The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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She heard him with no sign of astonishment. "I knew it," she said
quietly. "I have known you by sight for some time."

"And you were not afraid to speak to such a dangerous scoundrel?" he
said.

"You don't strike me as being very formidable," she answered. "Moreover,
if you remember, it was you who spoke first."

"To be sure," he said. "It was all of a piece with my habitual confounded
audacity. Shall I tell you something more? I wonder whether I dare."

"Wait!" she said imperatively. "It is my turn to tell you something,
though it is more than possible that you know it already. Mr. Errol, I
am--Lady Carfax!"

He bowed low. "I did know," he said, in a tone from which all hint of
banter had departed. "But I thank you none the less for telling me. I
much doubted if you would. And that brings me to my second--or is it my
third?--confession. I did not take you for Mrs. Damer in the card-room a
little while ago. I took you for no one but yourself. No man of ordinary
intelligence could do otherwise. But I had been wanting to make your
acquaintance all the evening, and no one would be kind enough to present
me. So I took the first opportunity that occurred, trusting to the end to
justify the means."

"But why have you told me?" she said.

"Because I think you are a woman who appreciates the truth."

"I am," she said. "But I do not often hear it as I have heard it
to-night"

He put out his hand to her impulsively. "Say, Lady Carfax, let me go and
kick that old scandal-monger into the middle of next week!"

Involuntarily almost she gave her hand in return. "No, you mustn't," she
said, laughing faintly. "The fault was ours. You know the ancient adage
about listeners. We deserved it all."

"Don't talk about deserts!" he exclaimed, with unexpected vehemence. "He
doesn't deserve to have a whole bone left in his body for speaking of you
so. Neither do I for suffering it in my presence!"

She freed her hand gently. "You could not have done otherwise. Believe
me, I am not altogether sorry that you were with me when it happened. It
is just as well that you should know the truth, and I could not have told
it you myself. Come, shall we go down?"

"Wait a minute!" he said. "Let me know how I stand with you first. Have
you decided to pass over that lie of mine, or are you going to cut me
next time we meet?"

"I shall not cut you," she said.

"You are going to acknowledge me then with the coldest of nods, which is
even more damnable," he returned, with gloomy conviction.

She hesitated for an instant. Then, "Mr. Errol," she said gently, "will
you believe me when I say that, however I treat you in the future, that
lie of yours will in no way influence me? You have helped me much more
than you realise by your trifling to-night. I am not sure that you meant
to do so. But I am grateful to you all the same."

"Then we are friends?" said Nap, quickly.

"Yes, we are friends; but it is very unlikely that we shall meet again. I
cannot invite you to call."

"And you won't call either on my mother?" he asked.

"I am afraid not."

He was silent a moment. Then, "So let it be!" he said. "But I fancy we
shall meet again notwithstanding. So _au revoir_, Lady Carfax! Can you
find your own way down?"

She understood in an instant the motive that prompted the question, and
the impulse to express her appreciation of it would not be denied. She
extended her hand with an assumption of royal graciousness that did not
cloak her gratitude. "Good-bye, Sir Jester!" she said.

He took her fingers gallantly upon his sleeve and touched them with his
lips. "Farewell to your most gracious majesty!" he responded.

CHAPTER III

THE CHARIOT OF THE GODS

The Hunt Ball was over, and Mrs. Damer, wife of the M.F.H., was
standing on the steps of the Carfax Arms, bidding the last members of
the Hunt farewell.

Nap Errol was assisting her. He often did assist Mrs. Damer with that
careless, half-insolent gallantry of his that no woman ever dreamed of
resenting. Like his namesake of an earlier date he held his own wherever
he went by sheer, stupendous egotism.

The crowd had thinned considerably, the band had begun to pack up. In the
refreshment-room waiters were hurrying to and fro.

"Isn't it horrid?" laughed Mrs. Damer, shrugging her shoulders and
shivering. "One feels so demoralised at this end of the night. Nap, I
wish you would find my husband. I've said good-night to everybody, and I
want to go home to bed."

"Lady Carfax hasn't gone yet," observed Nap. "I saw her standing in the
doorway of the ladies' cloak-room just now."

"Lady Carfax! Are you sure? I thought they went long ago. Is their
carriage waiting then?"

"Yes. It is still there."

Mrs. Damer hastened into the ladies' cloak-room, still half-incredulous.

At her entrance Anne Carfax, clad in a white wrap that made her face look
ghastly, turned from the dying fire.

"My dear Lady Carfax!" exclaimed Mrs. Damer. "I quite thought you left
ages ago. What is it? Is anything the matter?"

