The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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It was enough for Bertie. He tore up the stairs with lightning speed,
boldly announcing his advent as he went.

He found her at the top of the house in an old cupboard used for storing
fruit. She was mounted upon a crazy pair of steps that gave signs of
imminent collapse, and to save herself from the catastrophe that this
would involve she was clinging to the highest shelf with both hands.

"Be quick!" she cried to him. "Be quick! I'm slipping every second!"

The words were hardly uttered before the steps gave a sudden loud crack
and fell from beneath her with a crash. But in the same instant Bertie
sprang in and caught her firmly round the knees. He proceeded with much
presence of mind to seat her on his shoulder.

"That's all right. I've got you," he said cheerily. "None the worse, eh?
What are you trying to do? May as well finish before you come down."

Dot seemed for a moment inclined to resent the support thus jauntily
given, but against her will her sense of humour prevailed.

She uttered a muffled laugh. "I'm getting apples for dessert."

"All in your Sunday clothes!" commented Bertie. "That comes of
procrastination--the fatal British defect."

"I hate people who hustle," remarked Dot, hoping that her hot cheeks were
not visible at that altitude.

"Meaning me?" said Bertie, settling himself for an argument.

"Oh, I suppose you can't help it," said Dot, filling her basket with
feverish speed. "You Americans are all much too greedy to wait for
anything. Am I very heavy?"

"Not in the least," said Bertie. "I like being sat on now and then. I
admit the charge of greed but not of impatience. You misjudge me there."

At this point a large apple dropped suddenly upon his upturned face
and, having struck him smartly between the eyes, fell with a thud to
the ground.

Bertie said "Damn!" but luckily for Dot he did not budge an inch.

"I beg your pardon," he added a moment later.

"What for?" said Dot.

"For swearing," he replied. "I forgot you didn't like it."

"Oh!" said Dot; and after a pause, "Then I beg yours."

"Did you do it on purpose?" he asked curiously.

"I want to get down, please," said Dot.

He lowered her from his shoulder to his arms with perfect ease, set her
on the ground, and held her fast.

"Dot," he said, his voice sunk almost to a whisper, "if you're going to
be violent, I guess I shall be violent too."

"Let me go!" said Dot.

But still he held her. "Dot," he said again. "I won't hustle you any. I
swear I won't hustle you. But--my dear, you'll marry me some day.
Isn't that so?"

Dot was silent. She was straining against his arms, and yet he held her,
not fiercely, not passionately, but with a mastery the greater for its
very coolness.

"I'll wait for you," he said. "I'll wait three years. I shall be
twenty-five then, and you'll be twenty-one. But you'll marry me then,
Dot. You'll have to marry me then."

"Have to!" flashed Dot.

"Yes, have to," he repeated coolly. "You are mine."

"I'm not, Bertie!" she declared indignantly. "How--how dare you hold me
against my will? And you're upsetting the apples too. Bertie,
you--you're a horrid cad!"

"Yes, I know," said Bertie, an odd note of soothing in his voice. "That's
what you English people always do when you're beaten. You hurl insults,
and go on fighting. But it's nothing but a waste of energy, and only
makes the whipping the more thorough."

"You hateful American!" gasped Dot. "As if--as if--we could be beaten!"

She had struggled vainly for some seconds and was breathless. She turned
suddenly in his arms and placed her hands against his shoulders, forcing
him from her. Bertie instantly changed his position, seized her wrists,
drew them outward, drew them upward, drew them behind his neck.

"And yet you love me," he said. "You love yourself better, but--you
love me."

His face was bent to hers, he looked closely into her eyes. And--perhaps
it was something in his look that moved her--perhaps it was only the
realisation of her own utter impotence--Dot suddenly hid her face upon
his shoulder and began to cry.

His arms were about her in an instant. He held her against his heart.

"My dear, my dear, have I been a brute to you? I only wanted to make you
understand. Say, Dot, don't cry, dear, don't cry!"

"I--I'm not!" sobbed Dot.

"Of course not," he agreed. "Anyone can see that. But
still--darling--don't!"

Dot recovered herself with surprising rapidity. "Bertie, you--you're a
great big donkey!" She confronted him with wet, accusing eyes. "What you
said just now wasn't true, and if--if you're a gentleman you'll
apologise."

"I'll let you kick me all the way downstairs if you like," said
Bertie contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you, honest. I didn't mean
to make you--"

"You didn't!" broke in Dot. "But you didn't tell the truth. That's why
I'm angry with you. You--told--a lie."

"I?" said Bertie.

