The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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"So you think you are going to escape me, do you? But you won't! No, not
for all the Errols in the world!"

She did not answer him. There was something so utterly unusual in this
abrupt visitation that she knew not how to cope with it. But he scarcely
waited for an answer. He swung the door behind him with a bang.

"Do you remember," he said, his staccato tone merging into one of rising
violence, "a promise I made to you the first time I caught that scoundrel
making love to you? I swore that if it happened again I'd thrash him.
Well, I'm a man who keeps his promises. I've kept that one. And now it's
your turn. I thought at first I'd kill you. But I fancy this will hurt
you more."

His hand shot suddenly out from behind him, and there followed the
whistle of a thong--the thick, leathern thong with which he kept his
dogs in order.

It struck her as she stood before him, struck and curled about her
shoulders with a searching, scalding agony that turned her sick, wringing
from her a cry that would never have been uttered had she been prepared.

But before he could strike again she was ready to cope with his madness.
On the instant she sprang, not from him, but to him, clasping his arms
with both of hers.

"Giles!" she said, and her voice rang clear and commanding. "You are not
yourself. You don't know what you are doing. Look at me! Do you hear?
Look at me!"

That was his vulnerable point, and instinctively she knew it. He was
afraid--as a wild animal is afraid--of the compulsion of her eyes. But he
fought with her savagely, furiously, refusing to face her, struggling
with inarticulate oaths to break away from her clinging arms.

And Anne was powerless against him, powerless as Nap had been earlier
in the day, to make any impression against his frenzied strength. She
was impotent as a child in that awful grip, and in a very few seconds
she knew it.

He had already wrung his arm free and raised it to strike a second blow,
while she shut her eyes in anguished expectation, still clinging blindly
to his coat, when the door burst open with a crash and Dimsdale tore
into the room.

Anne heard his coming, but she could not turn. She was waiting with every
nerve stretched and quivering for the thong to fall. And when it did
not, when Dimsdale, with a strength abnormal for his years, flung himself
at the upraised arm and bore it downwards, she was conscious not of
relief, but only of a sudden snapping of that awful tension that was like
a rending asunder of her very being. She relaxed her hold and tottered
back against the wall.

"He will kill you!" she heard herself saying to Dimsdale. "He will
kill you!"

But Dimsdale clung like a limpet. Through the surging uproar of her
reeling senses Anne heard his voice.

"Sir Giles! Sir Giles! This won't do, sir. You've got a bit beyond
yourself. Come along with me, Sir Giles. You are not well. You ought to
be in bed. Now, now, Sir Giles! Give it up! Come! Here's West to help
you undress."

But Sir Giles fought to be free, cursing hideously, writhing this way and
that with Dimsdale hanging to him; and at sight of the footman hastening
to the old man's assistance he put forth a strength so terrific that he
swung him completely off the ground.

"He's too much for me!" shouted Dimsdale. "My lady, go--go, for the love
of heaven! Quick, West! Quick! Trip him! It's the only way! Ah!"

They went down in a fearful, struggling heap. Sir Giles underneath, but
making so violent a fight that the whole room seemed to shake.

And Anne stood and looked upon the whole ghastly spectacle as one
turned to stone.

So standing, propped against the wall, she saw the young under-footman
come swiftly in, and had a glimpse of his horrified face as he leapt
forward to join the swaying, heaving mass of figures upon the floor. His
coming seemed to make a difference. Sir Giles's struggles became less
gigantic, became spasmodic, convulsive, futile, finally ceased
altogether. He lay like a dead man, save that his features twitched
horribly as if evil spirits were at work upon him.

The whole conflict had occupied but a few minutes, but to the rigid
watcher it had been an eternity of fearful tumult. Yet the hard-breathing
silence that followed was almost more terrible still.

Out of it arose old Dimsdale, wiping his forehead with a shaking hand.

"He didn't hurt your ladyship?" he questioned anxiously.

But she could not take her eyes from the motionless figure upon the floor
or answer him.

He drew nearer. "My lady," he said, "come away from here!"

But Anne never stirred.

He laid a very humble hand upon her arm. "Let me take you downstairs," he
urged gently. "There's a friend there waiting for your ladyship--a
friend as will understand."

"A--friend?" She turned her head stiffly, her eyes still striving to
remain fixed upon that mighty, inert form.

