The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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He jerked back his head at the question, and showed her his face in the
full moonlight. And she saw that his eyes were still and passionless,
unfathomable as a mountain pool.

"If you can bring yourself--if you will stoop--to kiss me," he said, "I
think you will know."

She started at the words, but she knew instantly that she had nought to
fear. His voice was as steady as his eyes. He asked this thing of her as
a sign of her forgiveness, of her friendship, of her trust; and every
generous impulse urged her to grant it. She knew that if she refused he
would get up and go away, cut to the heart. She seemed to feel him
pleading with her, earnestly beseeching her, reasoning against prejudice,
against the shackles of conventionality, against reason itself. And
through it all her love for the man throbbed at the very heart of her,
overriding all doubt.

She leaned towards him; she laid her hands upon his shoulders.

"In token of my trust!" she said, and bent to kiss his forehead.

But he gave her his lips instead--the thin, cynical lips that were wont
to smile so bitterly. There was no bitterness about them now. They were
only grave to sternness. And so, after a moment, she kissed him as he
wished, and he kissed her in return.

Afterwards, he rose in unbroken silence, and went away.

CHAPTER VI

THE BURIAL OF A HATCHET

During the weeks that followed, something of her former tranquillity came
back to Anne. It was evident that Nap was determined to show himself
worthy of her trust, for never by word or look did he make the slightest
reference to what had passed between them. He came and went after his
customary sudden fashion. He never informed any one of his movements, nor
did even Lucas know when he might be expected at Baronmead. But his
absences were never of long duration, and Anne met him fairly frequently.

She herself was more at leisure now than she had been for years, for
Lucas had found an agent for her and the sole care of her husband's
estate no longer lay upon her. She spent much of her time with Mrs.
Errol. Her happiest hours were those she spent with Lucas and his mother
in the great music-room at Baronmead. It was here also that she learned
to know of that hidden, vital quantity, elusive as flame, that was Nap
Errol's soul. For here he would often join them, and the music he drew
from his violin, weirdly passionate, with a pathos no words could ever
utter, was to Anne the very expression of the man's complex being. There
were times when she could hardly hear that wild music of his without
tears. It was like the crying of something that was lost.

Often, after having accompanied him for a long time, she would take her
hands from the piano and sit silent with a strange and bitter sense of
impotence, as if he were leading whither she could not follow. And Nap
would play on and on in the quiet room, as though he played for her
alone, with the sure hand of a master upon the quivering strings of her
woman's heart.

But he never spoke to her of love. His eyes conveyed no message at any
time. His straight gaze was impenetrable. He never even touched her hand
unless she offered it to him. And gradually her confidence in him grew
stronger. The instinct that bade her beware of him ceased to disquiet
her. She found herself able to meet him without misgiving, believing that
he had conquered himself for her sake, believing that he bowed to the
inevitable and was willing to content himself with her friendship.

Undoubtedly a change had passed over him. Lucas was aware of it also,
felt it in his very touch, marked it a hundred times in the gentleness of
his speech and action. He attributed it to the influence of a good woman.
It seemed that Nap had found his soul at last.

Bertie alone marked it with uneasiness, but Bertie was no impartial
critic. He had distrusted Nap, not without reason, from his boyhood. But
matters of a more personal nature were occupying his attention at that
time, and he did not bestow much of it upon home affairs. For some reason
he had begun to study in earnest, and was reading diligently for the
English Bar.

Perhaps Mrs. Errol could have pierced the veil of civilisation in which
Nap had wrapped himself had she desired to do so, but she was the last
person in the world to attempt such an invasion. There never had been the
faintest streak of sympathy between them. Neither was there any tangible
antagonism, for each by mutual consent avoided all debatable ground. But
there existed very curiously a certain understanding each of the other
which induced respect if it did not inspire confidence. Without
deliberately avoiding each other they yet never deliberately came in
contact, and, though perfectly friendly in their relations, neither ever
offered to cross the subtle dividing line that stretched between them.
They were content to be acquaintances merely.

