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The Knave of Diamonds

by Ethel M. Dell · English · Gutenberg #12484 · 660,849 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Knave of Diamonds

Author: Ethel M. Dell


        
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12484]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KNAVE OF DIAMONDS ***

THE KNAVE OF DIAMONDS

By ETHEL M. DELL

Author of "The Way Of An Eagle"

1912







I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY FRIEND AND SISTER IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF
HER SYMPATHY AND HELP




O Charity, all patiently
    Abiding wrack and scaith!
O Faith that meets ten thousand cheats
    Yet drops no jot of faith!
Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
    To higher, lordlier show,
Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
    The careless angels know!

_To the True Romance_.

RUDYARD KIPLING




CONTENTS


PART I


CHAPTER

    I.--THE MISSING HEART

   II.--THE QUEEN'S JESTER

  III.--THE CHARIOT OF THE GODS

   IV.--CAKE MORNING

    V.--THE FIRST ENCOUNTER

   VI.--AT THE MEET

  VII.--THE FALL

 VIII.--THE RIDE HOME

   IX.--THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE

    X.--THE HAND OF A FRIEND

   XI.--THE STING OF A SCORPION

  XII.--BROTHERS

 XIII.--THE JESTER'S INFERNO

  XIV.--A BIG THING

   XV.--THE CHAMPION

  XVI.--THE MASQUERADE

 XVII.--THE SLAVE OF GOODNESS

XVIII.--THE DESCENT FROM OLYMPUS

  XIX.--VENGEANCE

   XX.--THE VISION

  XXI.--AT THE MERCY OF A DEMON

 XXII.--THE CITY OF REFUGE


PART II


    I.--THE JESTER'S RETURN

   II.--THE KERNEL OF THE DIFFICULTY

  III.--THE FIRST ORDEAL

   IV.--THE FATAL STREAK

    V.--THE TOKEN

   VI.--THE BURIAL OF A HATCHET

  VII.--A QUESTION OF TRUST

 VIII.--A SUDDEN BLOW

   IX.--THE BOON

    X.--A DAY IN PARADISE

   XI.--THE RETURN TO EARTH

  XII.--IN THE FACE OF THE GODS

 XIII.--AN APPEAL AND ITS ANSWER

  XIV.--THE IRRESISTIBLE

   XV.--ON THE EDGE OF THE PIT

  XVI.--DELIVERANCE


PART III


    I.--THE POWER DIVINE

   II.--THE WORKER OF MIRACLES

  III.--THE WOMAN'S PART

   IV.--THE MESSAGE

    V.--THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

   VI.--A VOICE THAT CALLED

  VII.--THE UNINVITED GUEST

 VIII.--THE HEART OF A SAVAGE

   IX.--THE DIVINE SPARK

    X.--THE QUEEN'S PARDON

   XI.--SOMETHING GREAT

  XII.--A FRIENDLY UNDERSTANDING

 XIII.--THE FINAL DEFEAT

  XIV.--AT THE GATE OF DEATH

   XV.--THE KING'S DECREE

  XVI.--THE STRAIGHT GAME

 XVII.--THE TRANSFORMING MAGIC

XVIII.--THE LAST ORDEAL

  XIX.--OUT OF THE FURNACE

   XX.--THE PROMOTION OF THE QUEEN'S JESTER

  XXI.--THE POWER THAT CASTS OUT DEVILS





PART I



CHAPTER I

THE MISSING HEART


There came a sudden blare of music from the great ballroom below, and the
woman who stood alone at an open window on the first floor shrugged her
shoulders and shivered a little. The night air blew in brisk and cold
upon her uncovered neck, but except for that slight, involuntary shiver
she scarcely seemed aware of it. The room behind her was brilliantly
lighted but empty. Some tables had been set for cards, but the cards were
untouched. Either the attractions of the ballroom had remained
omnipotent, or no one had penetrated to this refuge of the bored--no one
save this tall and stately woman robed in shimmering, iridescent green,
who stood with her face to the night, breathing the chill air as one who
had been on the verge of suffocation. It was evidently she who had flung
up the window. Her gloved hands leaned upon the woodwork on each side of
it. There was a certain constraint in her whole attitude, a tension that
was subtly evident in every graceful line. Her head was slightly bent as
though she intently watched or listened for something.

Yet nothing could have been audible where she stood above the hubbub of
music, laughter, and stamping feet that rose from below. It filled the
night with uproar. Nor was there anything but emptiness in the narrow
side-street into which she looked.

