The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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She did not in the least understand the latter's attitude. The more she
thought of it, the more it troubled her. She felt as if he had suddenly
ceased to be on her side, had, as it were, shut off his sympathy and left
her groping and alone. It was not like him to treat her thus. It hurt her
subtly, wounding her as she had never expected to be wounded, shaking her
faith in what she had ever believed to be immutable. And then she
remembered the physical weakness with which he had wrestled so long, and
a great pity flooded her heart. She would not let herself be hurt any
longer. Was he not reserving his strength for her sake? And could she
not, for his, face bravely this sudden obstacle that had arisen in her
path? Moreover, had he not told her that all would be well? And he had
said it as one who knew. Why, then, was she harbouring this wild dismay?

Why? Why? She asked the question, but she did not seek the answer. She
dared not.

And yet in the morning she went down with a calm aspect, resolute and
unafraid. Once more she was compelling herself to do simply that which
lay nearest to her hand.

Nap came out of a room near the foot of the stairs as she descended.
He scarcely looked at her, but quite obviously he had been awaiting
her coming.

"May I have two words with you before you join the mater?" he asked.

With her whole soul she wanted to refuse. Yet without visible hesitation
she yielded. She turned aside into the room he had just quitted.

He followed, and, closing the door, came forward to the table. It was
littered with guns and cleaning apparatus. He had evidently been
employing himself while he waited, and he at once took up an oily rag and
resumed operations, his swarthy face bent over his task, his lips very
firmly compressed.

Anne waited for a moment or two. His attitude puzzled her. She had become
so accustomed to the fierce directness of his stare that its absence
disconcerted her.

"What is it you wish to say to me?" she asked at length.

At the first sound of her voice he ceased to work, but still he did not
raise his eyes.

"On my own account--nothing," he said, speaking very deliberately. "But
as my sojourn here may be an offence to you, I think it advisable to
explain at the outset that I am not a free agent. My brother has
decreed it, and as you know"--a hint of irony crept into his voice--"his
will is my law."

"I understand," said Anne gravely, but even as she spoke she was asking
herself what possible motive had prompted this explanation.

He jerked up his head and she caught the glint of his fiery eyes for an
instant. "You--care for Lucas, Lady Carfax?" he said.

Her heart gave a sudden throb that hurt her intolerably. For a moment she
could not speak.

Then, "Yes," she said. "I love him."

Nap was pulling mechanically at the rag he held. It began to tear between
his hands. She watched him ripping it to shreds.

Suddenly he seemed to realise what he was doing, and tossed it from him.
He looked her straight in the eyes.

"Have you fixed the date for your coronation?" he asked.

Her eyes fell instantly. "Will you tell me what you mean?" she said.

"Is my meaning obscure?"

She compelled herself to answer him steadily. "If you mean our marriage,
it will not take place for some time, possibly not this year."

"Why not?" said Nap. "Are you a slave to etiquette?"

The thing sounded preposterous on his lips. She faintly smiled. "The
decision does not lie with me."

"Ah!" he said shrewdly. "The privilege of kings! You will still be a
queen before you are thirty. And your first act will be to expel the
court jester--if he waits to be expelled."

She saw his grim smile for an instant, and knew that he was playing his
old fencing game with her, but at the same time she knew that there was
no antagonism behind his point. How the knowledge came to her she could
not have said, but she realised afterwards that it was at that moment
that she began to perceive that the devil had gone out of Nap Errol. The
conviction was slow in growing, but it was then that it first took root;
it was then that her fear of the man began to die away.

She raised her eyes. "Why should I do that, Nap?"

He made her a deep bow. "Because I have been unfortunate enough to incur
your displeasure."

There was a moment of silence, then, in obedience to that instinct to
which in rare moments she yielded herself and which never played her
false, Anne held out her hand to him. "I forgive you," she said.

He started. He evidently had not expected that from her. Perhaps he had
not wanted it. Later she wondered. But he showed no awkwardness of
indecision. Only once had she ever seen him at a loss, and of that once
she would never voluntarily think again.

He took her hand upon his sleeve and bent over it. She thought he was
going to kiss it, and a sharp dread went through her. But he only touched
it for a single instant with his forehead.

"For Luke's sake?" he said, not looking at her.

"For your own," she made answer, almost as if she could not help herself.

"Because?" he questioned.

"Because I know you love him," she said. "Because I know that you will be
loyal to him."

"Though I may be false to you?" he said.

She bent her head. "I am only a woman. I am afraid your experience of
women has not taught you to respect them."

