The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell

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Then with an agonised effort she forced back her weakness, she forced
herself to look. Yes, the thing she had feared so horribly was being
enacted like a ghastly nightmare above her.

There on the slope was her husband, a gigantic figure outlined against
the snow. He had not stopped to parley. Those mad fits of passion always
deprived him, at the outset, of the few reasoning powers that yet
remained to him. Without question or explanation of any kind he had flung
himself upon the man he deemed his enemy, and Anne now beheld him,
gripping him by the neck as a terrier grips a rat, and flogging him with
the loaded crop he always carried to the hunt.

Nap was writhing to and fro like an eel, striving, she saw, to overthrow
his adversary. But the gigantic strength of madness was too great for
his lithe activity. By sheer weight he was borne down.

With an anguished cry Anne started to intervene. But two steps with the
skis flung her headlong upon the snow, and while she grovelled there,
struggling vainly to rise, she heard the awful blows above her like
pistol-shots through the stillness. Once she heard a curse, and once a
demonical laugh, and once, thrilling her through and through, spurring
her to wilder efforts, a dreadful sound that was like the cry of a
stricken animal.

She gained her feet at last, and again started on her upward way. Nap had
been forced to his knees, but he was still fighting fiercely, as a rat
will fight to the last. She cried to him wildly that she was coming, was
coming, made three paces, only to trip and fall again.

Then she knew that, so handicapped, she could never reach them, and with
shaking, fumbling fingers she set herself to unfasten the straps that
bound the skis. It took her a long, long time--all the longer for her
fevered haste. And still that awful, flail-like sound went on and on,
though all sound of voices had wholly ceased.

Free at last, she stumbled to her feet, and tore madly up the hill. She
saw as she went that Nap was not struggling any longer. He was hanging
like a wet rag from the merciless grip that upheld him, and though his
limp body seemed to shudder at every crashing blow, he made no voluntary
movement of any sort.

As she drew near, her husband suddenly swung round as though aware of
her, and dropped him. He fell in a huddled heap upon the snow, and lay,
twisted, motionless as a dead thing.

Sir Giles, his eyes suffused and terrible, turned upon his wife.

"There lies your gallant lover!" he snarled at her. "I think I've cured
him of his fancy for you."

Her eyes met his. For a single instant, hatred, unveiled, passionate,
shone out at him like sudden, darting lightning. For a single instant she
dared him with the courage born of hatred. It was a challenge so distinct
and personal, so fierce, that he, satiated for the moment with revenge,
drew back instinctively before it, as an animal shrinks from the flame.

She uttered not a word. She did not after that one scorching glance deign
to do battle with him. Without a gesture she dismissed him, kneeling
beside his vanquished foe as though he were already gone.

And--perhaps it was the utter intrepidity of her bearing that deprived
him of the power to carry his brutality any further just then--perhaps
the ferocity that he had never before encountered in those grey eyes
cowed him somewhat in spite of the madness that still sang in his
veins--whatever the motive power it was too potent to resist--Sir Giles
turned and tramped heavily away.

Anne did not watch him go. It was nothing to her at the moment whether he
went or stayed. She knelt beside the huddled, unconscious figure and
tried to straighten the crumpled limbs. The sweater had been literally
torn from his back, and the shirt beneath it was in blood-stained
tatters. His face was covered with blood. Sir Giles had not been
particular as to where the whip had fallen. Great purple welts crossed
and re-crossed each other on the livid features. The bleeding lips were
drawn back in a devilish grimace. He looked as though he had been
terribly mauled by some animal.

Anne gripped a handful of snow, hardly knowing what she did, and tried to
stanch the blood that ran from an open cut on his temple. She was not
trembling any longer. The emergency had steadied her. But the agony of
those moments was worse than any she had ever known.

Minutes passed. She was beginning to despair. An icy dread was at her
heart. He lay so lifeless, so terribly inert. She had attempted to lift
him, but the dead weight was too much for her. She could only rest his
head against her, and wipe away the blood that trickled persistently from
that dreadful, sneering mouth. Would he ever speak again, she asked
herself? Were the fiery eyes fast shut for ever? Was he dead--he whose
vitality had always held her like a charm? Had her friendship done this
for him, that friendship he had valued so highly?

She stooped lower over him. The anguish of the thought was more than she
could bear.

