Upon the expiration1 of his sick leave, Jim returned to his regiment2, 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 decided3 outbreak on his cousin's part.
The autumn brought with it the calamitous4 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 enlisted5 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 moodiness6 increased; even Lady Elizabeth seemed hopeless and unable to avert7 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 irritation8 to him. At times he made every effort to regain9 his lost footing, but again and again he forfeited10 the newly acquired grace which her clemency11 granted. Days of absence from the Towers were now not uncommon12. 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 indefatigable14 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 orphans15 of the fighting men, and Henry was placed at the head of it.
In London the innumerable bazaars16 and fêtes given to swell18 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 standing19 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 approbation20. 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 insouciant21 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 Creek22—declared it was her charming characteristic of never remembering a social slight; of generously forgiving the offender23 and in true Christian24 spirit offering the other cheek. They forgot what Jim and her sponsors in London could plainly see—it was her frankness that razed25 to the ground her social barrier. When she spoke13 quite frankly26 of a boarding-house her mother had kept in a mining-town where Hobart Jones had been a paying guest, and told in picturesque27 exaggeration of her starved youth and pitiful hatred28 of her environment—of the longing29 to escape to the great life of Europe with its men and women of tradition—she disarmed30 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 inveigled31 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 remains32 of their stock. The eager crowd that had thronged33 the hall and paid a half-crown to be served tea by a duchess, or to see a peeress act as barmaid in rivalry34 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 skilfully35 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 grotesquely36 out of proportion in the small French salon37. The dinner was an amusing tête-à-tête with Sadie at her most vivacious38 best, telling anecdotes39 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 vividly40. 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 amazement41. "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 irrelevant42 outburst. Then he learned that Diana's failure to appear at the bazaar17 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 puffed43 her cigarette, "I know the truth. We all do here in town. He's drinking inordinately44 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 sincerity45 of her interest in Diana, Jim could have no doubt. Under her frivolities she had an appreciation46 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 accomplished47 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 liaisons48 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 brutally49 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 debauch50. 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 portentous51 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 clinched52 hands strained purple as he grasped the chair rail.
"About the—Yeomanry—work?" he half stammered53 while his eyes furtively54 sought Jim's face.
But Jim, who was thinking only of Diana and the difficulty of alluding55 to Henry's recent conduct, failed to notice his faltering56 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 blurt57 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 dreading58 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 blustering59 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 disastrous60. You know that perfectly61. 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 meshes62. 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 torrent63 of words choked him, he stopped with a quick passion of agony. He was sincere in this confession64 of his weakness; Jim could not doubt him, though he was astonished at the admission. He had expected Henry to assail65 him with hard words and insolent66 denials. The acknowledged truth was sickening. Henry mechanically took some brandy; he seemed a vibrating bundle of torments67.
Jim watched him closely. "I don't want to preach, Henry," he said, "but when you stop that,"—he pointed68 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 regained69 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 remorse70, but he was more deeply involved than his cousin suspected. Jim knew but half; the other half, with its awful, dreaded71 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 momentary72 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 tragic73 symbol of war. The call of Africa for men had been appalling74. 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 primroses75 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 Bishop76 leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his apron77; 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 scarlet78 standard roses gleaming like sentinels over the delicate white blossoms, were Mabel, Diana, and Mr. Chiswick, the young ascetic79 curate. Henry, who was standing near Lady Elizabeth, kept his eyes moodily80 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 rustling81 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 mule82 who drew a pension from the American government.
"Heard that story in America. Rather good, eh, Mrs. Hobart Chi—" ignominiously83 he stood stricken by the American name. The Bishop, seeing his bewilderment turned quickly and whispered the dreadful cognomen84. 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 reassured85 Henry.
"Most assuredly. I'll do what I can."
From the drawing-room came the sound of music. An impromptu86 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 casement87 to meet her guests. Henry followed.
As the others started to follow, Sir John and the Bishop held a whispered consultation88. 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 supplication89.
"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 delightful90 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 tune91, with its enticing92 beat, grew louder and louder, and soon the garden was deserted93 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 intensified94 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 distinguished95 head of one of our great families, a man so loved, so honored—a pillar of society, and a bulwark96 of the empire."
Never for a moment had he suspected the misery97 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 opposition98 to this match," but Charles continued, "although I dare say you have, my dear, and I am naturally pleased that events have vindicated99 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 dreary100. If it had not been for Jim—dear Jim—what would she have done? Her fragrant101 mind had never been disloyal to Henry. Often she had longed to go to her father, but her solicitude102 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 judicious103 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 sneer104 had been unworthy. She was about to retract105 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 receding106 figure. This was the moment in which she might serve Henry. In the music-room Sadie Jones was singing:
"Tout107 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?"
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1
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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3
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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7
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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8
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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9
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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12
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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13
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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14
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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15
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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16
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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18
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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longing
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rivalry
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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41
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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42
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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43
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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44
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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45
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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46
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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liaisons
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| n.联络( liaison的名词复数 )；联络人；（尤指一方或双方已婚的）私通；组织单位间的交流与合作 | |
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49
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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50
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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51
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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52
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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53
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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cognomen
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| n.姓；绰号 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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102
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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104
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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105
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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106
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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