The door of the room was ajar and gradually swinging wider in the
draught. Very soon it would be wide enough for anyone passing in the
passage outside to spy the slim figure that stood so motionless before
the open window. It was almost wide enough now. Surely it was wide
enough, for suddenly it ceased to move. The draught continued to eddy
round the room, stirring the soft brown hair about the woman's temples,
but the door stood still as at the behest of an unseen hand.

For fully half a minute nothing happened; then as suddenly and silently
as a picture flashed from a magic lantern slide, a man's head came into
view. A man's eyes, dusky, fierce, with something of a stare in them,
looked the motionless figure keenly up and down.

There followed another interval as though the intruder were debating
with himself upon some plan of action, then, boldly but quite quietly, he
pushed the door back and entered.

He was a slight, trim man, clean-shaven, with high cheek-bones that made
a long jaw seem the leaner by contrast. His sleek black hair was parted
in the middle above his swarthy face, giving an unmistakably foreign
touch to his appearance. His tread was light and wary as a cat's.

His eyes swept the room comprehensively as he advanced, coming back
to the woman at the window as though magnetically drawn to her. But
she remained quite unaware of him, and he, no whit disconcerted,
calmly seated himself at one of the tables behind her and took up a
pack of cards.

The dance-music in the room below was uproariously gay. Some of the
dancers were singing. Now and then a man's voice bellowed through the
clamour like the blare of a bull.

Whenever this happened, the man at the table smiled to himself a faint,
thin-lipped smile, and the woman at the window shivered again.

Suddenly, during a lull, he spoke. He was counting out the cards into
heaps with lightning rapidity, turning up one here and there, and he did
not raise his eyes from his occupation.

"I say, you know," he said in a drawl that was slightly nasal, "you will
have to tell me how old you are. Is that an obstacle?"

She wheeled round at the first deliberate syllable. The electric
light flared upon her pale, proud face. She stood in dead silence,
looking at him.

"You mustn't mind," he said persuasively, still without lifting his eyes.
"I swear I'll never tell. Come now!"

Very quietly she turned and closed the window; then with a certain
stateliness she advanced to the table at which he sat, and stopped
before it.

"I think you are making a mistake," she said, in a voice that had a hint
of girlish sweetness about it despite its formality.

He looked up then with a jerk, and the next instant was on his feet.

"Gad! I'm tremendously sorry! What must you take me for? I took you for
Mrs. Damer. I beg you will forgive me."

She smiled a little, and some of the severity went out of her face. For a
moment that too seemed girlish.

"It is of no consequence. I saw it was a mistake."

"An idiotic mistake!" he declared with emphasis. "And you are not a bit
like Mrs. Damer either. Are you waiting for someone? Would you like me to
clear out?"

"Certainly not. I am going myself."

"Oh, but don't!" he begged her very seriously. "I shall take it horribly
to heart if you do. And really, I don't deserve such a snub as that."

Again she faintly smiled. "I am not feeling malicious, but you are
expecting your partner. And I--"

"No, I am not," he asserted. "My partner has basely deserted me for
another fellow. I came in here merely because I was wandering about
seeking distraction. Please don't go--unless I bore you--in which case
you have only to dismiss me."

She turned her eyes questioningly upon the cards before him. "What are
you doing with them? Is it a game?"

"Won't you sit down?" he said, "and I will tell you."

She seated herself facing him. "Well?"

He considered the cards for a little, his brows bent. Then, "It is a
magician's game," he said. "Let me read your fortune."

She hesitated.

Instantly he looked up. "You are not afraid?"

She met his look, a certain wistfulness in her grey eyes. "Oh, no, not
afraid--only sceptical."

"Only sceptical!" he echoed. "That is a worldwide complaint. But anyone
with imagination can always pretend. You are not good at pretending?"

"Not particularly."

His eyes challenged hers. "Perhaps you have never needed an anaesthetic?"
he said coolly.

She looked slightly startled. "What do you mean?"

He leaned deliberately forward across the table. "You know what an
anaesthetic does, don't you? It cheats the senses of pain. And a little
humbug does the same for the mind. Of course you don't believe anything.
I don't myself. But you can't stand for ever and contemplate an abyss of
utter ignorance. You must weave a little romance about it for the sake of
your self-respect."

She looked straight into the challenging eyes. The wistfulness was still
in her own. "Then you are offering to weave a little romance for me?" she
said, with a faint involuntary sigh.

He made her a brief bow. "If you will permit me to do so."

