place.  So far their fun might
go, but they knew where to stop, and Faith Doolittle's
gentle face was its own protection.  They watched
Hiram nervously leading his wife along the platform
down the line.  Then they turned back to the saloon
and amused themselves by giving imitations of the
quaint visitors, until the place rang with their
boisterous merriment.

Suddenly there was a rattle of spurs and a noise
from without as a tall cow-puncher lurched through
the door.

In a moment there was silence.  Every one knew
the man.

"Hello, here's Cash now," observed Shorty.

The innocent gayety was forgotten.  A different
expression began to appear on the men's faces.  In
Jim's crowd it was one of sullen rebellion and
suppressed indignation, in the other an expectant desire
for real mischief.  With Cash Hawkins's entrance
that afternoon, history was made in Maverick.





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.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

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   CHAPTER XV

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Cash Hawkins leaned against the bar and
maliciously took in the silence that followed his
entrance into the saloon.  He knew he was feared;
he had made more than one man there feel his power.
Malignity was marked in his demeanor and in the
physiognomy of his face.  He was lithe and straight,
with wiry, steel-like muscles.  He had a small head
with a shock of tawny hair that he wore much longer
than is usual with ranchmen.  The rawhide strap of
his hat hung under his chin, and his face, with its long,
pointed wolf jaw, suggested that animal in its
expression of ferocious keenness.  When he grew
excited his mouth moved convulsively, like an ugly trap
ready to devour its prey.  His hands were curiously
beautiful—long and slender, with almond-shaped
nails.  The care he bestowed on them to keep their
beauty in the midst of his rough life, the gorgeousness
of his leather chaps with their mounting of silver, and
the embroidery on his waistcoat betrayed his salient
weakness—inordinate vanity.  He was handsome in
a cruel, hard fashion.  Of his power as an athlete
there was no question.  In the saloon many could
testify to the devilish cunning of those supple hands.

"Got a bottle of ink handy, Nick?" he said, when
he had insolently surveyed the assemblage, who, after
a pause, were beginning to talk and settle down to new
games.

Nick, who wished to be friendly with all who
patronized him, answered:

"Ink?  Ink is a powerful depressing drink, Cash."

"Drink!"  Cash's face grew livid with rage.  "You
see here, Nick, don't you joke with me; I ain't in the
humor for it.  People has to know me intimate to
joke with me—savvy?  You get me a pen and a
bottle of ink P.D.Q.  I'm buying some cattle of
Tabywana, the Ute chief—savvy?  And he's got to
put his mark to the contract."

With swaggering gestures Cash announced his
business so that all could hear him.  Bill whispered
to the boys, who, going on with their game, were still
listening and watching Cash intently:

"You know what that skunk's up to now.  He's
got Tabywana drunk—been at it for days—in order
to swindle him out of his cattle."

Shorty, with all of the cow-boy's intolerance of the
red man's rights, snapped, "Well, it don't make much
difference about Injins."

"No," growled Grouchy, "guv'ment supports 'em anyway."

Nick had unearthed a bottle of ink.

"Well," he said, as he handed it across the bar,
"that was ink once, Cash.  'Ain't had no use for it
sense my gal throwed me.  Gits more people into
trouble.  Often wisht I was illiterate."  Nick's dry
humor betrayed his descent from the Emerald Isle.

Cash paid no attention to Nick's attempts at
conversation.  He was filling his glass and surveying the
crowds at the various tables.  It annoyed him that
no one had greeted him with any particular show of
enthusiasm.  Save for a "How d'ye," or a nod from
some of the hangers-on, no one had particularly
noticed him.  He stood against the bar, and without
turning his body directed his words towards Big
Bill and Jim's men at a table near him.  With a
truculent swagger he blew his cigarette smoke through
his nostrils.

"There's just one thing I can't stand for," he
began, "and that's an Englishman."  There was a
movement from Jim's men, but it was quickly
controlled.  Cash went on: "He's a blot on any
landscape, and wherever I see him I shall wipe him off the
map.  He is distinctly no good.  We whipped 'em
once, and we kin do it again.  They 'ain't never
whipped nuthin' but niggers and savages.  The
Englishman is a coward and any American who
works for him is a cur."

With one movement Andy, Shorty, and Grouchy
rose and their hands went to their guns, but almost
before they had clutched them Bill was towering
over them.  With one hand he pushed Grouchy,
and with the other gripped the shoulders of Shorty
and Andy, until he forced them down into their
chairs.

"Leave him to me," was all he said, and the men
sullenly subsided under their foreman's orders.

Bill stood looking at Cash.  He wanted to gain
time and not take any notice of insults from him until
it was so directly levelled that they could no longer
endure it.  He wished Jim would come; it was time
for him.  He wanted to finish some details of the
shipping and then get their men to leave Maverick.

Cash saw Bill's command of the men; he ground
his jaw with ugly grating sounds from his big white
teeth.  Looking directly at Bill, he said, "There is a
certain outfit been a circilatin' reports derogitory to
my standin' in this here kummunity, and before the
day is over I will round up said outfit and put my
brand on 'em."  As he spoke he touched his gun.

"Same as you been a-puttin' it on their cattle?"
Bill remarked, coldly.

This was what Cash wanted; but he saw Tabywana
coming along the platform, and there was too much
at stake to allow him to gratify his feeling of anger
against Bill then.  He gave a low, chuckling laugh.

"A remark I overlook for the time bein', as I ain't
agoin' to take advantage of the absence of the furrin
gent that owns you."

He came towards Tabywana, who, halting and
stumbling, was trying to cross the room.  Cash
laughed malevolently as he noticed his helpless
condition.  The Indian was trailing his blanket along
the ground, his feathers were broken, and all
intelligence—even cunning—was blotted from his face.
The unconquerable dignity of a fallen aristocrat alone
remained, and even handicapped as he was by his
inebriated condition, he stood out against the others
in the saloon as the one true claimant of America's
royal race.

.. _`"ALMOST AS ONE MAN THEY THRUST THEIR REVOLVERS INTO BUD'S FACE"`:

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   :alt: "ALMOST AS ONE MAN THEY THRUST THEIR REVOLVERS INTO BUD'S FACE" See page 200

   "ALMOST AS ONE MAN THEY THRUST THEIR REVOLVERS INTO BUD'S FACE" See page `200`_

Cash caught him by the arm and steered him to the
bar.  "Hello, Chief," he began, most affably; "come
over here and we'll close our trade in a jiffy."

He spoke lightly, but his mouth began its rapacious
twitching—Cash was really a little nervous over the
deal.  The government once in a while remembered
its people, and took up the claim of the red man.
He drew from his belt a paper.

"Ther's the big treaty, Chief," he hurriedly began to
explain.  "Now all you got to do is to make your
mark to it."  He spoke aloud so that all could hear
as he said, "Heap good trade."  Cash was clever
enough to know that if the deal took place in the
saloon in the presence of Nick it would seem, if
inquiry were made later, a fair deal.

But Tabywana's mind had been tortured by one
desire—more drink from the bottle that the white
man controlled.

He mumbled helplessly as he leaned against the bar
and began soliciting Nick for a drink.

"What's that?  You don't want to trade?" Cash
burst forth.  "Why, damn you—"  Then he paused;
to lose his temper would accomplish nothing.  A little
patience and he could force Tabywana to make his
mark.  He glanced about the saloon.  The others
were paying little attention to him—a drunken Indian
was of no moment to them.  He signalled Nick that
he would take the responsibility of giving the Indian
liquor.  Both knew it was against the law, but both
also knew that it was a law daily broken.

"Touge-wayno fire-water," wailed Tabywana.

Cash took hold of him.  "What's the matter, you—"

Tabywana turned to him.  Yes, for days this
Cash Hawkins had given him his drink; why shouldn't
he do so now?  Nick was watching them from over
his shoulder as he took down a bottle of rye.
Tabywana pointed to him.

"No give 'em, me—heap like 'em—big medicine,
sick.  Me all time heap sick."  By his gestures he
indicated that his body was suffering for the medicine.
"Wayno medicine," he continued.  "Pretty soon,
more fire-water, catch 'em.  Pretty soon—maybe
so—no sick."  Incoherently he tried to explain that the
drink would cure him at once.  If not, then pretty
soon he would be very ill.

Even at a moment like this Nick could not resist
the temptation to tease the Chief.  He poured out
some whiskey, Tabywana tried to reach it, but Nick
lifted the glass and drank it.  The sight of it
maddened Tabywana: with his two fists he struck the bar
and gave vent to his rage in a loud voice.

Cash saw it was time to finish the business.  He put
his arm about Tabywana, while he directed Nick to
give the Indian the bottle.

"It's agin the law to give you whiskey, Chief.
'Tain't every one's got the nerve to treat you like a
white man."  By this time he was holding the bottle
high up in the air.  "But there ain't no one
hereabouts goin' to question any trade I make.  Every
man has an inalienable right—say, 'inalienable's'
great, Chief—that's good medicine," he translated—"inalienable
right to git drunk if he wants to, and I'm
agoin' to protect you in your rights."

He held the paper close to Tabywana; he lowered
his voice.

"Now just put your mark to that paper and you
get this bottleful and the time of your life."  The
words were accompanied with explanatory gestures
so that Tabywana could understand.

The Indian tried to reach the bottle.  Then he saw
the paper; he took hold of the pen and bent over it.
As he did so a girl's figure slid in between him and
Cash, and the bottle went smashing out of Cash
Hawkins's hand up against the bottles and glasses on
the shelf at the back of the bar.  There was a crash
of breaking glass and a snarling curse from Hawkins.

Tabywana stood dazed for a moment at the sight
of Nat-u-ritch, who silently faced him and Hawkins.
He made a sweeping gesture of fury, and attempted
to strike Nat-u-ritch, but she cleverly dodged him.
The force of the unarrested blow carried Tabywana
against a table, he stumbled into a chair, made an
attempt to rise, but, after a desperate effort, fell back
in a drunken stupor, oblivious to his surroundings.
The sudden burst of anger was the natural climax to
days of dissipation.

The crash of the glasses and the sudden entrance of
the girl attracted the attention of the gamblers.  Some
of them, scenting a fracas, stopped playing; others
merely looked up, and then went on with the game.
What did an Indian, male or female, matter to them?

Cash propped himself up against the bar.  For
the first time he really was brought within close range
of Nat-u-ritch.  Silent and immovable she stood,
guarding the sunken form of her father.  Her head
was erect and she looked her contempt and scorn full
in Hawkins's face.  In her hands she held the fallen
blanket of her father.

"Well, what d'ye think of it, eh?" Cash finally
ejaculated.  His eyes took note of the girl's physical
perfection.  "Say, fer spunk and grit dam'f I ever
see her equal.  Say, she can have me, kin Tabywana's
squaw."

Nick interposed sullenly as he straightened up the
disordered bar.

"She ain't Tabywana's squaw—that's Nat-u-ritch,
his gal—his daughter."

"Daughter or squaw, don't make no difference to
me."  Cash slouched up to Nat-u-ritch and insolently
surveyed her.  "She's puty, she is, and I'll include
her in the deal.  Say, sis, I like your looks.  You
please me a whole lot, and I'll buy you along with
your father's cattle—savvy?"

Still she made no answer—she knew what the white
man was suggesting.  That she had accomplished
what she had dared to save her father now frightened
her.  She wanted to get him away and escape with
him.  But how?  She could not leave him.  She
only clutched the blanket tighter.

Cash caught sight of the half-breed Baco, who was
often called in to act as interpreter by the white men.
"Baco," he called, "what's her name mean?"  He
designated Nat-u-ritch with his thumb.

Baco grinned: "Purty little gal."  He had cast
his own eyes unsuccessfully on Nat-u-ritch.

"Well, she lives up to the name all right.  Ain't she
hell?"  Cash drooped lower against the bar.  "Say,
Nat-u-ritch, you take chances with me when you
interfere that way like you did jest now."

Along the platform Jim swung, the gray dust
whitening his leather chaps and dusting his shirt and
hat with a heavy powder.  He had ridden hard to
keep his appointment with Bill and his men.  As he
entered the centre door of the saloon he watched
Hawkins and the little Indian girl with curiosity.
He took in the situation at a glance.  The drunken
Chief, the tigerish Hawkins bending over the girl like
an animal about to crunch a ewe lamb, and the
contents of the smashed bottle that Nick was wiping
away told him what had occurred.  Cash was saying:

"Nat-u-ritch, you spoiled a very puty deal, and I
ain't complaisant a whole lot with people as do that,
but I'm goin' to pass that up, 'cause you please me,
and I'm goin' to annex you.  You're comin' to my
wickyup—savvy?  And to seal the bargain, and to
show you that I ain't proud like the ordinary white
man, I'm goin' to give you a kiss."

Before Hawkins could catch the resisting girl in his
arms, Jim quietly stepped between them.

"Drop that, Hawkins."  The voice of the Englishman
was electrical.  Jim's men jumped to their feet.
At a move of Cash's hand to his belt they grasped
their guns.  "Don't pull your gun, Cash," Jim said.
"You want to get your gang together before you do
that.  My boys would shoot you into ribbons."  Jim
was smoking a long cigar.  He coolly took it from his
lips, knocked off the ashes, then bent over Nat-u-ritch
and whispered to her.  Her eyes alone answered him.
He was about to join his men when Cash Hawkins
swaggered up to him.

"Say, son, ain't you courtin' disaster interferin' in
my private business?" he threatened.  He knew he
dare not fight alone against Jim and his men, so he
played for time.  If only he had his gang!

Jim replied: "Do you call it 'business' robbing
Indians when they're drunk, and insulting women?"

The cow-boy honor—for Cash had a crude drilling
in the laws of the West—flamed at the last words, and
in all sincerity, true to his American point of view, he
answered, hotly:

"Don't you accuse me of insultin' women.  She
ain't a woman—she's a squaw."

Jim turned away.  Why argue?

"Bill," he said, "you and Grouchy put Tabywana
on his pony.  Nat-u-ritch, pike way, and take your
father with you."  He knew she could manage the
ponies and arrive at her wickyup in safety; in fact,
the pony would take the Chief home as he would a
dead weight, if Tabywana was once strapped on his
back.

The men struggled with the heavy body of Tabywana,
and they finally succeeded in dragging him
across the room, followed by Nat-u-ritch carrying the
blanket.  Cash could only watch—he was
helpless—so he snarled:

"You've spoiled my trade, eh?"

Jim turned to him.  "The bar is closed to Indians
in Maverick."  He meant Cash to infer that he could
make it unpleasant for him if he called the
government's attention to the matter.

But Cash only sneeringly asked, "By whose orders?"

"Uncle Sam's orders, and they're backed up by the
big 'C' brand."

At these words Shorty and Andy both pulled their
guns, and stood ready to defend Jim's statement.
Cash gave a loud shout, then threw himself against
the bar as he screamed to attract the people in the
room.

"Gents," he called, "the Young Men's Christian
Association is in the saddle.  Say," he wildly went on,
"it's goin' to be perfectly sweet in Maverick.  Nick,"—he
turned to the bartender, who now wished that
Hawkins would go—"I'll be back for a glass of
lemonade."  Then he came to Jim, and, bowing low, he
said, with all the venom and malice of his nature,
"And say, angel-face, when I come back you better
be prepared to lead in prayer."

He made a lunge at Jim, but the sharp eyes of
his men never left his hands.  Cash gave a wild roar
of derisive laughter, flung himself across the room,
turned at the door, pointed to Jim, again laughed
wildly, and then disappeared.  Shorty and Andy
followed him to the door.  Jim, indifferent, with his
back to him, walked to a table at the farther end of
the room.

The place was silent now.  Jim knew he had received
a direct challenge.  According to the laws of
the West, Cash was entitled to get his men together to
meet Jim and his men.  Every one in the saloon was
on the alert.  The Englishman was not well known
there, but from what they had heard they knew he
was courageous.  Would he prove it now?  If so, it
meant that he would be there when Cash returned.
Shorty turned from the door.

"He'll be back," he said, without looking at Jim.

Jim went on smoking.  "Of course," he answered.
He deliberately seated himself at the table and began
shuffling the cards.

Then Shorty and the crowd knew that he meant to
see the thing through.  It was a quiet way, but, they
all agreed, a good way of accepting it.  Shorty
exchanged glances with Andy.  The boss was of the
right sort.  A little more dash would have pleased
them better, still—

"Und say," Andy said, "und with his gang."  He
didn't want the boss to make too light of the
proposition.

But Shorty, who now was sure of Jim, answered for
him, "So much the better, eh?  We can clean 'em
all up together.  Say, boss, what did you let him make
it a matter of Injins fer?  You got the sentiment of
the kummunity agin you right from the start.  Looks
like fightin' for trifles."

Grouchy, who had the news from Andy, who was
now explaining it to Bill, straddled into a chair as he
said, "Yes, it's some dignified to fight over cattle,
but Injins—pshaw!"

Jim knew it was useless to try to explain.  Their
opinions on these matters were as separate as the poles;
but they were a good sort, and served him well and
faithfully.  Personally he did not care for this
proposed fight with Hawkins.  He wanted peace—some
days when he might dream and drift and watch the
sand plains, when the work was done.  The broils of
the saloons, the point of view of the crowd, the honor
of the West really mattered little to him, but for the
sake of the boys, and that their pride in him might
not suffer, he often accepted their definition of the code
of life that was followed in Maverick.  He knew how
to win them, so he began:

"Well, boys, I don't want to drag you into my
quarrel.  If you feel that way about Indians—"  He
was about to add that he did not, but Shorty interrupted:

"Pull up, boss; 'tain't fair to make us look as if we
were trying to sneak out of a scrap.  It was only the
cause of it.  You ain't got a quitter in your gang, and
you know it."

"I know it, Shorty."  Jim was obliged to laugh at
the eager faces of the three men who stood close to
him, like excited children waiting to be understood.

"Well, don't say anything more about it, will you?
Let's—"  Shorty put out his hand.

Jim grasped it.  "Let it go at that," Jim finished.
"You understand that you are to leave Cash to me
unless more get into the game."

Bill, who had been listening to it all, drew Jim aside.
He preferred peace, but knew that they and Carston's
ranch stood marked for the crowd to jeer at for all
time unless they did what was expected of them by
the laws of the cow town, made by its men, not by
the government that they abused.

"Jim"—Bill spoke over his shoulder—"Bud
Hardy, the County Sheriff, is standing just behind
you at the bar, and he's particular thick with Cash.
Got to take him into account."

Jim nodded; with his arm through Bill's he crossed
to a side entrance and stood under the porch.  He
wanted to discuss with Bill what was best to do.
Shorty and Andy stood up against the bar and treated
their particular friends to drinks.  They felt it was
going to be a red-letter day for Carston's ranch.

Outside the Overland Limited tooted at intervals,
and sent up shrill whistles, but made no attempt to
leave Maverick.  One official's information was
denied by the next one.  Passengers had come in and had
gone again—some of them frightened, some disgusted
by the life of the saloon.  A little farther down the
line others of the passengers were being amused by
some Indians who, at the news of the train's stopping,
had hurried to the railroad.

Cash's departure had allowed the place to grow
quiet.  Even Nick hoped he would not find his men
and return.  There was a sudden shunting of the
train, and the rear car moved back in to more direct
view of the saloon.  Diana, tired of the wait, had
finally persuaded Sir John and Henry to alight and
see the place.  They all entered together.