The pale lips smiled. "No, nothing, thank you. I am only waiting for
my husband."

"Ah! Then we are in the same plight. I am waiting for mine." Mrs. Damer
hastened to veil her solicitude, which was evidently unwelcome. She
caught up her cloak and began to fumble with it. The attendant had gone.

"Let me!" said Anne, in her quiet voice, and took it from her.

Her fingers touched Mrs. Damer's neck, and Mrs. Damer shivered audibly.
"Thank you, thank you! You are as cold as ice. Are you well wrapped up?"

"Yes, quite. I am never very warm, you know. It is not my nature. Is Mr.
Damer ready? I hope you will not delay your departure on my account. Sir
Giles will not be long, I think."

"We will send Nap Errol to find him," said Mrs. Damer.

"Oh, no, thank you. That is quite unnecessary. Please do not trouble
about me. A few minutes more or less make little difference."

The words came with the patience of deadly weariness. She was still
faintly smiling as she wound a scarf about Mrs. Damer's head.

"I am quite ready, you see," she said. "I shall leave the moment
he appears."

"My dear Lady Carfax, you have the patience of a saint. I am afraid
Phil does not find me so long-suffering." Mrs. Damer bustled back into
the hall. "Are you there, Nap? Do see if you can find Sir Giles. Poor
Lady Carfax is half-dead with cold and fit to drop with fatigue. Go and
tell him so."

"Please do nothing of the sort," said Lady Carfax behind her. "No doubt
he will come when he is ready."

Nap Errol looked from one to the other with swift comprehension in his
glance. "Let me put you into your carriage first, Mrs. Damer," he said,
offering his arm. "Your husband is busy for the moment--some trifling
matter. He begs you will not wait for him. I will drive him back in my
motor. I have to pass your way, you know."

Mrs. Damer shook hands hurriedly with Lady Carfax and went with him.
There was something imperative about Nap just then. They passed out
together on to the baize-covered pavement, and Anne Carfax breathed a
faint sigh of relief.

A few seconds later the Damer carriage was clattering down the street,
and Nap Errol was once more by her side.

"Look here," he said. "Let me take you home in my motor first. No one
will know."

She looked at him, her lips quivering a little as though they still tried
to smile. "Thank you very much," she said. "But--I think not."

"No one will ever know," he reiterated. "I will just set you down at your
own door and go away. Come, Lady Carfax!" His dark eyes gazed straight
into her own, determined, dominating. The high cheek-bones and long, lean
jaw looked as though fashioned in iron.

"Come!" he said again.

She made a slight forward movement as if to yield, and then drew back
again. "Really, I had better wait and go with my husband," she said.

"You had better not!" he said with emphasis. "I have just seen him. He is
in the smoke-room. I won't tell you what he is like. You probably know.
But if you are a wise woman you will leave him for Damer to look after,
and come with me."

That decided her. She threw the hood of her cloak over her head and
turned in silence to the door.

Errol paused to pull on an overcoat and then followed her on to the
steps. A large covered motor had just glided up. He handed her into it.
"By Jove, you are cold!" he said.

She made no rejoinder.

He stepped in beside her, after a word with the chauffeur, and
shut the door.

Almost instantly they were in motion, and in another moment were shooting
forward swiftly down the long, ill-lighted street.

Anne Carfax sank back in her corner and lay motionless. The glare of the
little electric lamp upon her face showed it white and tired. Her eyes
were closed.

The man beside her sat bolt upright, his eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the
window in front, his jaw set grimly. He held the gloves he had worn all
the evening between his hands, and his fingers worked at them
unceasingly. He was rending the soft kid to ribbons.

They left the desolate street behind and came into total darkness.

Suddenly, but very quietly, Anne spoke. "This is very kind of you,
Mr. Errol."

He turned towards her. She had opened her eyes to address him, but the
lids drooped heavily.

"The kindness is on your side, Lady Carfax," he said deliberately. "If
you manage to inspire it in others, the virtue is still your own."

She smiled and closed her eyes again. It was evident that she did not
desire to talk.

He looked away from her, glanced at his torn gloves, and tossed them
impatiently from him.

For ten minutes neither spoke. The car ran smoothly on through the night
like an inspired chariot of the gods. There was no sound of wheels. They
seemed to be borne on wings.

For ten minutes the man sat staring stonily before him, rigid as a
statue, while the woman lay passive by his side.

But at the end of that ten minutes the speed began to slacken. They came
softly to earth and stopped.

Errol opened the door and alighted. "Have you a key?" he said, as he gave
her his hand.

She stood above him, looking downwards half-dreamily as one emerging from
a deep slumber.