"Yes, my lady. He only came a few minutes back. He is waiting in the
drawing-room. It was Sir Giles he asked to see, said it was very
particular. It was West here took the message to Sir Giles, and I think
it was that as made him come up here so mad like. I came after him as
soon as I heard. But the gentleman is still waiting, my lady. Will you
see him and--explain?"

"Who is the gentleman?" Anne heard the question, but not as if she
herself had uttered it. The voice that spoke seemed to come from an
immense distance.

And from equally far seemed to come Dimsdale's answer, though it reached
and pierced her understanding in an instant.

"It's Mr. Errol, my lady,--the crippled one. Mr. Lucas, I think
his name is."

Anne turned then as sharply as though a voice had called her.

"Lucas Errol! Is he here? Ah, take me to him! Take me to him!"

And the old butler led her thankfully from the scene.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CITY OF REFUGE

The moment Lucas Errol's hand closed upon hers it was to Anne as if an
immense and suffocating weight had been lifted from her, and with it all
her remaining strength crumbled away as if her burden alone had
sustained her.

She looked at him, meeting the kind, searching eyes without effort,
trying piteously to speak, but her white lips only moved soundlessly, her
throat seemed paralysed.

"Her ladyship has had a shock, sir," explained Dimsdale.

"Won't you sit down?" said Lucas gently. In a moment she found herself
sitting on a sofa with this stanch friend of hers beside her, holding her
hand. A few words passed between him and Dimsdale, which she scarcely
heard and was too weak to comprehend, and then they were alone together,
she and Lucas in a silence she felt powerless to break.

"You mustn't mind me, Lady Carfax," he said. "I know what you have come
through. I understand."

Dimly she heard the words, but she could not respond to them. She
was shivering, shivering with a violence that she was utterly unable
to repress.

He did not speak again till Dimsdale came back with a tray, then again he
exchanged a few murmured sentences with the old butler, who presently
said, "Very good, sir," and went softly away.

Then Lucas turned again to Anne. "Drink this," he said. "It will
revive you."

She groped for the glass he held towards her, but trembled so much that
she could not take it.

"Let me," he said, and put it himself to her lips.

She drank slowly, shuddering, her teeth chattering against the glass.

"Lay your head down upon the cushion," he said then, "and shut your eyes.
You will be better soon."

"You--you won't go?" she managed to whisper.

"Why, no," he said. "It's for your sake I've come. I guess I'm a fixture
for so long as you want me."

She breathed a sigh of relief and lay back.

A long time passed. Anne lay motionless with closed eyes, too crushed for
thought. And Lucas Errol watched beside her, grave and patient and still.

Suddenly there came a sound, piercing the silence, a sound that made Anne
start upright in wild terror.

"What is it? What is it?"

Instantly and reassuringly Lucas's hand clasped hers. "Don't be afraid!"
he said. "They are moving him to another room, that's all."

She sank back, shuddering, her face hidden. The sound continued, seeming
to come nearer--the sound of a man's voice shrieking horribly for help,
in piercing accents of terror that might have come from a
torture-chamber. Suddenly the yells became articulate, resolved into
words: "Anne! Anne! Anne!" in terrible crescendo.

She sprang up with a sharp cry.

But on the instant the man beside her spoke. "Anne, you are not to go."

She paused irresolute. "I must! I must! He is calling me!"

"You are not to go," he reiterated, and for the first time she heard the
dominant note in his voice. "Come here, child! Come close to me! It will
soon be over."

Her irresolution passed like a cloud. She looked down, saw his blue eyes
shining straight up at her, kind still, but compelling. And she dropped
upon her knees beside him and hid her face upon his shoulder, with the
cry of, "Help me! Help me! I can't bear it!"

He folded his arms about her as though he had been a woman, and
held her fast.

Long after the awful sounds had died away Anne knelt there, sobbing,
utterly unstrung, all her pride laid low, herself no more than a broken,
agonised woman. But gradually, from sheer exhaustion, her sobs became
less anguished, till at length they ceased. A strange peace, wholly
unaccountable, fell gently upon her torn spirit. But even then it was
long before she moved. She felt an overwhelming reluctance to withdraw
herself from the shelter of those quiet arms.

"What must you think of me?" she whispered at last, her face still
hidden.

"My dear," he said, "I understand."

He did not offer to release her, but as she moved she found herself free,
she found herself able to look into his face.

"I shall never forget your goodness to me," she said very earnestly.

