The Squaw Man. Faversham Julie Opp

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      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 СКАЧАТЬ