He had taken his arms quite away from her now. He seemed in fact a little
afraid of touching her. But Dot showed no disposition to beat a retreat.
They faced each other in the old apple cupboard, as if it were the most
appropriate place in the world for a conflict.

"Yes, you!" said Dot.

"What did I say?" asked Bertie, hastily casting back his thoughts.

She looked at him with eyes that seemed to grow more contemptuously
bright every instant. "You said," she spoke with immense deliberation,
"that I loved myself best."

"Well?" said Bertie.

"Well," she said, and took up her basket as one on the point of
departure, "it wasn't true. There!"

"Dot!" His hand was on the basket too. He stopped her without touching
her. "Dot!" he said again.

Dot's eyes began to soften, a dimple showed suddenly near the corner of
her mouth. "You shouldn't tell lies, Bertie," she said.

And that was the last remark she made for several seconds, unless the
smothered protests that rose against Bertie's lips could be described as
such. They were certainly not emphatic enough to make any impression, and
Bertie treated them with the indifference they deserved.

Driving home, he managed to steer with one hand while he thrust the other
upon his brother's knee.

"Luke, old chap, I've gone dead against your wishes," he jerked out.
"And--for the first time in my life--I'm not sorry. She'll have me."

"I thought she would," said Lucas. He grasped the boy's hand closely.
"There are times when a man--if he is a man--must act for himself,
eh, Bertie?"

Bertie laughed a little. "I don't believe it was against your wishes
after all."

"Well, p'r'aps not." There was a very kindly smile in the sunken eyes. "I
guess you're a little older than I thought you were, and anyway, she
won't marry you for the dollars."

"She certainly won't," said Bertie warmly. "But she's horribly afraid of
people saying so, since Nap--"

"Ah! Never mind Nap!"

"Well, it's made a difference," Bertie protested. "We are not going to
marry for three years. And no one is to know we are engaged except you
and her father."

"She doesn't mind me then?"

There was just a tinge of humour in the words, and Bertie looked at
him sharply.

"What are you grinning at? No, of course she doesn't mind you. But what's
the joke?"

"Look where you're going, dear fellow. It would be a real pity to break
your neck at this stage."

Bertie turned his attention to his driving and was silent for a little.

Suddenly, "I have it!" he exclaimed. "You artful old fox! I believe you
had first word after all. I wondered that she gave in so easily. What did
you say to her?"

"That," said Lucas gently, "is a matter entirely between myself and
one other."

Bertie broke into his gay boyish laugh and sounded the hooter for sheer
lightness of heart.

"Oh, king, live for ever--and then some! You're just the finest fellow in
the world!"

"Open to question, I am afraid," said the millionaire with his quiet
smile. "And as to living for ever--well, I guess it's a cute idea in the
main, but under present conditions it's a notion that makes me tired."

"Who said anything about present conditions?" demanded Bertie, almost
angrily; and then in an altered voice: "Old man, I didn't mean that, and
you know it. I only meant that you will always be wanted wherever you
are. God doesn't turn out a good thing like you every day."

"Oh, shucks!" said Lucas Errol softly.

CHAPTER XV

THE CHAMPION

When Mrs. Errol remarked in her deep voice, that yet compassed the
incomparable Yankee twang, that she guessed she wasn't afraid of any man
that breathed, none of those who heard the bold assertion ventured to
contradict her.

Lucas Errol was entertaining a large house-party, and the great hall
was full of guests, most of whom had just returned from the day's
sport. The hubbub of voices was considerable, but Mrs. Errol's remark
was too weighty to be missed, and nearly everyone left off talking to
hear its sequel.

Mrs. Errol, who was the soul of hospitality, but who, nevertheless,
believed firmly in leaving people to amuse themselves in their own way,
had only returned a few minutes before from paying a round of calls. She
was wrapped in furs from head to foot, and her large, kindly face shone
out of them like a November sun emerging from a mass of cloud.

There was a general scramble to wait upon her, and three cups of tea were
offered her simultaneously, all of which she accepted with a nod of
thanks and a gurgle of laughter.

"Put it down! I'll drink it presently. Where do you think I've just come
from? And what do you think I've been doing? I'll wager my last dollar no
one can guess."

"Done!" said Nap coolly, as he pulled forward a chair to the blaze.
"You've been bearding the lion in his den, and not unsuccessfully, to
judge by appearances. In other words, you've been to the Manor and have
drunk tea with the lord thereof."

