"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.