The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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Anne's thoughts upon that subject, however, were known to none, perhaps
not even to herself. All she knew was an overwhelming desire for
solitude, but when this was hers at last it was not in the consideration
of this question that she spent it.

It was in kneeling by her open window with her face to the sky, and
in her heart a rapture of gladness that all the birds of June could
not utter.

She scarcely slept at all that night, yet when she rose some of the bloom
of youth had come back to her, some of its summer splendour was shining
in her eyes. Anne Carfax was more nearly a beautiful woman that day than
she had ever been before.

Dimsdale looked at her benignly. Would her ladyship breakfast
out-of-doors? She smiled and gave her assent, and while he was preparing
she plucked a spray of rose acacia and pinned it at her throat.

"Dimsdale," she said, and her cheeks flushed to the soft tint of the
blossom as she spoke, "Mr. Errol is coming over this morning. I expect
him to luncheon."

"Mr. Errol, my lady?"

"Mr. Nap Errol," said Anne, still intent upon the acacia. "Show him into
the garden when he comes. He is sure to find me somewhere."

Dimsdale's eyes opened very wide, but he managed his customary "Very
good, my lady," as he continued his preparations. And so Anne breakfasted
amid the tumult of rejoicing June, all the world laughing around her, all
the world offering abundant thanksgiving because of the sunshine that
flooded it.

When breakfast was over she sat with closed eyes, seeming to hear the
very heart of creation throbbing in every sound, yet listening, listening
intently for something more. For a long time she sat thus, absorbed in
the great orchestra, waiting as it were to take her part in the mighty
symphony that swept its perfect harmonies around her.

It was a very little thing at last that told her her turn had come, so
small a thing, and yet it sent the blood tingling through every vein,
racing and pulsing with headlong impetus like a locked stream suddenly
set free. It was no more than the flight of a startled bird from the tree
above her.

She opened her eyes, quivering from head to foot. Yesterday she had
commanded herself. She had gone to him with outstretched hand and
welcoming smile. To-day she sat quite still. She could not move.

He came to her, stooped over her, then knelt beside her; but he did not
offer to touch her. The sunlight streamed down upon his upturned face.
His eyes were deep and still and passionless.

"You expected me," he said.

She looked down at him. "I have been expecting you for a very long
time," she said.

A flicker that was scarcely a smile crossed his face. "And yet I've come
too soon," he said.

"Why do you say that?" She asked the question almost in spite of herself.
But she had begun to grow calmer. His quietness reassured her.

"Because, my Queen," he said, "the _role_ of jester at court is
obsolete, at least so far as I am concerned, and I haven't managed to
qualify for another."

"Do you want another?" she said.

He turned his eyes away from her. "I want--many things," he said.

She motioned him to the seat beside her. "Tell me what you have been
doing all this time."

"I can't," he said.

But he rose and sat beside her as she desired.

"What under heaven have I been doing?" he said. "I don't know, I guess
I've been something like Nebuchadnezzar when they turned him out to
grass. I've been just--ruminating,"

"Is that all?" There was a curious note of relief in Anne's voice.

His old magnetic smile flashed across his face as he caught it. "That's
all, Queen Anne. It's been monstrous dull. Do you know, I don't think
Heaven intended me for a hermit."

Involuntarily almost she smiled in answer. Her heart was beating quite
steadily again. She was no longer afraid.

"Nebuchadnezzar came to his own again," she observed.

"He did," said Nap.

"And you?"

He leaned back with his face to the sky. "Not yet," he said.

Anne was silent. He turned after a moment and looked at her. "And what
have you been doing, 0 Queen?" he said.

Her hands were clasped in her lap. They suddenly gripped each other
very fast.

"Won't you tell me?" said Nap.

He spoke very softly, but he made no movement towards her. He sat aloof
and still. Yet he plainly desired an answer.

It came at last, spoken almost in a whisper. "I have been--waiting."

"Waiting--" he said.