Mrs. Errol subsided into the chair and looked round upon her interested
audience. "Well," she said, "you're right there, Nap Errol, but I
shan't part with my last dollar to you, so don't you worry any about
that. Yes, I've been to the Manor. I've had tea with Anne Carfax. And
I've talked to the squire as straight as a mother. He was pretty mad at
first, I can assure you, but I kept on hammering it into him till even
he began to get tired. And after that I made my points. Oh, I was
mighty kind on the whole. But I guess he isn't under any
misapprehension as to what I think of him. And I'm going over to-morrow
to fetch dear Anne over here to lunch."

With which cheerful announcement Mrs. Errol took up one of her cups of
tea and drank it with a triumphant air.

"I told him," she resumed, "he'd better watch his reputation, for he was
beginning to be regarded as the local Bluebeard. Oh, I was as frank as
George Washington. And I told him also that there isn't a man inside the
U.S.A. that would treat a black as he treats his wife. I think that
surprised him some, for he began to stutter, and then of course I had the
advantage. And I used it."

"It must have been real edifying for Lady Carfax," drawled Nap.

Mrs. Errol turned upon him. "I'm no bigger a fool than I look, Nap Errol.
Lady Carfax didn't hear a word. We had it out in the park. I left the
motor half way on purpose, and made his high mightiness walk down with
me. He was pretty near speechless by the time I'd done with him, but he
did just manage at parting to call me an impertinent old woman. And I
called him--a gentleman!"

Mrs. Errol paused to swallow her second cup of tea.

"I was wheezing myself by that time," she concluded. "But I'd had my say,
and I don't doubt that he is now giving the matter his full and careful
attention, which after all is the utmost I can expect. It may not do dear
Anne much good, but I guess it can't do her much harm anyway, and it was
beer and skittles to me. Why, it's five weeks now since she left, and
she's only been over once in all that time, and then I gather there was
such a row that she didn't feel like facing another till she was quite
strong again."

"An infernal shame!" declared Bertie hotly. "I'll drive you over myself
to-morrow to fetch her. We'll get up some sports in her honour. I wonder
if she likes tobogganing."

"I wonder if she will come," murmured Nap.

Mrs. Errol turned to her third cup. "She'll come," she said with
finality; and no one raised any further question on that point. Mrs.
Errol in certain moods was known to be invincible.

Though it was nearly the middle of March, the land was fast held in the
grip of winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow, and a continuous
frost succeeding it had turned Baronmead into an Alpine paradise.
Tobogganing and skating filled the hours of each day; dancing made fly
the hours of each night. Bertie had already conducted one ice gymkhana
with marked success, and he was now contemplating a masquerade on the
ornamental sheet of water that stretched before the house. Strings of
fairy lights were being arranged under his directions, and Chinese
lanterns bobbed in every bush.

He was deeply engrossed in these preparations, but he tore himself away
to drive his mother to the Manor on the following morning. His alacrity
to do this was explained when he told her that he wanted to drop into the
Rectory and persuade the rector to bring Dot that night to see the fun,
to which plan Mrs. Errol accorded her ready approval, and even undertook
to help with the persuading, to Bertie's immense gratification. He and
his mother never talked confidences, but they understood each other so
thoroughly that words were superfluous.

So they departed both in excellent spirits, while Lucas leaning upon
Nap's shoulder, went down to the lake to watch the skaters and to
superintend Bertie's preparations for the evening's entertainment.

The voices of the tobogganists reached them from a steep bit of ground
half-a-mile away, ringing clearly on the frosty air.

"The other side of that mound is tip-top for skiing," remarked Nap,
"better than you would expect in this country. But no one here seems
particularly keen on it. I was out early this morning and tried several
places that were quite passable, but that mound was the best!"

"After dancing till three," commented Lucas. "What a restless
fellow you are!"

Nap laughed a somewhat hard laugh. "One must do something. I never sleep
after dawn. It's not my nature."

"You'll wear yourself to a shadow," smiled Lucas. "There's little enough
of you as it is--nothing but fire and sinew!"

"Oh, rats, my dear fellow! I'm as tough as leather. There would need to
be something very serious the matter for me to lie in bed after daylight.
Just look at that woman doing eights! It's a sight to make you shudder."

"Whom do you mean? Mrs. Van Rhyl? I thought you were an admirer of hers."

Nap made a grimace. "Where is your native shrewdness? And I never
admired her skating anyway. It's about on a par with Mrs. Damer's
dancing. In the name of charity, don't ask that woman to come and help us
dance again. I'm not equal to her. It's yoking an elephant to a zebra."