"O God," she prayed suddenly and passionately, "don't let him die! Don't
let him die!"

And in that moment Nap's eyes opened wide and fixed themselves upon her.

He did not attempt to move or speak, but the snarling look went wholly
out of his face. The thin lips met and closed over the battered mouth. He
lay regarding her intently, as if he were examining some curious thing he
had never seen before.

And before that gaze Anne's eyes wavered and sank. She felt she could
never meet his look again.

"Are you better?" she whispered. "Can I--will you let me--help you?"

"No," he said. "Just--leave me!" He spoke quite quietly, but the very
sound of his voice sent a perfect storm of emotion through her.

"I can't!" she said almost fiercely. "I won't! Let me help you! Let me do
what I can!"

He stirred a little, and his brow contracted, but he never took his eyes
from her face.

"Don't be--upset," he said with an effort. "I'm not going--to die!"

"Tell me what to do," she urged piteously. "Can I lift you a
little higher?"

"For Heaven's sake--no!" he said, and swallowed a shudder. "My
collar-bone's broken."

He was silent for a space, but still his dusky eyes watched her
perpetually.

At last, "Let me hold your hand," he said.

She put it into his, and he held it tightly. The blood was running down
his face again, and she wiped it softly away.

"Thank you," he said.

Those two words, spoken almost under his breath, had a curious effect
upon her. She felt as if something had suddenly entered and pierced her
heart. Before she knew it, a sharp sob escaped her, and then all in a
moment she broke down.

"Oh, Nap, Nap," she sobbed, "I wish I had died before this could happen!"

She felt his hand tighten as she crouched there beside him in her
anguish, and presently she knew that he had somehow managed to raise
himself to a sitting posture.

Through her agony his voice came to her. It was pitched very low, yet
she heard it.

"Don't cry--for pity's sake! I shall get over it. I shall live--to get
back--my own."

Torn by emotion as she was, something in the last words, spoken in that
curious undertone, struck her with a subtle force. With a desperate
effort she controlled herself. She knew that he was still watching her
with that strange intensity that she could not bring herself to meet. His
right hand still held hers with quivering tenacity; the other trailed
uselessly on the snow.

"Let me help you," she urged again.

He was silent; she feared he was going to refuse. And then she saw that
his head had begun to droop forward, and realised that he was on the
verge of another collapse. Instinctively she slipped her arm about his
shoulders, supporting him. He was shuddering all over. She drew his head
to rest against her.

A long time passed thus, she kneeling motionless, holding him, while he
panted against her breast, struggling with dogged persistence to master
the weakness that threatened to overpower him. It was terrible to see him
so, he the arrogant, the fierce, the overbearing, thus humbled to the
earth before her. She felt the agony of his crushed pride, and yearned
with an intensity that was passionate to alleviate it. But there seemed
nothing for her to do. She could only kneel and look on in bitter
impotence while he fought his battle.

In the end he lifted his face. "It's the collarbone that hurts so
infernally. Could you push something under my left arm to hold it up?
Your muff would do. Mind my wrist--that's broken too. Ah!" She heard the
breath whistle sharply between his lips as with the utmost care she
complied with these instructions, but almost instantly he went on: "Don't
be afraid of touching me--unless I'm too monstrous to touch. But I don't
believe I can walk."

"I will help you," she said. "I am very strong."

"You are--wonderful," he said.

And the words comforted her subtly though she did not know exactly what
he meant by them.

Thereafter they scarcely spoke at all. By slow degrees he recovered his
self-command, though she knew with only too keen a perception how
intolerable was the pain that racked his whole body. With her assistance
and with strenuous effort he managed at last to get upon his feet, but he
was immediately assailed afresh by deadly faintness, and for minutes he
could stand only by means of her arms upholding him.

Later, with his one available arm across her shoulders, he essayed to
walk, but it was so ghastly an ordeal that he could accomplish only a few
steps at a time.

Anne did not falter now. She was past that stage. All her nerves were
strung to meet his pressing need. Again and again as he hung upon her,
half-fainting, she stopped to support him more adequately till he had
fought down his exhaustion and was ready to struggle on again. She
remained steadfast and resolute throughout the long-drawn-out agony of
that walk over the snow.

"Great Heaven!" he muttered once. "That you should do this--for me!"

And she answered him quickly and passionately, as though indeed there
were something within that spoke for her, "I would do anything for
you, Nap."

