The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

E >> Ethel May Dell >> The Knave of Diamonds

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

It was so evident that she enjoyed her self-appointed task that Anne
could only smile and thank her. She was helpless as an infant and could
not have refused her hostess's ministrations even had she desired to do
so. She suffered a good deal of pain also, and this kept her from taking
much note of her surroundings during that first day at Baronmead.

She refrained from asking further about her husband for some time,
avoiding all mention of him, but she was possessed by a nervous dread
that increased steadily as the hours wore on. At last, as Mrs. Errol
seemed equally determined to volunteer no information, she summoned her
resolution and compelled herself to speak.

"My husband has not come yet?" she asked.

"No, dear." Mrs. Errol smiled upon her with much kindness, but her tone
did not encourage further inquiries.

Anne lay silent for a little. It was a difficult matter to handle.
"Did he send no message?" she asked at last, with knitted brows. "I
thought--or did I dream it?--that your son said he was coming."

"To be sure he did," said Mrs. Errol. "You would like to speak to Nap
about it, wouldn't you?"

Anne hesitated. Mrs. Errol was already on her way to the door. It was
plain that here was a responsibility she was unprepared to shoulder. But
Anne called her back.

"No, please!" she said, a slight flush on her face. "Don't call him in
again! Really, it is of no consequence."

But in spite of this assertion her uneasiness regarding her husband grew
rapidly from that moment--an uneasiness that she was powerless to control
or hide. Could it be--was it possible?--that he meant to leave her thus
abandoned to the pitying kindness of strangers? She could hardly believe
it. And yet--and yet--he had done un-heard-of things before. There were
times, times that had become more and more frequent of late, when she
doubted his sanity. Those devilish moods of his, whither were they
tending? Was he in the grip of one of them now? And if so--if so--what
would happen to her? What could she do?

As the hours passed, the torture of suspense so worked upon her that
she began to grow feverish. The afternoon was waning and still no
word had come.

She tried to reassure herself again and again, but each failure added to
her distress.

"You mustn't fret, child," said Mrs. Errol gently, when she brought her
tea. "It's the worst thing possible. Come, come! What is it?"

Anne tried to tell her, but could not. The very utterance of her
fears was more than she could accomplish in her present state. Words
failed her.

Mrs. Errol said no more, but presently she went quietly away, leaving her
alone in the firelight, chafing but impotent.

She was soon back again, however, and a muffled word on the threshold
told Anne that she was not alone. She turned her head sharply on the
pillow regardless of wrenched muscles, hoping against hope. But she
looked in vain for her husband's tall figure, and a sigh that was almost
a groan escaped her. It was Nap, slim, upright, and noiseless, who
stepped from behind Mrs. Errol and came to her bedside.

He stooped a little and took her quivering hand, holding it in both his
own so that his fingers pressed upon her pulse.

"The mater thought you would like to speak to me," he said.

She looked up at him with eyes of piteous entreaty. She was long past any
thought of expediency so far as he was concerned. It seemed only natural
in her trouble to turn to him for help. Had he not helped her before?
Besides, she knew that he understood things that she could not utter.

"Oh, Nap," she said admitting him unconsciously in her extremity to an
intimacy she would never have dreamed of according him in any less urgent
circumstances, "I am greatly troubled about my husband. You said he would
come to me, but--he hasn't come!"

"I know he hasn't," Nap said. He spoke quietly, but she was aware of a
certain grimness in his speech. "I shouldn't worry if I were you. It
won't help you any. Is there anyone else you would like sent for?"

"I have--no one else," she said, her voice quivering beyond her control.
"How can I lie here and not worry?"

"Lord bless the child!" said Mrs. Errol vigorously. "What is there to
worry about, anyway?"

But Nap was silent. His fingers were still closed firmly upon her wrist.

"Mrs. Errol is very good," Anne said earnestly. "You mustn't think me
ungrateful or unappreciative. But I cannot go on like this. I cannot!"

"I am afraid you have no choice," Nap said.

She scarcely heard him. At least she paid no heed. "Will you tell me
exactly what has passed? Has he definitely refused to come to me?
Because, if so--"

"If so--" said Nap gently.

She summoned her wavering self-control. "If so--I must go back to him at
once. I must indeed. You will manage it for me, will you not? Perhaps you
will take me yourself in the motor."