"I thought you liked Mrs. Damer," said Lucas.

Nap grimaced again. "She's all right in the hunting-field. Leave her in
her own sphere and I can appreciate her."

"Do you think you are capable of appreciating any woman?" asked Lucas
unexpectedly.

Nap threw him a single fiery glance that was like a sword-thrust. His
slight figure stiffened to arrogance. But his answer, when it came,
was peculiarly soft and deliberate--it was also absolutely and
imperiously final.

"I guess so."

Lucas said no more, but he did not look wholly satisfied. There were
times in his dealings with Nap when even his tolerance would carry him
no further.

They spent a considerable time on the terrace in front of the house. It
was a sheltered spot, and the sunshine that day was generous.

"This place is doing you good," Nap remarked presently. "You are
considerably stronger than you were."

"I believe I am," Lucas answered. "I sleep better."

He had just seated himself on a stone bench that overlooked the lake.
His eyes followed the darting figures of the skaters with a certain
intentness.

Nap leaned upon the balustrade and watched him. "Why don't you see Capper
again?" he asked suddenly.

The millionaire's gaze gradually lost its intentness and grew remote. "I
am afraid he is on the wrong side of the Atlantic," he said.

"You can cable to him."

"Yes, I know." Slowly Lucas raised his eyes to his brother's face. "I can
have him over to tell me what he told me before--that I haven't the
recuperative strength essential to make his double operation a success."

"He may tell you something different this time." Nap spoke insistently,
with the energy of one not accustomed to accept defeat.

Lucas was silent.

"Say, Lucas"--there was more than insistence in his tone this time; it
held compulsion--"you aren't faint-hearted?"

The blue eyes began to smile. "I think not, Boney. But I've got to hang
on for the present--till you and the boy are married. P'r'aps then--I'll
take the risk."

Nap looked supercilious. "And if it is not my intention to marry?"

"You must marry, my dear fellow. You'll never be satisfied otherwise."

"You think marriage the hall-mark of respectability?" Nap sneered openly.

"I think," Lucas answered quietly, "that for you marriage is the
only end. The love of a good woman would be your salvation. Yes, you
may scoff. But--whether you admit it or not--it is the truth. And
you know it."

But Nap had ceased already to scoff; the sneer had gone from his face. He
had turned his head keenly as one who listens.

It was nearly a minute later that he spoke, and by that time the humming
of an approaching motor was clearly audible.

Then, "It may be the truth," he said, in a tone as deliberate as his
brother's, "and it may not. But--no good woman will ever marry me, Luke.
And I shall never marry--anything else."

He stooped, offering his shoulder for support. "Another guest, I fancy.
Shall we go?"

He added, as they stood a moment before turning, "And if you won't send
for Capper--I shall."

CHAPTER XVI

THE MASQUERADE

The brothers were standing together on the steps when Anne alighted from
the car, and her first thought as she moved towards them was of their
utter dissimilarity. They might have been men of different nationalities,
so essentially unlike each other were they in every detail. And yet she
felt for both that ready friendship that springs from warmest gratitude.

Nap kept her hand a moment in his grasp while he looked at her with that
bold stare of his that she had never yet desired to avoid. On the
occasion of her last visit to Baronmead they had not met. She wondered if
he were about to upbraid her for neglecting her friends, but he said
nothing whatever, leaving it to Lucas to inquire after her health while
he stood by and watched her with those dusky, intent eyes of his that
seemed to miss nothing.

"I am quite strong again, thank you," she said in answer to her host's
kindly questioning. "And you, Mr. Errol?"

"I am getting strong too," he smiled. "I am almost equal to running
alone; but doubtless you are past that stage. Slow and sure has been my
motto for some years now."

"It is a very good one," said Anne, in that gentle voice of hers that was
like the voice of a girl.

He heard the sympathy in it, and his eyes softened; but he passed the
matter by.

"I hope you have come to stay. Has my mother managed to persuade you?"

"She will spend to-night anyway," said Mrs. Errol.

"And only to-night," said Anne, with quiet firmness. "You are all very
kind, but--"

"We want you," interposed Lucas Errol.

She smiled, a quick smile that seemed reminiscent of happier days. "Yes,
and thank you for it. But I must return in good time to-morrow. I told my
husband that I would do so. He is spending the night in town, but he will
be back to-morrow."

Nap's teeth were visible, hard clenched upon his lower lip as he
listened, but still he said nothing. There was something peculiarly
forcible, even sinister, in his silence. Not until Anne presently turned
and directly addressed him did his attitude change.