He picked up the gun again and fell to work upon it. "My experience of
one woman at least," he said, "has taught me--something different,
something I am not likely to forget."

It was the end of the interview. In silence Anne turned to go. He wheeled
round and opened the door for her, but he did not look at her again, nor
she at him. When the door closed between them she felt as if a great
silence had fallen in her life.

CHAPTER XI

SOMETHING GREAT

On the day succeeding Nap's return Dot went to tea at Baronmead. She was
a very constant visitor there. Lucas always enjoyed her bright presence
and welcomed her with warmth. But Dot was not feeling very bright that
day. She looked preoccupied, almost worried.

She found that Mrs. Errol and Anne had gone out, and, as her custom was
when she found the house deserted, she went straight to her
brother-in-law's room.

Tawny Hudson answered her knock at the outer door, and she was struck by
the lowering look the great half-breed wore. His expression was
positively villainous, and sharp as a pin-prick there darted through her
the memory of her first visit to Baronmead, and the hatred of Nap Errol
she had that day seen revealed in the man's eyes. She had never given the
matter a thought since. To-day it awoke to life, stirring within her a
vague apprehension.

"How is your master, Tawny?" she asked.

"He is not so well, madam," said Tawny Hudson, but he opened the door
wide notwithstanding, inviting her to enter.

She went in. The room adjoined that in which Lucas lay, and Hudson was
always there when not actually in attendance upon his master, except in
his off hours, which were as few as Lucas would permit.

"May I see him?" said Dot. "Or would he rather not be disturbed?"

Hudson stepped to the closed door and listened, his great red head bent
almost to the keyhole.

After a few moments he stood up and softly turned the handle. He made a
brief sign to her and passed noiselessly into the room.

Dot remained where she was. She heard Lucas accost him at once, and
caught the murmur of the man's low-spoken reply. And then in a moment
Hudson came back to her.

"Will you go in, madam?" he said, in his careful English that always made
her think of an animal that had been taught to speak.

She went in, treading lightly, relieved to leave the man's heavy scowling
visage behind her.

"Come right in," said Lucas hospitably. "It's real good of you to come
and see me like this."

She took his outstretched hand, looking at him anxiously. She saw that he
had not slept for many hours. Though he smiled at her, there was a grey
look about his lips that made her wonder if he were in pain.

"Sit down," he said gently. "It's nothing. Only another bad night. I
can't expect to sleep soundly always."

"How disappointing!" Dot murmured.

"Not surprising though. I had an exciting day yesterday. You heard of
Nap's return?"

"Yes." There was a very decided cloud upon Dot's face. "I saw him."

"Well?" said Lucas.

She turned to him impulsively. "Isn't it horrid when the thing you've
been planning for and wanting ever so long happens and everyone else
is cross?"

The blue eyes looked quizzical. "Very, I should say," said Lucas. "Would
it be presumptuous to ask what has been happening and who is cross?"

Dot's answering smile held more of pathos than mirth. Her lips took a
quivering, downward droop. "It's Nap," she said.

He raised his brows a little. "Nap seems the general pivot on which all
grievances turn," he remarked.

Dot leaned her chin on her hand. "I do so hate making mistakes," she
said.

"We all do it," said Lucas.

"Oh, you don't!" She turned and gravely regarded him. "You are always
wise," she said, "never headlong."

"Which only demonstrates your ignorance and the kindness of your heart,"
said Lucas. "But go on, won't you? What has Nap been doing?"

"Oh, nothing. Nap is all right. It isn't Nap I mind." Again that doleful
droop of the lips became apparent, together with a little quiver of the
voice undeniably piteous. "It--it's Bertie," whispered Dot. "I--I--it's
very ridiculous, isn't it? I'm a wee bit afraid of Bertie, do you know?"

"St. Christopher!" said Lucas, in astonishment.

"Yes. But you won't ever tell him, will you?" she pleaded anxiously.
"If--if he knew or guessed--all my prestige would be gone. I shouldn't
be able to manage him at all. He--he is rather difficult to manage
sometimes, don't you think?"

Lucas was frowning slightly. "I guess I can manage him," he said.

"No doubt you could. I expect you always have. He respects you," said
Dot, with unwitting wistfulness.

Lucas turned his head and looked at her very steadily. "Will you tell me
something, Dot?" he said.

She nodded.

"Why are you afraid of Bertie?"

She hesitated.

"Come!" he said. "Surely you're not afraid of me too!"

The banter in his voice was touched with a tenderness that went straight
to Dot's young heart. She leaned down impetuously and held his hand.