"No," said Nap. He spoke briefly, even sternly. He was bending down over
her, and she caught the gleam of the firelight in his eyes and thought
that they shone red. "I would do a good deal for you, Lady Carfax," he
said, "but I can't do that. You ask the impossible." He paused a moment
and she felt his grasp slowly tighten upon her hand. "You want to know
what passed, and perhaps it is better that you should know even if it
distresses you. I sent a messenger in the motor to Sir Giles last night
to tell him of your accident and to beg him to return here with him. He
came back alone with no definite reply. He did not, in fact, see Sir
Giles, though the message was delivered. I waited till noon today to see
if he would come, and then as there was no sign of him I went myself in
the motor to fetch him."

"Ah!" Anne's lips parted to utter the word. They were quivering
uncontrollably.

"I saw him," Nap went on very quietly. "I practically forced an entrance.
He was in his study alone. I fancy he was feeling sick, but I didn't stop
to inquire. I told him you were wanting him. I was quite kind to him--for
your sake." She fancied the grim lips smiled. "But I regret to say he
didn't appreciate my kindness, and I soon saw that he was in no state to
come to you even if he would. So--I left him and came away."

"Ah!" Again that faint exclamation that was like the half-uttered cry of
a woman's heart. "He wasn't--wasn't rude to you, I hope?"

Nap's teeth showed for an instant. He made no reply.

"Mr. Errol," she said beseechingly, "please tell me everything! He did
not--did not--"

"Kick me?" questioned Nap drily. "My dear lady, no man may kick Nap Errol
and live. So I did not give him the opportunity."

She uttered a quick sob and turned her head upon the pillow. The tears
were running down her face.

The hand that pressed her wrist began to rub it very gently. "That's
the worst of telling the truth," Nap said softly. "It is sure to
hurt someone."

"I am glad you told me," she whispered back, "though I don't know what to
say to you--how to atone--"

"I will tell you then," he answered swiftly. "Stay quietly here and be
as happy as you can till the doctor gives you leave to go back. You will
have to do it in any case, but--if you feel you owe me anything, which of
course you don't"--he smiled again, and his smile when free from cynicism
held a wonderful charm--"do it willingly--please do it willingly!"

She could not answer him in words, but her fingers closed upon his.
Instantly she felt his answering pressure. A moment later he laid her
hand down very gently and left her.

CHAPTER XI

THE STING OF A SCORPION

"Oh, dear, I wish it wasn't so muddy." Dot, emerging from old Squinny's
cottage, stood a moment on the edge of the large puddle that was old
Squinny's garden and gazed over the ploughed fields beyond towards the
sinking sun. It was the last day in January, and the winter dusk was
already creeping up in a curtain of damp mist that veiled everything it
touched. She knew it would be dark long before she got home, and the
prospect of sliding about in the muddy lanes did not attract her.

"You were an idiot not to bring a lantern," she told herself severely,
as she skirted the edge of the puddle. "You might have known--but you
never think!"

Here she reached the garden-gate and lifted it scientifically off its
hinges and then back again when she had passed through. Old Squinny's
gate had not opened in the ordinary way within the memory of man. It was
stoutly bound to the gate-post by several twists of rusty chain.

A stretch of waste land lay beyond the cottage garden; then came the
road and then the fields, brown and undulating in the ruddy western glow.
For a second or two Dot considered the homeward path that lay across the
fields. She had come by that earlier in the afternoon, and she knew
exactly what it had to offer besides the advantage of cutting half a mile
from a three-mile trudge. But her knowledge eventually decided her in
favour of the road.

"Besides," as she optimistically remarked to herself, "someone might pass
and give me a lift."

For Dot was not above being seen in a waggon or a tradesman's cart.
She accepted as she was prone to give, promiscuously and with
absolute freedom.

But it was no tradesman's cart that the gods had in store for her that
day. Rather was it a chariot of their own that presently swooped as if
upon wings swiftly and smoothly down upon the Sturdy wayfarer. Dot
herself was scarcely aware of its approach before it had passed and come
to a standstill barely half a dozen yards from her.

"Hullo!" cried a boyish voice. "This is luck! Jump in! I'll soon trundle
you home."

It was Bertie leaning out from the wheel on which his hands rested. In
the open seat behind him, propped by cushions, sat a man whom she knew
instantly though she had never met him before. He looked at her as she
came up to the car with blue eyes as frank and kind as Bertie's, though
not so merry. It was not difficult to see that they were brothers.

"My brother Lucas," said Bertie, "the one you wanted to know."

He smiled as he said it for the sheer malicious pleasure of seeing her
blush. And Dot's green-brown eyes shot him a glance of quick indignation.