"By Jove, what a rum hole!" Sir John exclaimed.

"Hello, there's a faro-table!" exclaimed Henry.

All that Diana said was, "I thought you had given
up play, Henry."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course, my dear, but a little sport to kill the
tedium of this infernal wait—the monotony of the
thing is getting on my nerves.  John, will you look
after Di while I at least watch the game?"

"Delighted," Sir John replied, but his anxious face
showed that he thoroughly disapproved of the
proceedings.  "Really, Diana," he began, "let me
prevail upon you to leave here.  Any one who remains in
a place of this kind is taking chances—oh, believe
me—"

"Nonsense; it all looks deadly dull to me."

The men, recognizing a quietly gowned gentle-woman,
paid no attention to them.

"Why, I'm not afraid, John.  What's liable to happen?"

Sir John Applegate's mind was filled with stories
of the West he had heard and read in his boyhood
days.

"Why, these desperadoes are liable to come in here
and request you to dance—dance for their
amusement, by Jove!"

"Well, what of that?  We don't do it," Diana
teasingly interrupted.

"Oh yes, my dear Diana, we *do* do it.  The request
is an order, you know—obligatory—oh, quite?
Because, believe me, if we do not accede to their
absurd request, they playfully shoot your toes off, by
Jove!  They are shockingly rude, by Jove! these
chaps, believe me—oh, shockingly!"

Diana looked about the room.

"I've read of such things, but I don't believe they
happen—do you?"

Henry was lost to them in the crowd around the
faro-table.  Several other passengers from the train
had joined him.  Sir John really did not like the look
of the place; at the moment he caught Pete's eyes
fastened in amusement on him.  He drew Diana to
one corner, and as he did so they came within range
of Jim's sight.  He was coming in to join Shorty and
explain what he and Bill had decided to do when Cash
returned.  As he saw Diana he involuntarily drew
back.  It was only one of the old tormenting visions
that had returned, he thought.  He drew his hands
over his eyes—but no, he saw her again!  Impossible!
He leaned forward—it was Di, and in Maverick!  In
spite of the sudden pain and bewilderment he smiled
as he realized how the unexpected played its part in
life.  Di in Maverick!

There was no time to reason it out.  He could not
see Henry, only Sir John.  He saw Diana watching
with curiosity the place and its occupants.  He
mingled quickly with the crowd at the bar, hoping
they would leave shortly.

Sir John was continuing his tirade against the ranchmen,
and vainly trying to persuade Diana to return to
the car.  She was examining some crude pictures on
the walls.

"When they wish," Sir John said, "these fellows
shoot out the lights, the windows, and the bar
furnishings.  They are very whimsical—that's the American
humor that they talk so much about.  I don't care for
whimsies myself."  Diana began to laugh.  Really, she
was thinking, she had never known how absurd and
old-womanish Sir John could be.  But he continued:
"Then, if you don't see fit to respond to their silly
gayety, they kill you, by Jove! that's all.  I can't see
the joke of it, you know.  For example, one of them
comes in here and invites us all, believe me, to drink
with him.  It's not the proper thing to reply, 'Thanks
awfully, old chap, but I'm not thirsty,' or 'I've just
had a drink,' or 'Excuse me, won't you,' because if
you say that, he's very angry, don't you know.  You
have offered him a deadly insult; he does not know
you, never saw you before, hopes never to see you
again, and yet if you do not drink something which
you do not want he kills you.  That's deliciously
whimsical now, isn't it?"

"Cousin John, if I didn't know your reputation as
a soldier, I'd think you were afraid."  Diana, followed
by Sir John, moved nearer the corner where Jim was
standing.

Jim could see the sweet beauty of her face.  He felt
a sudden dizziness.  It was more than he could
endure.  He started to leave, when he felt Bill's hand
on his shoulder.

"This place is too stuffy for me; I must get out into
the air," he explained.

"Leave the saloon now, Jim!" Bill exclaimed, in
amazement.  Surely Jim was not weakening.  "If
you ain't here to face Cash Hawkins when he comes
back you lose your standing among the people with
whom you live.  You ain't agoin' to do that, are you,
boy?"

"Oh yes—Cash."  With the remembrance of Hawkins
came the resolve to remain in the saloon until
Diana left.  He must be there to protect her if
necessary.  "I'd forgotten Cash; I was thinking of
something else, Bill."  Then, as he encountered Bill's
searching eyes, he added, "Oh yes; remember, if Cash
returns, each of you pick your man and leave him to me."

He drew closer to the crowd at the bar; Diana was
not likely to venture there.  She had joined Henry,
and, with Sir John, they were about to leave the place.

Suddenly there was the sound of the clattering of a
troop outside.  At every entrance to the saloon—and
there were four—a man entered flourishing a gun,
while through the centre door rushed Cash, who by
this time had worked himself up into a frenzy of
passion.  Straight into the ceiling he shot his revolver,
and said:

"Nick, every one in the Long Horn drinks with me."

Every means of egress was barred by Hawkins's
men.  Jim drew behind Bill's burly figure.  If only
Cash would allow the strangers to go, was his one
thought.  Henry looked at Sir John; Diana, half
frightened, grasped a chair.  The men in the place
made a hurried rush towards the bar; deep in rows they
stood there.  Then Cash noticed the three figures; but
it only added to the zest of the situation for him.
Diana, watching his cruel face, realized that Sir John's
yarn of adventure might prove a true one.

The saloon waited in silence.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI

.. vspace:: 2

Cash had been drinking heavily all day, but
there was no sign that it had weakened his
faculties.  On the contrary, the exhilaration of the
liquor served to strengthen his dogged humor as he
compelled the inmates of the saloon, strangers and
all, to do his bidding.

"By Jove, Di, we are in for it," Sir John muttered.
Then he turned irritably to Henry, who was close to
him, "You have let us get in for a nice mess up."  He
was not afraid, but more than anything in the
world he disliked a scene.  He had travelled enough
to know that they were at the mercy of the rough
humor of these men.  When occasion warranted he
could match others in decision and courage, but he
also knew that the consequences of the present
situation were apt to be needlessly unpleasant.  From the
beginning he had been averse to Henry's allowing
Diana to come with them; however, they must find a
way out of it.  He began to survey the crowd of men
critically.

Jim, who was watching Diana, spoke, though still
hidden among the crowd at the bar.

"There are some outsiders, Hawkins, from the
train.  You don't care to mix them up in our
festivities, I suppose."  By humoring Cash he also
hoped to find a way out for Diana and the others.
His voice attracted Sir John's attention.

.. _`"SHE DREW HERSELF UP CLOSE TO HIM, AND SAID 'ME KILL 'UM'"`:

.. figure:: images/img-182.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: "SHE DREW HERSELF UP CLOSE TO HIM, AND SAID 'ME KILL 'UM'" See page 202

   "SHE DREW HERSELF UP CLOSE TO HIM, AND SAID 'ME KILL 'UM'" See page `202`_

"Quite so," he rejoined.  "We have had a delightful
time, don't you know."  Then he turned to the
desperado, who, with the smoking pistol still in his
hand, was leaning against the centre-table and
laughing at the strangers' discomfiture.  "Awfully jolly
of you to invite us, but circumstances over which we
have no control, don't you know—"  He grew painfully
muddled.

"That's right, pane in the face," said Cash.

Sir John dropped his eye-glass in disgust.

"Circumstances over which you have no control,"
sneered Cash.  "You describe the situation accurate.
I'm a-runnin' this here garden-party, and I ain't
agoin' to let anybody miss the fun—savvy?"

Jim's intervention had only hurt their chances of
escaping from the saloon.  Cash motioned his men,
with their drawn guns, to stand close at the entrances.
Jim saw Diana turn pale.  He forgot everything; he
only knew that she stood there—that at this moment
Henry and Sir John were powerless to help her.  He
must get her away from the place; he would agree
promise Cash whatever he wished in return—only
Diana must be allowed to leave.

"But the lady—you won't detain the lady against her
will?"  He knew the weakness of Cash's nature; to
appeal to him as a gallant might be efficacious.  In
his earnestness to carry his point Jim stepped out from
among the men around the bar.

Almost simultaneously a low cry of "Jim" broke
from Henry and Diana.  It was followed by an
ejaculation from Sir John.  It passed unremarked,
and Jim determined to ignore what his impetuous
folly had brought upon him.  Cash was oblivious of
everything save his revenge.  He bowed low to Diana—he
would be polite to the lady, even if the request
came from Jim.

"I am going to give the lady the chance to see how
an Englishman looks when he has to take his
medicine."  He looked at Diana.  "She's sure a
thoroughbred—she ain't batted an eye nor turned a hair.  I'll
bet a hundred to one she stays."

Diana could at that moment have passed out of the
saloon, leaving Henry and Sir John there, but she saw
only Jim.  It *was* Jim—Jim in those strange clothes—Jim
so bronzed, so strong, so masterful.  What a
contrast to Henry!

Cash waited for her answer.  He adored playing
to the gallery—this was heightening the situation
beyond all expectation.

"She stays," he finally said.  "Good!  Gents, this
is to be a nice, quiet, sociable affair—ladies are
present.  Any effort to create trouble will be nipped in
the bud.  Gents, to the bar."

He turned to Henry and Sir John as he spoke.  He
had a contempt for the men, but there was something
about this quiet, dignified woman that embarrassed
him, though he would have been the last to admit it.
A few more drinks and he might be dangerous, but
at present he was still master of himself.  His game
was to make Jim and his gang ridiculous before the
strangers.  Afterwards—well, then the serious settling
of their score should come.  He took a glass that was
handed him across the bar and gulped down its contents.

Henry was whispering to Diana, "For God's sake,
go—you can, and later we will follow you.  This
will be over in a minute."  But Diana only held
tighter the rail of the chair.

"We can't drink with this confounded bounder,
Henry," Sir John expostulated.  "It's too absurd,
you know.  Her Majesty's officers can't do a thing
like that, now can they?"

"We must humor the drunken brute, Sir John,
that's the only way out of it."

That Jim was there none of them acknowledged to
each other.  Events were assuming a strange
unreality.  What had been meant for a half-hours
diversion was involving them in a highly dangerous
situation.  The saloon grew hotter—little air reached
them through the barred doorway.  Still Diana did
not go.  The old imperative cry, stifled for the last
two years, awoke again.  She forgot the dust, the hot
saloon, the swaggering crowd of ranchmen.  The noise
and wild excitement fell on her unheeding ears.  Jim
was there, and his presence held her rooted to the
spot.

Jim had moved into a corner at the lower end of the
bar, and furtively watched Cash and his men.

"Step up lively, sonny," Cash called to Sir John
and Henry, "or you may have to dance the Highland
fling."

Sir John stole a look of self-justification at Diana,
but she did not see it.  It was turning out just as he
had told her.

"And shoot our toes off, by Jove," he whispered to
Henry.  "And he'll do it, too, confounded bounder!"
he muttered, as both men went towards the bar and
were met by Pete, who handed them each a glass of
evil-looking whiskey.

Cash began to direct the scene.  "Hand out the
nose-paint, gents."

Every one took a drink, Jim too; for her sake he
would do as Hawkins wished.  It would be the
quickest way to end this part of the business.  The
serious end of it would follow when they were alone.

Suddenly Cash, whose last two drinks were rendering
him more offensive, and who was determined
to annoy Sir John as well as Jim, said, "Gents, to the
success of the Boers."

To the crowd it was a foolish toast; it meant
nothing to them.  But they had hardly begun to toss off
their drinks when there came a crack of glass, as Sir
John Applegate threw his tumbler on the floor and
said, "No, I'll be damned."

Cash turned on him with an imprecation, and
started to cover him with his gun.  This unexpected
diversion was the chance that Jim had been looking
for.  In an instant he had thrown his untasted liquor
into Cash Hawkins's face.  It blinded Cash.
Involuntarily he fumbled with his guns, and in an
instant Jim had thrust his revolver into Cash's side.
There was a moment of pandemonium as Cash's
imprecations filled the air.  The men at the door
started forward, but they had to pay for the moment's
lowering of their guns.  Big Bill and Jim's men had
been eagerly watching their opportunity, and speedily
covered Cash's gang.

"Put your hands up quick," Jim ordered.

Cash, with visible reluctance, complied.  There
was a suppressed madness of excitement in Jim's
voice as he said to Sir John Applegate: "Oblige me
by relieving the gentleman of his guns; it will tire him
to hold it up there too long."  Sir John obeyed.  It
was a critical moment—one never knew which way a
crowd in a saloon would veer, and there might have
been a riot if Cash had been more popular.  As it
happened there was a laugh at Jim's words.  Sir John
reached for the guns.  Cash, gaunt and terrible to
look at, stood still while they were taken from him.
The pressure of the muzzle at his side caused him to
loosen his final reluctant finger.

"Delighted, charmed, I'm sure," Sir John agreed.

Jim, still covering Cash with his gun, drove him up
against the bar.  Those of the crowd who knew him
realized that they were seeing a new man in the
Englishman.  He was conscious of Diana's luminous
face back of him, of Henry's gray countenance close
to her as he quietly expostulated with her.  The crowd
swung close to the new boss.  This was what they
wanted.  They believed he would prove the new
leader for Maverick.

"Every man's hands on the bar," the Englishman
called, and he and his men covered the crowd at these
words.  "I ask you," Jim quietly said, "to drink
with me to the President of the United States."

Men who had cursed their President, defied the
laws of the country that had elected him, and who
were fugitives from the justice of their land were
touched by the simple and tactful toast.  All glasses
were raised.  They were about to drink, but the first
sentence was followed by the words:

"And to her Gracious Majesty, the Queen."

This time Jim stood ready to shoot; but it was
unnecessary—the crowd echoed the toast.  Why not?
The Englishman was right.  Their country—then
his.  Not a bad sort.  So the murmurs went
around.

Suddenly Hawkins said, as he watched Sir John:

"Your little glass-eyed friend don't drink."

Sir John's glass was still untouched.

"Oh yes, he's goin' to drink," Shorty cut in, as he
crossed to the group near the table.

"Ain't nobody excused on a formal show-down like
this!" Bill called.

But Sir John, carried away by indignation at Jim's
daring to propose that toast to the country and the
sovereign he believed Jim had so dishonored,
vehemently answered:

"I'm an officer in her Majesty's service, and, by
Jove!  I won't drink with a man who fled from
England after robbing the widows and orphans of the
Queen's soldiers, and you can do what you jolly well
like about it."

All eyes were turned on Jim.  Would he kill the
stranger?  Henry held Diana by the arm.  Jim
grew pale under the strain of the moment's intensity.

Cash was the first to speak.  "What do you say to
that?" he drawled, after a prolonged whistle.

But Jim kept his eyes fastened on Sir John.  "If I
were the man you think me," he said, "you would
never have finished that sentence.  You have
evidently mistaken me for some one else.  My name is
Jim Carston, and I never took a penny that did not
belong to me."

Even to Sir John the words rang true, but he had
lost all control—he was determined to avenge the old
score of dishonor against his regiment.

"Why, confound your impudence, there stands
your cousin, Henry Kerhill!"

The crowd swung around.  This was the moment—it
had been a day for Maverick.  What were they
now to learn of Cash's "angel-face"?

Henry crossed to Jim and faced him.  There was a
pause.  "Yes," he answered, with as much
nonchalance as he could assume, "I believe the gentleman
does bear a certain bald resemblance to the man
you mean, but it is evidently a case of mistaken
identity."  Diana's eyes were following him with their
mute appeal.  He continued: "You will observe, Sir
John, that I drank the toast.  I trust you will not
refuse to drink to our Queen with these gentlemen in a
foreign country."

The ranchmen liked these Englishmen.  They
were being treated with great consideration; the little
one was amusing but he was all right.  So ran the
verdict of the Long Horn saloon.

Sir John Applegate stood unconvinced.  Henry's
eyes were fastened on him, and he read there
something that held a reason for his denial.  At all
events he had been most unwise—he knew that
now—and he must, for Diana's sake, undo his hasty
words.

"Well, of course," he began, as he realized that
further comment would be futile, "I was under the
impression that I hadn't had a drink—not one, by
Jove!  Well, I must be squiffy."  The cow-punchers
laughed.  "Here's," he finished, "to her Gracious
Majesty the Queen—God bless her!"

Big Bill, who would have been an arch-diplomat in
another sphere of life, said:

"Not forgettin' his Gracious Majesty the President,
you know."

Sir John rose to the occasion.  "Oh, quite so—his
Royal Highness the President—God bless him!"

The men slapped one another in appreciation of the
joke.  Sir John tried to drink the whiskey of the
country, but with a sigh he said, after the first taste,
"Say, as I must drink, please make it Scotch."

During the scene in the saloon the car had drawn
down the line and was shunting up and down the rails
in a way comprehensible only to the powers that
control an engine.  Henry apprehensively looked
towards the car, and went to meet Dan, whom he
could see at the farther end of the platform.  The
meeting with Jim had been painful, and he was
almost at his wits' end.  As he could not force Diana's
prompt withdrawal, he would fetch Dan to insist upon
the passengers' return to the car.

Jim had seen Henry slip away unobserved.  Would
Diana and Sir John never go?  He could see that the
excitement was beginning to tell on Diana.
Suddenly she swayed—yet he dared not go near her.

"Bill," he called, "the lady looks as though she
were going to faint."

Sir John and Bill started towards Diana, but Bill
was the first to reach her.  He quickly grasped her
by the arm and steadied her.

Diana smiled at him.  "Thank you, I was dizzy
for a moment."

"On behalf of the genuine cow-boys present, I must
apologize to this lady for being forced to remain in a
place like this.  You may go, madam."  Jim spoke
without looking at her.

"Thank you," Diana answered.  "I am a bit shaken,
but I'm glad I stayed."

Bill was still holding her hand as he drew a chair
towards her.  "You're tremblin', lady.  Nick"—he
turned to the bar—"ain't you got nothin' in the way
of a ladies' drink?"

"Right off the bat."  Nick took a bottle from the
pyramid behind the bar.  "Here's a bottle of Rhine
wine as has been an ornament here for fifteen years."  As
he spoke he dusted the slender-throated flagon.
"It's unsalable.  I never tasted it but once, and I
hardly knowed I had had a drink.  It was just like
weak tea; but it's a regulation ladies' drink, and if
the lady will honor me, it's sure on the house."

Diana had sunk into the chair—she was too dazed
to know what to do.  Sir John was near her.

"That's very kind of you, I'm sure," Diana said.
She took the glass from Bill's hand.  "I feel better
already."

"It 'ain't got no real substance to it, lady, but it's
the best Nick's got, and we'd like to have you accept
it, jest to show that you know that all Western men
ain't bad men and all cow-boys ain't loafers."

As he spoke, Bill bowed low.  Like a gallant of old,
he trailed his sombrero on the ground.  Some of the
men began to feel sentimental—they were like weather-cocks,
responding readily with their susceptible natures
to the swaying influence of the moment.

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Diana sprang
to her feet.  Jim would not look towards her—well,
then, she must send him some message.  "I think I
understand," she said to Bill.  "If you will let me, I
would like to propose a toast—will you let me?"