"No," she said tremulously. "I'm not such a little idiot as that, Luke.
I'm afraid of Bertie because I've done something he wouldn't like. It's
a very little thing, Luke. It is, really. But--but it's bothered me off
and on all the winter. And now that Nap is home, I feel much worse--as
if--as if it had been really wrong. And--and"--she broke down
suddenly--"I know I ought to tell him. But--I can't."

"Tell me," said Lucas gently.

"And you will tell him for me?"

"If you wish me to do so."

"I don't like it," sobbed Dot. "It's so despicable of me. I've wanted to
tell him for ever so long. But he has been so good to me all this time,
and--and somehow I couldn't face it. We haven't even squabbled for months
now. It--it seemed such a pity to spoil everything when it really didn't
make any difference to anyone if he knew or not."

"Don't cry," interposed Lucas. "It would hurt Bertie if he knew."

"Dear Bertie!" whispered Dot. "Isn't it horrid of me to be such a coward?
I haven't done anything really wrong either. In fact at the time it
seemed almost right."

"Almost!" said Lucas, faintly smiling.

She smiled also through her tears. "Why don't you call me a humbug? Well,
listen! It was like this. One night in the beginning of the winter Bertie
and I had a disagreement about Nap. It wasn't at all important. But I had
to stick up for him, because I had chanced to see him just before he
left in the summer--you remember--when he was very, very miserable?"

"I remember," said Lucas.

He spoke rather wearily, but his eyes never left her face. He was
listening intently.

"And I was frightfully sorry for him," proceeded Dot, "though at the
time I didn't know what was the matter. And I couldn't let Bertie say
horrid things about him. So I fired up. And then Bertie told me"--she
faltered a little--"about Nap caring for Lady Carfax. And that was where
the trouble began. He didn't give him credit for really loving her,
whereas I knew he did."

Strong conviction sounded in Dot's voice. The blue eyes that watched her
opened a little.

"That so?" said Lucas.

"Oh, I was sure," she said. "I was sure. There are some things a woman
can't help knowing. It was the key to what I knew before. I
understood--at once."

"And then?" said Lucas.

"Then, of course, I remembered that Lady Carfax was free. And I asked
Bertie if he knew. You see, I thought it possible that in her heart she
might be caring for him too. I knew they had always been friends. And Sir
Giles was such a brute to her. No woman could ever have loved him. I
think most people couldn't help knowing that. And it seemed only fair
that Nap should know that Sir Giles was dead. I told Bertie so. He didn't
agree with me." Dot paused and vigorously dried her eyes. "I still don't
think he was right," she said.

"P'r'aps not." Lucas spoke meditatively. "There's a good deal to be said
for woman's intuition," he said.

"It seemed to me a matter of fair play," maintained Dot. "He didn't know
where Nap was, only his club address. And he wouldn't write himself, so
I just wrote a single line telling Nap that Sir Giles was dead, and sent
it off that night. I didn't tell Bertie. It didn't seem to matter much
then, and I knew it might be ages before Nap got it. But now that that
line has brought him back, I feel as if he ought to know--particularly
as Bertie is so angry with him for returning. And Anne too--Anne nearly
fainted when she saw him. I felt as if I had landed everybody in a
hopeless muddle." Again Dot wiped her eyes. "And I had so wanted him to
come," she ended.

"Don't fret," said Lucas very kindly. "I wanted him too."

She looked at him eagerly. "You think as I do? You think he cares
for Anne?"

"I guess so," he answered, "since your letter brought him back."

"And--and Anne? Do you think--do you really think--?"

"I guess so," he said again.

He lay silent for a while, his eyes drooping heavily, till she even began
to wonder if he were falling asleep.

At length, "Dot," he said, "have I your permission to make what use I
like of this?"

She gave a slight start. "You are going to tell Bertie?"

He looked at her. "My dear," he said, "I think Bertie had better know."

She nodded. "I know he ought. But he will be furious with me."

"Not if I talk to him," said Lucas, with his quiet smile.

"But it's so mean of me," she protested. "And I'm sure it's bad for you."

He reached out his hand to her. "No, it isn't bad for me, Dot. It's just
the best thing possible. You've put me in the way of something great."

She squeezed his hand. "Do you really think you can make things go
right?"

"Under God," said Lucas gravely.

CHAPTER XII

A FRIENDLY UNDERSTANDING

Notwithstanding Lucas's assurance, Dot awaited her husband's coming in
undisguised trepidation that night.