He smiled a little, after a fashion she did not wholly comprehend. "My
dear Lady Carfax! You underrate friendship when you say a thing like
that. Sit down, won't you? And let me tell you what brought me here."

"Nap told you--" she hazarded.

"Yes, Nap told me. And I decided I had better come at once. I wasn't in
when he got back, or I should have been here sooner. I saw there had been
a gross misunderstanding, and I hoped I should be able to get your
husband to take a reasonable view."

"Ah!" she said, with a shiver. "I--I'm thankful you didn't meet."

"I am sorry," Lucas said quietly. And though he said no more, she knew
that he was thinking of her.

"How is Nap?" she ventured hesitatingly.

"Nap," he said with deliberation, "will be himself again in a very few
weeks. You need have no anxiety for him."

Again she did not wholly understand his tone. She glanced at him
nervously, half afraid that he was keeping something from her.

"You really mean that?"

His eyes met hers, very level and direct. "He is badly battered, of
course. But--he is not quite like other men. He has no nerves to speak of
in a physical sense. He will make a quick recovery. Broken bones mean
very little to a man of his calibre."

She heard him with relief mingled with a faint wonder at his confidence
on this point.

"The doctor has seen him?" she asked.

"Yes; and I have sent my man in the motor to ask him to come on here."

She shivered again irrepressibly. "Giles hates Dr. Randal."

"I do not think that will make any difference," Lucas said gently.

Thereafter they sat together almost in silence, till the buzzing of the
motor told of the doctor's arrival. Then with the aid of a stick Lucas
began to drag himself laboriously to his feet. Anne rose to help him.

He took her arm, looking at her shrewdly.

"Lady Carfax, will you let me speak to him alone?"

"If you wish it," she said.

"I do wish it." His eyes passed hers suddenly and rested upon the lace at
her neck. In one place it was torn, and the soft flesh was revealed;
revealed also was a long red stripe, swollen and turning. In an instant
his glance fell, but she saw his brows contract as if at a sharp twinge
of pain. "I do wish it," he said again very gently. "P'r'aps you will
wait for me here."

And with that he relinquished her arm, and made his halting, difficult
way across the room to the door.

Anne sat down before the fire to wait. She had, to a large extent,
recovered her self-control, but a deadly weariness was upon her which she
found it impossible to shake off. She kept it at bay for a time while she
listened for any sound. But no sound came, and at length exhausted nature
prevailed.

When Lucas came back she was sunk in her chair asleep.

He took up his stand near her while he waited for the doctor, and again
that deep furrow showed between his brows. But the eyes that watched her
were soft and tender as a woman's. There was something almost maternal in
their regard, a compassion so deep as to be utterly unconscious of
itself. When the doctor's step sounded at length outside he shuffled away
without disturbing her.

It was hours later when Anne awoke and sat up with a confused sense of
something wrong. She was still in her easy-chair before the fire, which
burned brightly as ever, while on the other side of the hearth, propped
upright upon cushions and watching her with those steady blue eyes, whose
kindness never varied, was Lucas Errol.

He spoke to her at once, very softly and gently, as if she had
been a child.

"I'm real pleased you've had a sleep. You needed it. Don't look so
startled. It's all right--a little late, but that's nothing. Dimsdale
and I agreed that it would be a pity to disturb you. So we let you sleep
on. And he brought in a tray of refreshments to fortify you when you
awoke. He's a thoughtful old chap, Lady Carfax. You're lucky to have
such a servant."

But Anne scarcely heard him. She was staring at the clock in amazement.
It was half-past three! Just twelve hours since--She repressed a
violent shudder.

"Don't be shocked any!" besought Lucas in his easy drawl. "I'm often
awake at this hour. I guessed you wouldn't sleep if we woke you to go to
your room, and I didn't quite like the thought of being down here out of
reach. You are not vexed with me, I hope?"

"No," she said. "I am not vexed."

But she looked at him very strangely, as if that were not all she
desired to say.

"Dimsdale has been in and out," he said, "keeping the fire going. He and
one of the others are watching upstairs. But all is quiet there. Sir
Giles has been asleep ever since the doctor left."

Anne got up slowly. "You look very uncomfortable," she said.

He smiled up at her. "My dear Lady Carfax, I am all right. The advantage
of this position is that one can rise at a moment's notice."

As if to demonstrate the truth of this he rose, but not without
considerable effort.

