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The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

E >> Ethel May Dell >> The Knave of Diamonds



THE KNAVE OF DIAMONDS

By ETHEL M. DELL

Author of "The Way Of An Eagle"

1912







I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY FRIEND AND SISTER IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF
HER SYMPATHY AND HELP




O Charity, all patiently
Abiding wrack and scaith!
O Faith that meets ten thousand cheats
Yet drops no jot of faith!
Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
To higher, lordlier show,
Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
The careless angels know!

_To the True Romance_.

RUDYARD KIPLING




CONTENTS


PART I


CHAPTER

I.--THE MISSING HEART

II.--THE QUEEN'S JESTER

III.--THE CHARIOT OF THE GODS

IV.--CAKE MORNING

V.--THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

VI.--AT THE MEET

VII.--THE FALL

VIII.--THE RIDE HOME

IX.--THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE

X.--THE HAND OF A FRIEND

XI.--THE STING OF A SCORPION

XII.--BROTHERS

XIII.--THE JESTER'S INFERNO

XIV.--A BIG THING

XV.--THE CHAMPION

XVI.--THE MASQUERADE

XVII.--THE SLAVE OF GOODNESS

XVIII.--THE DESCENT FROM OLYMPUS

XIX.--VENGEANCE

XX.--THE VISION

XXI.--AT THE MERCY OF A DEMON

XXII.--THE CITY OF REFUGE


PART II


I.--THE JESTER'S RETURN

II.--THE KERNEL OF THE DIFFICULTY

III.--THE FIRST ORDEAL

IV.--THE FATAL STREAK

V.--THE TOKEN

VI.--THE BURIAL OF A HATCHET

VII.--A QUESTION OF TRUST

VIII.--A SUDDEN BLOW

IX.--THE BOON

X.--A DAY IN PARADISE

XI.--THE RETURN TO EARTH

XII.--IN THE FACE OF THE GODS

XIII.--AN APPEAL AND ITS ANSWER

XIV.--THE IRRESISTIBLE

XV.--ON THE EDGE OF THE PIT

XVI.--DELIVERANCE


PART III


I.--THE POWER DIVINE

II.--THE WORKER OF MIRACLES

III.--THE WOMAN'S PART

IV.--THE MESSAGE

V.--THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

VI.--A VOICE THAT CALLED

VII.--THE UNINVITED GUEST

VIII.--THE HEART OF A SAVAGE

IX.--THE DIVINE SPARK

X.--THE QUEEN'S PARDON

XI.--SOMETHING GREAT

XII.--A FRIENDLY UNDERSTANDING

XIII.--THE FINAL DEFEAT

XIV.--AT THE GATE OF DEATH

XV.--THE KING'S DECREE

XVI.--THE STRAIGHT GAME

XVII.--THE TRANSFORMING MAGIC

XVIII.--THE LAST ORDEAL

XIX.--OUT OF THE FURNACE

XX.--THE PROMOTION OF THE QUEEN'S JESTER

XXI.--THE POWER THAT CASTS OUT DEVILS





PART I



CHAPTER I

THE MISSING HEART


There came a sudden blare of music from the great ballroom below, and the
woman who stood alone at an open window on the first floor shrugged her
shoulders and shivered a little. The night air blew in brisk and cold
upon her uncovered neck, but except for that slight, involuntary shiver
she scarcely seemed aware of it. The room behind her was brilliantly
lighted but empty. Some tables had been set for cards, but the cards were
untouched. Either the attractions of the ballroom had remained
omnipotent, or no one had penetrated to this refuge of the bored--no one
save this tall and stately woman robed in shimmering, iridescent green,
who stood with her face to the night, breathing the chill air as one who
had been on the verge of suffocation. It was evidently she who had flung
up the window. Her gloved hands leaned upon the woodwork on each side of
it. There was a certain constraint in her whole attitude, a tension that
was subtly evident in every graceful line. Her head was slightly bent as
though she intently watched or listened for something.

Yet nothing could have been audible where she stood above the hubbub of
music, laughter, and stamping feet that rose from below. It filled the
night with uproar. Nor was there anything but emptiness in the narrow
side-street into which she looked.

The door of the room was ajar and gradually swinging wider in the
draught. Very soon it would be wide enough for anyone passing in the
passage outside to spy the slim figure that stood so motionless before
the open window. It was almost wide enough now. Surely it was wide
enough, for suddenly it ceased to move. The draught continued to eddy
round the room, stirring the soft brown hair about the woman's temples,
but the door stood still as at the behest of an unseen hand.