She had not seen Nap since that brief glimpse of him in the hall when
Anne had so nearly swooned. She did not so much as know if Bertie had
seen him at all. They had not met on the previous evening, but Bertie's
aspect had been so thunderous ever since he had heard of his return that
she had been on thorns lest he should present himself again at the Dower
House. That he would come sooner or later she knew, but she hoped with
all her heart that it might not be when Bertie was at home.

She was convinced, moreover, that Bertie was going to be very angry with
her, and her heart sank the more she thought of it. Bertie's anger had
become a hard thing to face since he had made her know the depths of his
tenderness.

The night was chilly, and her suspense made her cold. She sat very close
to the fire in the cosy curtained hall, shivering, and straining her
ears to catch the sound of his feet on the gravel. She had worked herself
into a state of anxiety that made her start at the faintest noise.

It was nearing the dinner-hour, and she was beginning to wonder if
perhaps he were staying at Baronmead to dine, though he had never done so
before without sending her word, when there came the sudden hoot of a
motor and the rush of wheels upon the drive.

She sat up, every pulse beating. It must be one of the Baronmead motors.
But Bertie always walked.

She heard the car stop at the door, and she rose to her feet, scarcely
knowing what to expect. The next moment the door opened and she heard
Bertie's voice.

"The car will be all right," he said. "It's a fine night. Go in, won't
you? I expect Dot is waiting."

And with amazement Dot saw Nap enter the hall in front of her husband.

He came straight to her just as he had come on the previous day, and she
had a moment of sheer panic lest he should have the effrontery to kiss
her; but he spared her this, though the smile with which he greeted her
told her that he was quite aware of her embarrassment and its cause.

"Bertie has taken upon himself to ask me to dine," he said, as he held
her hand. "I hope that is quite agreeable to Mrs. Bertie?"

"Of course I am delighted," she said, but her eyes sought Bertie's
somewhat anxiously notwithstanding.

She saw with relief that the cloud had gone from his face. He came
forward, bent, and kissed her. His hand lay upon her shoulder for an
instant with a quick, reassuring touch, and she knew that all was well.

"Heavens, child! How cold you are!" he said. "I'll bring you down a
shawl, shall I? Come along, Nap. We are late."

They went upstairs together, and Dot waited below, listening to their
voices in careless converse and wondering by what means Lucas had wrought
so amazing a change.

She wondered still more during dinner, for Nap was plainly upon his best
behaviour. He seemed determined that Bertie should be on easy terms with
him, and he was in a great measure successful. Though reticent, Bertie
was undoubtedly cordial.

At the appearance of dessert Nap rose. "I must be getting back to
Lucas," he said.

"Oh, skittles! He won't be wanting you," Bertie protested. "Sit down
again, man. You haven't been here an hour."

But Nap was not to be persuaded. "Many thanks, but I'm going all the
same. I want to secure him a good night if possible. Good-bye, Mrs.
Bertie!" He bent and kissed her hand. "I am going to be pretty busy for
the next week or two, but I shall call on you when I have time."

He took a cigarette from Bertie's case, and went out without stopping
to light it.

Bertie followed him into the hall. "Shall I come?" he asked.

"No," said Nap.

He found a paper spill on the mantelpiece and lighted it. As he held it
to his cigarette he looked at Bertie with a smile.

"Remember that day I baited you? It must be about a year ago."

Bertie looked uncomfortable. "I remember," he said shortly.

Abruptly Nap thrust out his hand. "I've eaten your salt now," he said.
"I'll never bait you again."

Bertie gave his hand. "Is that what you wanted to dine for?"

"Partly." Nap's fingers gripped and held. "Also I wanted to persuade you
that we are fighting for the same thing, only maybe with different
weapons. You'll bear it in mind, eh, friend Bertie?"

Bertie looked at him hard for an instant. "I will," he said impulsively.

"Good!" said Nap laconically. "It isn't going to be a walk over, but I
guess we'll pull it off between us."

"Amen!" said Bertie fervently.

And Nap wrung his hand and departed. For the first time in their
lives there was a friendly understanding between them. For the first
time Bertie was aware of a human heart throbbing behind that
impenetrable mask.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FINAL DEFEAT

It was growing late that night when Lucas opened his eyes after a
prolonged and fruitless attempt to sleep, and found Nap standing at the
foot of the bed watching him. A lamp was burning in the room, but it was
turned very low. For a few seconds he lay wondering if the motionless
figure he saw had been conjured there by some trick of the shadows. Then
as he stirred he saw it move and at once he spoke.

"Hullo, dear fellow! You! I never heard you come in."