It was drawing near to sunset when at last the end of the journey came in
sight. Anne perceived the car waiting in the distance close to the spot
where Nap had descended upon her that morning.

She breathed a sigh of thankfulness. "I scarcely thought he would have
waited for you so long," she said.

"He daren't do otherwise," said Nap, and she caught a faint echo of
arrogance in the words.

And then of his own free will he paused and faced her. "You are coming
with me," he said.

She shook her head. "No, Nap."

His eyes blazed redly. His disfigured face was suddenly devilish. "You
are mad if you go back," he said.

But she shook her head again. "No, I know what I am doing. And I am going
back now. But I will come to Baronmead in the morning."

He looked at her. "Are you--tired of life?" he asked abruptly.

She smiled--a piteous smile. "Very, very tired!" she said. "But you
needn't be afraid of that. He will not touch me. He will not even see me
to-night." Then, as he still looked combative, "Oh, please, leave this
matter to my judgment! I know exactly what I am doing. Believe me, I am
in no danger."

He gave in, seeing that she was not to be moved from her purpose.

They went a few yards farther; then, "In Heaven's name--come early to
Baronmead," he said jerkily. "I shall have no peace till you come."

"I will," she promised.

The chauffeur came to meet them with clumsy solicitude as they neared the
car, but Nap kept him at a distance.

"Don't touch me! I've had a bad fall skiing. It's torn me to ribbons.
Just open the door. Lady Carfax will do the rest!" And as the man turned
to obey, "Not a very likely story, but it will serve our turn."

"Thank you," she said very earnestly.

He did not look at her again. She had a feeling that he kept his eyes
from her by a deliberate effort of the will.

Silently she helped him into the car, saw him sink back with her muff
still supporting his injured arm, whispered a low "Good-bye!" and turned
to the waiting chauffeur.

"Drive him quickly home," she said. "And then go for a doctor."

Not till the car was out of sight did she realise that her knees were
shaking and refusing to support her. She tottered to a gate by the
roadside, and there, clinging weakly with her head bowed upon her arms,
she remained for a very long time.

CHAPTER XX

THE VISION

It was growing dusk when Anne at length came to the Manor. She was
utterly weary and faint from lack of food. The servant who admitted her
looked at her strangely, as if half afraid.

"Please have tea taken to my sitting-room," she said quietly, as she
passed him.

And with that she went straight to her room. Standing before a mirror to
remove her hat, she caught sight of something that seemed to stab her
heart. The cream cloth coat she wore was all spattered with blood.

She stood rigid, not breathing, staring into the white face above
it--the white face of a woman she hardly knew, with compressed lips and
wild, tragic eyes. What was it those eyes held? Was it hatred? Was it
madness? Was it--?

She broke away horror-stricken, and stripped the coat from her with hands
like ice. Again through her mind, with feverish insistence, ran those
words that had startled her earlier in the day. She found herself
repeating them deliriously, under her breath: "I beheld Satan--as
lightning--fall from heaven!"

Why did they haunt her so? What was it in the utterance that
frightened her? What meaning did they hold for her? What hidden terror
lay behind it? What had happened to her? What nightmare horror was
this clawing at her heart, lacerating, devouring, destroying? It was
something she had never felt before, something too terrible to face,
too overwhelming to ignore.

Was she going mad, she asked herself? And like a dreadful answer to a
riddle inscrutable her white lips whispered those haunting unforgettable
words: "I beheld Satan--as lightning--fall from heaven."

Mechanically she bathed her face and hands and passed into her
sitting-room, where her tea awaited her. A bright fire crackled there,
and her favourite chair was drawn up to it. The kettle hissed merrily on
a spirit-lamp.

Entering, she found, somewhat to her surprise, old Dimsdale waiting to
serve her.

"Thank you," she said. "I can help myself."

"If your ladyship will allow me," he said deferentially.

She sat down, conscious of a physical weakness she could not control. And
the old butler, quiet and courteous and very grave, proceeded to make the
tea and wait upon her in silence.

Anne lay back in her chair with her eyes upon the fire, and accepted his
ministrations without further speech. There was a very thorough
understanding between herself and Dimsdale, an understanding established
and maintained without words.

The tea revived her, and after a little she turned her head and looked
up at him.

"Well, Dimsdale?"

Dimsdale coughed. "It was about Sir Giles that I wanted to speak to your
ladyship."