The room echoed the assent of the men.  They
were all cavaliers—all sombreros were off and all
bowed low before Diana.  The cow-boy has much of
the player in him.  Hardly able to steady her sweet,
tremulous voice, Diana turned directly to Jim and
moved nearer to him, while she lifted her glass high
in the air.

"To the Queen's champion, Mr.—"  She paused,
her eyes were blinded, her brain clouded.  What was
the name he had called himself?  "Mr.—" she again
repeated.

Bill's voice answered, "Jim Carston's his name, lady."

Higher she held the glass.  Jim had turned in
amazement.  Her eyes met his.

"Mr. Jim Carston."  Her voice rang clear and
vibrant this time.

"And every son of a gun in this hole drinks to that,
or we'll know the reason why—eh, boys?" Bill
jubilantly cried.  Their boss had brought glory to them
that day.

"Jim Carston!  Jim Carston!"  The name rang
through the place, and the toast was drunk with
enthusiasm.  In the midst of it all the centre door was
thrown open and the conductor's big voice bawled:

"All passengers for the Overland Limited—all aboard!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII

.. vspace:: 2

The tooting and whistling of the train began.  The
men filed outside.  In the crush Cash Hawkins,
who had been drinking steadily until he was now in a
decided state of inebriation, slunk down to the other
end of the platform.  Henry and Sir John assisted
Diana to the car.  The cow-boys swarmed along the
platform—Jim alone stood in the deserted saloon.

Before he was aware of what was happening—that
the train was about to carry away this tie of his former
life—he heard Diana's voice call "Jim."  She slipped
from the lower step on which she stood and ran
towards him.

"Diana!"  He seized her out-stretched hands—he
must say something to her, but she would not let him
speak.

"I shall always thank God for this day, Jim,  I
couldn't believe you were—I never have.  Now I
know the sacrifices you have made for me—now I
know I have the right to ask God to bless you and
keep you and make you happy."  Her voice broke;
tears were falling on his hand.

Lady Elizabeth or Henry would never discuss the
cause of Jim's departure.  She had always persistently
defended him to the world, and to-day her intuition
had told her that for her sake Jim had shielded
his cousin—her husband!  How could she accept it?

"And you, Diana—tell me you are happy."

"Happy?"  Her eyes told him that it was only
possible for her to be happy now that she knew the
truth.  "I sha'n't mind the future now so terribly,
because I can respect somebody."

Dan passed the open door.  "All aboard, lady," he
briskly called.

"Good-bye, Jim.  God bless you!"  She felt herself
being helped aboard by Dan; she tried to wave
her hand to Jim.  The car moved, the whistling and
ringing of the bell told of their departure.

It was Henry who led her to a chair and left her
there.  That day he paid in full for his life's misdeeds.

Jim never attempted to see the receding car; he
could hear the noise of the departing train and the
cries of the boys as they hooted their good-byes.

"Kiss the baby for me."  It was big Bill's voice.

"What a baby Bill is himself!"  Jim found himself
saying.

"Tell Sadie to write," called Shorty.

"Und say—say for me too, you bet."  The voice
of the German was drowned in the roar from the rest
of the boys.  Only Grouchy, in silence, looked on
contemptuously.

From down the platform came the yells of the men.
Even Nick had deserted his bar.  Still, Jim did not
move.  He could hear it all; he knew what was
happening—that the train was steaming away.  He found
himself watching flies settle on a beer-glass.  Then he
fell into a chair, let his head slip on to his arms that
lay across the table, his back to the big entrance and
to the smaller one at the other side of the room.
There was no movement from him that told of the
agonies he was enduring.  The flies buzzed at will
about the place.

The door at the side swung silently open and
Nat-u-ritch slipped into the room.  In her soft
moccasins her steps made no sound.  She crept towards Jim,
amazed to see him lying thus.  She shook her head—she
could not understand this mystery.  She was about
to move closer to Jim when she heard some one coming.

Through the door at the back she could see the
crowds returning from the departed train, while from
the other direction came Cash Hawkins—she could
see him clearly.  Closer came his steps.  Quickly she
slid behind the door, and from without peered into
the saloon.  Cash, aflame with passion and liquor,
entered and saw that Jim was alone.

He drew both his guns.  With an evil smile he
advanced upon Jim.  "Damn you, I've got you!" he
hissed; but before he could pull the trigger there
was a flash, a report, and Cash's hands were thrown
up in a convulsive movement while he pitched forward
on his face.  Dazed, bewildered, Jim got to his
feet and mechanically pulled his gun; then, before he
was aware of what had happened, he was bending
over the body of Hawkins.

The report was followed by an excitable rush of the
crowd into the saloon.  The gamblers and cattlemen
were headed by Bud Hardy, the County Sheriff.
Big Bill, Andy, Grouchy, and Shorty went at once
to Jim, who still stood close to the prostrate figure cf
Cash Hawkins.  Pete quickly knelt beside the body,
and turned Cash over to examine him.  Bud Hardy
stood in the centre of the room.

"Hold on there!  Nobody leaves without my
permission."  Then to Pete, "How is he?"

"He's cashed in, Sheriff.  Plumb through the
heart.  Don't think I ever see neater work."  He
laid the body on its back and crossed the arms over
the breast.

Hardy walked direct to Jim.  "Jim Carston, hand
over your gun."

"And who are you?" Jim asked, as he looked at the
tall, bulky figure of Bud Hardy.  He had forgotten
that Bill, earlier in the afternoon, had pointed out this
man to him, and warned him of his friendship with
Cash Hawkins.

Gathered about Bud were Hawkins's faction, who
resented the Englishman's presence among them,
and with them several who, only a few hours ago, had
been cheering Jim.  Bud Hardy answered his question
with tolerant amusement.

"The County Sheriff," he said.

To the surprise of all, Jim advanced and handed his
gun to Bud.

"Come on, you're my prisoner."  Even Bud felt
that this was extremely difficult.  No resistance from
the prisoner—no denial!  It was unusual.  But as
he stepped towards Jim he was stopped by Bill.

"Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a ferocious
hurry.  Where you goin' to take him to?"

Bill's heart beat fast, but he gave no sign of the fear
that filled him.  He knew what this might mean for
the boss.  The faces of the other men of Jim's ranch
grew gray—they too realized, far more than Jim did,
that it was not the justice of the law that was to be
his, but—well, the crowds grew blood-thirsty
sometimes in Maverick.  They had seen sights that the
boss had not—an ugly swinging vision passed before
their eyes, but no hint was given of this by the men.
Each one knew that it would be the most unwise move
they could make for the boss's sake.

Bill's big, slow voice was heard again in its careless
drawl.  "Wait a minute, Bud; don't be in such a
ferocious hurry.  Where you goin' to take him to?"

"County jail, of course, at Jansen," was Hardy's
answer.

Bill then asked, as he surveyed Hawkins's gang,
who were whispering together with several of the
hangers-on of the place, "How do you know the
friends of the deceased won't take him away from
you and hang him to the nearest telegraph-pole, eh?"

It was lightly said, and as he said it Bill laid his
big hand on Bud's shoulder.  He must conciliate the
Sheriff, gain time—anything.

But Bud shook Bill off.  "Are you goin' to
interfere with me in the discharge of my duty?" he
blustered.

"Not a bit, Bud, not a bit," Bill said; then, with
sudden resolve—it would mean his life, and the lives
of others against them, perhaps, but he meant to fight
if necessary—he added: "But we're goin' to see that
you do it.  We ain't afraid of a trial and a jury."  He
took the crowd into his confidence.  "There isn't
a jury in the State that wouldn't present the prisoner
with a vote of thanks and a silver service for gettin'
rid of Cash Hawkins."

He turned to Bud with his men about him.
"Who's goin' to help you take him seventy-five miles
to jail?" he demanded.  "Will you swear us in?"

But Bud only answered, "You can't intimidate
me, Bill."

"As defunct has a gun in each hand it's a plain case
of self-defence, anyway."  Bill pointed to the two
revolvers still clutched in the dead man's stiffening
hands.

"I don't stand for this," thundered Bud.  "Clear
the room."

He had been rather a friend of Big Bill's—most of
them were in Maverick—so he had listened to him
longer than he would have to any of the other men,
but now he was through with his arguments, he must
assert his authority.

"Clear the room; this prisoner goes with me."

There was a movement from the crowd.  Bill
looked appealingly at Jim.  Why would not the boss
speak?  Just as the crowds had reached the doors Jim
said to Bud, who was advancing to formally arrest him:

"Wait a minute.  Take the trouble to examine my gun."

Bud lifted Jim's gun and looked at it closely.
"Well?" he asked.

"You see it hasn't been discharged."

Bud quickly verified the fact that the gun was
completely loaded.  He paused a moment irresolute.
Then, with a sudden suspicion, he said:

"You've had time to reload it."

The men were eagerly watching the scene between
the two men.

"Smell it," Jim said, quietly.  "I haven't had time
to clean it."

"Ah!" Bill breathed.  It was like Jim to play the
trump card.

Bud Hardy lifted the revolver to his nose.  It was
as clean and fresh-smelling as a bit of cold steel.
There could be no doubt that it had not been
used, and Jim had all these men as witnesses to prove
it.  It would be useless to try to make a case of this.
Bud knew when he was beaten.  He took the revolver
and handed it to Jim.

"Well, who did it, then?"  He glanced at Jim's
men.  "Would you's all oblige me by giving me a
sniff of your guns?"

.. _`200`:

The relief was so great that the men hysterically
crowded Bud, and almost as one man they thrust
their revolvers into Bud's face.

"Here's my smoke," said one.

Bud drew back.  "One at a time—one at a time,"
he gasped—"if you please."

Then one by one the men filed past him as each
held his revolver to Bud's nose.

"Here's my smoke-machine," Bill said.  It was
passed by Bud without a word.

"Und mine," said Andy.

Grouchy jerked his into Bud's face with the words,
"Here's mine, and not a notch on it."  And Bud
could not deny the truth of the assertion.

All that Shorty nervously demanded was, "How's
that?" as he jerked the revolver into Bud's face.

In Maverick this was evidence enough for Bud—evidence
that so far all were free to go.

"Why didn't you's all say so before?" he growled,
annoyed at the turn affairs had taken.  Then he saw
the expression on their faces, laughter and glee as they
crowded around Jim; when they looked at him,
tolerant amusement.  The smelling of the smoke-machines
they regarded as a fine new move on their part.

"Damn it," Bud thundered.  "You've been astringin'
me while the guilty man's escaped; but I'll git
him—I'll git him yet."

Jim saved!  It was all that the boys wanted.  With
a whoop-la, they tore after Bud.  Down the platform
they fled, all in excitement with the new sensation
of the moment—the hunt with Bud for the guilty man.

Near the table lay a gray glove.  Jim stooped and
picked it up, and put it quietly to his lips.  Bill, who
had lingered near the door, suddenly turned and came
back to Jim and put his arm about him.

"You just escaped lynchin', Jim."  And Jim knew
that Bill spoke the truth.

He held the glove folded close in his hand as he
answered, "Yes, I'm almost sorry."

Bill's face became grave.  What did the boss mean?
Was the game too hard for him?  Was he afraid he
would lose on the ranch deal?  He patted him
tenderly, almost like a mother humoring a wayward
child, without saying a word.  Jim sank into a chair.
Bill understood—the boss would like to be alone, so
he sauntered up to the back and joined Nick.  In his
heart there was but one thought: Jim should see how
well they would all serve him.  He swore a mighty
oath that he would see the others did so, too.

Left alone, Jim sat staring straight ahead of him.
Suddenly he realized that the body of Cash Hawkins
was still lying there.  He shuddered at the cruel
forgetfulness of the men.  He leaned forward and spoke
his thoughts aloud:

"Who killed Cash Hawkins?"

.. _`202`:

He felt a sudden touch on his hand; he turned;
there, kneeling at his feet, was Nat-u-ritch, who had
entered unobserved and crept beside him.  As he
looked at her she drew herself up nearer to him,
and, leaning her chin on her hand, said:

"Me kill um."

Jim's only answer was to place his hand over her
face while he hurriedly looked about the saloon.
No one could have heard her.  He drew her to her
feet and motioned her to go, saying that he would
follow shortly.

That night Jim learned the truth, and his friendship
with Nat-u-ritch began.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII

.. vspace:: 2

After this Jim often met Nat-u-ritch.  On his
trail across the country he would see her on her
little pony galloping after him.  Sometimes she
would join him and silently accompany him on his
search for the cattle that had strayed beyond the
range.

Nat-u-ritch's life with her father, Tabywana, was
passed in days of uneventful placidness.  Since the
death of Cash Hawkins the Chief had given her no
cause for anxiety.  Concerning the murder, neither
she nor her father spoke.  Tabywana admired Jim
Carston; he seemed to realize instinctively what Jim
had saved him from that day at the saloon, and
his unspoken devotion, sincere and steadfast, often
caused him to serve Jim without any one's knowledge.

Sometimes when Nat-u-ritch returned from a long
day's ride her father would scrutinize her, and as he
read in her the call of her nature for the Englishman,
a curious smile would light up his face in sympathy
with her.  He saw the unmoved impassiveness that
she showed to all the young bucks that sought her,
and without protest let her go her way, and her trail
always led towards Carston's ranch.

Winter came with its treacherous winds, and
Carston's ranch was more desolate.  Of Nat-u-ritch's
unspoken devotion to him there was no doubt in Jim's
mind, and the temptation to take her proffered
companionship into his lonely life rose strong within him.
After Cash Hawkins's death, Jim, had he cared for
the life, might have been a leader in the Long Horn
saloon, but a bar-room hero was not the role that he
wished to play.  His own men—Grouchy, Andy, and
Shorty—openly expressed their disappointment to Big
Bill at the boss's indifference to the position he might
exert as a power in Maverick, and even Big Bill only
vaguely understood Jim's unappreciative attitude.  He
often watched Jim smoking his pipe and peering into
the heart of the embers that glowed on the hearth, and
as he saw the careworn face Bill's great heart ached
with sympathy for him.  But Jim, as he realized the
difficulties of the fight in which he was involved, only
clinched his fists the tighter and accomplished the
work of three men in his day's toil.

At these times the physical drain on him was so
great that there was no opportunity left in which to
realize the biting ache of his loneliness.  So one
bleak day succeeded another, with the slim, mute
figure of the Indian girl ever crossing his path.

The early spring brought with it a sudden melting
of the snow-capped hills and the ice-covered pools.
The cattle grew more troublesome.  They seemed
harder to control, or else the boys were more
indifferent to their disappearance.  Big Bill had gone
away on a deal for new cattle, so Jim's energies were
redoubled.

One day as he rode across the plains searching for
a lost herd that had wandered towards Jackson's
Hole, the longing that the awakening spring had
brought with it grew more insistent.  Life surely
held for him possibilities greater than this, he told
himself.  He resolved, on Bill's return, to arrange with
him to sell the place.  He could not conquer the
craving for the old haunts of civilization that took
possession of him.  He closed his eyes to shut out the
endless stretch of prairie.  Lost in his dream to escape
from his lonely life and to take part again in the affairs
of men of his own class, he failed to notice the small
pony that followed him carrying Nat-u-ritch.

On he went, so absorbed in his thoughts that he
did not notice how close he was to Jackson's Hole.
Big Bill long ago had warned him of the treacherous
ridge that lay near the gulley, but Jim had forgotten
Bill's words.  Unconscious of the danger ahead, he
galloped towards the edge of the broken precipice.
In the distance he espied the marks of a herd of cattle
that had passed around to the other side of the ridge.
Jim urged his horse forward and started to jump the
small, deceptive span that covered the hole.  A sharp
cry came from Nat-u-ritch, who had quickly gained
ground on him as she saw his intention.  But Jim,
unheeding, gave a sharp command to his horse and
urged him over.  There was a sudden breaking of
ground; then a whirling, dazed moment through
which flashed an eternity of thought, and Nat-u-ritch
stood alone, clinging to her pony as she peered over
into the dark pool of broken ice around which stretched
chasms of impenetrable blackness.

.. vspace:: 2

Two weeks later Jim opened his eyes to consciousness
in Nat-u-ritch's wickyup.  No man of those
summoned by Nat-u-ritch to help had dared venture
into the dreaded abyss, so Jim had been abandoned as
dead.  But the depth of her love gave the Indian
girl the strength to accomplish his rescue.  Jealous
of her treasure, she dragged the unconscious body
to her own village, which was nearer than Jim's
ranch.

Then followed an illness from the long exposure
in the gulley.  Big Bill returned, only to find the
ranch without its master, while Jim lay in the
squaw's wickyup, with the Indian girl fighting to
save his life, her love and loyalty making her his
abject slave.

Weeks followed, and one day Big Bill and the boys
brought the boss home.  Then came a relapse, and
again Nat-u-ritch's devotion and courage gave him
back his life.  This time Bill watched a double fight:
the fight on the part of the woman to save the man
so that she might win him for herself, and on Jim's
part an effort to resist the mute surrender of the
woman.

Without the boss's supervision the ranch had
deteriorated, and Jim's affairs had become so involved
that he recovered only to find that all thought of
abandoning the place was now impossible.  His
dream of escape was now a hope of the past.  And
so life began afresh for him on the plains.

.. vspace:: 2

Jim stood outside of the window of an adobe hut.
From within he could hear the low moans of a woman
and now and then the wail of a child.  He was alone,
save for the missionary who had married him a few
months before to Nat-u-ritch, and who was now
inside helping the sick woman.  Big Bill had gone
to fetch an old squaw who had promised to come to
the ranch.  As Jim leaned against the post of the
porch he was stirred by a multitude of emotions.
The wails from within grew louder and more fretful.
As he watched the heavens, ablaze with a thousand
eyes, he wondered why the old woman had failed to
come in time.  He hardly realized what the past hour
had meant to him.  A child had been given to him!
Something of the wonder of the eternal mystery was
numbing his spirit.  The sick woman's moans grew
fainter, only the cry of the babe persistently reached
him.

At last the missionary came to him: Nat-u-ritch
was asleep; he would go, he explained, and hurry
along the Indian woman who was coming with Big
Bill to the ranch.  The cry of the child seemed to
become more pitiful.  Jim tiptoed to the door of the
inner room.  On the cot lay Nat-u-ritch.  He softly
crossed to the small bundle of life rolled in the blanket
and lifted it in his arms.  The warm, appealing little
body lay limp against him.  He began swaying to
and fro until the cry grew fainter.  Soon the babe
slept; but Jim still stood rocking his son in his strong
arms.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX

.. vspace:: 2

One year slipped into another, until five had
passed since the birth of Jim's son Hal.  The
cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill.  The
trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp
in which they held the ranchmen—absolutely dictating
their terms.  A dry season often further augmented
the disaster of Jim's ventures.  Without repining he
fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and
confidence to help him through the wearing time.

Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's
ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer
afternoon.  Throughout the long day the alkali
plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the
entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust.
Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush
seemed to be only nature's imitation of asbestos, so
persistently were they radiating the heat of the past
week.  The adobe stable glared at the low adobe
dwelling opposite.  Neither gave evidence of any life
within.  A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out
lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was
heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive
mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house
a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp
outfits further increased the disorder of the place.
An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and
a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near
by, were the sole tributes to civilization.

Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place,
seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of
the ranch.  He sat on a log that lay before the door
of the hut and was used for social intercourse or
wood-splitting.  He was intent on braiding strands
of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little
Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and
was the pet of all the men and his father's constant
companion.