For fully half a minute nothing happened; then as suddenly and silently
as a picture flashed from a magic lantern slide, a man's head came into
view. A man's eyes, dusky, fierce, with something of a stare in them,
looked the motionless figure keenly up and down.

There followed another interval as though the intruder were debating
with himself upon some plan of action, then, boldly but quite quietly, he
pushed the door back and entered.

He was a slight, trim man, clean-shaven, with high cheek-bones that made
a long jaw seem the leaner by contrast. His sleek black hair was parted
in the middle above his swarthy face, giving an unmistakably foreign
touch to his appearance. His tread was light and wary as a cat's.

His eyes swept the room comprehensively as he advanced, coming back
to the woman at the window as though magnetically drawn to her. But
she remained quite unaware of him, and he, no whit disconcerted,
calmly seated himself at one of the tables behind her and took up a
pack of cards.

The dance-music in the room below was uproariously gay. Some of the
dancers were singing. Now and then a man's voice bellowed through the
clamour like the blare of a bull.

Whenever this happened, the man at the table smiled to himself a faint,
thin-lipped smile, and the woman at the window shivered again.

Suddenly, during a lull, he spoke. He was counting out the cards into
heaps with lightning rapidity, turning up one here and there, and he did
not raise his eyes from his occupation.

"I say, you know," he said in a drawl that was slightly nasal, "you will
have to tell me how old you are. Is that an obstacle?"

She wheeled round at the first deliberate syllable. The electric
light flared upon her pale, proud face. She stood in dead silence,
looking at him.

"You mustn't mind," he said persuasively, still without lifting his eyes.
"I swear I'll never tell. Come now!"

Very quietly she turned and closed the window; then with a certain
stateliness she advanced to the table at which he sat, and stopped
before it.

"I think you are making a mistake," she said, in a voice that had a hint
of girlish sweetness about it despite its formality.

He looked up then with a jerk, and the next instant was on his feet.

"Gad! I'm tremendously sorry! What must you take me for? I took you for
Mrs. Damer. I beg you will forgive me."

She smiled a little, and some of the severity went out of her face. For a
moment that too seemed girlish.

"It is of no consequence. I saw it was a mistake."

"An idiotic mistake!" he declared with emphasis. "And you are not a bit
like Mrs. Damer either. Are you waiting for someone? Would you like me to
clear out?"

"Certainly not. I am going myself."

"Oh, but don't!" he begged her very seriously. "I shall take it horribly
to heart if you do. And really, I don't deserve such a snub as that."

Again she faintly smiled. "I am not feeling malicious, but you are
expecting your partner. And I--"

"No, I am not," he asserted. "My partner has basely deserted me for
another fellow. I came in here merely because I was wandering about
seeking distraction. Please don't go--unless I bore you--in which case
you have only to dismiss me."

She turned her eyes questioningly upon the cards before him. "What are
you doing with them? Is it a game?"

"Won't you sit down?" he said, "and I will tell you."

She seated herself facing him. "Well?"

He considered the cards for a little, his brows bent. Then, "It is a
magician's game," he said. "Let me read your fortune."

She hesitated.

Instantly he looked up. "You are not afraid?"

She met his look, a certain wistfulness in her grey eyes. "Oh, no, not
afraid--only sceptical."

"Only sceptical!" he echoed. "That is a worldwide complaint. But anyone
with imagination can always pretend. You are not good at pretending?"

"Not particularly."

His eyes challenged hers. "Perhaps you have never needed an anaesthetic?"
he said coolly.

She looked slightly startled. "What do you mean?"

He leaned deliberately forward across the table. "You know what an
anaesthetic does, don't you? It cheats the senses of pain. And a little
humbug does the same for the mind. Of course you don't believe anything.
I don't myself. But you can't stand for ever and contemplate an abyss of
utter ignorance. You must weave a little romance about it for the sake of
your self-respect."

She looked straight into the challenging eyes. The wistfulness was still
in her own. "Then you are offering to weave a little romance for me?" she
said, with a faint involuntary sigh.

He made her a brief bow. "If you will permit me to do so."

"To relieve your boredom?" she suggested with a smile.

"And yours," he smiled back, taking up the cards.

She did not contradict him. She only lowered her eyes to the deft hands
that were disposing the cards in mystic array upon the table.

There followed a few moments of silence; then in his careless, unmusical
drawl the man spoke.

"Do you mind telling me your first name? It is essential to the game, of
course, or I shouldn't presume to ask."

"My name is Anne," she said.

The noise below had lessened considerably, and this fact seemed to cause
her some relief. The tension had gone out of her bearing. She sat with
her chin upon her hand.