Nap stepped noiselessly to his side. "Don't talk!" he said. "Sleep!"

"I can't sleep. It's no use. I was only pretending." Lucas stifled a sigh
of weariness. "Sit down," he said.

But Nap stood over him and laid steady hands upon his wrists. His hold
was close and vital; it pressed upon the pulses as if to give them new
life. "You can sleep if you try," he said.

Lucas shook his head with a smile. "I'm not a good subject, Boney. Thanks
all the same!"

"Try!" Nap said insistently.

But the blue eyes remained wide. "No, old chap. It's too high a price to
pay--even for sleep."

"What do you mean?" There was a fierce note in the query, low as it was;
it was almost a challenge.

Lucas answered it very quietly. "I mean that I'm afraid of you, Boney."

"Skittles!" said Nap.

"Yes, it may seem so to you; but, you see, I know what you are
trying to do."

"What am I trying to do?" demanded Nap.

Lucas paused for a moment; he was looking straight up into the harsh face
above his own. Then, "I know you," he said. "I know that you'll get the
whip hand of me if you can, and you'll clap blinkers on me and drive me
according to your own judgment. I never had much faith in your judgment,
Boney. And it is not my intention to be driven by you."

There was no resentment in the tired voice, only unflagging
determination.

Nap's hold slowly relaxed. "You don't trust me then?"

"It's your methods I don't trust, dear fellow, not your motives. I'd
trust them to perdition."

"But not my--honour?" Nap's lips twisted over the word.

Lucas hesitated. "I believe you would be faithful to your own code," he
said at length.

"But you don't consider that to trick a man who trusted me would be
against that code?"

Again Lucas hesitated, and in the silence Nap straightened himself and
stood waiting, stern, implacable, hard as granite.

"Don't do violence to yourself," he said cynically.

On the instant Lucas spoke, in his voice a tremor that was almost
passionate. "Boney--Boney, old chap, have I wronged you? God knows I've
tried to be just. But are you straight? Are you honest? I'd give my soul
to be able to trust you. Only--dear fellow, forgive me--I can't!"

Nap's hands clenched. "Why not?" he said.

"Because," very slowly and painfully Lucas made reply, "I know that you
are trying to blind me. I know that you are sacrificing yourself--and
another--in order to deceive me. You are doing it to save me pain,
but--before God, Boney--you are torturing me in the doing far more than
you realise. I'd sooner die ten times over than endure it. I can bear
most things, but not this--not this!"

Silence followed the words, a silence that was vital with many emotions.
Nap stood upright against the lamplight. He scarcely seemed to breathe,
and yet in his very stillness there was almost a hint of violence. He did
not attempt to utter a word.

Lucas also lay awhile without speaking, as if exhausted. Then at length
he braced himself for further effort. "It seems to me there's only one
way out, Boney," he said gently. "It's no manner of use your trying to
deceive me any longer. I happen to know what brought you back, and I'm
thankful to know it. After all, her happiness comes first with both of
us, I guess. That's why I was so almighty pleased to see you in the first
place. That's why it won't hurt me any to let her go to you."

Nap made a sharp movement and came out of his silence. "Luke,
you're mad!"

"No, Boney, no! I'm saner than you are. When a fellow spends his life as
I do, he has time to look all round things. He can't help knowing. And
I'm not a skunk. It never was my intention to stand between her and
happiness."

"Happiness!" Harshly Nap echoed the word; he almost laughed over it.
"Don't you know that she only tolerates me for your sake? She wouldn't
stay within a hundred miles of me if it weren't for you."

"Oh, shucks, Boney!" A faint smile touched the worn face on the pillow.
"I know you hurt her infernally. But she will forgive you that--women do,
you know--though I guess she would have forgiven you easier if she hadn't
loved you."

"Man, you're wrong!" Fiercely Nap flung the words. "I tell you there is
no love between us. I killed her love long ago. And as for myself--"

"Love doesn't die," broke in Lucas Errol quietly. "I know all about it,
Boney. Guess I've always known. And if you tell me that your love for
Anne Carfax is dead, I tell you that you lie!" Again he faintly smiled.
"But I don't like insulting you, old chap. It's poor sport anyway.
Besides, I'm wanting you. That's why--"

He stopped abruptly. A curious change had come over Nap, a change so
unexpected, so foreign to the man's grim nature, that even he, who knew
him as did none other, was momentarily taken by surprise. For suddenly,
inexplicably, Nap's hardness had gone from him. It was like the crumbling
of a rock that had withstood the clash of many tempests and yielded at
last to the ripple of a summer tide.

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