Across the river, towards the west, the same
desolation met the eye.  Even the sage-brush and
scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and
the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of
the snow-capped Uinta peaks.  Even more poignant
than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling
that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the
entire ranch.

As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly
watched him.

"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close
to the big fellow.

"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat
the dark head.  "This is going to be for you, and
there ain't any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making
a quirt.  No, sirree."

While he talked lightly to the child his mind was
busy with unpleasant thoughts.  The boys were about
to strike for their money.  Their wages had been
overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the
wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to
satisfy them.  So far there had been no outbreak,
but Bill expected it every moment.

For days Jim had hardly spoken.  That there was
some important decision about to be made by him,
Bill guessed.  He sat and played with the child, but
in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep
close to the place and await developments.  From
down the road he could hear the men coming and
calling to him, but he gave no sign.  He went
on knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal's
hands when the child grew tired of holding the
quirt.

Shorty was the first to arrive, carrying his Mexican
saddle and lariat.  On his diminutive face was stamped
an aggressive pugnacity.  He was followed by
Andy; Grouchy slouched in last, whittling at a piece
of wood.  As Bill surveyed them he knew that they
had been talking things over and had arrived at some
conclusion.  They had been good workers in their
time with him, and he knew even now, at heart, that
they were not bad, but that life had tried them
severely with its failures and disappointments.  He
waited for them to speak.  There was a moment's
silence, then Shorty, as he flung himself down on the
bench, said:

"Say, Bill, I s'pose you know the boys is gettin'
nervous 'bout their money, don't you?"

Bill just looked up, and then went on with his work
as he answered, "To-morrow's pay-day."  He would
not anticipate them in their rebellion; he would make
it hard for them to declare themselves.

"That's what," Shorty went on.

"Well, it's time to get nervous day after to-morrow."  And
still Bill braided the leather.

"They're goin' to make trouble if they don't git
it."  Shorty acted as spokesman.  Grouchy and Andy
only nodded their heads in approval of their leader's
words.

Bill stopped his work as he picked Hal up in his
arms.  "Are they?" he said.  "Well, I reckon Jim
Carston and me can handle that bunch."  He spoke
as though the others were not present.

"Maybe you kin; maybe you kin," Shorty retorted,
as he flung the saddle against the walls of the cabin.

"Und say, Bill—und say—to-morrow's pay-day."
Andy's voice trembled as he spoke.  He was a
gentle-mannered German, and the sight of Hal was not
a good incentive for him to fight against the boss.

Hal began to listen and to look from one to the
other.  Bill noticed the child's look of inquiry and
set him on the ground.

"Son, you run in and help your mother with the
milking."  He slapped his hands together as though
a great joy were in store for the child, who laughed
with glee as he hurried across to the stable.

The men waited for Bill to say something, but he
only stood twisting a straw about in his mouth and
pulling his hat-brim.

Again Andy's courage rose and he walked close to
Bill.  "To-morrow's pay-day, Bill—eh?"

"Is it?  Do tell!  Ain't you a discoverer!  Say,
Andy, you're neglectin' the north pole a little."

This time it was Grouchy who answered, "Well,
I want mine," and he viciously dug his knife into the
hitching-post.

Bill looked from one to the other.  Surely they
would be reasonable; he would try them.

"Boys, it's seven years since the boss bought this
ranch, and he's had an up-hill fight.  Every one's
done him.  He bought when cattle was higher than
they've ever been since, and you know what last
winter did for us; but he 'ain't ever hollered, and the
top wages he paid you at the start he's been a-payin'
you ever since."

"Oh, what's the use!" Shorty interrupted.  "The
money is owed us.  The only question is, do we git
it?"

Backed up by Shorty, Grouchy began again, "Well,
I want mine."

Only gentle Andy was silent.  He could hear little
Hal laughing as he played in the cow-shed.

Bill dropped his persuasive tone as he wheeled
around on the men and in a sudden blaze said:

"Well, you know Carston and you know me.  If
you're lookin' for trouble, we won't see you go away
disappointed."  He squared his shoulders as he
spoke.  "Oh, shucks!"  He looked at the boys again.
"It's no use," he began, more good-naturedly.  "It's
the business that's no good.  Nothin' in it.  The
packers has got us skinned to death.  They pay us
what they like for cattle, and charge the public what
they like for beef.  Hell!" he grunted, as he turned on
his heel.  "I'm goin' into the ministry."

This time Grouchy's "Well, I want mine" was
extremely faint.

Before the others could speak again Bill quickly
called, "Here's the boss now," and signalled the men
to be silent.

They were touched by Jim's haggard face.  They
had not seen the boss for several days; he had been
busy with accounts, Bill had told them.  They began
shuffling their feet as though about to leave.  Each
one thought perhaps it would be as well to wait until
the next day.  Shorty signalled them to come on, but
Jim stopped them.

"Boys, I hear you're getting anxious about your
pay.  I don't blame you.  My affairs are in a bad
way, but I don't expect any one to share my bad luck.
You've earned your money.  I'll see that you get it."

As Jim spoke he drew from his pocket several small
boxes and from his belt an old wallet.  "I have some
useless old trinkets here that have been knocking
around in my trunk for years.  If you will take them
to town, where people wear such things, you will get
enough for them to wipe out my account and
something to boot for long service and good-will."  Andy's
sniffles were the only answer that followed.  Jim
turned to him, "Andy—"

But Andy refused the package.  "Und say, boss.
Und say, I ain't kickin'.  Und say, I can trust you."

Jim only tossed the box into his hands.  "Shorty,"
he said, as he slapped the wallet across the little
fellow's shoulder.

"Oh, I'd rather not," Shorty shamefacedly answered.
"Gee, but this is tough work," he muttered to himself.

Jim smiled.  "You must take it, please.  The man
who refuses throws suspicion on the value of my junk.
You won't do that, I'm sure."  And the wallet slid
into Shorty's hand.

"Grouchy, you can have my repeating rifle," he
added.  "And now, good-night.  I'll see you
to-morrow for the last time."

So this was to be the end of their association with
the boss.  Would he try to shoulder the work of the
place without them?  A second's reflection told them
that this would be impossible.  It was to be really the
end of Carston's ranch.  The three men stood staring
at Jim.  Bill, at the back of the hut, as he heard the
words, sank down on a rough bench.  This was what
had come of the days of silence on Jim's part; in each
man's heart there was an unspeakable emotion at the
dissolution of their companionship.

Suddenly down the road they heard the clatter of
horses.  Then the whoop-la of a crowd of men, and
a stentorian voice called:

"Hello, any one to home at Carston's ranch?"

Shorty and Andy hurried to meet the new-comers.
It was Bud Hardy, the Sheriff, with a posse of men.
In they rushed, swarming all over the place, and
carrying with them the smell of alkali and the heat of
the plains.  Dripping with perspiration, stained and
worn with their travel, they seemed like part of the
desert, so covered were they with a heavy caking of
dust.  One felt the parched fever of their thirst as
they stood asking hospitality of the ranch.  Jim
advanced to meet them.

"Hello, folks," Bud called, as the men of the ranch
welcomed his men.  Then he came towards Jim, who
shook hands with him.

"Why, how are you, Sheriff?"

Since the day at Maverick, when the Sheriff had
tried to arrest him, Jim had often seen Bud.  He was
never sure of the honesty of the man's intentions, ne
and Big Bill had often discussed Bud's unfitness for
the power he held in the place, but he gave no sign of
this in his greeting.

Bud's great frame towered above the others.  He
seemed more effusive and excited than the occasion
warranted, and Big Bill's brows rose questioningly
as he saw the demonstrative way in which he greeted Jim.

"Howdy, Mr. Carston—howdy?  Knowin' the
hospitality of this here outfit, we most killed ourselves
to git here, to say nothin' of the horses.  We left them
leanin' up against the corral, the worst done up
cayuses."  Then directly in appeal to Jim, he said,
"We simply got to stay here to-night, Mr. Carston."

With a cordial gesture of invitation, Jim said,
"You and the boys are welcome, Sheriff, and what
we lack in grub and accommodations we'll hope to
make up to you in good-will."

As Jim spoke, Bud quickly glanced in triumph at
Clarke, a prominent worker in his posse.  The pale
face of Clarke gave back a glance of comprehension
as he lowered his white-lashed eyelids over his bulging
eyes.  All this was observed by Bill, who sauntered
towards the Sheriff as Bud answered Jim.

"What's good enough for you all is good enough
for us, you bet," and he wrung Jim's hand again.
"Why, hello!" he finished, as he saw Bill and turned
to greet him.

"Any news?" Bill laconically asked, as he studied
Bud and his men.

"Nothin' of any consequence," said Bud.  "We
just had a little fracas down at the agency.  Total
result, one Injin killed."

A shout of approval rose from the boys, but Clarke
broke in with another guffaw.  "And the joke of it
is, Bud killed the wrong man."

"But nothin' to it.  All in a day's work," Bud
laughingly explained.

"You look tired, Sheriff," Jim said.  "The boys
will take you to their quarters.  Shorty, you and the
others make the Sheriff and his people feel at home."

There was a murmur of approval.  "Come on,"
said Shorty, and the men started for their quarters.
Shorty, who loved bossing an affair almost better than
teasing, swept them all on before him.  Then he linked
his arm through Bud's.

"Say, Bud, I'll bet you a saddle to a shoe-string
you never roped the man who killed Cash Hawkins
at Maverick."

Clarke, who seemed deliberately to keep near Bud,
gave an involuntary look of surprise at the Sheriff,
but the flash of anger on Bud's blowsed, crimson face
quickly cowed him.

"Oh," Bud said, lightly, "that was years and
years ago, Shorty," and with his arm about him he
followed the men towards their quarters.

Clarke lingered to cast a furtive glance at the hut
and stables, but only for a moment, for he quickly
realized that Bill was intently watching him.

Jim turned to go to the house—then paused.  He
could see Bill against the hitching-post tearing a straw
into wisps that fluttered and fell lifeless to the ground.
There was not enough breeze to carry even a strand
away.  He must speak to Bill, but how could he express
anything of the desolation he felt at this parting
of their ways.

"Bill," he began, in a low voice—and Bill, who
divined the words that were about to follow, made no
answer; he only held tighter to the post.  He could
hardly see the boss; a blur swept before his eyes.  He
made no effort to move; he felt he could not.

"Bill," said Jim again, as he came to him, "you
must get out and look for another job."  Jim clinched
his hands tight as he added, "I'll be sorry to lose you,
old man."

"I know you will," Bill huskily answered, as he kept
his eyes lowered to the ground.  Then, almost in a
growl, he questioned, "And what are you going to
do, boss?"

The despair of a broken man's life answered Bill as
Jim said, in a level, flat tone, "Sell out—move
on—begin all over again—somewhere."  Then with the
indomitable will that was ever a part of him, he added,
more hopefully, "There must be a place for me
somewhere."  Mastering himself, he added, as he took
Bill's knotted hand in his, "I won't offer to pay you,
Bill."

And Bill, who knew by this fineness of perception on
Jim's part why he loved the boss, answered, "You
better not," and wrung Jim's hand in both of his.

"Not now," Jim said, with the old hope again rising
to encourage him, that later he might be able to help
Bill.  "In my life I've had one friend and only
one."  He laid his hands on Bill's shoulders and looked
straight in his eyes.

But Bill could not stand the strain of it any longer.
"You make me tired," he gulped, and Jim smiled.

"Why did you pay those cayotes three or four times
what you owe 'em?" Bill scolded, gruffly, but kindly.
"It's wicked, Jim.  You're a sentimental fool."

As though bestowing a final benediction, Jim
answered, "And you're another—God bless you," and
then dropped on to the log and seemed to forget Bill
and all about him.

Bill stood a moment, then tiptoed away while Jim
sat watching the afternoon shadows beginning to creep
up towards the hut.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX

.. vspace:: 2

Towards noon the next day, Bud sought Jim
to ask further hospitality.  The horses were
still in bad condition, he explained, and he would
esteem it an invaluable service if he would allow them
to remain another night on the ranch.  Jim readily
acquiesced.  Now that he had taken the final step
to sever himself from the ranch, there were many
details to be personally directed and settled.  Bill and
he were often in conference, and the sale could be
accomplished within a few days.  While Bill worked,
he watched Bud and Clarke.  Of his suspicion that
they were trying to take some unfair advantage, he
did not speak.  Only his ferret-like glances constantly
followed them.  And his instinctive distrust was further
aroused by a visit from Tabywana.

As he and Jim sat before the house, with a list that
Jim was explaining to Bill, Baco, the half-breed who
worked about the place, suddenly called in greeting
to Tabywana.  With his bonnet of gorgeous feathers
trailing down his back, his body draped in a blanket,
and in his hand the peace-pipe, the Chief entered.
"How!" he answered, as he passed Baco.  Both Bill
and Jim arose.

"Why, hello Chief!  Where'd you blow in from?"
Bill called.

Again Tabywana answered, "How!"

Jim advanced.  "How!" he said.  "The peace
chief never comes except to do us a favor.  Baco, ask
him what we can do for him."

As Tabywana pointed to his pipe he spoke to
Baco.  "He says, 'Let us sit down and smoke,'"
interpreted Baco.

"Certainly," Jim answered.  His years of living
among the Indians had accustomed him to their
ceremonies, and the four men crossed their legs and
seated themselves on the ground, forming a half-circle.
Tabywana began filling and lighting his pipe.

"Baco," Jim commanded, "tell Tabywana that
we are always glad to meet him and see him face to
face.  He is our friend."

Baco quickly translated the message.  Tabywana
began passing the pipe from Jim to Bill.  As Bill
puffed at it he said to Jim, "Say, when the old Chief
gets as formal as this it means business."

The men, although eager to begin the proposed
conversation, did nothing to urge the Indian to declare
himself.  Both courteously awaited the Chief's
information, although both chafed at this delay in their
work.  When the pipe had been returned to Tabywana
he deliberately extinguished the flame, and,
holding the pipe under his blanket, began
monotonously to speak in his own tongue.

Jim and Bill both tried to follow the words, but
their knowledge of the language was exceedingly
limited, so Baco translated for them.  "He says a
stranger has been asking for you in the settlement."

"What kind of a stranger?" Jim asked, his mind
turning at once to the sale that was about to be
effected.  The Indian agent again interpreted the Chief's
reply.  "One who jumps up and down in his saddle."

Bill smiled as Jim answered: "Oh, an Englishman.
What's his business?"

"The Chief says he does not know, but be on your
guard."

Bill and Jim exchanged glances.  Surely it was
not for this that Tabywana had paid this formal
visit.  But Jim, who knew the wary, slow methods
of the Indians, and who felt that something of more
importance was coming, looked straight at Tabywana,
as he asked, "Is that all?"

Tabywana understood more of the language of his
conquerors than he admitted, and quickly answered
the question through Baco.  "No, something else—very
important."  Then Tabywana himself added,
"Bud Hardy is here."

At these words Bill, who had been listening
listlessly, turned sharply to watch the Indian's face.  In
the crafty, restrained expression he could read the
effort at control that the Chief was exercising as he
emitted the sentences Baco translated for him to
Jim.  "That is bad—very bad.  Trouble will follow.
He says Hardy has been talking and drinking a great
deal, and has begun to talk about the death of Cash
Hawkins, and Hardy will, he is afraid, soon arrest
some one."

Jim did not answer.  Tabywana moved a little so
that he could watch Jim.  His face wore an expression
of great curiosity as to how his words would be
received by Jim.  The Chief had never known the
exact truth concerning the killing of Cash Hawkins,
but he had often guessed that Nat-u-ritch and Jim
did.  Jim did not answer.  Bill spoke to him as
Baco, having performed his duty, sank back and
began playing with some straws.

"Jim, the old Chief is trying to tell you that Hardy
has been bragging that he was going to arrest the
fellow that killed Cash Hawkins."  Jim gave no sign
that the news in the least disturbed him.

"Tell the old Chief it's the fire-water that's talking."

Bill sank deep into a reverie.  So Bud was up to
some devilment—but what?  Then he heard the words:

"The Chief says that Hardy is no friend of yours,"
and Jim's quick reply, "Tell the Chief I didn't kill
Cash Hawkins, so I'm not afraid of arrest."  Jim
smiled reassuringly at the Chief, who constantly
watched him.  After all, what could Bud do to Jim?
"He's a blow-hard, anyway," Bill muttered.

Jim was about to rise and end the interview when,
looking cautiously about him, Tabywana began
speaking in a lower tone.  Baco translated without
pause the thoughts that were troubling the Indian.
"The Chief thinks that Hardy thinks that maybe
Nat-u-ritch killed Cash Hawkins."

Jim only let slip the word "Nat-u-ritch," but his
eyes quickly sought the Indian's, and in them he saw
there was fear for the woman.  To Bill this seemed
nonsense.  There had never been an atom of suspicion
attached to Nat-u-ritch, so he lightly dismissed
the idea with a laugh as he said, "Bud must have
been unusual drunk."  Bill had never understood
the affair.  He now began to feel the old suspicion
creeping back.  Had the boss, in self-defence, done
the deed?  If so, he must keep his watch all the
closer on Bud and his men to see that they left the
ranch as quickly as possible.

Jim quietly and calmly gave this answer to the Chief:

"So Bud thinks Nat-u-ritch killed Cash.  Why,
there isn't a scrap of evidence pointing towards
Nat-u-ritch.  Ask him what makes Bud think so."  This
time Jim listened intently for the answer.

"He says he doesn't know.  But that Bud Hardy
is bad medicine, and he wants you to make Bud
Hardy move on to the next ranch."

Bill grunted his approval at this.

"That is impossible.  The Chief knows that we
cannot refuse shelter to the white man."

Bill this time upheld Jim's attitude in maintaining
the laws of the place as he added, "Even though he
is a bad man."

Tabywana looked from one to the other.  There
was a piteous look of baffled hope on his face.  In his
heart he was wishing that they would not take his
words of wisdom so lightly, but it was difficult to
explain more to them.  Despairingly he offered further
advice, and Baco repeated it for him, but Jim answered:

"The Chief knows that the rights of hospitality are
sacred.  Besides, I do not anticipate any trouble."

He rose to his feet.  He would be extremely wary
of Bud Hardy, but he felt no great concern.  The
affair had passed for five years, and it was simply some
drunken bravado on the Sheriff's part that had frightened
the old Chief.  He laid his hands on Tabywana's
shoulders.  For Nat-u-ritch's father he had a tender
regard, and the generous tolerance he had for, and the
defence he constantly made of, the red man's rights,
caused Tabywana to lay aside all cunning in his
dealings with Jim, and to completely surrender his
affections to him and the tiny child.

"Baco, tell Tabywana that no harm shall come to
Nat-u-ritch while I live, and say to the Chief he is a
good friend and I thank him for coming, and I would
like him to accept this tobacco."

The eternal child in the Indian answered the last
words, as Jim handed him the gayly embroidered
pouch, with a quick smile and nod of appreciation.
He was about to protest further, however, when
Shorty interrupted them as he came running in.
"A stranger out here wants to see the boss."

Ah, this was about the ranch, no doubt, so Jim said,
"All right, Shorty, bring him to me."

"All right, boss."

"Bill, show Tabywana on his way," Jim directed,
as the Indian seemed loath to leave him.  "Adios
amigo," he called to Tabywana, as Bill gently pushed
him away.  Baco followed him.