Not a beautiful woman by any means, she yet possessed that indescribable
charm which attracts almost in spite of itself. There was about her
every movement a queenly grace that made her remarkable, and yet she was
plainly not one to court attention. Her face in repose had a look of
unutterable weariness.

"How old are you please?" said the magician.

"Twenty-five."

He glanced up at her.

"Yes, twenty-five," she repeated. "I am twenty-five to-day."

He looked at her fixedly for a few seconds, then in silence returned to
his cards.

She continued to watch him without much interest. The dance-music was
quickening to the _finale_. The hubbub of voices had died away. Evidently
a good many people had ceased to dance.

Suddenly her companion spoke. "Do you like diamonds?"

She smiled at the question. "Yes, I like them. I haven't a passion
for them."

"No," he said, without raising his eyes. "You haven't a passion for
anything at present. You will have soon."

"I think it very unlikely," she said.

"Of course you do." He was manoeuvring the cards rapidly with one hand.
"Your eyes have not been opened yet. I see an exciting time before you.
You are going to have an illness first. That comes in the near future."

"I have never been ill in my life," she said.

"No? It will be an experience for you, then--not a very painful one, I
hope. Are you getting nervous?"

"Not in the least."

"Ah! That's as well, because here comes the King of Diamonds. He has
taken a decided fancy to you, and if you have any heart at all, which
I can't discover, you ought to end by being the Queen. No, here comes
the Knave--confound his impudence!--and, by Jove, yes, followed by the
missing heart. I am glad you have got one anyway, even if the King is
not in it. It looks as if you will have some trouble with that Knave,
so beware of him." He glanced up at her for a moment. "Beware of him!"
he repeated deliberately. "He is a dangerous scamp. The King is the
man for you."

She received his caution with that faint smile of hers that softened her
face but never seemed to reach her eyes.

He continued his contemplation of the cards in silence for some seconds.
"Yes," he said finally, "I see an exciting future before you. I hope you
will look out for me when you come into your own. I should value your
majesty's favour immensely."

"I will give you a place at court as the Queen's jester," she said.

He glanced up again sharply, met her smile, and bowed with much ceremony.
"Your majesty's most humble servant!" he declared, "I enter upon my
functions from this day forward. You will see my cap and bells in the
forefront of the throng when you ride to your coronation."

"You are sure there will be a coronation?" she asked.

"It is quite evident," he replied with conviction.

"Even though I chance to be married already?"

He raised his brows. "That so?" he drawled. "Well, it rather complicates
matters, doesn't it? Still--" He looked again at the cards. "It seems
pretty certain. If it weren't for that hobgoblin of a Knave I should say
it was quite so. He comes between the King and the heart, you see. I
shouldn't be too intimate with him if I were you."

She rose, still smiling. "I shall certainly keep him at a respectful
distance," she said. "Good-bye."

"Oh, are you going? Let me escort you! Really, I've nothing else to do."
He swept the cards together and sprang to his feet. "Where may I take
you? Would you like some refreshment?"

She accepted his proffered arm though she instantly negatived his
proposal. "Shall we go down to the vestibule? No doubt you have a partner
for the next dance."

"Have you?" he questioned keenly.

"That is beside the point," she remarked.

"Not at all. It is the centre and crux of the situation. Do say you are
disengaged for the next!" His manner became almost boyishly eager. He
had shed his drawl like a garment. "Say it!" he insisted.

She stood in the doorway as one halting between two opinions. "But if I
am not disengaged?" she said.

He laughed. "There is a remedy for that, I fancy. And the Queen can do
no wrong. Don't be a slave to the great god Convention! He's such a
hideous bore."

His bold dark eyes smiled freely into hers. It was evident that he wasted
little time before the shrine of the deity he condemned. But for all
their mastery, they held a certain persuasive charm as well. She
hesitated a moment longer--and was lost.

"Well, where shall we go?"

"I know of an excellent sitting-out place if your majesty will deign to
accompany me," he said, "a corner where one can see without being
seen--always an advantage, you will allow."

"You seem to know this place rather well," she observed, as she suffered
him to lead her away in triumph.

He smiled shrewdly. "A wise general always studies his ground," he said.




CHAPTER II

THE QUEEN'S JESTER


The chosen corner certainly had the advantage of privacy. It was an
alcove at the end of one of the long narrow passages in which the ancient
hostelry abounded, and the only light it boasted filtered through a
square aperture in the wall which once had held a window. Through this
aperture the curious could spy into the hall below, which just then was
thronged with dancers who were crowding out of the ballroom and drifting
towards the refreshment-room, the entrance to which was also visible.

An ancient settee had been placed in this coign of vantage, and upon this
they established themselves by mutual consent.