But Lucas Errol stepped calmly into the breach. "This young brother of
mine has a way of turning things topsy-turvy," he said in his easy drawl.
"We just make allowances for him when we can, and kick him when we can't.
It is I who have wanted to know you, Miss Waring--it is Miss Waring, I
think?--for some time past. Won't you get in beside me and give me the
pleasure of making your acquaintance?"

He pulled off his glove and offered her his hand.

Dot instantly took it, but when he would have helped her in she drew
back. "I had better not, really. Look at my boots!"

"Jump in!" urged Bertie. "Who cares?"

He sprang suddenly down and seized her impulsively by the waist. In
another second he would have bundled her in without ceremony, but
quietly, with no change of countenance, his brother intervened.

"Bertie, behave yourself! Miss Waring, I beg you will do exactly as you
like, but please believe that the state of your boots doesn't matter a
cent. I should say the same with absolute honesty if I had to clean the
car myself."

"I am quite sure I shouldn't in your place," said Dot as she climbed
into the car.

Lucas smiled and fished out a spare rug. "Put it round your shoulders and
fold it well over. You will find it cold when we begin to move. Are your
feet quite warm? There is a foot-warmer here. Tuck her in well, Bertie.
That's the way."

"You will never get out again," laughed Bertie, as he shut the door upon
her. "Now, where are we going? To Baronmead?"

His merry eyes besought her for an instant; then, as she began to shake
her head, "Can't you persuade her, Luke?" he said.

"I think so," Lucas answered. "Drive on slowly while I try. You know
there is a friend of yours there, Miss Waring?"

"Lady Carfax?" said Dot quickly.

He bent his head. "I think she would like you to visit her. She has so
few friends."

"I would love to, of course," Dot said impetuously. "But--you know, I've
never visited her before, though I have often longed to. People don't
call at the Manor. Not even Dad goes there. And in any case, I am hardly
grown up enough to pay calls. Wouldn't she--are you sure she wouldn't
think it very presumptuous of me to go and see her?"

"That is the last thing I should expect from her," Lucas answered, with
quiet conviction.

"She is very proud," Dot began.

"She is very miserable," he said.

Dot's eyes softened. "Oh, poor Lady Carfax!" she said. "So you know
that, too!"

"I have seen her only twice," he said. "Yes, I know it."

Dot's eyes widened. "Only twice! Why, surely it must be three weeks
nearly since her accident."

"I believe it is. But it was serious, you know, and she has made a very
slow recovery. The doctor has only just allowed her to be removed to
another room."

"Poor Lady Carfax!" Dot said again. "Yes, I'll come. I know Dad
wouldn't mind!"

So Bertie had his desire and turned the motor with a light heart towards
Baronmead. He sang as he drove, sang at the top of his voice; for he was
in a happy mood that evening.

And Dot was happy too, though a little nervous. She had often longed to
go to Baronmead, and she was already thoroughly at her ease with the
master thereof, who sat and conversed beside her in that rather
monotonous, tired drawl of his. It was only the thought of Anne that made
her nervous. Warmly as she admired her, she was ever so slightly afraid
of the stately lady of the Manor, who made friends with so few and for
all her queenly graciousness kept those she had at so discreet a
distance. Of course everyone knew why. The reason was plain to all who
had eyes to see. But that fact did not help any to overstep the barrier,
nor did it keep the majority from being affronted. Dot was not of the
latter, but she was ever shy in Anne's presence, though it was more the
fear of hurting than of being hurt that made her so.

She enjoyed the brisk run to Baronmead with all her healthy soul. As they
sped up the long drive they were joined by a galloping horseman, who
shouted to Bertie to put on speed and flogged his animal furiously when
the car drew ahead. He looked like a demon to Dot in the half-light--a
black imp mounted on a black mare riding to perdition. She was glad to
leave him behind.

But as they drew up before the great house that loomed gaunt and eerie in
the gathering darkness the galloping hoofs drew near again, and before
they were out of the car Nap was beside them.

He flung himself out of the saddle, with a curt, "Here, Bertie! Take the
brute for me. Mind her teeth! She's in a vile temper."

"What a beast you are!" was Bertie's comment, as he went to the
panting animal.

The valet, Hudson, was waiting to help his master out of the car, but Nap
pushed him imperiously aside. His quick, lithe movements fascinated Dot.
She stood and watched him as he dexterously assisted the heavy, misshapen
figure of his brother to alight. He was wonderfully strong for so slight
a man. He seemed compacted of muscle and energy, welded together with a
certain fiery grace that made him in some fashion remarkable. He was
utterly different from any other man she had ever seen.