Anne often marvelled in private at Mrs. Errol's attitude towards her
adopted son, but the subject was never mentioned between them. Often she
would recall Capper's words and wonder if they had expressed the literal
truth. She wondered, too, what Capper would say to his ally when he
returned at the end of the summer and found the charge he had laid upon
her unfulfilled. But, after all, Capper was scarcely more than a
stranger, and it seemed to her, upon mature reflection, that he had been
inclined to exaggerate the whole matter. She did not believe that Lucas's
welfare depended upon Nap's absence. Indeed, there were times when it
actually seemed to her that he relied upon Nap for support that none
other could give. Moreover, he was growing daily stronger, and this of
itself seemed proof sufficient that Nap was at least no hindrance to his
progress. She knew also that Nap was using his utmost influence to
persuade him to undergo the operation when Capper should return in
September; but she had no opportunity for furthering his efforts, for
Lucas never referred to the matter in her hearing. If he had yet made his
decision he imparted it to none. He seemed to her to be like a soldier
awaiting orders to move, with that steadfast patience which had become
his second nature. She knew that he would never act upon impulse, and she
admired him for it.

Dot, who heard all from Bertie, wondered how he could ever hesitate. But
Dot was young and possessed of an abundant energy which knew no flagging.
Her vigorous young life was full of schemes, and she knew not what it was
to stand and wait. She was keenly engaged just then in company with Mrs.
Damer, Mrs. Randal, and a few more, in organising an entertainment in
support of the Town Hall and Reading Club, to which Lucas Errol had
promised his liberal support. It was no secret that he had offered to
supply the whole of the necessary funds, but, as Dot remarked, it was not
to be a charity and Baronford was not so poor-spirited as to be entirely
dependent upon American generosity. So Lucas was invited to give his
substantial help after Baronford had helped itself, which Dot was fully
determined it should do to the utmost of its capacity.

Many schemes were in consequence discussed and rejected before the Town
Hall Committee finally decided in favour of amateur theatricals.

Here again Lucas Errol's assistance was cordially invited, since no place
suitable for such an entertainment existed in Baronford. It was naively
intimated to him by Dot that he might provide the theatre and the
scenery, so that the profits might be quite unencumbered.

Lucas forthwith purchased an enormous marquee (the cost of which far
exceeded any possible profits from the projected entertainment), which
he had erected upon his own ground under Dot's superintendence, and
thenceforth preparations went gaily forward; not, however, without
many a hitch, which Lucas generally managed directly or indirectly to
smooth away.

It was Lucas who pressed Nap into the service as stage-manager, a post
which had been unanimously urged upon himself, but for which he declared
himself to be morally and physically unfit. It was Lucas who persuaded
Anne to accept a minor _role_ though fully aware that she would have
infinitely preferred that of onlooker. He had taken her under his
protection on that night in March, and he had never relinquished the
responsibility then assumed. With a smile, as was his wont with all, he
asserted his authority, and with a smile, in common with all who knew
him, she yielded even against her own strong inclination.

Nap laughed when he heard of it, despite the fact that he had himself
yielded to the same power.

"You seem to find Luke irresistible," he said.

"I do," she admitted simply. "He is somehow too magnificent to refuse.
Surely you have felt the same?"

"I?" said Nap. "Oh, I always do what I am told. He rules me with a
rod of iron."

Glancing at him, she had a momentary glimpse of a curious, wistful
expression on his face that made her vaguely sorry.

Instinctively she went on speaking as if she had not seen it. "I think
with Bertie that he is a born king among men. He is better than good. He
is great. One feels it even in trifles. He has such an immense patience."

"Colossal," said Nap, and smiled a twisted smile. "That is why he is
everybody's own and particular pal. He takes the trouble to find out
what's inside. One wonders what on earth he finds to interest him.
There's so mighty little in human nature that's worthy of study."

"I don't agree with you," Anne said in her quiet, direct way.

He laughed again and turned the subject. He was always quick to divine
her wishes, and to defer to them. Their intercourse never led them
through difficult places, a fact which Anne was conscious that she owed
to his consideration rather than to her own skill.

She was glad for more than one reason that Lucas had not pressed a very
onerous part upon her. She had a suspicion, very soon confirmed, that Nap
as stage-manager would prove no indulgent task-master. He certainly would
not spare himself, nor would he spare anyone else.

Disputes were rife when he first assumed command, and she wondered much
if he would succeed in establishing order, for he possessed none of his
brother's winning charm of manner and but a very limited popularity. But
Nap showed himself from the outset fully equal to his undertaking. He
grappled with one difficulty after another with a lightning alertness, a
prompt decision, which soon earned for him the respect of his unruly
subordinates. He never quarrelled, neither did he consider the feelings
of any. A cynical comment was the utmost he ever permitted himself in
the way of retaliation, but he held his own unerringly, evolving order
from confusion with a masterly disregard of opposition that carried all
before it.