"I beg your pardon.  I am looking for Mr. Carston."

Bill amusedly surveyed the new-comer as he
answered, "There's Mr. Carston," and as he disappeared
behind the house he muttered to himself, with
a backward glance at the visitor, "Looks as though
he blew off a comic paper."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI

.. vspace:: 2

And it was to this that James Wynnegate had
come, was the first thought of Malcolm Petrie
as he surveyed the crude place with its marks of
poverty and failure.  Like all those intimate with the
Wynnegate family, he knew of the mysterious
disappearance of Jim Wynnegate at the time of the
embezzlement from the Relief Fund.  Although his
brother, Johnston Petrie, had been the active adviser
of the family, he had personally known Jim's father,
and as he watched Jim now he began to feel a new
interest in him.  Since the death of his brother
Johnston he had assumed control of the Kerhill
estate.  As he studied the worn man who stood in
the strong light of the afternoon, dressed in faded and
patched riding-breeches, with a flannel shirt, and
careless kerchief knotted about his throat, and with
roughened hands that showed their service in manual
labor, he thought of him as the soldier he had often
seen in the London world.  But could those be the
eyes of a man who was hiding from justice?  Again
he looked at the slip of paper which was marked, "Jim
Carston, of Carston's Ranch."

Instinctively Jim placed the man who stood before
him.  Even though he had never seen him before, the
resemblance to his brother, Johnston Petrie, was
unmistakable.  The light began to deepen into crimson
shadows, and a stillness hung over the ranch.  All
the men were away in their quarters, with Big Bill
guarding them so that the boss should not be
disturbed in what he supposed was a possible chance to
sell the place.

Diplomatically, Malcolm Petrie began, "This is
Mr. Carston?"

"And you?" Jim questioned.

Petrie handed him a card as he said, "Malcolm
Petrie, of the firm of Crooks, Petrie & Petrie,
solicitors, London, and at your lordship's service."

Before Jim could speak, Petrie continued:
"Pardon my abruptness in coming on you unawares.
Most of the time I allowed myself has been given to
locating you."

"Well, Mr. Petrie, go on," was all Jim said, as he
turned the card in his hand.  He hardly knew what
course to pursue.  Should he deny or acknowledge to
this trustworthy man, who was regarding him with
such sympathetic interest, that he was Jim Wynnegate?
A hunger to learn something of the world he had left,
to be allowed to listen longer to the cultivated speech
that fell with such beauty on his starved ears, assailed
him.

"Crooks, Petrie & Petrie have been your family
solicitors for so many years that I had hoped to be
remembered by your lordship."  Petrie was
determined not to allow this man to escape for a moment
from acknowledging his identity, so he pressed him
close with his knowledge.

"Mr. Petrie," Jim said, "we are plain people out
here, where every man is as good as every other
man—and a good deal better," he added, as he remembered
the democratic status of the boys.  "So please
address me as Mr. Carston.  Won't you be seated?"  As
he spoke he pointed to the bench near the hut.

Petrie adjusted his glasses, the better to observe the
man, as he said: "Since you desire it.  Only I have
come a very long way to inform you that you have a
right to the title."

The cause of Mr. Petrie's presence flashed through
Jim's mind.  "Then my cousin—"

"Is dead, my lord—Mr. Carston."

Monotonously Jim repeated: "Dead.  Henry
should have outlived me."

"I am sorry to be the bearer of distressing news,
your lordship—"

But Jim interrupted.  "Don't humbug, Petrie.
There was no love lost between Henry and me, as
you know, though I've tried to forget that."

When he had recovered from the first surprise of
this meeting, and had more fully grasped the
significance of Petrie's news, he inquired, "I suppose
Henry left a statement at his death."

"Statement?" the lawyer inquired.

Jim further explained.  "Something in the nature
of a confession."

"Confession?"

"By Jove! he might have done that."

"His late lordship died very suddenly."

But Jim waited for no further details.  "So he died
without a word.  He died leaving me a fugitive from
justice.  So they still think me—"  Then quickly the
real facts of the case began to straighten themselves
in Jim's mind.  If Henry had not spoken—had left
no confession—how and why had Petrie sought him?
Then he asked:

"Why have you come here?"

Petrie, who was constantly watching the effect of
his every word on the man who more and more
confused and interested him, slowly answered, "I am
here because your cousin, Lady Kerhill—"

"Diana?"  Jim softly breathed the name, but said
no more.

Petrie continued: "Believes that if you will speak—if
you will break the silence of years, you can
return to England and assume your proper place at
the head of your house, and in the world."

So it was to Diana he owed this.  "Then there is
one who still believes in me.  God bless her!"  All
restraint fell from Jim as he sat himself beside the
solicitor and said, simply, "I did it for her sake,
Petrie."  Then, as though unconscious of the other
man's presence, he sat staring ahead of him.

His surmise had been right, Petrie thought.  This
man was not guilty.  The case began to assume new
interest and new complications.  He must hear more.
Jim roused himself.  From an inside pocket of his
shirt he drew a small bag which held a sheet of faded
paper.

"You are familiar with the late Kerhill's writing.
You are also familiar with his character and life.
I have never allowed this paper to leave my body."  As
he spoke he handed the paper to Petrie.  "But
death has cancelled this agreement."

Petrie read the document.  Jim sat motionless.
As the sun dropped lower and lower towards the
west, bolts of scarlet and purple seemed to be hurled
from its blazing brilliance down on the cabin and the
yard.  Petrie broke the silence.

"So you took upon your shoulders his guilt?"  In
his tone there was no great surprise.

"Not for him, Petrie—for her.  It was too late for
her to find out—well, what he was."  The rebellion
against the dead man seemed to choke him.  Then
he added, "I did it for her sake, Petrie."

A restlessness took possession of Jim.  All the old
memories and sorrows began to lay their withering
hands upon him.  He crossed to the hitching-post
and leaned against it as he watched with unseeing
eyes the purple-and-red rays tipping the Uinta peaks.

Petrie read the document again, and as he did so he
wondered how much of this Lady Elizabeth had
known—how much Diana suspected.  He could see
now why she had decided to come with him to
America.  He thought of her as he had seen her a few
days ago at Fort Duchesne, of her eyes as she had
asked him not to fail in his search, and of her
disappointment when her cousin, Sir John Applegate,
who accompanied her, had protested against her
riding out with Petrie on a venture which might take
days, to end only in disappointment.

He went to Jim's side.  "Lady Kerhill," he said,
"will be more grateful than you know, for I am here
as her ambassador to beg you to come back home."

Into the face of Jim came a wistful longing, so
tender and yet so tragic that Petrie turned away
from this glimpse into a hurt soul.  He only dimly
saw the man as he heard Jim's whispered words:

"Home, eh?  Go back home!  By Jove! what that
would mean!"  Then, as though a panorama were
passing before him of his life on the ranch, he went
on: "And I've been away all those awful years in this
God-forsaken place."  There was a break in the low
voice and the echo of a sob as Jim turned his back
on Petrie.

Again the unlovely surroundings, with their
evidences of pinched means, their stamp of neglect
through want, impressed the solicitor.  Very quietly
he said, "It does look a bit desolate, Mr. Carston."

Jim, now master of himself, turned, and as he looked
at the dusty plains, the sun-baked cabin, the parched,
feverish land about him, cried: "Desolate!  It
doesn't look much like Maudsley Towers, with its
parks and turrets, and oaks that go back to William
the Conqueror, does it?"  Before his eyes there came
a picture of the home of his youth, of the place of his
manhood's joy.  The word seemed to burn and tear
at him with its possibilities.  "Home, eh?  I love old
England as only an exile can—"

He forgot the West, with its disappointments, its
scars, and its days of pain, when memories of the past
would not be stilled.  He came over to Petrie, and in
a burst of almost boyish confidence poured out his
inmost feelings.  "I love the English ways of doing
things"—laughingly he looked at Petrie, and added—"even
when they're wrong.  The little ceremonies—the
respectful servants—the hundred little customs
that pad your comfort and nurse your self-respect.
Home, eh?"  The word was like a minor chord that
he wished to dwell upon, so lovingly did he repeat it.
"Home, eh?  And I love old London.  I think I am
even prepared to like the fogs."

Amazed at the change in the man before him, Petrie
sat spellbound as Jim jumped to his feet.

"Do you know what I'll do when I get back?  I'll
ride a week at a time on top of the 'buses, up and down
the Strand, Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Oxford
Street.  And the crowds!"  Before his excited eyes
came the rush, the very smell of the smoky city with
its out-pouring of humanity.  "How I love the crowds—the
endless crowds!  And, Petrie, I'll go every night
to the music-halls, and what's left of the nights to the
clubs—and, by Jove, I'll come into my own at last!"

Carried away with the enthusiasm that was inspiring
Jim, Petrie entered into the spirit of his joy as
he cried, "The king is dead—long live the king!"

"Into my own at last!  And I'm still young enough
to enjoy life—life—*life*!"  Into Jim's slender figure,
with its arms out-stretched to the past, which was to
be his future, there leaped the fire of immortal youth.
It was his moment of supreme exaltation.

Suddenly from the stable door opposite came a
glad cry of "Daddy! daddy!" as Hal, attracted by
the loud voice of Jim, peered from behind the door.
Then the child darted across to his father, who still
stood with his arms out-stretched to his dream, and
clasped his knees.  Frightened at the stranger's
presence, Hal quickly buried his face against his
father's body.

The ecstasy faded from Jim's eyes as the cry of
the child brought him back from his dreams to the
affairs of earth.  Slowly and with infinite tenderness
his eyes rested on the bent head of the child.  The
twilight, which is short in the Green River country,
had slipped away, and the angry sun disappeared
behind the mountains.  Petrie noticed the chill in
the air that comes at evening on the plains.

The cry of the child revealed a new phase of the
situation.  Silently he watched Jim, whose glance
went towards the stable.  He saw the figure of a
beautiful Indian girl emerge, carrying a pail of milk.
He saw the shudder that passed over Jim as Nat-u-ritch,
unconscious that she was the central figure in a
tragic moment, moved slowly before them to the cabin
opposite.  Her master was busy with the white man,
so her eyes were lowered; she did not even call to the
child to follow her.  Jim's glance never left her until
the door had closed.  Then his eyes rested again
tenderly on the little head which nestled against him,
and a sigh broke from his lips.  He stooped and drew
the little hand in his as he turned the child towards
Malcolm Petrie.  The words of his glad dream seemed
still filling the air as Jim said: "Petrie, you've come
too late.  That's what would have happened; it can
never happen now."

Gently he urged the child forward as he said;
"Hal, shake hands with Mr. Petrie.  This is my son,
Petrie."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII

.. vspace:: 2

The news was not so very surprising to Malcolm
Petrie.  In his years of practice as a solicitor
many similar cases had come to his notice.  He
had often remonstrated at the folly of sending the
younger son of a great family to these lands, and at
the unwisdom of parents who found the problem of
guiding a wayward boy too hard, and so let him go to
the West, to be left to the mercy of its desolation and
to the temptation of such entanglements.  But that
it would be a new difficulty he foresaw, and as he
took the child's out-stretched hand he remembered
the proud woman waiting at Fort Duchesne.  To him,
as a man of the world, the affair was understandable,
but to Diana!  He began to regret that she had come.
There was no suggestion of these thoughts in his
manner as he kindly said:

"How do you do, my little man?"

"How do you do, Mr. Petrie?" the child answered,
and then ran back to his father's side.

The dark head with its faint trace of the Indian
blood was extremely beautiful, but Malcolm Petrie
noticed a much stronger predominance of the
Wynnegate features.

With his hand on the child's head, Jim said, "You
see, Petrie, we have to-day and to-morrow—but never
yesterday."  In the man's voice was so much despair
that Petrie found it impossible to understand it.

"I don't quite follow you," he said.

Turning in the direction in which the Indian girl
had disappeared, Jim answered, "That was Hal's
mother."

"Indeed!"  And still Petrie was puzzled at Jim's
attitude.

"There isn't any place in England for Nat-u-ritch."  Then,
as Jim bent over the boy, he held him close and
said, "Kiss me, dear, and now run in and help your
mother."  Jim followed the boy to the cabin door.

Malcolm Petrie said, tentatively, "And that Indian
squaw—woman, I mean—is your—"

But Jim stopped the word that he felt Petrie was
about to speak.

"My wife," he said.  Petrie dropped his glasses
and turned sharply to Jim.  "My wife," Jim said
again.  "You don't suppose I'd let my boy come into
the world branded with illegitimacy, do you?"

To this Petrie gave no answer.  Under Jim
almost defiant gaze he found it impossible to argue,
but there must be a solution to this problem.  He
moved away as he almost lightly said, "An awkward
situation, Mr. Carston—quite an awkward situation,"
but the words conveyed no idea that he felt there was a
finality about the matter.  His lawyer's brain would
unravel the knot.  Jim could still have his
freedom.  Then he said, "But these matters can be
arranged.  You will be in a position to settle an
income on her which will make her comfortable
for life, and some good man will eventually marry
her."

Jim almost smiled.  There was so much of the
conventional standard in Petrie's speech.

"Wait a bit.  You don't understand."  He motioned
Petrie to be seated again.  He hesitated, then
determined to tell his story.  It might as well be done
now; it would save further discussion.

"I first saw Nat-u-ritch at a bear-dance at the
agency.  The Indians reverse our custom, and the
women ask the men to dance.  Nat-u-ritch chose me
for her partner.  We met again at Maverick, where
she killed a desperado to save my life."  These words
Jim almost whispered to Petrie, who leaned forward
to catch every syllable.  "The next time I saw her—Oh,
well, why tell of the months that followed?  One
day I found myself lying in her wickyup.  I had
been at death's door fighting a fever.  Searching for
strayed cattle, I had tumbled into Jackson's Hole
and had been abandoned for dead.  Nat-u-ritch went
in alone, on snow-shoes, and dragged me back to her
village.  It was a deed no man, red or white, would
have attempted to do.  When I grew well enough she
brought me here to my own ranch, where I had a
relapse.  Again she nursed me back to life."

He paused.  How should he tell this man of the
days of blinding temptation the loneliness of his life
had brought with it?  Petrie waited.  Jim moved a
little closer to him as he went on:

"When I grew stronger, I tried my best to induce
her to leave the ranch, but she would not go.  She
loved me with a devotion not to be reasoned with.  I
almost tried to ill-treat her.  It made no difference."  Again
the despair that Petrie had noticed before crept
into Jim's voice.  "I was a man—a lonely man—and
she loved me.  The inevitable happened.  You see,
I cannot go back home."

No, this was not the usual case, Malcolm Petrie told
himself.  Even he had been impressed by Jim's
recital of the story.  It was this man's attitude
towards the woman that gave him more cause for anxiety
than the squaw's position in the case, so he said:

"Don't you think you take rather too serious a view
of the case?  You can explain the situation to her
and she will be open to reason."

But Jim interrupted him.  "I wouldn't desert a dog
that had been faithful to me.  That wouldn't be
English, would it?  The man who tries to sneak out of
the consequences of his own folly—"

"Believe me," the lawyer protested, "I would
advise nothing unbecoming a gentleman.  But aren't
you idealizing Nat-u-ritch a little?"

Jim's answer was not reassuring.  "On the contrary,
we never do these primitive races justice.  I
know the grief of the ordinary woman.  It doesn't
prevent her from looking into the mirror to see if her
bonnet is on straight; but Nat-u-ritch would throw
herself into the river out there, and I should be her
murderer as much as if I pushed her in."

Then Petrie devised a new scheme to test Jim's
resolution.

"Why not take her with you to England?" he asked.

"Impossible!" Jim answered.  "We'd both be
much happier here.  Even here I am a squaw man—that
means socially ostracized."  A bitter laugh broke
from him.  "You see, we have social distinctions out
here."

"How absurd!"

"Social distinctions usually are," and Jim laid his
arm on Petrie's.  He was growing tired of the
discussion.  Petrie felt that Jim wished to dismiss it, so
he determined to play his trump card.  This sacrifice
of a splendid fellow was madness.  Years from now,
Jim would thank him that he had urged him to abandon
this life to which he clung with his mistaken sense
of right.

"I think I am justified in violating my instructions,"
Petrie began.  "You were not to know that Lady
Kerhill accompanied me to this country."

Jim's hands tightened on Petrie.  "Diana here?"  Furtively
he looked about him, as though fearful of
seeing her.  "In America?"  He waited to be quickly
reassured that there was no danger of her coming to
the ranch.

"I left them at Fort Duchesne—her ladyship and
her cousin, Sir John Applegate.  I was to bring you
there and give you what was intended to be an
agreeable surprise—but—"

"Thank God you did not bring her here."

Jim moved away, with his hands clinched behind
him.  Petrie followed as he urged.  "She will be
disappointed, deeply disappointed; she is still a young
and beautiful woman."

If there was temptation in the words, Jim did not
betray it.  Quite simply he said, "She must be."

"With many admirers, it is only natural that she
should marry again."

And Jim answered, fully aware of the torturing
methods used by the man who wished to conquer
him, "It is inevitable."

This time Petrie's quiet voice rose in an almost
impatient intolerance as he questioned, "And yet you
feel—"

But Jim stopped him.  There was agony in his
voice.  "Petrie, don't tempt me.  I cannot go.  My
decision is made and nothing on earth can change
it."  He walked towards the house as he felt the sudden
need of comfort.  He wanted to feel his boy's arms
about him; that would be his solace.  At the window
he saw Hal, and a nod brought the child to him.

As he watched him, Petrie said, more to himself
than to Jim, "The sentimental man occasions more
misery in this world than your downright brutally
selfish one."  To Jim he put the direct question,
"Your decision is final?"

"Final."

"Too bad.  Too bad.  You are condemning yourself
to a living death."

"Oh no; I have my boy.  Thank God, I have my boy."

And in those words Petrie knew that the child
meant more than all the rest of life to Jim.  He knew
the type—a type that prevails more especially among
Englishmen, perhaps, in whom the need of fatherhood
is strongly dominant.  Almost prophetically the
lawyer laid his hand on the head of the boy, who was
standing on the bench playing with his father's
kerchief.  "The future Earl of Kerhill."

Jim answered, defiantly, "My boy is my boy."

If Jim persisted in refusing to accept the position
as the head of his house, then this child was the stake
to play for, Petrie decided.

"Well, think of him—of his future.  He has the
right to the education of a gentleman, to the
surroundings of culture and refinement."

As Petrie spoke, his glances took in the shabby little
chaps, the feet in their worn moccasins, the coarse
flannel shirt; and Jim saw the look and understood.
He almost hurt the boy, so tight was his grasp as he
lifted him down and held him in his arms.

"One moment, Mr. Petrie.  I see your drift," he
savagely answered.  "But you sha'n't do it, sir.  You
sha'n't.  I won't listen."

But Petrie now knew that he had touched Jim's
vulnerable point, and that he was capable of making
the sacrifice for the boy.

"I speak as the trusted friend of your family, as
the advocate of your child."  He told himself he was
justified in asking what he did.

"Before you came," Jim said, "I was a ruined
man—stone broke, as we say out here.  I had to begin
my life all over again.  But I had Hal, his love and
his life to live in day by day, and now you want that,
too.  I can't do it.  I know it's selfish, but life owes
me something, and that's all I ask.  I can't let him
go.  I can't—I can't!"