"Will you go first, Miss Waring?" It was Lucas Errol's voice. He leaned
on his brother's shoulder, waiting for her.

Nap glanced round at her. She saw his ironical smile for an instant.
"Miss Waring prefers to wait for Bertie, perhaps," he remarked.

The words stung her, she scarcely knew why, and what had been a
half-reluctant prejudice before turned to sudden hot antagonism in Dot's
heart. She hated Nap Errol from that moment.

But Lucas laid a quiet hand on her arm, and her resentment died.

"I think Miss Waring was waiting for me," he said. "Will you let me lean
on you, Miss Waring? Steps are always a difficulty to me."

"Of course," she said eagerly. "Do lean hard!"

It occurred to her afterwards that the valet's assistance would have been
more effectual than hers, and at the top of the steps she glanced back at
him. He was immediately behind them, laden with some things he had taken
from the car. His eyes, as he ascended, were fixed upon Nap, and a
curious little thrill of sympathy ran through Dot as she realised that
she was not the only person who hated him.

As they passed into the great entrance-hall Bertie came springing up
behind them. "I say, can't we have tea here before you go up to see Lady
Carfax? It's the cosiest place in the whole house."

A huge fire burned on an open hearth, about which a deep lounge and
several easy-chairs were arrayed.

"That will be O.K.," said Lucas. "Fix me up on the settee, Nap."

"You had better go and rest in your room," said Nap. "Bertie and Miss
Waring are accustomed to entertaining each other."

Again Dot felt the sting--this time a tangible one--in his words. He was
evidently in a stinging mood.

She drew back quickly. "I would rather go straight up to Lady Carfax
if I may."

"Oh, I say, don't!" thrust in Bertie with a quick frown. "Lucas, you'll
stay, won't you, and have tea with us here?"

"That is my intention," said Lucas, "if Miss Waring will give us the
pleasure of her company."

And Dot, though she longed to escape, went forward with him into the glow
of the firelight.

She hoped earnestly that Nap would depart, but for some reason Nap was
minded to remain. He settled his brother on the cushions and then flung
himself into a chair on the other side of the fire. Dot was aware without
looking at him that he had her under observation; she felt the scrutiny
she could not see, and knew it was malevolent.

Bertie evidently knew it too, for he was scowling savagely in a fashion
quite unfamiliar to her. He placed a chair for her close to Lucas.

"I guess we must ask you to do the honours, Miss Waring," the latter
said. "My mother must be with Lady Carfax."

"Here's an opportunity for Miss Waring to display her charms!" gibed Nap.
"But doubtless Bertie has been initiated in the arts and wiles of
tea-making long before this. It's a bewitching performance, eh, Bertie?"

Bertie growled something unintelligible and turned his back.

"Give him plenty of sugar, Miss Waring," recommended Nap. "He's
remarkably guileless. With a little patience and subtlety on your part
he'll soon come and feed out of your hand. After that, a little feminine
persuasion is all that is required to entice the pretty bird into the
cage. He's quite a fine specimen; such a lot of gold about him, too! It
would be a pity to let him escape. There are not many of his sort, I
assure you."

The drawling insolence of the words made Dot quiver all over. She knew by
Bertie's rigidity of pose that he was furious too, but she did not dare
to look at him. She tried to attend to some remark that Lucas made to
her, but she only answered at random. She could not take in what he said.

Perhaps he saw her perturbation, for after a moment he turned from her to
Nap and very deliberately engaged him in conversation, while Bertie,
very pale but quite collected, sat down by her and began to talk also.

She did her best to second his efforts, but with Nap's eyes openly
mocking her from the other side of the hearth, she found it impossible to
divert her thoughts.

So they thought that of her, did they? They thought--that! She felt as if
she had been publicly weighed in the balances and found wanting. She told
herself passionately that she would never, as long as she lived, speak to
Nap Errol again. Everyone said he was a bounder, and everyone was right.

CHAPTER XII

BROTHERS

"Come right in!" said Mrs. Errol. "Anne, my dear, here is little Miss
Waring come to see you. I'm real pleased to meet you, child. I've watched
you in church many a time when I ought to have been saying my prayers,
and so has someone else I know."

Dot's cheeks were scarlet as she came forward to Anne's couch. She was
still telling herself with fierce emphasis that never, never again would
she voluntarily venture herself within the walls of Baronmead.