Dot, who was not without a very decided prejudice in favour of her own
way, literally gasped in astonishment at his methods. She would have
liked to defy him openly a dozen times in a day, but Nap simply would
not be defied. He looked over her head with disconcerting arrogance, and
Dot found herself defeated and impotent. Dot had been selected for an
important part, and it was not very long before she came bitterly to
regret the fact. He did not bully her, but he gave her no peace. Over and
over again he sent her back to the same place; and over and over again he
found some fresh fault, till there came at length a day when Dot, weary
and exasperated, subsided suddenly in the midst of rehearsal into
indignant tears.

Nap merely raised his eyebrows and turned his attention elsewhere, while
Anne drew the sobbing girl away, and tried to soothe her back to
composure in privacy.

But it was some time before Dot would be comforted. Her grievance against
Nap was very deeply rooted, and it needed but this additional provocation
to break its bounds. It was not long before, clinging very tightly to
Anne, the whole story came out; how she and Bertie loved each other
"better than best," how no one was to know of it and they scarcely dared
to exchange a glance in public in consequence, how there could never,
never be any engagement, all because that horrid, horrid Nap had dared to
hint that she was pursuing Bertie for his money.

"I hate him!" sobbed Dot. "I do hate him! He's cruel and malicious and
vindictive. I know he means to prevent our ever being happy together.
And--and I know Bertie's afraid of him--and so am I!"

To all of which Anne listened with grave sympathy and such words of
comfort as seemed most likely to induce in Dot a calmer and more
reasonable state of mind.

But Dot was not to be reassured quickly. It was very seldom that her
equanimity was disturbed, only in fact when her deepest feelings were
concerned, and this made her breakdown the more complete. She
apologised tearfully for her foolishness at rehearsal, which she set
down to bodily fatigue. She had been to see poor Squinny that morning,
and she thought he really was dying at last. He had cried so, and she
hadn't known how to comfort him, and then when she had got home there
had been no time for luncheon, so she had just changed and come away
without it. And oh,--this with her arms tightly about Anne's neck--she
did wish she had a mother to help her. Poor Dad was very sweet, but he
didn't understand a bit.

Anne sat with her for the greater part of an hour, comforting her with a
grave tenderness that Dot found infinitely soothing. It might have been
half a lifetime instead of a brief seven years that stretched between
them. For Anne had been a woman long before her time, and Dot for all her
self-reliance was still but a child.

She grew calm at last, and presently reverted to the theatricals. Did
Lady Carfax think she might withdraw? Nap made her so nervous. She was
sure she could never be successful under his management.

Anne strongly advised her not to think of such a thing. In consideration
of the fact that Dot had been the moving spirit of the whole scheme such
a proceeding would be little short of disastrous. No doubt a substitute
could be found, but it would mean an open breach with Nap. Bertie would
quarrel with him in consequence, and Lucas would be grievously
disappointed.

"We mustn't hurt Lucas," Anne urged. "He has so much to bear already.
And--and he has been so much happier about Nap lately."

"Does Nap worry him too, then?" asked Dot, quickly. "Isn't he hateful?
He upsets everybody."

"No--no!" Anne said. "Nap would do anything for Lucas. It is his one
solid virtue."

It was at this point that the door opened with a noiseless swing, and
Nap himself entered. He advanced with the assured air of one whose
welcome is secure.

"Give the devil his due, Lady Carfax!" he drawled. "He has one
other anyway."

Even Anne was for the moment disconcerted by the abruptness of his
entrance. Dot sprang to her feet with burning cheeks. It was her evident
intention to escape, but he intercepted her.

"My business is with you," he said, "not with Lady Carfax. Do you mind
waiting a minute?"

Dot waited, striving for dignity. Nap was looking at her narrowly.

In the pause that ensued, Anne rose and passed her arm reassuringly
through Dot's.

Nap glanced at her. "That's rather shabby of you," he declared. "I was
just going to ask for your support myself."

She smiled at him faintly. "I think you can manage without it. Dot will
not refuse her forgiveness if you ask for it properly."