She parted her hands suddenly, with a gesture that was passionate, and
rose. "Yes, waiting," she said, "waiting, Nap, waiting! And oh, I'm so
tired of it. I'm not like you. I have never wanted--many things; only
one--only one!" Her voice broke. She turned sharply from him.

Nap had sprung to his feet. He stood close to her. But he held himself
in check. He kept all emotion out of his face and voice.

"Do you think I don't know?" he said. "My dear Anne, I have always known.
That's the damnable part of it. You've wanted truth instead of
treachery, honour instead of shame, love instead of--"

She put out a quick hand. "Don't say it, Nap!"

He took her hand, drew it to his heart, and held it there. "And you say
you don't want many things," he went on, in a tone half sad, half
whimsical. "My dear, if I could give you one tenth of what you want--and
ought to have--you'd be a lucky woman and I a thrice lucky man.
But--we've got to face it--I can't. I thought I could train myself,
fashion myself, into something worthy of your acceptance. I can't. I
thought I could win back your trust, your friendship, last of all your
love. But I can't even begin. You can send me away from you if you will,
and I'll go for good and all. On the other hand, you can keep me, you can
marry me--" He paused; and she fancied she felt his heart quicken. "You
can marry me," he said again, "but you can't tame me. You'll find me an
infernal trial to live with. I'm not a devil any longer. No, and I'm not
a brute. But I am still a savage at heart, and there are some parts of me
that won't tame. My love for you is a seething furnace, an intolerable
craving. I can't contemplate you sanely. I want you unspeakably."

His hold had tightened. She could feel his heart throbbing now like a
fierce thing caged. His eyes had begun to glow. The furnace door was
opening. She could feel the heat rushing out, enveloping her. Soon it
would begin to scorch her. And yet she knew no shrinking. Rather she drew
nearer, as a shivering creature starved and frozen draws near to the
hunter's fire.

He went on speaking rapidly, with rising passion. "My love for you is the
one part of me that I haven't got under control, and it's such a mighty
big part that the rest is hardly worthy of mention. It's great enough to
make everything else contemptible. I've no use for lesser things. I want
just you--only you--only you--for the rest of my life!"

He stopped suddenly, seemed on the verge of something further, then
pulled himself together with a sharp gesture. The next moment, quite
quietly, he relinquished her hand.

"I'm afraid that's all there is to me," he said. "Lucas would have given
you understanding, friendship, chivalry, all that a good woman wants. I
can only offer you--bondage."

He half turned with the words, standing as if it needed but a sign to
dismiss him. But Anne made no sign. Over their heads a thrush had
suddenly begun to pour out his soul to the June sunshine, and she stood
spell-bound, listening.

At the end of several breathless moments she spoke and in her voice was
a deep note that thrilled like music.

"There is a bondage," she said, "that is sweeter than any freedom. And,
Nap, it is the one thing in this world that I want--that I need--that I
pray for night and day."

"Anne!" he said. He turned back to her. He took the hands she gave him.
"Anne," he said again, speaking rapidly, in a voice that shook, "I have
tried to play a straight game with you. I have warned you. I am not the
right sort. You know what I am. You know."

"Yes," Anne said, "I know." She raised her head and looked him straight
in the eyes. "You are all the world to me, Nap," she said. "You are the
man I love."

His arms caught her, crushed her fiercely to him, held her fast.

"Say it again!" he said, his fiery eyes flaming. "Say it! Say it!"

But Anne said nought. Only for a long, long second she gazed into his
face; then in utter silence she turned her lips to his.

* * * * *

They spent the whole of the long June day together in the garden. Neither
knew how the time went till evening came upon them all unawares--a golden
evening of many fragrances.

They came at last along the green path under the lilac trees, and here
by the rustic seat Nap stopped.

"I'll leave you here," he said.

She looked at him in surprise. "Won't you dine with me?"

"No," he said restlessly. "I won't come in. I should stifle under a roof
to-night."

"But we will dine outside," she said.

He shook his head. "No, I'm going. Anne," he caught her hand to his lips,
"I hate leaving you. How long must I be condemned to it?"