"Well?" she said again.

"Sir Giles, my lady, is not himself--not at all himself," Dimsdale told
her cautiously. "I was wondering just before you came in if I didn't
ought to send for the doctor."

"Why, Dimsdale?" Anne looked straight up into the old man's troubled
face, but her eyes had a strangely aloof expression, as though the matter
scarcely touched her.

Dimsdale shook his head. "It's not the same as usual, my lady. I've never
seen him like this before. There's something--I don't rightly know
what--about him that fair scares me. If your ladyship will only let me
send for the doctor--"

He paused. Anne's eyes had gone back to the fire. She seemed to be
considering.

"I don't think the doctor would be at home," she said at last. "Wait till
the morning, Dimsdale--unless he is really ill."

"My lady, it's not that," said Dimsdale. "There's nothing ails his body.
But--but--" he faltered a little, and finally, "It's his mind," he said,
"if I may make so bold as to say it. I don't believe as he's safe. I'm
afraid he'll be doing a mischief to--someone."

His pause was not lost upon Anne. Again she raised her eyes and steadily
regarded him.

"To whom, Dimsdale?" she asked.

"My lady--" the old man murmured unwillingly.

"To me?" she questioned in a quiet, unmoved voice. "Why are you
afraid of that?"

Dimsdale hesitated.

"Tell me," she said. But again her eyes had sunk to the fire. She seemed
as one not vitally interested, as one whose thoughts were elsewhere.

Reluctantly Dimsdale made answer: "He's been cutting your ladyship's
portrait into strips and burning 'em in the study fire. It was dreadful
to see him, so intent like and quiet. I saw him put his hand right into
the flame once, and he didn't seem to know. And he came in in one of his
black moods with his hunting-crop broken right in two. Carrying the
pieces he was, and glaring like as if all the world was against him. I
was afraid there would be trouble when he came home to lunch and found
your ladyship not there."

He stopped, arrested by a sudden movement from Anne. She had leaned
forward and covered her face with her hands. The tension of her attitude
was such that Dimsdale became strongly aware that his presence was an
intrusion. Yet, the matter being urgent, he stood his ground.

He waited silently, and presently Anne lifted her head. "I think you
must leave the matter till the morning, Dimsdale," she said. "It could do
no good to have the doctor at this hour. Besides, I doubt if he could
come. And Sir Giles will be himself again after a night's rest."

"I'm very much afraid not, my lady," said Dimsdale lugubriously. "He's
drinking brandy--neat brandy--all the while. I've never seen him drink
like that before. It fair scares me, and that's the truth."

"You are not afraid on your own account?" Anne asked.

"Oh, no, my lady. He wouldn't interfere with me. It's your ladyship--"

"Ah, well," she said, quietly interrupting, "you need not be afraid for
me either. I shall not go downstairs again to-night. He will not be
expecting me."

"Very good, my lady."

Dimsdale looked somewhat relieved but not wholly satisfied. He lingered
as if he longed yet did not dare to say more.

As for Anne, she sat quite motionless gazing into the fire, her hands
clasped very tightly before her. She seemed to have dismissed the subject
under discussion and the faithful Dimsdale simultaneously from her mind.

After a few seconds the old butler realised this, and without further ado
he removed the tea-things and went quietly away.

Anne did not notice his departure. She was too deep in thought. Her
brain was steadier now, and she found it possible to think. For the first
time she was asking herself if she would be justified in bringing her
long martyrdom to an end. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain,
patiently, conscientiously, unflaggingly, throughout those seven bitter
years. She had married her husband without loving him, and he had never
sought to win her love. He had married her for the sake of conquering
her, attracted by the very coldness with which she had tried in her
girlhood to repel him. She had caught his fancy in those far-off days.
Her queenliness, her grace, had captivated him. And later, with the sheer
hunter's instinct, he had pursued her, and had eventually discovered a
means of entrapping her. He had named his conditions and she had named
hers. In the end he had dispatched the father to Canada and made the
daughter his wife.

But his fancy for her had scarcely outlasted his capture. He had taken
pleasure for a while in humiliating her, counting it sport if he
succeeded in arousing her rare indignation. But soon even this had ceased
to amuse him. He had developed into that most odious of all bullies, the
domestic tyrant, and had therewith sunk back into those habits of
intemperance which his marriage had scarcely interrupted. He was many
years her senior. He treated her as a slave, and if now and then an
uncomfortable sensation of inferiority assailed him, he took his revenge
upon her in evil, glowering tempers that rendered him more of a beast
than a man.