"Do you know," she said, beginning to smile, "I thought that you were the
Knave of Diamonds?"

"You've been asleep," he said rather curtly.

She gave a slight shudder as the night air brought her back, and in a
moment, like the soft dropping of a veil, her reserve descended upon her.

"I am afraid I have," she said, "Please excuse me. Are we already at the
Manor? Yes, I have the key."

She took his hand and stepped down beside him.

"Good night, Mr. Errol," she said. "And thank you."

He did not offer to accompany her to the door. A light was burning
within, and he merely stood till he heard the key turn in the lock, then
stepped back into the motor and slammed it shut without response of any
sort to her last words.

Anne Carfax was left wondering if her dream had been a cause of offense.

CHAPTER IV

CAKE MORNING

"Oh, bother! It's cake morning." Dot Waring turned from the Rectory
breakfast-table with a flourish of impatience. "And I do so want to hear
all about it," she said. "You might have come down earlier, Ralph."

"My good sister," said the rector's son, helping himself largely to bread
and honey, "consider yourself lucky that I have come down at all after
dancing half the night with Mrs. Damer, who is no light weight."

"You didn't, Ralph! I am quite sure you didn't! I'm not going to believe
anything so absurd." Nevertheless she paused on her way to the door for
further details.

"All right. I didn't," said Ralph complacently. "And Sir Giles didn't get
drunk as a lord and tumble about the ballroom, and yell comic--awfully
comic--songs, till someone hauled him off to the refreshment-room and
filled him up with whiskey till he could sing no more!"

"Oh, Ralph! Not really! How utterly beastly! Was Lady Carfax there?"

"She was at first, but she cleared out. I don't know where she went to."

"Oh, poor Lady Carfax! How horrid for her! Ralph, I--I could kick
that man!"

"So could I," said Ralph heartily, "if someone would kindly hold him for
me. He is a drunken blackguard, and if he doesn't end in an asylum, I
shall never express a medical opinion again."

"P'r'aps he'll die of apoplexy first," said Dot vindictively.

"Whatever he dies of," said Ralph, "I shall attend his funeral with the
greatest pleasure. Hadn't you better go and make that cake? I shall want
it by tea-time."

"You are a pig!" the girl declared, pushing the sunny hair back from her
gay young face. "Isn't Bertie late this morning? Perhaps he isn't coming.
Dad won't be able to take him anyhow, for old Squinny is bad again and
sent for him in a hurry."

"That wretched old humbug! That means more beef-tea, not approaching
dissolution. Old Squinny will never dissolve in the ordinary way."

"Well, I must go." Dot reached the door and began to swing it to and
fro, gathering impetus for departure. "By the way, was Bertie there?"
she asked.

"Bertie who?"

"Bertie Errol, of course. Who else?"

"There are plenty of Berties in the world," remarked Ralph, helping
himself again to bread and honey. "No, Bertram Errol was not present. But
Napoleon Errol was. It was he who so kindly shunted Mrs. Damer on to me.
_Nota bene_! Give Napoleon Errol a wide berth in future. He has the craft
of a conjurer and the subtlety of a serpent. I believe he is a Red
Indian, myself."

"Oh, Ralph, he isn't! He is as white as you are."

"He isn't white at all," Ralph declared, "outside or in. Outside he is
the colour of a mangold-wurzel, and inside he is as black as ink. You
will never get that cake made if you don't go."

"Oh, bother!" Dot swung open the door for the last time, turned to
depart, and then exclaimed in a very different tone, "Why, Bertie, so
here you are! We were just talking of you."

A straight, well-made youth, with a brown face that laughed
good-temperedly, was advancing through the hall.

"Hullo!" he said, halting at the doorway. "Awfully nice of you! What were
you saying, I wonder? Hullo, Ralph! Only just down, you lazy beggar?
Ought to be ashamed of yourself."

He stood, slapping his riding-boots with a switch, looking at Dot with
the direct eyes of good-fellowship. His eyes were clear and honest as
a child's.

"Dad's away," said Dot. "He was sent for early this morning."

"Is he though? That means a holiday. What shall we do?"

"I don't know what you will do," said Dot. "I am going to bake cakes."

"I'll come and bake cakes too," said Bertie promptly. "I'm rather a swell
at that. I can make fudge too, real American fudge, the most aristocratic
thing on the market. It's a secret, of course, but I'll let you into it,
if you'll promise not to tell."

"How do you know I can keep a secret?" laughed Dot, leading the way to
the kitchen.

"You would keep a promise," he said with conviction.

"If I made one," she threw back.

"I would trust you without," he declared.