"Ah, please don't!" she said, putting out a quick, restraining hand. "It
hurts me to see you suffer on my account. It was too kind of you--much
too kind--to stay with me like this. You will never know how much you
have helped me, and I thank you for it with all my heart. Now please sit
down again, and let me wait upon you for a change. Have you had anything
to eat or drink?"

He sat down again, looking quizzical. "I have been waiting for my hostess
to join me," he said.

"Do you ever think of yourself at all?" she asked, turning aside to the
tray that Dimsdale's consideration had provided.

"A great deal more often than you imagine," smiled Lucas. "Must you
really do the waiting? It's very bad for me, you know."

He joked with her gently through the light repast that followed. And
though she scarcely responded, she let him see her gratitude.

Finally, he laid aside all pretence of humour and spoke to her very
quietly and gravely of her husband. The doctor thought it advisable to
remove him from the Manor with as little delay as possible. He would
consult her about it in the morning. His brain was without doubt very
seriously affected, and it might take some months to recover. It was
essential that he should be taken away from familiar surroundings and
people whom he knew.

Anne listened with a whitening face. She asked no questions. Lucas
supplied every detail with the precision that characterised most of his
utterances. Finally he spoke of her position, advised her strongly to
employ an agent for the estate, and promised his help in this or any
other matter in which she might care to avail herself of it.

He seemed to take it for granted that she would remain at the head of
affairs, and it gradually dawned upon Anne that she could not well do
otherwise. Her presence for a time at least seemed indispensable. The
responsibility had become hers and she could not at that stage shake it
off. Her dream of freedom was over. Of what the future might hold for her
she could not even begin to think. But the present was very clearly
defined. It remained only for her to "do the work that was nearest" as
bravely as she might.

When Lucas ended she leaned forward and gave him her hand. "I wonder
what I should have done without you," she said. "I believe I should
have gone mad too."

"No, no, Lady Carfax!"

She smiled faintly; the tears were standing in her eyes. "Yes, I know.
You don't like to be thanked. But you have been like a mother to me in my
trouble, and--I shall always remember it."

The blue eyes began to twinkle humorously. The hand that held hers closed
with a very friendly pressure.

"Well," drawled the kindly American voice, "I'll be shot if that
isn't the kindest thing that anyone ever said to me. And I believe
you meant it too."

"Yes, I meant it," Anne said.

And though she smiled also there was genuine feeling in her words.

PART II

CHAPTER I

THE JESTER'S RETURN

The gradual coming of spring that year was like a benediction after the
prolonged rigour of the frost. The lengthening evenings were wrapped in
pearly mystery, through which the soft rain fell in showers of blessing
upon the waiting earth. To Anne, it was as though a great peace had
descended upon all things, quelling all tumult. She had resolutely taken
up her new burden, which was so infinitely easier than the old, and she
found a strange happiness in the bearing of it. The management of her
husband's estate kept her very fully occupied, so that she had no time
for perplexing problems. She took each day as it came, and each day left
her stronger.

Once only had she been to Baronmead since the masquerade on the ice. It
was in fulfilment of her promise to Nap, but she had not seen him; and as
the weeks slipped by she began to wonder at his prolonged silence. For
no word of any sort reached her from him. He seemed to have forgotten her
very existence. That he was well again she knew from Lucas, who often
came over in the motor with his mother.

As his brother had predicted he had made a rapid recovery; but no sooner
was he well than he was gone with a suddenness that surprised no one but
Anne. She concluded that his family knew where he was to be found, but no
news of his whereabouts reached her. Nap was the one subject upon which
neither Mrs. Errol nor her elder son ever expanded, and for some nameless
reason Anne shrank from asking any questions regarding him. She was
convinced that he would return sooner or later. She was convinced that,
whatever appearances might be, he had not relinquished the bond of
friendship that linked them. She did not understand him. She believed him
to be headlong and fiercely passionate, but beneath all there seemed to
her to be a certain stability, a tenacity of purpose, that no
circumstance, however tragic, could thwart. She knew, deep in the heart
of her she knew, that he would come back.

She would not spend much thought upon him in those days. Something
stood ever in the path of thought. Invariably she encountered it, and
as invariably she turned aside, counting her new peace as too precious
to hazard.

Meanwhile she went her quiet way, sometimes aided by Lucas, but more
often settling her affairs alone, neither attempting nor desiring to
look into the future.