"Won't she?" said Nap, still keenly watching the girl's half-averted
face. "I should if I were Dot. You see our feud is of very long standing.
We always cut each other when we meet in the street--very pointedly so
that no one could possibly imagine for a moment that we were strangers.
We don't like doing it in the least, but we are both so infernally proud
that there is no alternative. And so we have got to keep it up all our
days, long after the primary reason for it all has sunk into oblivion. By
the way, I have forgotten already what the primary reason was."

"I--haven't," said Dot, in a very low voice. Her lower lip was quivering.
She bit it desperately.

"No?" said Nap.

"No!" Dot turned her flushed face suddenly upon him. "You never meant me
to forget," she said, in a voice that shook beyond control.

"It must have been something very venomous," he said.

"It was!" she answered, fighting with, herself. "You--you know it was!"

"It's not worth crying about anyway," said Nap. "My sting may be
poisonous, but it has never yet proved fatal. Tell me where the mischief
is, and p'r'aps I can remove it."

He was smiling as he made the suggestion, smiling without malice, and,
though Dot could not bring herself to smile in return, she was none the
less mollified.

"What was it?" he persisted, pressing his advantage. "Something beastly
I said or looked or did? I often do, you know. It's just my way. Do you
know what it was, Lady Carfax?"

She nodded. "And I think you do too," she said.

"I don't," he asserted, "on my honour."

Dot looked incredulous. "Don't you remember that day in February," she
said, "the first day I ever came here--the day you accused me of--of
running after Bertie for--his money?"

"Great Christopher!" said Nap. "You don't say you took me seriously?"

"Of course I did," she said, on the verge of tears. "You--you were
serious too."

"Ye gods!" said Nap. "And I've been wondering why on earth you and Bertie
couldn't make up your minds! So I've been the obstacle, have I? And
that's why you have been hating me so badly all this time--as if I were
the arch-fiend himself! By Jove!" He swung round on his heel. "We'll put
this right at once. Where's Bertie?"

"Oh, no!" Dot said nervously. "No! Don't call him! He'll see I've been
crying. Nap--please!"

She disengaged herself from Anne, and sprang after him, seizing him
impetuously by the arm.

"I mean--Mr. Errol!" she substituted in confusion.

He clapped his hand upon hers and wheeled. "You can call me anything
under the sun that occurs to you as suitable," he said. "You may kick me
also if you like--which is a privilege I don't accord to everybody. You
won't believe me, I daresay. Few people do. But I'm sorry I was a beast
to you that day. I don't deal in excuses, but when I tell you that I was
rather badly up against something, p'r'aps you'll be magnanimous enough
to forgive me. Will you?"

He looked her straight in the face with the words. There was little of
humility about him notwithstanding them, but there was something of
melancholy that touched her warm heart.

"Of course I will!" she said impulsively. "Let's be friends, shall we?"

He gripped her hand till she felt the bones crack. "Suppose we go and get
some tea," he said. "Are you coming, Lady Carfax?"

"I'm not fit to be seen," objected Dot, hanging back.

He drew her on, her hand still fast in his. "Don't be shy, my dear
girl! You look all right. Will you lead the way, Lady Carfax? In the
hall, you know."

Very reluctantly Dot submitted. She had not the faintest inkling of his
intentions or her docility would have vanished on the instant. As it was,
fortified by Anne's presence, she yielded to his insistence.

The hall was full of people to whom Mrs. Errol was dispensing tea,
assisted by Bertie, who had emerged from his den for the purpose.
Bertie's studies did not permit him to take any part in the theatricals.
Possibly Nap's position at the head of affairs had assisted his
resolution in this respect.

He was sitting on the arm of Lucas's chair, hastily gulping some tea in
an interval snatched from his ministrations, when Anne entered, closely
followed by Dot and his brother. Some instinct moved him to turn and
look, for in the general buzz of talk and laughter around him he could
have heard nothing of their approach. He looked, then stared, finally
stood up and set down his cup abruptly.

As Nap came towards him, still holding Dot by the hand, he turned white
to the lips and moved forward.

A sudden silence fell as they met. They were the centre of the crowd, the
centre of observation, the centre of an unseen whirlpool of emotions that
threatened to be overwhelming.

And then with a smile Nap put an end to a tension of expectancy that had
become painful.