"Very rash of you! I wonder if you are as trustworthy as that."

"My word is my bond--always," said Bertie.

She turned and looked at him critically. "Yes, I think it is," she
admitted. "You are quite the honestest boy I ever met. They ought to have
called you George Washington."

"You may if you like," said Bertie.

She laughed--her own inexpressibly gay laugh. "All right, George! It
suits you perfectly. I always did think Bertie was a silly name. Why
didn't you go to the Hunt Ball last night?"

Bertie's merry face sobered. "My brother wasn't so well yesterday. I was
reading to him half the night. He couldn't sleep, and Tawny Hudson is no
good for that sort of thing."

The merriment went out of Dot's face too. It grew softer, older, more
womanly. "You are very good to your brother," she said.

He frowned abruptly. "Good to him! Great Scot! Why, he's miles too good
for any of us. Don't ever class him with Nap or me! We're just ordinary
sinners. But he--he's a king."

A queer little gleam that was not all mirth made Dot's eyes grow
brighter. "I like you for saying that," she said.

"Why, of course I say it!" he protested. "It's true! He's the finest chap
in the world, all true gold and not a grain of dross. That's how it is we
all knock under to him. Even Nap does that, though he doesn't care a
tinker's curse for anyone else on this muddy little planet."

"You are awfully fond of him, aren't you?" said Dot sympathetically.

"Fond of Lucas! I'd die for him!" the boy declared with feeling. "He's
father and brother and friend to me. There isn't anything I wouldn't do
for him. Did you ever hear how he came to be a cripple?"

"Never," said Dot.

"He was knocked down by an electric car," Bertie said, rushing through
the story with headlong ardour, "trying to save his best girl's dog from
being run over. He did save it, but he was frightfully hurt--paralysed
for months. It's years ago now. I was only a little shaver at the time.
But I shall never forget it. He always was good to me, and I thought he
was done for."

"And the girl?" asked Dot rather breathlessly.

"Married an English nobleman," he rejoined, with a brevity that spoke
volumes. "I say, what about those cakes? Hadn't we better begin?"

Dot turned her attention to the fire. "I should like to meet your
brother," she remarked. "I've never spoken to a real flesh-and-blood hero
in my life."

"Nothing easier," said Bertie promptly. "Come over and have tea. Come
this afternoon, you and Ralph."

But Dot hesitated in evident doubt. "I don't know what Dad would
say," she said.

"Oh, rats! He wouldn't mind. And my mother would be delighted. Come early
and I'll show you the hunters. Nap has just bought a beauty. She's a
blood mare, black as ink."

"Like Nap," said Dot absently; then in haste, "No, I didn't mean that. I
wasn't thinking."

Bertie was looking at her shrewdly. "What do you know about Nap?" he
said.

She coloured deeply. "Nothing, nothing whatever. I only know him
by sight."

"And you don't like him?"

"I--I think he looks rather wicked," she stammered.

Bertie grunted. "Do you think I look wicked too?"

"Of course I don't. No one could."

He laughed. "That's all right. You can think what you like of Nap.
Everybody does. But even he is not all bad, you know."

"I'm sure he isn't. But--but--" Desperately Dot turned from the fire and
faced him. "I've got to say it, Bertie," she said rather piteously.
"Please don't be offended. You know I--I'm young. I don't know many
people. And--and--though I would like to know your eldest brother
immensely, I think I won't come to Baronmead if Nap is there. My father
doesn't want me to meet him--unless I am obliged."

She uttered the last words in evident distress. Bertie's face had grown
quite serious, even stern. He was looking at her with a directness which
for the first time in their acquaintance she found disconcerting.

He did not speak for several seconds. At length, "How old are you?" he
said abruptly.

"Eighteen," she murmured.

He continued to look at her speculatively. "Well," he said at length,
speaking with something of a twang, "I guess your father knows what he's
about, but it beats me to understand why he has me here to study. I guess
I'd better shunt."

"Oh, please don't!" she said quickly. "It isn't you at all. It's
only Nap."

"Damn Nap!" said Bertie, with some fervour. "Oh, does that shock you? I
forgot you were a parson's daughter. Well, it may be your father is
right after all. Anyway, I shan't quarrel with him so long as he doesn't
taboo me too."

"He won't do that," said Dot, with confidence. "He likes you."

Bertie's good-looking face began to smile again. "Well, I'm not a
blackguard anyway," he said. "And I never shall be if you keep on being
kind to me. That's understood, is it? Then shake!"

They shook, and Dot realised with relief that the difficult subject was
dismissed.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

It was a week after the Hunt Ball that Anne Carfax, sitting alone at tea
in her drawing-room before a blazing fire, was surprised by the sudden
opening of the door, and the announcement of old Dimsdale the butler,
"Mr. Nap Errol to see your ladyship!"

