The Squaw Man. Faversham Julie Opp

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      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."

      CHAPTER II

      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 СКАЧАТЬ