It was late in the afternoon and he was alone in the rose enclosure—the library had proved too stifling1. He had managed to attend the afternoon's drill, and discharge without comment the duties required of him by his guests. The Bishop2 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 farce3 of the day's pleasure was nearly over, was his most comforting thought; a few hours more and the house-party would disperse4. 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 utterly5 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 tempting6 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 disastrously8 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 stigma9 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 evade10 the request of the committee. To elude11 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 perspiration12 began to ooze13 over his body; it was followed by hot flashes that tormented14 him like the five fantastic little demons15 ever before his vision, as they twisted, contorted, shaped, and reshaped themselves into one hideous16 imputation17. An hour before, he had promised to give to his secretary the keys of his desk; to put off the auditing18 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 reassuring19 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 eternity20.
They were alone, and yet neither spoke21. 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 killing22 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 gathering23 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 sergeant24 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 demonstration25 arranged to take place at tea-time. There was a moment's hush26. 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? Muffled27, as though coming from a long distance, he heard the Bishop's voice:
"My lord, I am so overwhelmed with the significance of this delightful28 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 succor29 of the widows and orphans30 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: "Liar31! liar!" shrieked32 the little demons as they came in a swarm33 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 regiment34, 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 eloquent35 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 dispensing36 tea, while the guests discussed the beauties of the cup that lay in its velvet37 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 devout38 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 salvation39 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 contemplated40 tragedy of the night before? Tightly she buckled41 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 apathy42 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 agonized43 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 reassurance44. Jim perhaps could help them in some way to evade discovery. "Jim—Jim," she reiterated45.
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 supreme46 devotion, and partly because he dreaded47 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 pointed48 him to his duty.
Furtively49, 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 chaotically50 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 bereft51 of all save honor! Why should she not attempt this? But even as she reasoned she knew it was useless; all save the entailed52 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 resoluteness53, 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 gambling54 again," Jim vaguely55 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 blurred56. 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 peccadilloes57. 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 speculation58."
Jim quickly looked up.
"The Fund—what Fund? Not the—"
"Yes, the Relief Fund."
"Why, that's embezzle—"
But his aunt's feverish59 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 caressed60 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 prospects61, 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 exhausted62. 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 wrought63 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 monstrous64—it's monstrous!" Suddenly in the midst of his vehement65 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 entreated66.
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 subconsciousness67 began to form words that, if she dared, would tempt7 him to a greater sacrifice. Dare she go on? Even as she hesitated Henry might be—almost she prayed that last night's intervention68 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 drooped69 inert70 and helpless, hers grew stronger and more rigid71 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 immolation72? 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 brook73 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 sobbed74, as she clung to his hand.
But Jim evaded75 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 lining76 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 obedience77.
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1
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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auditing
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| n.审计，查账，决算 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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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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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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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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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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chaotically
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bereft
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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resoluteness
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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68
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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69
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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72
immolation
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| n.牺牲品 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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74
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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76
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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