The Squaw Man. Faversham Julie Opp

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