The man was laughing a little below his breath. "I feel like a
refugee," he said.

His companion leaned her arms upon the narrow row sill and gazed
downwards. "A refugee from boredom?" she suggested. "We are all that,
more or less."

"I dispute that," he said at once. "It is only the bores who are
ever bored."

"And I dispute that," she replied, without turning, "of necessity, in
self-defence."

He leaned forward to catch the light upon her profile. "You are bored?"

She smiled faintly in the gloom. "That is why I have engaged the services
of a jester."

"By Jove," he said, "I'm glad you pitched on me."

She made a slight movement of impatience. "Isn't it rather futile to say
that sort of thing?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you know quite well it was not a matter of choice."

"Rather a matter of _manque de mieux_?" he suggested coolly.

She turned from her contemplation of the crowd below. "I am not going to
contradict you," she said, "I never foster _amour propre_ in a man. It is
always a plant of hardy growth."

"'Hardy' is not the word," he declared. "Say 'rank,' and you will be
nearer the mark. I fully endorse your opinion. We are a race of
conceited, egotistical jackanapeses, and we all think we are going to
lick creation till a pretty woman comes along and makes us dance to her
piping like a row of painted marionettes. But is the pretty woman any
the happier, do you think, for tumbling us thus ruthlessly off our
pedestals? I sometimes wonder if the sight of the sawdust doesn't make
her wish she hadn't."

The drawl in his voice was very apparent as he uttered the last sentence.
His chin was propped upon his hands. He was obviously studying her with a
deliberate criticism that observed and considered every detail.

But his scrutiny held without embarrassing her. She met it with no
conscious effort.

"I can't bear cynicism," she told him frankly.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Cynics--real cynics--never can."

"But I am not a cynic."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"And yet you tell me that you never take the trouble to flatter the
inferior male. That's conflicting evidence, you know. Are you a
man-hater, by the way?"

She shivered as if at a sudden draught. "I'm not prepared to answer that
question off-hand." she said.

"Very prudent of you!" he commented. "Do you know I owe you an apology?"

"I shouldn't have said so."

"No? Well, let me confess. I'm rather good at confessing. I didn't
believe you just now when you said you were twenty-five. Now I do. That
single streak of prudence was proof absolute and convincing."

"I usually tell the truth," she said somewhat stiffly.

"Yes, it takes a genius to lie properly. I am not so good at it myself as
I should like to be. But a woman of twenty-five ought not to look like a
princess of eighteen--a tired princess moreover, who ought to have been
sent to bed long ago."

Her laugh had in it a note of bitterness. "You certainly are not the sort
of genius you aspire to be," she said, "any more than I am a princess of
eighteen."

"But you will be a queen at thirty," he said. "Hullo! Here is someone
coming! Don't speak, and p'r'aps they won't discover us. They can't
stay long."

He rose swiftly with the words and blocked the little spy-hole with
his body. Certainly footsteps were approaching, but they ceased before
they reached the alcove at the end of the passage. There was another
settee midway.

"Oh, this is quite comfortable," said a woman's voice. "Here I am, Major
Shirley! It's dark, isn't it, but rather a relief after the glare
downstairs. What a crush it is! I am beginning to think the Hunt Ball
rather a farce, for it is next to impossible to dance."

"People don't know how to dance nowadays," grumbled Major Shirley in
response. "I can't stand these American antics. That young Nap Errol
fairly sickens me."

"Oh, but he is a splendid dancer," protested his partner tolerantly.

"Oh course you say so," growled the Major. "All women like that horrid
little whipper-snapper. I can't see what in thunder they find to attract
them. I call him a downright cad myself, and I'm inclined to think him a
blackguard as well. He wouldn't be tolerated if it weren't for his
dollars, and they all belong to his brother, I'm told."

"Ah! He is a charming man. Such a pity he is a cripple!"

"He would probably be as insufferable as Nap if he weren't," rejoined the
Major gloomily. "I can't think what the County are coming to. They will
accept anybody nowadays, it seems to me. I even met that little bounder
at the Rifle Club the other day. Heaven knows how he got in. Dollars
again, I suppose, confound his audacity!"

His partner made a slight movement of uneasiness. "I wonder where he
is. I haven't seen him for some time. I hope he isn't anywhere
within earshot."

"Not he! He is stowed away in some corner well out of the way with his
latest conquest. He won't turn up again this evening. He never does when
once he goes to earth--the wily young fox."

"Who is his latest conquest, I wonder?" mused the woman. "I thought it
was Mrs. Damer. But I have just seen her dancing with young Waring."