She touched his shoulder with her cheek. "Don't you know that I hate it
too?" she said.

"Then--" He put his arm round her.

"Next week, Nap," she said.

"You mean it?"

"Yes. I mean it."

"You will marry me next week. What day?"

"Any day," she said, with her face against his shoulder.

"Any day, Anne? You mean that? You mean me to choose?"

She laughed softly. "I shall leave everything to you."

"Then I choose Sunday," Nap said, without an instant's consideration, "as
early in the morning as possible. I shall go straight to the padre and
arrange it right now."

"Very well," she said. "I'll try to be ready."

He threw up his head with the old arrogant gesture. "You must be ready,"
he said imperiously. "I shall come and fetch you myself."

She laughed again at that. "Indeed you will not. I shall go with
Mrs. Errol."

He conceded this point, albeit grudgingly. "And afterwards?" he said.

"The afterwards shall be yours, dear," she answered.

"You mean that?"

"Of course I mean it."

"Then, Anne"--he bent his face suddenly, his lips moved against her
forehead--"will you come with me to Bramhurst?"

"Bramhurst!" She started a little. The name to her was no more than a
bitter memory among the many other bitter memories of her life.

"Will you?" he said.

"If you wish it," she answered gently.

"I do wish it."

"Then--so be it," she said.

He bent his head a little lower, kissed her twice passionately upon the
lips, held her awhile as if he could not bear to let her go, then tore
himself almost violently from her, and went away, swift and noiseless as
a shadow over the grass.

CHAPTER XXI

THE POWER THAT CASTS OUT DEVILS

It was late on the evening of her wedding-day that Anne entered once
more the drawing-room of the little inn at Bramhurst and stopped by the
open window.

There was a scent of musk in the room behind her, and an odour infinitely
more alluring of roses and honeysuckle in the garden in front. Beyond the
garden the common lay in the rosy dusk of the afterglow under a deep blue
sky. The clang of a distant cow-bell came dreamily through the silence.

She stood leaning against the door-post with her face to the night. It
was a night of wonder, of marvellous, soul-stilling peace. Yet her brows
were slightly drawn as she waited there. She seemed to be puzzling over
something.

"Say it out loud," said Nap.

She did not start at the words though he had come up behind her without
sound. She stretched out her hand without turning and drew his arm
through hers.

"Why did we choose this place?" she said.

"You didn't choose it," said Nap.

"Then you?"

"I chose it chiefly because I knew you hated it," he said, a queer
vibration of recklessness in his voice.

"My dear Nap, am I to believe that?"

He looked at her through the falling dusk, and his hand closed tense and
vital upon her arm. "It's the truth anyway," he said. "I knew you hated
the place, that you only came to it for my sake. And I--I made you come
because I wanted you to love it."

"For your sake, Nap?" she said softly.

"Yes, and for another reason." He paused a moment; speech seemed suddenly
an effort to him. Then: "Anne," he said, "you forgave me, I know, long
ago; but I want you here--on this spot--to tell me that what happened
here is to you as if it had never been. I want it blotted out of your
mind for ever. I want your trust--your trust!"

It was like a hunger-cry rising from the man's very soul. At sound of it
she turned impulsively.

"Nap, never speak of this again! My dearest, we need not have come here
for that. Yet I am glad now that we came. It will be holy ground to me as
long as I live. As long as I live," she repeated very earnestly, "I shall
remember that it was here that the door of paradise was opened to us at
last, and that God meant us to enter in."

She lifted her eyes to his with a look half-shy, half-confident. "You
believe in God," she said.

He did not answer at once. He was looking out beyond her for the first
time, and the restless fire had gone out of his eyes. They were still and
deep as a mountain pool.

"Nap," she said in a whisper.

Instantly his look came back to her. He took her face between his hands
with a tenderness so new that it moved her inexplicably to tears.

"I believe in the Power that casts out devils," he said very gravely.
"Luke taught me that much. I guess my wife will teach me the rest."

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