The Knave of Diamonds, Ethel May Dell [fun books to read for adults txt] 📗

said nothing whatever. He sat motionless, the letter still in his hand, his eyes unswervingly fixed upon her,
That sphinx-like stare became unbearable at last. She gathered her strength and rose.
"You came upon me at an unlucky moment," she said. "Please forget it."
He still stared at her stonily without moving or speaking. Something that was almost fear gripped her. The very stillness of the man was in a fashion intimidating.
She stood before him, erect, and at least outwardly calm. "May I have my letter?" she said.
The words were a distinct command, and after a very decided pause he responded to it. He rose with a quick, lithe movement, and handed her the letter with a brief bow.
An instant later, while she still waited for him to speak, he turned on his heel and left her.
Very soon after, Mrs. Errol came in, and then one after another those who were staying in the house for the entertainment. But Anne had commanded herself by that time. No one noticed anything unusual in her demeanour.
Nap was absent from the dinner--table. Someone said that he was superintending some slight alteration on the stage. It was so ordinary an occurrence for him to fail to appear at a meal that no one was surprised. Only Anne covered a deep uneasiness beneath her resolute serenity of manner. She could not forget that basilisk stare. It haunted her almost to the exclusion of everything else. She had no thought to spare for the letter regarding her husband. She could only think of Nap. What had that stare concealed? She felt that if she could have got past those baffling, challenging eyes she would have seen something terrible.
Yet when she met him again she wondered if after all she had disquieted herself for nought. He was standing at the stage-entrance to the marquee, discussing some matter with one of the curtain-pullers when she arrived. He stood aside for her to pass, and she went by quickly, avoiding his eyes.
She kept out of his way studiously till her turn came, then perforce she had to meet him again, for he was stationed close to the opening on to the stage through which she had to pass. For the moment there was no one else at hand, and she felt her heart beat thick and fast as she waited beside him for her cue.
He did not speak to her, did not, she fancied, even look at her; but after a few dumb seconds his hand came out to hers and held it in a close, sinewy grip. Her own was nerveless, cold as ice. She could not have withdrawn it had she wished. But she did not wish. That action of his had a strange effect upon her, subtly calming her reawakened doubts. She felt that he meant to reassure her, and she suffered herself to be reassured.
Later, she marvelled at the ingenuity that had so successfully blinded her, marvelled at herself for having been so blinded, marvelled most of all at the self-restraint that could so shackle and smother the fierce passion that ran like liquid fire in every vein as to make her fancy that it had ceased to be.
When her turn came at length she collected herself and left him with a smile.
She went through her part very creditably, but she was unspeakably thankful when it was over.
"You are tired, Lady Carfax," Lucas murmured, when at length she found her way to the seat beside him that he had been reserving for her.
"A little," she admitted.
And then suddenly the impulse to tell him the primary cause of her trouble came upon her irresistibly. She leaned towards him and spoke under cover of the orchestra.
"Mr. Errol, I have had news of--my husband. He wants to come home. No, he is not well yet, but decidedly better, well enough to be at liberty in the charge of an attendant. And so--and so--"
The whispered words failed. She became silent, waiting for the steady sympathy for which she knew she would never wait in vain.
But he did not speak at once. It almost seemed as if he were at a loss. It almost seemed as if he realised too fully for speech that leaden weight of despair which had for a space so terribly overwhelmed her.
And then at last his voice came to her, slow and gentle, yet with a vital note in it that was like a bugle-call to her tired spirit. "Stick to it, Lady Carfax! You'll win out. You're through the worst already."
Desperately, as one half-ashamed, she answered him. "I wish with all my heart I could think so. But--I am still asking myself if--if there is no way of escape."
He turned his head in the dim light and looked at her, and shame stabbed her deeper still. Yet she would not recall the words. It was better that he should know, better that he should not deem her any greater or worthier than she was.
Then, "Thank you for telling me," he said very simply. "But you'll win out all the same. I have always known that you were on the winning side."
The words touched her in a fashion not wholly accountable. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
"What makes you have such faith in me?" she said.
The light was too dim for her so see his face, but she knew that he was smiling as he made reply.
"That's just one of the things I can't explain," he said. "But I think God made you for a spar for drowning men to cling to."
She smiled with him in spite of the tears. "May the spar never fail you!" she said.
"I am not afraid," he answered very steadily.