But when Anne stretched out a hand to her and smiled, all her
perturbation vanished at a breath. She went impulsively forward and knelt
down by her side. For some reason she did not feel her customary awe of
the lady of the Manor. This sad-faced woman with the deeply shadowed eyes
aroused within her something that was stronger, something that carried
her completely out of herself.

"Oh, are you better?" she said. "I have been so sorry about you."

"It was good of you to come up to see me," Anne said gently. "Yes, Dot,
I am better. I am allowed to walk again, and I am going home to-morrow."

"Not if I know it," said Mrs. Errol stoutly. "Or if you do, I go too, to
take care of you."

Anne smiled at her without replying. "Sit down, Dot," she said, "and tell
me all the news. I know you hear everything."

"But nothing has happened," said Dot. "Everybody is squabbling as usual
about the Town Hall, why we want one, why there isn't one, and when we
are going to have one. Really, there's nothing else."

"My dear," said Mrs. Errol, "everybody wants a sound spanking, and I
should like to administer it. Every township ought to have a public
building, and there's my son Lucas wanting nothing so much as to build
one and they won't let him."

"I am afraid my husband is the main obstacle," said Anne.

"Then I guess we won't discuss it," said Mrs. Errol firmly. "Who's that
scratching at the door?"

It was Bertie, as Anne knew on the instant by Dot's face. "Do ask him to
come in," she said kindly.

Bertie came in as one not wholly sure of his welcome, and took up a
position in the background. And there during the remainder of Dot's
visit he stayed, scarcely speaking, and so sternly preoccupied that
Dot's embarrassment returned upon her overwhelmingly, and she very soon
rose to go.

He stepped forward then and followed her out. "I am going to motor you
home," he said, as he escorted her down the stairs.

Dot nearly stopped short in consternation. "Oh, no, really! I'm going
home alone. It's no distance, and I know my way perfectly."

"I'm coming with you," he said doggedly.

But the memory of those eyes that had mocked her across the hall still
burned in the girl's heart. She faced him resolutely;

"You are not to, Bertie. I don't wish it."

"I can't help it," said Bertie. "I am coming."

At this point they arrived in the hall, and here she found Lucas Errol
waiting to say good-bye to her.

She turned to him with desperate appeal. "Mr. Errol, please don't let
Bertie see me home. I--I would so much rather go alone."

She was almost crying as she said it, and Lucas looked at Bertie with
most unaccustomed sharpness.

"It's all right," the boy made answer. "We haven't quarrelled yet."

The last word sounded ominous, and with her hand in Lucas's quiet grasp,
Dot shivered.

"But I'm sure we are going to," she said. "And I do so hate quarrelling.
Do, please, let me run home alone. I'm not a bit afraid."

Lucas began to smile. "I think it's rather hard on Bertie," he said.
"However--"

"I must go, Lucas," Bertie said quickly. "You don't understand. There is
something I want to explain."

But Lucas leaned a hand upon his shoulder. "Let it keep, dear fellow.
There is always tomorrow!"

"No, never, never, never!" whispered Dot to her turbulent heart.

Yet when a moment later Bertie came forward, and silently, without
looking at her, held open the door, a wild regret surged fiercely
through her, and for that second she almost wished that she had let him
go with her.

And then again there came to her that hateful whisper--that taunting,
intolerable sneer; and she fled without a backward glance.

Bertie closed the great door very quietly, and turned back into the hall.

"Where is Nap?"

"Come here, Bertie," Lucas said.

He went unwillingly. "Where is Nap?" he said again.

Lucas, supporting himself on one side with a crutch, stood by the fire
and waited for him.

As Bertie drew near he took him gently by the shoulder. "May I know what
you were going to say to Miss Waring just now?" he asked.

Bertie threw back his head. "I was going to ask her to overlook that
cad's vile insinuations--and marry me."

"And that was the very thing she didn't want you to do," Lucas said.

"I can't help it." There was a stubborn note in Bertie's voice. "She
shan't think I'm a blackguard like Nap."

"We will leave Nap out of it," Lucas said quietly.

"Why?" demanded Bertie hotly. "He was responsible. He insulted a guest
under your roof. Are you going to put up with that? Because I'm not!"

"My dear fellow, it is I, not you, who must deal with that."

Bertie stamped furiously. "That's all very well, but--dash it, Lucas,
you're always holding me back. And I can't knock under to you in this.
I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm going to have it out with Nap. Whatever you
may say, it is more my business than yours."

He would have flung round with the words, but his brother's hand was
still upon him, restraining him.

He paused, chafing. "You must let me go. I shall hurt you if you don't."

"You will hurt me if I do, boy," Lucas made grave reply.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26