But Malcolm Petrie persisted.  "You're responsible
for that child's future.  You don't want him to grow
up to blame you—to look back to his youth and his
father with bitterness, perhaps hate."

Jim, as he held the boy from him and studied the
tiny face, cried, "You'll never do that, will you,
Hal, my boy?"

"What, daddy?"

"Think badly of your father?"

"No, daddy, no," and the child's arms were thrown
about Jim's shaking body.

Petrie touched Jim's arm quietly.  "You're
robbing your child of his manifest destiny."

"What do you want?"

"Send the little man home with me."

With eyes almost blinded with emotion, Jim looked
into Petrie's face.  "Have you any children, Petrie?"

The solicitor shook his head, and in Jim's words,
"I knew it—I knew it," he understood what he meant.

Like a father who sympathizes, yet must be firm in
his efforts to convince his son of his wisdom, Petrie
spoke.

"I am thinking of Hal's future, as the friend and
adviser of your family.  I am thinking coldly,
perhaps, but, believe me, kindly."

Jim could not doubt his sincerity.  He buried his
head against the child.  "You don't know what a
lonely life I led until Hal was born, and how lonely
I'll be when he is gone."

Gone!  Could he agree to this separation?  The
word frightened him.  "Gone!  Oh, my God, no!"  He
could not.

Then Petrie appealed to Jim's conscience.  "You
know the trite old saying, 'England expects that every
man this day shall do his duty.'"  So simply, so
seriously did Petrie quote the well-worn phrase, that
its shaft went home.

Duty!  Duty!  Ah, one might squander control
of one's own destiny, but for another, for the
child whom the parent has brought into life—how
answer that?  It was the duty of the parent to the
child—in that lay the whole definition of the word.
He held the tiny face in his hands as he whispered:
"Well, Hal, old chap, it's a tough proposition they've
put up to your daddy, son.  But what must be must
be.  You'll be braver than I am, I hope."  He
forgot that the child could not understand him.  Sobs
shook him as he held the boy tight against his
breast.  Hal sought to comfort his father with soft,
loving pats.

Jim raised his head.  "Petrie, you've nailed me to
the cross.  He goes back with you."

"You'll never regret this," and Petrie laid his hand
on Jim's shoulder.

"Ask them to teach him that I did this for his sake;
but he'll forget me—you'll see.  Some one else will
take my place, and he will learn to love them better
than he loves me."

Petrie tried to comfort him.  "No, he shall hold
you in his memory always—always."

Suddenly Jim remembered.  "What about his mother?"

"If you can make the sacrifice, she must.  They
say Indians are stoics."

"I can understand the reason for it, Petrie, man.  It
will seem a needless cruelty to her.  She's almost as
much of a child as Hal.  I'll try—I'll try."

Holding Hal by the hand, he walked to the cabin
and called: "Nat-u-ritch, Nat-u-ritch, come here,
little woman.  I want you."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII

.. vspace:: 2

Nat-u-ritch, with slow impassiveness, obeyed.
She came from the house with hardly a glance at
the stranger.  She had changed but little; still slender
and childish in form, motherhood and the past five
years seemed to have left no mark upon her save,
perhaps, for a more marked wistfulness of expression,
especially when she looked at Jim and the boy.  Her
life was complete; physical deprivations or disappointments
mattered little to her.  Taught by Jim the ways
of civilization, she tried to apply them to her
surroundings, but it seemed to her a waste of the golden
hours when she might be following her master
instead across the plains or playing with her child.
It was almost piteous to see how she controlled the
instincts of her savage desire for freedom, and in her
primitive way cared for the little cabin so as to please
Jim.

Malcolm Petrie noticed at once the difference
between Nat-u-ritch and the other Indian women whom
he had seen during the past days, and was impressed
by it.

Hal, at sight of his mother, quickly responded to her
out-stretched hand.

"Nat-u-ritch, this is my te-guin—my friend," and
Jim indicated Petrie.  She inclined her head to the
solicitor and said, "How?"  As her eyes met Petrie's
shrewd glance an instinctive apprehension caused her
to tighten her arm about the child.

"Te-guin—big chief from out yonder—over the big
water," Jim explained, but her unflinching gaze made
it difficult for him to go on.  He whispered to Petrie:
"I don't know how to do it—-I don't know how to do
it."  Then he summoned all his courage, and with a
forced smile said, pleasantly, as though humoring a
child, "Nat-u-ritch, te-guin—big chief—come for
little Hal."

She flung her arms about the sturdy little fellow,
and a sharp exclamation was her only answer.

"Pretty soon make Hal big chief.  Touge
wayno—te-guin—good friend—take Hal long way off."  A
shudder ran through her.  She began to grasp what
the stranger's presence meant.  He was of her boy's
father's race, and for too long she had forgotten, what
in the beginning had so often troubled her, that Jim
would some day want to return to his own people.
This had been her great fear, but his kindness all
these years had lulled to rest that ache of the early
days.

While these thoughts tormented her, she could hear
Jim still explaining.  "Long trail, heap long trail—over
mountains, heap big mountains—Washington."

She slipped the child to the other side of her, that
he might be farther away from the silent man who was
bringing this woe to her, and her clutch grew tighter
at the word "Washington."  Jim explained to
Petrie, "Washington means a lot to them."  Then he
came closer to Nat-u-ritch as he said, impressively:

.. _`250`:

"Big Father—send for little Hal.  Say make him
big chief—te-guin cross wide water—heap big
boat—Hal see the rising sun.  Pretty soon, some day, Hal
heap wickyup—heap cattle—heap ponies—pretty
soon heap big chief."

He waited the result of his words.  He thought to
appeal to her pride and ambition for the boy; but
she only shook her head and gazed at him like an
affrighted animal whose young is about to be torn
from her.

Jim's fortitude began to desert him.  "She doesn't
understand.  She can't—she can't," he almost
moaned, as he turned away, while his clinched hands and
the stiffening of his body showed the strain that was
proving almost too great for him.  "This is a hard
business, Mr. Petrie," and Petrie could feel the vibrant
emotion of these two victims of fate.  As Jim moved
a step away, Nat-u-ritch, still holding the boy, started
forward and caught his arm as though to hold him
back.  Her mind was in a daze—she could utter no
word; but Jim understood the pantomime.

"She thinks I'm going, too," he said, and hastened
to explain away her anxiety.

"No, Nat-u-ritch—Jim stay here always with
you."  Something of her agony was relieved and she loosed
her hold on him.  "Always with you," Jim repeated
tenderly, looking into the tragic eyes as she eagerly
followed every word.  "Only little Hal."

As Nat-u-ritch fully grasped the meaning of the
words, there broke from her lips the one English word
"No!" which rang out on the evening air with a wild,
dry sob of protest.  It was the anguished cry of
universal motherhood.  The Indian woman sank on her
knees, with her arms about the boy, her face buried
on his breast.  The crouching figure betrayed the old
savage instinct of the female covering her young from
the ruthless hand that would snatch it from her.

This time both men turned away.  A purple gray
light fell over the yard, the last traces of the sun's
glory disappeared, and the air grew chilly.

Jim was the first to speak.  Kindly, but as a master
who must have obedience, he said; "Nat-u-ritch, I
have taken counsel.  My heart is good.  My word is
wise.  I have spoken.  Go."  He gently disengaged
the boy from her grasp.  Nat-u-ritch looked long into
Jim's eyes, and as she met his immovable determination,
without a struggle, and with a calmness terrible
to see, she released the child.

Jim lifted her to her feet.  With her big, stricken
eyes still fastened on him, she stood silent for a moment;
then the bent, half-stumbling figure slunk past him.
Jim dared not watch Nat-u-ritch, though he could
hear her heavy breathing and the flapping of her
beaded robe against the ground as she crossed to the
stable.  Once Petrie saw her sway, but she had
steadied herself before he could reach her.  As she
reached the corral she stopped, and, turning, flung out
her arms in appeal to Jim; but his back was towards
her, the child hidden in his embrace.  Then he heard
the quick patter of her feet as she fled out into the
night—away from these aliens, back to the hills to
abandon herself to her grief.

As Jim rose he resolved that when the boy had gone
he would try to make her understand that this sacrifice
was forced upon them, that for the child's sake they
must both bear it, and in the future she should receive
even greater care and comfort from him.

"This is harder on her than on me, Petrie," he said,
as he lifted Hal up on the bench and knelt beside
him.

"Where is she going?" Petrie asked, as he walked
towards the corral behind which she had disappeared.

"Out into the hills to fight it out alone.  Mr. Petrie,
this is going to be hard on the boy, too.  He is
a shy little prairie bird and has been a great pet."

He was thinking that perhaps he could arrange to
let Nat-u-ritch have the boy a little longer and keep
Petrie with them awhile.  "It would be rough on
him to leave us all so suddenly and go away with a
perfect stranger.  Can't you stay here a week or two
to let him get used to you?" Jim proposed.  "By that
time you will have won his confidence."

Petrie answered, "I am sorry, but that is
impossible.  I have overstayed my time some weeks.
I left important business interests in London to
undertake this mission, and I must return at once."

"But," Jim pleaded, "It can't be as bad as that.
Well, then, only a week."

"I am sorry, but I have already used up all the time
I can spare, in finding you.  If the boy goes with me
it must be now."  Petrie knew that Diana was waiting
for Jim's arrival; he must reach her with the news
as soon as possible.  Every hour was of moment to
them.  She had been persistent in her desire to
accompany him, and two days had passed since he left her
at Fort Duchesne.  He feared some complication
might arise from her woman's impatience, and as it
was, he would not be able to leave the ranch before
daybreak.  Night was already beginning to close in
on them.

Jim began to realize the wisdom of Petrie's decision.
It would only prolong the agony.  He must make it
easy for the boy; afterwards—well, afterwards—  But
he dared not picture the desolation which would be his.

"Hal, my boy, my darling, I must tell you something.
You know you want to be a soldier like the
ones you saw at Fort Duchesne.  Remember?  With
the yellow plumes and tassels and swords and things?"

The boy was growing sleepy, but at these words
roused himself and delightedly exclaimed, "Yes, yes!"

"Well, Mr. Petrie is going to make you one."  Hal
looked over in approval at their visitor who was to
make his dream come true.  "Only," Jim continued,
"you'll wear a fine red coat instead of a blue one,
and Mr. Petrie's going to make you a big, fine soldier
man.  So daddy's going to let you go.  Isn't that fine?"

"You, too, daddy?" the child questioned.

"No, dear; I can't go.  When you go away there'll
be nobody but me to take care of little momie."

"I won't go alone," Hal protested.

"Yes, dear, if father wants you to," Jim persuaded.

But the child only cried, "I won't—I won't—I
won't!" as he flung his arms about his father's neck.

Jim felt it would be useless to argue further now.
It was past the boy's bedtime, so he only said,
coaxingly, "Yes, yes, you will."  A scheme to help the
boy to bear the separation began to formulate in his
mind.  They should take him away while he was
asleep, and he would send Big Bill along with him
for a few days if necessary.

"Now, old man, tell Mr. Petrie good-night."

The child did as he was bid.

Quite hopefully Jim went on talking to him as they
crossed to the cabin.  "All right.  And now daddy
will undress you and hear your prayers, and we'll
have our usual romp, and then the sandman will
come."  Then, as the sleepy child, yawning, drooped
his head, Jim lifted him in his arms and cried: "Kiss
me, dear.  Oh, don't ever forget your daddy!"

So engrossed was he that he failed to hear in the
distance sounds that told that visitors were arriving
at the ranch.  But Petrie, who was ever alert, had
been aware of the first clatter of the horses' hoofs, and
now turned in the direction from which came Big Bill's
voice, high above all the others, saying:

"Well, I guess not.  Ain't none of us ever forgot
that day at Maverick.  My, he'll be glad to see
you!—Mr. Carston," he called.

But it was the triumphant call of "Jim, Jim!" that
made him turn to see Diana.  In it was all the hope
that had been buried so long—all the loving joy which
she meant to lavish on the man whose starved life had
been one long sacrifice for her She had imagined
this moment—lived it again and again, and now it
was hers.

Gracious and beautiful she stood in the dim light,
holding out her hands in welcome.  Behind her stood
Sir John, while Petrie's face betrayed the surprise
that he felt, although he knew he had been fearing such
an occurrence.  Jim saw them all.  One hand still
kept its hold on the child, who at the voices had
hidden behind his father; he raised the other to his
head.  He simply spoke the name "Diana."

"Why, Jim, I don't believe you're glad to see us!"
Diana cried, as he made no attempt to take her hand.

"Oh yes," he answered.  "I'm dazed,
Diana—dazed."  Then he turned in appeal to Malcolm
Petrie.  "Petrie?" he questioned.  It would have
been too cruel if this had taken place with Petrie's
knowledge, but he could not doubt the truth of the
solicitor's words.

"This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you,
Mr. Carston."

Diana smiled at Petrie.  She had taken her own
way in spite of his and Sir John's remonstrance.  But
they could not understand her—Jim would.  What
did they know of the Fairies' Corner—of the long
torment she and Jim had shared?

"We simply couldn't wait any longer, Jim.  We've
come to take you home—you'll come home now, Jim,
won't you?  Come home?"  And as she spoke she
meant all that the word implied in its completeness.
She was suing Jim to let her give him all that he had
desired in the long ago.

"Home—home," Jim repeated.  Was he always
to be tortured by what he never could have?  His
eyes fell on Hal, who was peering out from behind him.
As Diana saw the tiny figure in its strange garments,
she involuntarily exclaimed:

"Oh, what a dear boy!"

The child stared at her.

Smiling, she knelt before him.  "Whose little boy
are you, dear?" she asked.

Hal glanced at his father and his look said, "Shall
I go to the strange lady?"  Jim nodded his head.
Shyly the child advanced towards her.  "Jim's boy,"
he said.

Diana was holding the child's hands in hers.  At
the words she lifted her face to Jim and mechanically
repeated, "Jim's boy?"  Then she looked from the
dark head, with its curious foreign beauty, up to the
man who stood there with blanched face and
sorrow-stricken eyes.  Gradually she began to comprehend
the meaning of the boy's words.  Again she mutely
questioned Jim.

.. _`257`:

He came to the boy and laid his hands on the little
fellow's head.  "Yes, Diana.  My boy—my son."

She had dropped the child's hands at his first word.
She looked about her, but everything was dim and
ghostly in the dim light.  She felt the child's hand on
her sleeve.  She could see only Jim's eyes in the boy's
face inquiringly regarding her.  Above him, Jim still
stood, silent and constrained.  Petrie and Sir John,
with Big Bill, had left them.  Only a moment did she
waver, then with a quick, impetuous cry she caught
the boy to her heart, and in that cry was expressed all
the starved maternity of her barren life.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV

.. vspace:: 2

Jim and Diana sat late into the night while
she listened to the story of his life in the West.
Urged by Sir John, it was arranged that she should
leave the ranch the following day.  Bitter as was her
disappointment, Diana accepted it without comment.
Now her concern was chiefly for the boy, and she
eagerly awaited Nat-u-ritch's return, hoping she might
help the little woman to see the wisdom of making
this sacrifice for her child's advantage.

Down the hills towards midnight Nat-u-ritch stole,
an elf-like creature, with her clinking, beaded robe
gleaming in the moonlight.  Past the men's dwelling
she went, and on to the cabin for a last sight of her
sleeping boy.  From his spying-ground Bill saw her,
but made no effort to detain her.  He knew that the
arrival of Jim's kinsmen had caused a strange
turmoil in his life, and made him forget that Bud Hardy
might still prove a menace to him.  So Bill kept his
faithful vigil; but once fatigue caught him and he
closed his tired eyes for a brief space.  It was just the
moment that Kid Clarke, the Sheriff's watcher, had
been waiting for.  Unobserved, he slipped away to
follow the trail that Nat-u-ritch had taken when she
fled from the house in the afternoon.  Bud Hardy
had cautioned him not to lose sight of the squaw, and
to report to him in the early dawn at the cabin.  Like
Bill, he saw Nat-u-ritch make her way to the cabin
and saw her return; then, as he felt secure that she was
safely out of the way, he lay in the loft near the cabin
and waited for Bud.

But Nat-u-ritch had not succeeded in seeing her
child.  As she peered into the windows of the cabin
she saw a beautiful woman and another stranger
seated near Jim.  For a long time she watched him as he
talked to the woman, who now and then went to the
door of the room in which the child lay, and listened
as though afraid that their voices might disturb the
boy.  The woman's presence became an added
complication in the impending tragedy that engulfed
Nat-u-ritch.  She longed to creep into the room and
kneel beside Jim, to beg to be allowed just to be near
him; but she was afraid—afraid of the curious glances
of the strangers.  Intently she watched the woman
and saw the look on Jim's face as he talked long and
earnestly to her.  How he had changed!  She
remembered him as the young, strong, handsome buck
whom she had met at the bear-dance.  For the first
time she seemed to see the whitened hair, the tired,
patient eyes, and the marks of sorrow on his face.
Once she saw him lean forward and gently argue with
the white woman.  She dimly understood the
difference between his attitude towards this woman of
his own race and to her.  Gradually a new pain was
added to the hurt that tried her endurance; she could
not explain it, but Jim had never looked at her like
that.  He treated her as he did little Hal, while he
regarded the woman with him as his equal.  She
began to sob piteously, like a child who is suddenly
asked to face something it cannot understand.  It
was useless to remain there longer.  Back she
hurried to the hills, more desolate than when she started
to see her child.  Through the long hours that
followed she made no effort to reason or to
control her emotions, but abandoned herself to her grief.

Just before daylight Tabywana crept silently along
the road and hid behind the wagon that stood near
the house.  He had been following Bud Hardy,
whose early visit to the cabin had aroused his
suspicions.  Although Jim had dismissed his advice
yesterday, the Chief was determined to see him again
as soon as daylight should come.  He was impatient
to disclose to Jim the fear that tormented him for
Nat-u-ritch's safety.  As he watched for the first
faint streaks of dawn, from his hiding-place
Tabywana saw Bud Hardy emerge from the men's
quarters and steal towards the cabin.  Bud tiptoed about
the place, then crossed to the loft and gave three short
whistles.  Almost immediately Kid Clarke appeared
and leaned out of the loft door.

"Well?" Bud called, as Clarke, dazed, rubbed his
sleepy eyes.

"Nat-u-ritch has disappeared—her trail leads to
the hills.  Carston hasn't been to bed at all.  He
went away about half an hour ago."

Bud glanced quickly about the place.  "No one in
the room, then?"

Kid nodded.

"All right—come down," Bud said.

Kid disappeared from the aperture in the loft and
Bud went softly into the house.

Silently the Chief slid down under the porch of the
cabin.  As Bud came out of the house he saw in the
Sheriff's hand a small thirty-two-caliber revolver which
he was smilingly examining.  Before he could pocket
the weapon Tabywana leaped upon him and clutched
the hand that held the gun, but Bud, with a muttered
imprecation, deftly threw the hand with the revolver
over Tabywana's shoulder, but only to feel an iron
fist beat his knuckles.  Involuntarily he loosened his
hold and heard Bill's voice say:

"Put up your gun, Clarke."

Kid had reached there just at the end of the struggle,
and had started to pull his revolver to assist Bud.