"Will you take me to see the lake?" she said. "It looked so charming as
we drove up."

He moved instantly to accompany her. They went out together into the
hard brightness of the winter morning.

"It is so good to be here," Anne said a little wistfully. "It is like a
day in paradise."

He laughed at that, not very pleasantly.

"It is indeed," she persisted, "except for one thing. Now tell me; in
what have I offended?"

"You, Lady Carfax!" His brows met for an instant in a single,
savage line.

"Is it only my fancy?" she said. "I have a feeling that all is not
peace."

He stopped abruptly by the balustrade that bounded the terrace. "The
queen can do no wrong," he said. "She can hurt, but she cannot offend."

"Then how have I hurt you, Nap?" she said.

The quiet dignity of the question demanded an answer, but it was slow in
coming. He leaned his arms upon the balustrade, pulling restlessly at the
ivy that clung there. Anne waited quite motionless beside him. She was
not looking at the skaters; her eyes had gone beyond them.

Abruptly at length Nap straightened himself. "I am a fool to take you to
task for snubbing me," he said. "But I am not accustomed to being
snubbed. Let that be my excuse."

"Please tell me what you mean," said Anne.

He looked at her. "Do you tell me you do not know?"

"Yes," she said. Her clear eyes met his. "Why should I snub you? I
thought you were a friend."

"A friend," he said, with emphasis. "I thought so too. But--"

"Yes?" she said gently.

"Isn't it customary with you to answer your friends when they write to
you?" he asked.

Her expression changed. A look of sharp pain showed for an instant in her
eyes. "My invariable custom, Nap," she said very steadily.

"Then--that letter of mine--" he paused.

"When did you write it?"

"On the evening of the day you came here last--the day I missed you."

"It did not reach me," she said, her voice very low.

He was watching her very intently. "I sent it by messenger," he said. "I
was hunting that day. I sat down and wrote the moment I heard you had
been. Tawny Hudson took it."

"It did not reach me," she repeated. She was very pale; her eyes had
dropped from his.

"I was going to allow you a month to answer that letter," he went on, as
though she had not spoken. "After that, our--friendship would have been
at an end. The month will be up to-morrow."

Anne was silent.

"Lady Carfax," he said, "will you swear to me that you never received
that letter?"

"No," she said.

"You will not?"

"I will not."

He made a sudden movement--such a movement as a man makes involuntarily
at an unexpected dart of pain.

Anne raised her eyes very quietly. "Let us be quite honest," she said.
"No oath is ever necessary between friends."

"You expect me to believe you?" he said, and his voice was shaken by some
emotion he scarcely tried to hide.

She smiled very faintly. "You do believe me," she said.

He turned sharply from her. "Let us go down," he said.

They went down to the garden below the terrace, walking side by side, in
silence. They stood at the edge of the lake together, and presently they
talked--talked of a hundred things in which neither were greatly
interested. A few people drifted up and were introduced. Then Bertie came
running down, and their _tete-a-tete_ was finally at an end.

They were far away from one another during luncheon, and when the meal
was over Nap disappeared. He never concerned himself greatly about his
brother's guests.

At Bertie's persuasion Anne had brought skates, and she went down with
him to the lake in the afternoon, where they skated together till
sunset. She had a curious feeling that Nap was watching her the whole
time, though he was nowhere to be seen; nor did he appear at tea in the
great hall.

Later Mrs. Errol took possession of her, and they sat together in the
former's sitting-room till it was time to dress for dinner. Anne had
brought no fancy dress, but her hostess was eager to provide for her.
She clothed her in a white domino and black velvet mask, and insisted
upon her wearing a splendid diamond tiara in the shape of a heart in her
soft hair.

When she finally descended the stairs in Mrs. Errol's company, a slim man
dressed as a harlequin in black and silver, who was apparently waiting
for her halfway down, bowed low and presented a glorious spray of crimson
roses with the words: "For the queen who can do no wrong!"

"My, Nap! How you startled me!" ejaculated Mrs. Errol.

But Anne said nothing whatever. She only looked him straight in the eyes
for an instant, and passed on with the roses in her hand.

During dinner she saw nothing of him. The great room was crowded with
little tables, each laid for two, and she sat at the last of all with her
host. Later she never remembered whether they talked or were silent. She
only knew that somewhere the eyes that had watched her all the afternoon
were watching her still, intent and tireless, biding their time. But
silence in Lucas Errol's company was as easy as speech. Moreover, a
string band played continuously throughout the meal, and the hubbub
around them made speech unnecessary.

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