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

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