Holding the captured revolver in his hand, Bill said:
"Why, what's the matter, boys?  I don't allow no
gun-play on this ranch—not while I'm foreman of it."

In the first faint light of the rising sun the three
figures were like ghostly silhouettes against the gray
background.

"I want that gun," Bud replied.

"How did you come by it?" Bill demanded.

Before Bud Hardy could speak, Tabywana grasped
Bill by the arm and by pantomime indicated that
Bud had crept into the house and stolen it.

Bill turned sternly to Bud.  "What do you mean
by sneakin' into other peoples' houses at night an'
takin' their property?  Why"—as he examined the
revolver—-"this gun belongs to Nat-u-ritch."

Almost savagely Bud interposed: "Oh, it does,
does it?  You heard that, Clarke?  Well, that's all
I want to know."

Bill saw that Bud had gained evidence against
the little woman.  "Well, it ain't all *I* want to know.
You'll have to show me, Bud—you'll have to show
me why you're combinin' the trades of burglar an'
sheriff."  Then, with a change in his voice, he said,
"Better sit down and we'll discuss this amicable."

Bud seated himself near Clarke and Bill; Tabywana
remained standing near them, eagerly trying to
grasp all that was being said.  Bud was not averse
to taking Bill into his confidence.  He felt that with
Clarke as a witness to Bill's statement he had gained
the essential point his case needed.

"You fellers have guyed me for years about Cash
Hawkins's death, 'ain't you?  Now it's my turn."

So Bud was going to try to make a sensational arrest
through Bill, and thus win the county over to him and
secure another election to the office of sheriff!  Should
he call Jim at once, Bill wondered.  He determined
to wait and see if Bud meant to declare his intentions.

.. _`"'YES, DIANA.  MY BOY—MY SON'"`:

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   :alt: "'YES, DIANA.  MY BOY——MY SON'" See page 257

   "'YES, DIANA.  MY BOY——MY SON'" See page `257`_

"Ancient history that, Bud," he said, "Forgotten
long ago."

But Bud answered, "Not by his friends and relatives
about Jansen."

"Oh, they're still looking for somebody to scalp, eh?
Better let sleeping dogs lie, Bud."  Perhaps he could
reason the Sheriff out of this scheme; perhaps convince
him that it was not a profitable move on his part, and
that he would in such case have the other party against
him if he ever attempted to use these unfair means.

His thoughts were interrupted by Bud, who said,
with a knowing look at Clarke, "You'll have to hand
that gun over to me, Bill."

"Will I?"

Bud rose, and with a certain amount of assumed
dignity said, "I demand it in my official capacity."  As
he moved towards Bill he felt Tabywana creeping
behind him.  Irritated, he turned and faced the
Indian as he said, "Say, we 'ain't got to take Indians
into our confidence, have we?"

Bill, who saw that he might accomplish more if
left alone with Bud, said, kindly: "Tabywana, get
Baco up, will you?  I want him."

Tabywana knew that he was dismissed, but he
trusted Bill, so he only muttered a warning as he
started to do his bidding.

"All right, I can take care of myself, Chief."

Then the Indian left him.

"Come on, Bud, I call you.  You got to show me
your hand."

"Well, if I want an election it's up to me to make
good with Cash's outfit, ain't it?"

"So you're due for a grandstand play, eh?" was
Bill's comment.  The way events were shaping
themselves worried him.  These rough-shod political
aspirations often led men like Hardy to play to the
gallery in order to win a high-handed election.

Bud went on, sure that Bill would see the reason
of his adventure, "I have always had the bullet that
killed Cash, and that's been the only clew I've ever
had."

Dryly, Bill interrupted.  "It hasn't led you very
far, Bud."

But Bud did not notice Bill's remark.  Impressively
he said: "It was a thirty-two.  Now no man
in this country ever carried a toy like that.  That's
a woman's weapon."  Then slowly pointing to the
revolver in Bill's hand, he said, "That gun of
Nat-u-ritch's is a thirty-two."

If this was all the evidence that Bud had, the case
was not so serious after all, so, much relieved, Bill said,
lightly: "Bud, you're a joke.  Because Nat-u-ritch
happens to own a thirty-two—"

Bud maliciously interposed: "Don't be in such
a hurry.  The last time I was over to Maverick I
happens to ask Nick, the barkeep, for a light, and he
lets me help myself from a squaw's beaded
match-safe."  Bud cautiously drew a tiny blue-and-green
embroidered bag from his pocket.  "'Hello,' says I.
'Where did you get that?'  'Oh,' says he, 'I've had
that for years—ever since the day that Cash Hawkins
was killed.  Found it in front of the side door down
there.'  And I bought it of him then and there"—Bud
looked straight into Bill's eyes as he finished—"cause
I recognized it as one I had tried to buy of
Nat-u-ritch."

But even this statement apparently did not startle
Bill, who met Bud's glance squarely as he said, "And
so you jump at the conclusion that—"

"Nat-u-ritch killed Cash Hawkins."  Bud took
him up.  "There ain't a doubt about it.  You see
that thirty-two is minus just the shot which she done
it with."

Bill paled a little.  So Bud had noticed the missing
bullet.  He knew that since her marriage Nat-u-ritch
had never carried the revolver.  It had been put away
on a shelf to be out of the child's way.

Bud reached his hand towards Bill.  "I've shown
you my hand fair and square—man to man—now I'll
thank you for that gun."

But Bill, who caught sight of Jim coming through
the corral, said, "That's up to Mr. Carston, and
here he is."

Bud turned sharply.  He would have preferred
to meet Jim some other time, but it was too late to
retreat now.

Bill went to Jim.  "Hello," he said.  He decided
to blurt out the whole affair to Jim at once.  He knew
then that the squaw would be safe; the boss would
see to that.  "Mr. Carston," he began, "our amusin'
little friend over there is a-contemplatin' of arrestin'
Nat-u-ritch for the killin' of Cash Hawkins."

"Oh no; you must be joking," Jim said to Bud,
too worn out to give vent to the anger that began to
surge through him.

Bill was relieved at the light manner in which
Jim seemed to take the news.  "Well, that's what I
thought, but he takes himself kind of serious."

Furiously came Bud's next words.  "Anyway, I've
got evidence to arrest her."

Showing the revolver to Jim, Bill contemptuously
added, "And which said Sheriff steals out of the
house of said trustin' and confidin' friend."

Jim stared in amazement at the revolver.  Yes, it
was Nat-u-ritch's.  He had never looked at it since
that day at Maverick when her hand had saved him
from the cowardly attack of Cash Hawkins.  He did
not speak.

Bud moved closer to him.  He pointed to Bill.
"And which he said belonged to Nat-u-ritch."  Triumphantly
he pointed also to Clarke to indicate
that he had him as a witness.

Jim motioned Bill to the house.  "Put that
revolver back where it belongs," he said, and Bill
obeyed.

Bud darted forward as though to stop Bill.  "I
demand the custody of that myself, Mr. Carston."

"Let's understand each other, Sheriff."  As he
spoke, Jim deliberately blocked Bud's way.  "Nat-u-ritch
is as innocent of wrong as a bird that flies.  It
wouldn't do to confine her in that dirty little jail in
Jansen.  It would be murder."

"You're a law-abiding citizen, Mr. Carston.  You
ain't agoin' to resist the law?"

But Jim stood firm in front of the cabin door.
"There are cases, Sheriff, where justice is superior
to the law, and the white man's court is a bad place
for justice to the Indian.  Fortunately for all of us,
Nat-u-ritch has disappeared."

As Jim spoke, Bud realized that if the Indian woman
were there Carston would not be so calm.

"But you couldn't arrest her, Sheriff—not while I
live.  Bill"—he turned to the foreman, who came out
of the house—"I'm not in a mood to discuss this with
Sheriff Hardy, and I don't want to violate the laws
of hospitality.  But just one word, Sheriff—you've
eaten my bread, slept under my roof, and now you
sneak into my house to get evidence against the
mother of my boy."  Jim hesitated, and then as he
left them he quietly finished, "Bill, I think you'd
better see the Sheriff safely on his way."

And Bud knew that for the time being he had lost
his game.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXV`:

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   CHAPTER XXV

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"Carston's locoed.  He's plumb crazy.  There
can't be a jail for whites and a palace for Injins.
He don't suppose he can stop me, does he?" Bud
began, excitedly.

Bill, encouraged by Jim's mastery of the situation,
chaffingly answered: "After you arrest Nat-u-ritch
you'll never hold office, Bud.  You may hold a harp
or a coal-shovel."  Then he laughed.

"My!  You're making a fuss over a squaw," said
Bud, who could see no humor in Bill's words.

But Bill replied, "Arrestin' the mother of innocent
kids will not be considered a popular form of
amusement around here, Bud."

"Kids?  What's that got to do with it?"

"Well," said Bill.  "The kid's an influential citizen
hereabouts.  He's our long suit, and there ain't a
live thing on the ranch that would let you arrest his
rag doll.  You couldn't get away with it, Bud."  And
as though it were his final word on the subject,
Bill said, conclusively, "Better get elected some easier
way."

A new idea fermented in Bud's brain.  If he
failed in his scheme to bring to trial the murderer
of Cash Hawkins, hundreds of men to whom he had
blustered and sworn that he would accomplish the
deed would no longer believe in him and he would
probably lose the election.  Why not try to gain some
compensation if this must be the case?

"Git our horses ready, Clarke," he said and watched
his assistant leave the yard.  Slowly Bud hitched
his foot on a log, and, as though he were about to
confer a favor upon Jim, spoke with condescension.
"Mr. Carston takes this too much to heart, Bill.
Perhaps we can come to some understanding."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's come into some money, ain't he?  Of
course I might lose this match-safe crossing Red
River."  He lovingly fingered the little bag.  Bill
drew nearer.  "And I might"—Bud continued—"be
made independent of the job of sheriff, if it's worth
the boss's while."  There was no mistaking the
intention of his words.

"Bud!"  For a moment Bill could say no more.
In the past he and Bud had been friends—bar-room
friends, it was true—but lately he had begun to
suspect much about the Sheriff's career that was
unsavory.  Until to-day, however, he had had no proof
that Bud could behave like a blackguard.  "Bud,"
he rejoined, "you're goin' to make me lose my temper,
and I 'ain't done that for twenty years."  As he
spoke he raised his foot on the log beside Bud's and
in deliberate imitation of him leaned his elbow on his
knee while he stared straight into the Sheriff's face.

"Don't be foolish," Bud began.  "I can put you
to a lot of trouble, and I will.  I'll arrest these
English people and put 'em under bond to appear as
witnesses.  They were at Maverick that day, and I
got my posse ready and waitin' to obey orders."  This,
he thought, was the final shot to bring Bill to
his senses.  He waited.

With a tolerance that did not hide his contempt,
Bill spoke.  "Except for Jim's orders, I'd throw you
off the place.  Get agoin', Bud—get agoin'—and
don't stop to pick flowers."

Bud knew that Bill was conveying a threat which, he
felt, as he watched his face, it were wiser not to disregard.
He walked towards the barn, stopped, ground his teeth,
and looked back at Bill; but the big fellow stood
motionless and in supreme disgust watched the Sheriff.
Bud uttered a low oath, then hurried down to the corral.

Still, Bill did not move.  He did not hear Diana as
she opened the cabin door and, drinking in the fresh
morning air, said, "I feel as though I should
suffocate in there."  Her looks told that something more
than the close air of the cabin room was stifling her.
As she came from under the porch she saw the
immovable figure of the foreman leaning over the log
with his head on his hands, watching several men
down the road who were mounting horses and
preparing to make a start.

"Oh, Mr.—" She paused.

Bill turned.  He saw she had forgotten his name.
"Bill, miss," he said.

"Mr. Bill—"

But Bill interrupted as he raised his hat.  "Just
plain Bill, if you don't mind—and there ain't
anything too good for you at Red Butte ranch, lady."

Impulsively Diana held out her hand to Bill, who
took it.  "Thank you, Bill.  It's good to feel that
I'm among friends, because I feel so strange, so
bewildered."  She had learned of the foreman's
devotion to Jim and knew that she could trust him.
"Bill," she asked, "what do they mean by
'squaw-man'?"  There was so much she could not say to
Jim, so much that had puzzled her, and she longed
to unburden her heart to some one.  This faithful
soul would understand her, and would, perhaps, help
her to learn more about Jim and the Indian woman,
concerning whose fate she was now growing anxious.

Bill seated himself.  "Well, it's the name some
people give a white man who marries an Indian
squaw."  Then quickly he added: "But I want you
to understand, miss, Jim's respected in spite of the
fact he's a squaw man.  He's lived that down."

"Of course it was a great surprise to us all at first."

"Natural it would be, miss.  Of course no ordinary
white man would have done it.  But you mustn't
think any the less of Jim for that, miss."

Quickly Diana answered, in sympathetic accord
with Bill's loyalty to his master: "I think all the
more of him, Bill.  It's only another of Jim's glorious
mistakes."  Then again she thought of the woman.
"I wish I could see her.  What is she like?"

Bill could not understand this interest in Nat-u-ritch.
"Just a squaw," he said, indifferently.  "She's got
two ideas, and I guess only two—Hal and Jim."

He liked the little woman, but he could see where
she had been a great disadvantage to Jim.

But Diana's voice as she said, "A mother and a
wife—that's a good deal, Bill," made him realize that
perhaps he was not doing the Indian girl justice.  He
could see the tears in Diana's eyes as she spoke.
"And her boy goes back home with us."

Bill rose.  "Kind of tough on yours truly, lady,
bein' as Hal and me are kind of side-partners, but then
I got to recollect it's the best for the kid.  That's
about the size of it, ain't it?"  This time it was Bill
who solicited comfort from Diana.  The thought of
the child's leaving them had been a difficult proposition
for the boys, and they had discussed it long and
excitedly when Jim told them the plan the night
before.

Diana understood.  "It involves a lot of suffering
all around, doesn't it, Bill?  But it seems to me
Nat-u-ritch gets the worst of it."

True to his opinion of the red race, Bill answered,
"She's an Injin—used to takin' things as they come,"
and he hardly heard Diana's words:

"Poor little savage!"

This lady had appealed to him—why shouldn't he
ask her advice?  It was all very well for him to have
frightened the Sheriff into leaving the place, all very
well to appear sanguine and hopeful while the boss
stood near him, but in his heart he knew he was
afraid.  Something in the shifting, malicious look of
Bud Hardy's eyes as he left the place told Bill that
there might still be trouble.  Twisting the rim of his
big hat nervously, he said:

"Say, miss, you got a lawyer in your party, 'ain't
you?"  Diana turned to listen to him.  "Oh, but
pshaw!" he went on, trying to reassure himself even
while he spoke the disquieting words.  "It 'll never
get to the lawyer, cause Jim 'll never let him arrest
her—never!"

"Arrest her!" Diana exclaimed, in surprise.

Bill explained.  "Nat-u-ritch.  The Sheriff thinks
he can prove she killed Cash Hawkins—that day you
were at Maverick."

Jim had not recalled that incident to Diana last
night.  He had told her he owed his life to the Indian
girl—how and why he had not explained.  Eagerly
she leaned towards Bill as she cautiously said, "Why
did she kill him?"

"Well, if"—and Bill dwelled on the word—"*if* she
killed him, she did it to save Jim's life, and it stands
to reason Jim ain't goin' to see her suffer for it."  Then
as he saw a troubled look on Diana's face he
regretted the admission of his worries.  "Say, miss,
I'm awful glad that you an' Hal are goin' to pull your
freight, for there's goin' to be merry hell around here."

He quickly begged her pardon for his involuntary
slip, but Diana had hardly noticed it.  This would
mean new worry for Jim.  Then she comforted
herself with the thought that perhaps this kind-hearted
soul was exaggerating things.  Surely, if there were
cause for anxiety, Jim would have spoken to her
about it.

"Is there nothing that can be done, Bill?"

He shook his head.

"Well, is there anything that I can do?"

"Don't see how, except to git away as soon's you
can."  And then he told her of Bud's proposition to
obtain money from Jim, and that the Sheriff was willing
to sell his evidence against the Indian girl.  "Why,"
he added, "I 'most kicked him off the place; and
Bud will fight, you know."

But Diana was only concerned to know whether the
Sheriff was safely out of the way.  "You say the
Sheriff's gone?"

"Thank Heaven!" Bill answered.  "And, by-the-bye,
just to be more cantankerous, he threatened to
hold up you and your party as witnesses; but that
wouldn't be legal, would it?"  As he remembered
the boys he added, chuckling, "It certainly wouldn't
be popular."

Before Diana could reply, Jim interrupted them.
Like a restless spirit he had been wandering over
the place, from barn to cabin, from Hal's sleeping-room
to the boys' quarters; accomplishing little and
vainly trying to accept the events that had crowded
into his life during the last hours.  The Sheriff, he
felt sure, could easily be managed, but Nat-u-ritch's
disappearance was causing him anxiety.  He knew
it was a trait in the Indian character to hide away and
stoically endure its grief in silence.  Every moment
he expected her to return.  Stronger than all these
thoughts was the desire that Diana should go at once,
and little Hal with her.  This speedy termination
would make it easier for them all, he told himself,
and then there were matters enough to claim his
attention.  So he reasoned as he came from the back
of the house, where he had been brooding over a
valise containing the child's belongings.  As he saw
Diana sitting there deep in conversation with Bill, he
stood amazed at the simple adaptability that made it
possible for her to adjust herself to these primitive
belongings and people.  Bill was already regarding
her as a friend.  Then he remembered that he must
see Tabywana to tell him of Nat-u-ritch's disappearance,
and arrange a plan with him to help her to
evade Bud for several days.

"Bill, I wish you would get Baco.  I have sent for
Tabywana, and want Baco to interpret for me."

Bill's heavy boots creaked down the corral.

"I hope you've rested well, Diana," Jim said.

"I haven't been to bed, Jim.  I've been trying to
think it all out."  She rose and came to him.  "Would
she be quite impossible at Maudsley Towers?"

Jim knew she wanted to take up their conversation
where it had stopped last night.  They had discussed
the subject already, and he felt the futility of going
over the same arguments.  It only tormented him, so
he answered, "Quite."

Diana persisted.  "Couldn't she be sent to school
for a few years?"

"It's too late.  That might have been done when
she was a child, but now she's a woman."

"And a mother."  Then hurriedly, as though fearful
that she would not have the courage to express to Jim
all her concern for Nat-u-ritch, she said, "Jim, I
wonder if we are treating her quite fairly?"

"I hope so."  And in Jim's voice there was a
prayer.

During the night many thoughts had haunted
Diana.  The soft little arms that had clung to her
the night before troubled her.  What would their
loss mean to this child-woman of the woods?  She
decided to make one more appeal to Jim and frankly
lay before him the conflicting emotions that had torn
her since her arrival at the ranch.

"At first, Jim, I hated everybody, then I pitied you.
Now I am thinking of her."  Jim listened intently.
She laid her hand on his arm.  "Civilization has bred
in people like you and me many needs and interests.
But this helpless child-mother has just her child and
you, and we are taking the child away.  Oh, have
you the right to sacrifice her even for the child?"

Jim could not argue.  He had made his decision
when Petrie wrested from him the concession to let
the child go to be prepared for the life he had no
right to deny him.