"Hullo, Bertie!" he said, and smote him on the shoulder with a
vigorous hand. "I've just been hearing about your engagement, my dear
fellow. Congratulations! May you and Dot have the best of everything
all your lives!"

Poor Dot would have fled had that been possible, but she was hedged in
too closely for that. Moreover, Nap had transferred her hand to Bertie's,
and the boy's warm grasp renewed her fainting courage. She knew he was as
amazed as she was herself at Nap's sudden move, and she determined that
she would stand by him at whatever cost.

And after all, the difficult moment passed very quickly. People crowded
round them with kindly words, shook hands with them, chaffed them both,
and seemed to be genuinely pleased with the turn of events. Mrs. Errol
came forward in her hearty way and kissed them; and in the end Dot found
herself in Bertie's vacated place on the arm of Lucas's chair, with his
steady hand holding hers, and his quiet, sincere voice telling her that
he was "real glad that the thing was fixed up at last."

Later Bertie took her home in the motor, and explained the situation to
the rector, who was mildly bewildered but raised no definite objection to
the announcement of the engagement. He was something of a philosopher,
and Bertie had always been a favourite of his. Nap in fact was the only
member of the Errol family for whom he did not entertain the most
sincere esteem; but, as Dot remarked that night, Nap was a puzzle to
everybody. It seemed highly probable after all that he carried a kind
heart behind his cynical exterior. She was sure that Lady Carfax thought
so, since she invariably treated him as an intimate friend.

The rector admitted that she might be right, but after Dot had gone to
bed he leaned his elbow on his writing-table and sat long in thought.

"I wonder," he murmured to himself presently, "I wonder if Lady Carfax
knows what she is doing. She really is too young, poor girl, to be so
much alone."

CHAPTER VII

A QUESTION OF TRUST

The theatricals were arranged to take place on an evening in the
beginning of July, and for that one night Mrs. Errol persuaded Anne to
sleep at Baronmead. She would not consent to leave the Manor for longer,
for she still superintended much of the management of the estate and
overlooked the agent's work. She had begun to wonder if all her days
would be spent thus, for the reports which reached her regularly of her
husband's state of health were seldom of a hopeful nature. In fact they
varied very little, and a brain specialist had given it as his opinion
that, though it was impossible to speak with certainty, Sir Giles might
remain in his present condition of insanity for years, even possibly for
as long as he lived. He was the last of his family, and the title would
die with him. And Anne wondered--often she wondered--if it were to be her
lot to live out the rest of her life alone.

She did not mind solitude, nor was she altogether unhappy, but she was
too young not to feel now and then the deep stirrings of her youth. And
she had lived so little in all her twenty-five years of life. Yet with
that habit of self-control which had grown up with her, and which made
many think her cold, she would not suffer her thoughts to dwell upon past
or future. Her world was very small, and, as she had once told Nap, she
contented herself with "the work that was nearest". If it did not greatly
warm her heart, it kept her from brooding over trouble.

On the morning of the day fixed for the theatricals he came over in the
motor to fetch her. It was a glorious day of summer, and Anne was in the
garden. He joined her there, and they walked for awhile in the green
solitudes, talking of the coming entertainment.

They came in their wanderings to the seat under the lilac trees. She
wondered afterwards if he had purposely directed their steps thither.
They had not been together there since that night when the lilac had been
in bloom, that night of perfect spring, the night when their compact had
been made and sealed. Did he think of it, she wondered as they passed. If
so, he made no sign, but talked on in casual strain as if she were no
more than the most casual of friends. Very faithfully he had kept his
part of the compact, so faithfully that when they were past she was
conscious of a sense of chill mingling with her relief. He had stifled
his passion for her, it seemed, and perhaps it was only by comparison
that his friendship felt so cold and measured.

She was glad when they reached Baronmead at length. It was like going
into sudden sunshine to enter Lucas's presence and feel the warmth of his
welcome about her heart. She stayed long talking with him. Here was a
friend indeed, a friend to trust, a friend to confide in, a friend to
love. He might be "everybody's own and particular pal," as Nap had said,
but she knew intuitively that this friend of hers kept a corner for her
that was exclusively her own, a safe refuge in which she had found
shelter for the first time on that night that seemed so long ago when he
had held her in his arms and comforted her as though he had been a woman,
and which she knew had been open to her ever since.

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