CHAPTER IX
THE BOON

It was long before Anne slept that night, but yet though restless she was not wholly miserable. Neither was she perplexed. Her duty lay before her clearly defined, and she meant to fulfil it. Those few words with Lucas Errol had decided her beyond all hesitancy, so completely was she in sympathy with this strong friend of hers. Perhaps her wavering had only been the result of a moment's weakness, following upon sudden strain. But the strain had slackened, and the weakness was over. She knew that even Nap had not the power to move her now. With the memory of his firm hand-grip came the conviction that he would not seek to do so. Like herself he had been momentarily dismayed it might be, but he had taken his place among her friends, not even asking to be foremost, and remembering this, she resolutely expelled any lingering doubt of him. Had she not already proved that she had but to trust him to find him trustworthy? What tangible reason had he given her for withdrawing her trust even for a moment? She reproached herself for it, and determined that she would never doubt him again.
But yet sleep was long in coming to her. Once when it seemed near, the hooting of an owl near the open window drove it away; and once in the vague twilight before the dawn she started awake to hear the sharp thudding of a horse's hoofs galloping upon the turf not very far away. That last set her heart a-beating, she could not have said wherefore, save that it reminded her vaguely of a day in the hunting-field that had ended for her in disaster.
She slept at last and dreamed--a wild and fearful dream. She dreamed that she was on horseback, galloping, galloping, galloping, in headlong flight from someone, she knew not whom, but it was someone of whom she was unspeakably afraid. And ever behind her at break-neck speed, gaining upon her, merciless as fate, galloped her pursuer. It was terrible, it was agonising, yet, though in her heart she knew it to be a dream, she could not wake. And then, all suddenly, the race was over. Someone drew abreast of her. A sinewy hand gripped her bridle-rein. With a gasping cry she turned to face her captor, and saw--a Red Indian! His tigerish eyes gazed into hers. He was laughing with a fiendish exultation. The eagle feathers tossed above his swarthy face. It came nearer to her; it glared into her own. And suddenly recognition stabbed her like a sword. It was the face of Nap Errol....
He was on the stairs talking to Hudson, the valet, when she descended to breakfast, but he turned at once to greet her.
"I am sorry to say Lucas has had a bad night. He will keep his room to-day. How have you slept, Lady Carfax?"
She answered him conventionally. They went downstairs together.
Bertie was in the hall studying a newspaper. He came forward, scowling heavily, shook hands with Anne, and immediately addressed his brother.
"I've just come in from the stable. Have you been out all night? You've nearly ridden the mare to death."
Anne glanced at Nap instinctively. He was smiling. "Don't vex yourself, my good Bertie," he said. "The mare will be all right after a feed."
"Will she?" growled Bertie. "She is half dead from exhaustion anyway."
"Oh, skittles!" said Nap, turning to go.
The boy's indignation leaped to a blaze. "Skittles to you! I know what I'm saying. And if you're not ashamed of yourself, you damned well ought to be!"
Nap stopped. "What?" he drawled.
Bertie glared at him and subsided. The explosion had been somewhat more violent than he had intended.
Very quietly Nap stepped up to him. "Will you repeat that last remark of yours?"
Bertie was silent.
"Or do you prefer to withdraw it?"
Bertie maintained a dogged silence. He was fidgeting with the paper in a fashion that seemed to indicate embarrassment.
"Do you withdraw it?" Nap repeated, still quiet, still slightly drawling.
Bertie hunched his shoulders like a schoolboy. "Oh, get away, Nap!" he growled. "Yes--sorry I spoke. Now clear out and leave me alone!"
Anne was already at the further end of the hall, but Nap overtook her before she entered the breakfast room. He opened the door for her, and as she passed him she saw that he was still faintly smiling.
"Pardon the _contretemps_!" he said. "You may have noticed before that I am not particularly good at swallowing insults."
"I wonder if there was a cause for it," she said, looking at him steadily. "Remember, I know what your riding is like."
He raised his eyebrows for a moment, then laughed. The room they entered was empty.
"No one down yet!" he observed. "Take a seat by the window. What will you have?"
He attended to her wants and his own, and finally sat down facing her. He seemed to be in excellent spirits.
"Please don't look so severe!" he urged. "Just as I am going to ask a favour of you, too!"
She smiled a little but not very willingly. "I don't like cruel people," she said. "Cruelty is a thing I can never forget because I abhor it so."
"And are you never cruel?" said Nap.
"I hope not."
"I hope not, too," he rejoined, giving her a hard look. "But I sometimes have my doubts."
Anne looked out of the window in silence.
The sharp rapping of his knuckles on the table recalled her. She turned, slightly startled, and met his imperious eyes. He smiled at her.
"Queen Anne, I crave a boon."
Almost involuntarily she returned his smile. "So you said before."
"And you don't even ask what it is."
"I am not quite sure that I want to know, Nap," she said.
"You are not liking me this morning," he observed.
She made no answer.
"What is it?" he said. "Is it the mare?"
She hesitated. "Perhaps, in part."
"And the other part?" He leaned forward, looking