"I have done the best I know how, Diana," he
said, simply.  "We must leave the rest to God,"
and Diana knew that the words were the result of
his own bitter struggle and she could no longer doubt
their wisdom.

She stood silent.  Jim looked at her.  Of their own
love that had endured all these years, neither spoke.
It was Jim's moment of greatest temptation.  He
longed to say something to her that might express what
he felt; but again he conquered himself.

"Will you take Hal?" was all he said.  "I want you
to get away before the heat of the day."

And Diana left him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVI`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI

.. vspace:: 2

Jim waited anxiously for Tabywana, to enlist his
services in protecting Nat-u-ritch.  Impatient
of delay, he started towards the bunk-house.  On
his way he met Bill, who informed him that Bud
and his men had gone.  Tactfully, Bill avoided any
reference to Bud's last threats, and Jim was
comforted with the news of the Sheriff's departure.  It
only remained now for him to send Tabywana in
search of Nat-u-ritch.  He found the Chief and Baco,
and in a few words told Tabywana that Nat-u-ritch
had gone into the hills because he had decided to send
the child away, that she was very unhappy, and that
he wished him to go to her.  Unmoved, the Indian
listened, and only at the end of the words that Baco
was translating for him made answer that Jim had
spoiled Nat-u-ritch, that she must obey her master,
and that he would insist upon her returning at once.
But Jim explained that he wished her to remain
hidden a little longer, until he was sure that the
Sheriff had really left the neighboring country, as he
was fearful that Bud Hardy meant mischief.  Through
Baco and Tabywana he would send her food and
clothing, he added.  Gradually he made the Chief see
that this way was the wisest, and Tabywana left,
breathing vengeance on Bud, and swearing that a
war should follow if the Sheriff dared to arrest Nat-u-ritch.

Jim found the boys assembled before the cabin
on his return, while Bill was directing the hitching of
the horses to a wagon that was to carry Diana and
Hal to Fort Duchesne.

"Everything ready, Bill?" he said, bravely.

"Yes, sir, everything ready."

Jim called to Hal and Diana, who came from the
house.  He picked the boy up in his arms and a
sudden terror overcame him.  He must be alone a
moment, to gain the courage necessary to face this
last ordeal.

"Take him, Bill," he said, "while I go and get his
bag," and he went into the cabin.

The foreman nodded.  He held the boy high up
in his strong arms while the men crowded around
him.  He must try to make it easy for the boss; there
must be no tears.  Diana and Sir John, from under
the porch where they were standing, watched the men
with the child, and during the years that followed
it was a memory that often recurred to them.

"Fellers," Bill began, as he enthroned Hal on his
shoulder—"fellers, he's agoin' to Duchesne—savvy?
Gee whiz, don't I wish I was goin' to see the
soldiers and flags and drums and brass bands and
everything!  Ain't he goin' for a fine time!"

The child answered with glee, "Sure," and the
men's laughter rang out at the child's use of their
own mode of expression.

Carrying the bag, Jim came from the house.  "It
won't hurt anybody to carry his belongings; it's
almost empty."

Shorty sniffed as he peered into it.  "'Tain't very
full."  Then he threw into it the old jewel-box with
the trinket which Jim had given him.  Jim saw
and understood.  The men had come for their final
leave-taking of the boy; they wished to prove that
their animosity was over, that they recognized that
misfortune had come to them through no fault of his.

"Hold on, Shorty."  Jim tried to prevent the little
fellow from getting the valise, but Shorty took the
bag out of his hand as he snapped:

"That's Hal's trunk, ain't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"It ain't yourn."  Ever aggressive, Shorty finished,
"You don't want to fight the outfit the day your boy's
agoin' away."  And he pushed Jim aside as he
carried the valise over to Grouchy, who was holding
up a villainous-looking jack-knife to the child.

"Say, old man," the slow, lumbering ranchman
labored, "you wanted this for a long time.  I
wouldn't give it to you, 'cause I was afraid you might
cut yourself, but I've been a-savin' it for you.  When
you get bigger, you can make things with it."

Grouchy threw the knife into the bag, while Shorty,
deeply touched, muttered, "That's the longest speech
Grouchy ever pulled off."  After all, the box with its
trinket had been a gift to him; he must give something
to the child that had been his very own.

"Say," he began, "I'm in on this; he's admired
my saddle for a long time."

But Jim protested, "Shorty, what on earth is he
to do with it?"

And Shorty answered, as he flung his saddle into
the wagon.  "I'll bet they 'ain't got nothin' to touch
it in England."

Bill approvingly observed, "That's right; he's a
cow-boy and needs a real saddle."

Quietly Andy pressed forward and diffidently
began, "Und say—und say—und sure—the boy you
know—und, by golly, he's got to have something to
remember old Andy by—fadder or no fadder."  As
he spoke he drew from his belt his revolver,
carefully emptied it, and held it up to Hal, whose eyes
gleamed with joy at this especially desired gift.
"Maybe dot don'd tickle him, eh?"

"Andy, is that sure for me?" Hal gasped.

"Sure," Andy said.  "Und say, old man, it's a
good one—und say, it's the best ever; und, by golly,
been a good frient to me, und come in handy some
day for you; und you remember old Andy by dot
better than anything."

Shorty opened the bag and dropped the revolver in.
The German held out his arms and in a trembling
voice said, "Kiss me, you rascal," and the boy
jumped into his arms.

Bill, who had been listening and watching the men,
was tugging at his waistcoat.  "And here's an old
watch with a horse-hair chain—he's had his eye on it
for some moons.  He'd 'a' had it before," he explained
confidentially to Jim, who was trying to prevent Bill
from loosening it, "only it belonged to my mother."  He
knelt down on the ground and opened his arms.
"And now, old man, give me a long hug.  Don't ever
forget your side-partner."  Bill felt he must be
careful.  The men were beginning to move away, and
surreptitiously to dig their knuckles into eyes that
were showing their emotion.

Elated and excited by what seemed play to him,
Hal said, as he patted the foreman, "Be good, Bill,"
and the men laughed as Bill answered:

"Sure I will—sure—sure."

The horses began to stamp impatiently as they
grew restive under the attack of the flies.  Diana
looked at Sir John.  They must start shortly, she
knew; but who would make Jim realize that the final
farewell to the child must be spoken.  Petrie, who
through a feeling of delicacy had kept away from
Jim and the boy all morning, came to Sir John and
Diana with a whispered message from the driver, who
was anxious to make a start.

As though divining their thoughts, Jim went to
Bill, who was still holding Hal.  He threw his arm
around the big fellow's shoulder.  "Aren't you goin'
to drive to the fort, Bill?"

"No, I think you need me more than he does."

"Oh, I'll be all right."

Jim's eyes searched the child's face.  For the boy's
sake he must control the aching sense of desolation
that beset him.

The cow-punchers silently made their way up to
the wagon and began adjusting its contents.  No one
noticed the dark, tragic face of Nat-u-ritch peering out
of the loft door down at the child and the strangers
that stood prepared to carry him away.  Returning
a short time before from her hiding-place by another
trail, she had eluded her father, and crept into the
barn while the men were absorbed in bestowing their
farewell gifts on the child.  Hidden among the bales
of straw, she looked down on the scene.  In her eyes
was an almost fanatical calm, so stoically did she
watch the child.  She seemed in some dumb way to
have reached a solution of her problem, but in
conquering herself she had paid heavily, and this
abnormal expression of hopeless resignation which her
eyes held betrayed a terrible possibility.

Bill waited for Jim to speak.  As he held the dark
little face between his hands, Jim softly whispered,
"I wish his mother could see him once before he goes;
but nothing would ever reconcile her to it, I suppose.

"It's a heap sight better for her as it is," Bill
brusquely said.  "I told Charley to drive like hell;
the quicker they're out of sight the better."  Bill
turned to the porch, where Sir John Applegate,
Malcolm Petrie, and Diana stood, and his glance told
them that they must end the strain and get away at
once.

"Well, Jim," Sir John said, "our horses are tied
to the corral; everything is ready."  He took Jim's
hand in both of his.  "Good-bye, Jim; sorry you're
not going with us."

"Good-bye, John," was all that Jim said.

Jim was conscious that the last moments he had
dreaded were becoming a tragic reality.  There stood
Diana ready to start on her journey; on the other
side of him Petrie advanced with out-stretched
hand; while at the back of the yard he could see
the boys clustered around the wagon waiting for the
final moment.  He realized that the sun was rising
higher and higher in the heavens and that it was
growing hotter.  He must send them away.  A
strange veil, that dimmed all about him, seemed to
hang between him and his surroundings.  Finally
he turned to Petrie, who stood on the other side of
Bill.  "Good-bye, Mr. Petrie."  Jim held his hand
out to the lawyer, in front of the child, and in a low
voice said, "You've won your case against me; see
that my boy gets all that is coming to him."

Petrie gravely answered, "You may trust me,
sir."  Then he joined the others at the wagon.

Jim stretched out his hands in silence to the boy.
The child jumped from Bill's shoulder and nestled
against his father.  Bill left them; only Diana
remained near Jim.

"And now, old man, kiss your daddy."

A troubled look crept over the child's face.  It had
all been great fun, but now—he was growing frightened.
His hold tightened around his father's neck.
Jim quickly saw that he must divert the boy's mind.

"Take good care of Cousin Diana, won't you?"

At this appeal the child, who was a masterful little
fellow, used to being treated as an equal by the men
on the ranch, answered, "Sure."  And as Diana
came to him he leaned down, smiled, and said, "I
like you."

Diana smiled as she kissed him, and said, "And I
love you, God bless you!"

She could scarcely bear the look of pain in Jim's
eyes as they went from the boy's face to hers, then
back again to the boy.  In silence they grasped each
other's hands, then Diana walked over to Bill, who
tenderly helped her into the wagon.

Jim was alone with his boy.  There was much that
he wished to say, but he dare not speak.  He could
see the wistful look beginning to return to the child's
face.

"Good," he said, lightly.  "And now be off."  Close
he pressed the child's face to his lips.  "There's
a brave boy—with a smile and hurrah!"

How could he place the child in the wagon beside
the waiting woman, whose face was turned away to
hide her pain!  His voice dropped low and almost
broke.  "Some day, when you have a son of your
own, you'll know what this means," they heard him
whisper.  "But no Wynnegate ever was a quitter,
and so we'll take things as they come."

Still no one turned to him.  Diana felt the child
being lifted in beside her and the baby fingers fasten
around hers.  She turned her face to Jim, but almost
savagely he called:

"Drive on, and never look back."

And Charley, who had remembered Bill's words
"to drive like hell," with a crack and a slap let the
impatient animals go.  The men started after the
wagon.

"Give 'em a cheer, boys," Jim cried, and the place
rang with their shouts.

Petrie and Sir John galloped alongside the wagon,
with Grouchy, Andy, Shorty, and Bill following as
fast as they could run.  Cheer after cheer sent back
its echo, while Jim stood alone listening as he
watched the swaying, rumbling cart raise its cloud of
dust, through which he could barely see the men still
running and hear the faint echoes of their cries of
"Good-bye, Hal."

Like a symbol of broken hope, he stood, a solitary
figure in the dreary, deserted place.  His hands were
still out-stretched towards the receding wagon.  The
deep-tinted, rose-colored rocks glowed more and more
radiantly, until the blinding glare from the plains
made Jim shield his eyes.

"There they go"—he strained forward closer to
watch the wagon—"down into the ravine—out of
sight—and out of my life forever."

As the dip in the land engulfed and shut out his
last glimpse of the travellers, he dropped inert and
clinched his arms over his head, while his heavy,
dragging steps were the only sounds that broke the
terrible stillness that had fallen over the yard.
Almost mechanically he reached the bench and sank
down upon it.  Nat-u-ritch, from her hiding-place
above, could hear the sobs that came from the
crushed and broken man.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXVII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII

.. vspace:: 2

Nat-u-ritch stole down from the loft and crept
to where Jim had stood.  Unconsciously she
repeated the same picture of desolation he had made
as he stretched out his arms and strained his eyes to
see the wagon disappear down the ravine, which the
Indian girl could now see far off, like an ant on a hill,
as it crawled up the dun-colored mound.  Like him,
she folded her arms and stared ahead for a long
time—even though the blinding light blurred and made the
landscape a chaotic meeting of sky and earth.

But, unlike him, no sobs shook her tiny body;
erect and resolute she stood, then turned and
noiselessly came down behind the weeping man.  In
wondering pity she watched him, then crossed to the
house and entered it.  She quickly returned with the
small revolver in her hand; but her soft-shod feet
made no sound, and Jim, unconscious of her presence,
still sat with his head on his knees.  As she caught
sight of the tiny moccasins the child had left lying on
the bench, she wavered a moment, but she only paused
to pick them up and press them against her wildly
beating heart.  She had but one thought—escape
from the pain that gnawed and tormented her.

Without the boy, and with the look she feared she
must face daily in Jim's eyes, she knew she could not
endure life.  There was no rebellion, only acceptance
of her fate, as she crept close behind Jim, the
moccasins covering the steel weapon.  Worn out, Jim
still remained with head bowed, a physical stupor
of fatigue almost dulling his sorrow.  Nat-u-ritch's
quick ear heard the voices of the returning men, and
she darted across to the corral and disappeared
behind the barn.  But even that did not arouse Jim.

Shorty, Andy, and Grouchy hurried after Bill, who
was coming back to look after Jim.  Shorty grasped
Bill's arm, wheeled him about, and pointed in the
direction the carriage had taken.

"What are they bringing them back for, Bill?" he
asked.

Bill swore a mighty oath as he saw the wagon
headed for the cabin, with Bud and his posse
surrounding it.  He must prevent a meeting between Jim
and Bud if possible.

"Don't say a word," he whispered to the boys as
he caught sight of Jim.  "We'll get him into the
house."

He came down to Jim and tenderly laid his hand on
his shoulder.  "Jim, old man, you haven't had any
sleep; go in and rest awhile."

Jim looked up at Bill, who pulled him to his feet,
then started to lead him towards the cabin.  He could
fight the physical weariness no longer.

"Oh, I'll be all right soon, Bill."

Bill, as though humoring a child, said: "Sure.
We've all got to get kind of used to it.  Sleep's the
thing to put you right."

They reached the cabin door.  Jim dully echoed,
"Sleep—sure, sleep, Bill."  Then Bill closed the door
on him.

"Shorty," he called, "you and Grouchy stand
outside of that door, and don't you let him out of
there until we can get Bud Hardy away."  He meant
to hurry and meet the wagon before it could reach the
yard, but as he spoke he heard the men and horses
and knew that it was useless.

Andy, who had been watching farther down the
road, ran towards him.  "Bill," he called, "Bud
Hardy's here."  As he spoke, Bud and his men
advanced, followed by Diana and the child, while Sir
John and Petrie stood close to them.

"Bud," Bill began, in a quick, low voice, "Jim
ain't in any mood to be trifled with to-day.  What in
hell do you mean by stopping these people when I
ordered you off the place?"  He blurted out the words
as though fearful of the impulse that drove him to
do bodily harm to the Sheriff.

With a sneer Bud answered, "I told you I would
hold these people as witnesses, and now I want
Nat-u-ritch."

Before Bill could remonstrate, there was a hoarse
cry from the house.  They heard Jim wildly saying,
as he rushed to Bill:

"Where is it?  Where is it?  It's gone—gone!  Who
took it?  Bill, did you put that little gun back in the
room as I told you?"

"That I did, boss."

As Jim stood in the yard he failed to see Diana or
the child.  He saw only the great form of the Sheriff,
with his men around him, and he knew that mischief
was afoot.

"You here, damn you!"  He made a movement to
reach Bud, but was restrained by Shorty and
Grouchy.  Then he saw that the entire party had
been taken into custody.  Before he could expostulate,
a shot rang out.

"What was that!"

Bill ran to the barn.  Jim followed him, but was
stopped at the door by Bill.

"Jim," he cried, "it's Nat-u-ritch."

Before either of them could reach the tiny form they
saw Tabywana lean over and pick up the child-woman
in his arms.  He had found her, but too late.

Diana, holding the child and followed by Petrie and
Sir John, drew back into the corner of the porch.
Bud and his men, who had lost their prey, slunk
away.  Only his faithful men stood by Jim as
Tabywana advanced, carrying in his arms the dead
Nat-u-ritch.  From her hands dangled the tiny baby
shoes.

Tabywana held out the lifeless body to Jim.  In
death as in life, she belonged to her master.

"Poor little mother!  Poor little mother!" Jim
whispered.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII

.. vspace:: 2

The fields were golden-tipped with mustard-flower,
while a haze as golden touched and
glinted the green of the encircling hills.  A riot of
vernal glory met Jim's eyes as he walked through the
lanes that led to the Towers.

Six months had passed since Diana and Hal had
left him, and until now the West with its memories
had held him.  He had written that he would be with
them on this day, but he wished to return quietly.
Only Diana and the child knew of his expected arrival.

The soft summer heat had brought into blossom
every wild flower in glen and roadway; the great trees
seemed heavy with the fragrant breezes that wafted
through their leaves.  As he had gone from home, so
he wished to return to it—alone.  A tumult of emotions
battled within him as he approached the entrance
to the Towers.  He found the heavy doors opened
wide as though expectant of a visitor.  As he stood
on the threshold the clock of the church-tower struck
twelve.  It was noon—the high noon of his life.

From the hall he heard a voice cry, "Welcome
home, daddy!"

He turned to see his boy, changed even during the
short separation—but stronger, more beautiful, a
veritable princeling—holding out his eager little arms.
And his boy, standing alone in the great hallway of
the home of their ancestors, welcomed Jim to his own.
As he held the child close to him, his eyes searched for
Diana, and as the boy rained kisses on his face, Jim
said:

"Cousin Di—where is she?"

The child smiled, and, slipping down to the ground,
took hold of his father's hand and started to draw him
down the corridor that led to the garden.

"Cousin Di is waiting for you in the Fairies'
Corner," said the child.  "We go there to play, you
know, and listen for the fairies."

Jim did not speak, but the child prattled on as he
led him across the green grass, past the swaying,
flaunting hollyhocks and the beds of old-fashioned,
fragrant flowers that lined the walks.  The songs of
birds filled the air—linnet, lark, and thrush seemed
carolling a welcome to him.  But Jim hardly heard
what the boy said.  He could see only the waving
tree-tops of the mysterious Corner in the distance.

"Cousin Di!" the child called, as he ran ahead to
herald his father's coming.

Beyond, the path and garden were bathed in strong
sunlight; the heavens were full of drifting azure clouds.
Over all was the dazzling, bewildering glory of the
noonday splendor, and before Jim stood Diana, a
gracious figure, at the entrance to the enchanted spot.
On her face a tender love answered all that his eyes
asked.  Behind her he could see deep into the
Fairies' Corner; in there all was peaceful; only golden
cobwebs of sunlight dappled the leaves and scattered
the enshrouding gloom.

Neither Jim nor Diana spoke.  The boy's attention
was claimed by a vivacious wag-tail that chirruped
at his feet, then fluttered away to be pursued by him.
Once he turned to smile back a reassurance of his
joy at his father's return, but he could not see him.

Diana and Jim had entered the Fairies' Corner, and
this time they heard the flutter of wings—the wings
of their love as it enfolded them in its peace and holy
joy.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   THE END

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.. pgfooter::