The news of Sir Giles's illness spread rapidly through the neighbourhood,
and people began to be very kind to her. She knew no one intimately. Her
husband's churlishness had deprived her of almost all social intercourse,
but never before had she realised how completely he was held responsible
for her aloofness.

Privately, she would have preferred to maintain her seclusion, but it was
not in her to be ungracious. She felt bound to accept the ready sympathy
extended to her. It touched her, even though, had the choice been hers,
she would have done without it. Lucas also urged her in his kindly
fashion not to lead a hermit's existence. Mrs. Errol was insistent upon
the point.

"Don't you do it, dear," was her exhortation. "There may not be much good
to be got out of society, I'll admit. But it's one better than solitude.
Don't you shut yourself up and fret. I reckon the Lord didn't herd us
together for nothing, and it's His scheme of creation anyway."

And so Anne tried to be cordial; with the result that on a certain
morning in early May there reached her a short friendly note from Mrs.
Damer, wife of the M.F.H., begging her to dine with them quite informally
on the following night.

"There will only be a few of us, all intimate friends," the note said.
"Do come. I have been longing to ask you for such an age."

Anne's brows drew together a little over the note. She had always liked
Mrs. Damer, but her taste for dinner-parties was a minus quantity. Yet
she knew that the invitation had been sent in sheer kindness. Mrs. Damer
was always kind to everyone, and it was not the fashion among her circle
of friends to disappoint her.

Anne considered the matter, contemplated an excuse, finally rejected it,
and wrote an acceptance.

She wore the dress of shimmering green in which she had appeared at the
Hunt Ball. Vividly the memory of that night swept across her. She had not
worn it since, and scarcely knew what impulse moved her to don it now. It
well became her stately figure. Dimsdale, awaiting her departure at the
hall-door, looked at her with the admiring reverence he might have
bestowed upon a queen.

Again, during her drive through the dark, the memory of that winter night
flashed back upon her. She recalled that smooth, noiseless journey in
which she had seemed to be borne upon wings. She recalled her misery and
her weariness, her dream and her awakening. Nap had been very good to her
that night. He had won her confidence, her gratitude, her friendship. His
reputation notwithstanding, she had trusted him fully, and she had not
found him wanting. A faint sigh rose to her lips. She was beginning to
miss this friend of hers.

But the next moment she had drawn back sharply and swiftly, as if she
had encountered an angel with a flaming sword. This was the path down
which she would not wander. Why should she wish to do so? There were so
many other paths open to her now.

When she stepped at length from the carriage her face was serene and
quiet as the soft spring night behind her.

Upstairs she encountered the doctor's wife patting her hair before a
mirror. She turned at Anne's entrance.

"Why, Lady Carfax! This is indeed a pleasure. I am so glad to see
you here."

There was genuine pleasure in her voice, and Anne remembered with a smile
that Mrs. Randal liked her.

They chatted as she removed her wraps, and finally descended together,
Mrs. Randal turning at the head of the stairs to whisper: "There's that
horrid old gossip, Major Shirley. I know he will fall to my lot. He
always does. How shall I direct the conversation into safe channels?"

Anne could only shake her head. She knew that Mrs. Randal was not
celebrated for discretion.

Entering the drawing-room, they found Major Shirley with his wife and
daughter, Ralph and Dot Waring, and the doctor, assembled with their host
and hostess.

Mrs. Damer glanced at the clock after greeting them. "The Errols
are late."

Anne chanced to be speaking to Dot at the moment, and the girl's magic
change of countenance called her attention to the words. She wondered if
her own face changed, and became uneasily aware of a sudden quickening of
the heart. Quietly she passed on to speak to the Shirleys. The major
looked her up and down briefly and offensively as his manner was, and she
escaped from his vicinity as speedily as possible. His wife, a powdered,
elderly lady, sought to detain her, but after a few moments Anne very
gently detached herself, accepting the seat which young Ralph Waring
eagerly offered her.

There followed a somewhat lengthy and by no means easy pause.
Conversation was spasmodic. Everyone was listening for the arrival of the
last guests, and when after some minutes there came the rush of wheels
under the window and the loud hoot of a motor everyone jumped. Mrs.
Damer, who had talked hard through the silences, made no comment but
looked unutterably relieved.

Dot openly and eagerly watched the door, and Anne with a conscious effort
suppressed an inclination to do likewise.

When it opened she looked up quite naturally, and surely no one suspected
the wild leaping of her heart.

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