But yet she had borne with him. By neither word nor action had she ever
voluntarily widened the breach between them: His growing dislike had not
had any visible effect upon her. She had done her duty faithfully through
all, had borne his harshness and his insults in silence, with a patience
too majestic, too colossal, for his understanding.

And now for the first time she asked herself, Did he want to be rid of
her? Had he invented this monstrous grievance to drive her from him? Were
the days of her bondage indeed drawing at last to an end? Had she borne
with him long enough? Was she free--was she free to go?

Her heart quickened at the bare thought. How gladly would she set herself
to make a living when once this burden had been lifted from her!

But she would not relinquish it without his sanction. She would be
faithful to the last, true to that bargain she had struck with him so
long ago. Yet surely he could not refuse it. She was convinced that he
hated her.

Again she felt that strange new life thrilling in her veins. Again she
felt herself almost young. To be free! To be free! To choose her own
friends without fear; to live her own life in peace; to know no further
tumults or petty tyrannies--to be free!

The prospect dazzled her. She lifted her face and gasped for breath.

Then, hearing a sound at her door, she turned.

A white-faced servant stood on the threshold. "If you please, my lady,
your coat is in a dreadful state. I was afraid there must have been an
accident."

Anne stared at the woman for a few seconds with the dazed eyes of one
suddenly awakened.

"Yes," she said slowly at length. "There was--an accident. Mr. Nap Errol
was--hurt while skiing."

The woman looked at her with frank curiosity, but there was that about
her mistress at the moment that did not encourage inquiry or comment.

She stood for a little silent; then, "What had I better do with the coat,
my lady?" she asked diffidently.

Anne made an abrupt gesture. The dazed look in her eyes had given place
to horror. "Take it away!" she said sharply. "Do what you like with it! I
never want to see it again."

"Very good, my lady."

The woman withdrew, and Anne covered her face with her hands once more,
and shuddered from head to foot.

CHAPTER XXI

AT THE MERCY OF A DEMON

Some time later Anne seated herself at her writing-table.

The idea of writing to her husband had come to her as an inspiration; not
because she shirked an interview--she knew that to be inevitable--but
because she realised that the first step taken thus would make the final
decision easier for them both.

She did not find it hard to put her thoughts into words. Her mind was
very clear upon the matter in hand. She knew exactly what she desired to
say. Only upon the subject of her friendship with Nap she could not bring
herself to touch. A day earlier she could have spoken of it, even in the
face of his hateful suspicion, without restraint. But to-night she could
not. It was as if a spell of silence had been laid upon her, a spell
which she dared not attempt to break. She dared not even think of Nap
just then.

It was not a very long letter that she wrote, sitting there in the
silence of her room, and it did not take her long to write. But when it
was finished, closed and directed, she sat on with her chin upon her
hand, thinking. It seemed scarcely conceivable that he would refuse to
let her go.

She could not imagine herself to be in any sense necessary to him. She
had helped him with the estate in many ways, but she had done nothing
that a trustworthy agent could not do, save, perhaps, in the matter of
caring for the poorer tenants. They would miss her, she told herself, but
no one else. It was very long since she had entertained any guests at the
Manor. Sir Giles had offended almost everyone who could ever have claimed
the privilege of intimacy with him. And people wondered openly that his
wife still lived with him. Well, they would not wonder much longer.

And when her life was at her own disposal what would she do with it?

There were many things she might do; as secretary, as companion, as
music-teacher, as cook. She knew she need not be at a loss. And again the
prospect of freedom from a yoke that galled her intolerably made her
heart leap.

A slight sound in the passage brought her out of her reverie. She glanced
up. It was probably Dimsdale. She would give him the note to deliver to
his master in the morning. She crossed to the door and opened it.

The next instant, in amazement, she drew back. On the threshold, face to
face with her, stood her husband!

He did not give her time to speak, but pushed straight forward into the
room as if in haste. His face was white and purple in patches. His eyes
were narrowed and furtive. There was something unspeakably evil in the
way they avoided hers. He carried his right hand behind him.

He began to speak at once in quick, staccato tones, with which she was
utterly unfamiliar.

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