She rose to meet him, her surprise in her face, and he, entering with
that light, half-stealthy tread of his, responded to it before his hand
touched hers.

"I know my presence is unexpected, and my welcome precarious, but as none
of my friends have been able to give me any news of you, I determined to
chance my reception and come myself to inquire for your welfare."

"You are very good," said Anne, but she spoke with a certain stateliness
notwithstanding. There was no pleasure in her eyes.

Nap, however, was sublimely self-assured. "I am beginning to think I must
be," he said, "since you say so. For I know you to be strictly truthful."

Anne made no response. She did not even smile.

"I am in luck to find you alone," proceeded Nap, surveying her with bold
dark eyes that were nothing daunted by her lack of cordiality.

"My husband will be in soon," she answered quietly.

"I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance," said Nap imperturbably.
"Has he been hunting?"

"Yes." Anne's tone was distant. She seemed to be unaware of the fact that
her visitor was still on his feet.

But Nap knew no embarrassment. He stood on the hearth with his back to
the fire. "You ought to hunt," he said. "Why don't you?"

"I do--occasionally," Anne said.

"What's the good of that? You ought to regularly. There's nothing like
it. Say, Lady Carfax, why don't you?" He smiled upon her disarmingly.
"Are you wondering if I take one lump or two? I take neither, and no
milk, please."

Against her will she faintly smiled.

"I thought that was it," said Nap. "Why didn't you ask me? Are these
scones in the fender? May I offer you one?"

He dropped upon his knees to pick up the dish, and in that attitude
humbly proffered it to her.

She found it impossible to remain ungracious. She could only seat herself
at the tea-table and abandon the attempt.

"Sit down and help yourself," she said.

He pulled a large hassock to him and sat facing her. "Now we can be
sociable," he said. "Really, you know, you ought to hunt more often. I
have never seen you in the field once. What on earth do you do with
yourself?"

"Many things," said Anne.

"What things?" he persisted.

"I help my husband to the best of my ability with the estate and try to
keep an eye on the poorest tenants. And then I practise the piano a good
deal. I haven't time for much besides."

"I say, do you play?" said Nap, keenly interested. "I do myself, a
little, not the piano--the violin. Lucas likes it, or I suppose I should
have given it up long ago. But I generally have to manage without an
accompaniment. There is no one can accompany at our place. It's a bit
thin, you know, playing by yourself."

Anne's face reflected his interest. "Tell me more about it," she said.
"What sort of music do you care for?"

"Oh, anything, from Christmas carols to sonatas. I never play to please
myself, and Lucas has very varied tastes."

"He is your elder brother?" questioned Anne.

"Yes, and one of the best." Nap spoke with unwonted feeling. "He is
hopelessly crippled, poor chap, and suffers infernally. I often wonder
why he puts up with it. I should have shot myself long ago, had I been
in his place."

"Perhaps he is a good man," Anne said.

He shot her a keen glance. "What do you mean by a good man?"

"I mean a man who does his duty without shirking."

"Is that your ideal?" he said, "There are plenty of men that do that, and
yet their lives are anything but blameless."

"Quite possibly," she agreed. "But if a man does his duty, he has not
lived in vain. It can be no man's duty to destroy himself."

"And how would you define 'duty'?" said Nap.

She let her eyes meet his for a moment. "I can only define it for
myself," she said.

"Will you do so for my benefit?" he asked.

A faint colour rose to her face. She looked past him into the fire. There
was a deep sadness about her lips as she made reply.

"I have not been given much to do. I have to content myself with 'the
work that's nearest.'"

Nap was watching her closely. "And if I did the same," he questioned in a
drawl that was unmistakably supercilious, "should I be a good man?"

"I don't know what your capabilities are," she said.

"I have vast capabilities for evil," he told her, with a cynical twist of
his thin-lipped mouth.

She met his look again. "I am sorry," she said.

"Are you really? But why? Doesn't the devil attract you? Honestly
now!" He leaned forward, staring straight at her, challenging her. "I
tell you frankly," he said, "I am not what you would call a good man.
But--the truth, mind!--would you like me any better if I were?"

She smiled a little. There was undoubted fascination in the upturned face
with its fiery eyes and savage jaw. Perhaps the lips were cruel, but they
were not coarse. They were keenly sensitive.

She did not answer him immediately, and during the pause his eyes never
flinched from hers. They were alive, glowing with insistence.

"Yes," she said at length. "Quite honestly, I do prefer good men."

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