"Mrs. Damer! Why, that was the day before yesterday!" The Major laughed
unpleasantly. "'Anyone for a change, but no one for long,' is his motto.
The fellow is an infernal bounder through and through. He will get a
sound hiding one of these days, and serve him jolly well right, say I!"

"My dear Major, how you hate him! Anyone would think he had tried to
flirt with Violet."

"He'd better," growled the Major.

There came a slight sound from the darkness of the alcove, as though
someone faintly chuckled.

"What's that?" asked the woman's voice nervously.

"Nothing--nothing!" said the Major testily. "Somebody laughing in the
hall. I wonder where my wife is. I shall clear out soon. I'm tired of
this show. Haven't had a decent dance all the evening. Shouldn't think
you have either. They ought to build a Town Hall in this place, and do
the thing properly."

"There is some talk of it, you know. Now that there is a millionaire in
the neighbourhood it really might be done. The Carfaxes would help too, I
am sure. Sir Giles is very open-handed."

"Drunken beast!" commented the Major. "A pretty spectacle he has been
making of himself to-night. He is sitting in a corner of the
refreshment-room now absolutely incapable. He reached the noisy stage
very early in the evening. I am not sure that he even came sober."

"No! Isn't it too pitiful for words? That young wife of his! I can't
think how she endures it. It must be positive martyrdom."

"Lady Carfax is a fool!" said the Major crossly. "I can't stand these
martyrs. If she leads a dog's life it's her own fault. She's a fool to
put up with it."

"Perhaps she can't help herself," pleaded the woman.

"Stuff and nonsense! No woman need be the slave of a drunken sot like
that. It's a downright offence to me to be in the same room with the
fellow. He always reeks of drink. And she has, or professes to have, a
certain amount of refinement. Not much, I dare say. She was nothing but
his bailiff's daughter, you know, and people of that class don't
generally suffer from an exaggerated sense of duty. She probably sticks
to the man because she wants to keep in with the County. I don't like the
woman, never did. Her airs and graces always rub me up wrong way. Why
couldn't Sir Giles have married in his own set? He probably wouldn't be
so fond of the whiskey bottle now if he had."

"I must say I like Lady Carfax," broke in the woman with decision.
"Whatever her origin, that queenliness of hers is not assumed. I believe
her to be intensely reserved, and, perhaps for that very reason, I have a
genuine admiration for her."

"My dear Mrs. Randal, you'd find points to admire in a wax candle,"
grunted the Major. "She always makes me think of one; pale and pure and
saintly--I can't stand the type. Let's go downstairs and find Violet."

"Oh, not saintly, I think," protested Mrs. Randal charitably. "Saintly
people are so uninteresting."

The Major laughed. He was already on his feet.

"Probably not--probably not. But a show of saintliness is more than
enough to frighten me away. A woman who can't understand a wink I
invariably strike forthwith off my visiting-list."

"How cruel of you!" laughed Mrs. Randal. They were already moving away
down the corridor. Her voice receded as they went. "But I can't
understand any man daring to wink at Lady Carfax; I can't, indeed."

"That's just what I complain about," grumbled Major Shirley. "Those
wax-candle sort of women never see a joke. What fools they are to leave
the place in darkness like this! Can you see where you are going?"

"Yes, we are just at the head of the stairs. It is rather foolish as you
say. People might hurt themselves."

"Of course they might. Infernally dangerous. I shall complain."

The voices fell away into distance; the band in the ballroom struck
up again, and the woman on the settee in the alcove sat up and
prepared to rise.

"Suppose we go down now," she said.

Her companion moved away from the little window as one coming out of a
reverie. "Our gallant Major Shirley seems somewhat disgruntled tonight,"
he said. "Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him." Her words fell with icy precision.

"So do I." The man's tone was one of sheer amusement. "I had the pleasure
of meeting him at the Rifle Club the other day. Someone introduced us. It
was great fun. If there were a little more light, I would show you what
he looked like. For some reason he wasn't pleased. Do you really want to
go downstairs though? It is much nicer here."

She had risen. They were facing one another in the twilight. "Yes," she
said, and though still quiet her voice was not altogether even. "I want
to go, please."

"Mayn't I tell you something first?" he said.

She stood silent, evidently waiting for his communication.

"It's not of paramount importance," he said. "But I think you may as well
know it for your present edification and future guidance. Madam, I am
that wicked, wanton, wily fox, that whipper-snapper, that unmitigated
bounder--Nap Errol!"

He made the announcement with supreme complacence. It was evident that he
felt not the faintest anxiety as to how she would receive it. There was
even a certain careless hauteur about him as though the qualities he
thus frankly enumerated were to him a source of pride.