"To relieve your boredom?" she suggested with a smile.

"And yours," he smiled back, taking up the cards.

She did not contradict him. She only lowered her eyes to the deft hands
that were disposing the cards in mystic array upon the table.

There followed a few moments of silence; then in his careless, unmusical
drawl the man spoke.

"Do you mind telling me your first name? It is essential to the game, of
course, or I shouldn't presume to ask."

"My name is Anne," she said.

The noise below had lessened considerably, and this fact seemed to cause
her some relief. The tension had gone out of her bearing. She sat with
her chin upon her hand.

Not a beautiful woman by any means, she yet possessed that indescribable
charm which attracts almost in spite of itself. There was about her
every movement a queenly grace that made her remarkable, and yet she was
plainly not one to court attention. Her face in repose had a look of
unutterable weariness.

"How old are you please?" said the magician.

"Twenty-five."

He glanced up at her.

"Yes, twenty-five," she repeated. "I am twenty-five to-day."

He looked at her fixedly for a few seconds, then in silence returned to
his cards.

She continued to watch him without much interest. The dance-music was
quickening to the _finale_. The hubbub of voices had died away. Evidently
a good many people had ceased to dance.

Suddenly her companion spoke. "Do you like diamonds?"

She smiled at the question. "Yes, I like them. I haven't a passion
for them."

"No," he said, without raising his eyes. "You haven't a passion for
anything at present. You will have soon."

"I think it very unlikely," she said.

"Of course you do." He was manoeuvring the cards rapidly with one hand.
"Your eyes have not been opened yet. I see an exciting time before you.
You are going to have an illness first. That comes in the near future."

"I have never been ill in my life," she said.

"No? It will be an experience for you, then--not a very painful one, I
hope. Are you getting nervous?"

"Not in the least."

"Ah! That's as well, because here comes the King of Diamonds. He has
taken a decided fancy to you, and if you have any heart at all, which
I can't discover, you ought to end by being the Queen. No, here comes
the Knave--confound his impudence!--and, by Jove, yes, followed by the
missing heart. I am glad you have got one anyway, even if the King is
not in it. It looks as if you will have some trouble with that Knave,
so beware of him." He glanced up at her for a moment. "Beware of him!"
he repeated deliberately. "He is a dangerous scamp. The King is the
man for you."

She received his caution with that faint smile of hers that softened her
face but never seemed to reach her eyes.

He continued his contemplation of the cards in silence for some seconds.
"Yes," he said finally, "I see an exciting future before you. I hope you
will look out for me when you come into your own. I should value your
majesty's favour immensely."

"I will give you a place at court as the Queen's jester," she said.

He glanced up again sharply, met her smile, and bowed with much ceremony.
"Your majesty's most humble servant!" he declared, "I enter upon my
functions from this day forward. You will see my cap and bells in the
forefront of the throng when you ride to your coronation."

"You are sure there will be a coronation?" she asked.

"It is quite evident," he replied with conviction.

"Even though I chance to be married already?"

He raised his brows. "That so?" he drawled. "Well, it rather complicates
matters, doesn't it? Still--" He looked again at the cards. "It seems
pretty certain. If it weren't for that hobgoblin of a Knave I should say
it was quite so. He comes between the King and the heart, you see. I
shouldn't be too intimate with him if I were you."

She rose, still smiling. "I shall certainly keep him at a respectful
distance," she said. "Good-bye."

"Oh, are you going? Let me escort you! Really, I've nothing else to do."
He swept the cards together and sprang to his feet. "Where may I take
you? Would you like some refreshment?"

She accepted his proffered arm though she instantly negatived his
proposal. "Shall we go down to the vestibule? No doubt you have a partner
for the next dance."

"Have you?" he questioned keenly.

"That is beside the point," she remarked.

"Not at all. It is the centre and crux of the situation. Do say you are
disengaged for the next!" His manner became almost boyishly eager. He
had shed his drawl like a garment. "Say it!" he insisted.

She stood in the doorway as one halting between two opinions. "But if I
am not disengaged?" she said.

He laughed. "There is a remedy for that, I fancy. And the Queen can do
no wrong. Don't be a slave to the great god Convention! He's such a
hideous bore."

His bold dark eyes smiled freely into hers. It was evident that he wasted
little time before the shrine of the deity he condemned. But for all
their mastery, they held a certain persuasive charm as well. She
hesitated a moment longer--and was lost.

"Well, where shall we go?"

"I know of an excellent sitting-out place if your majesty will deign to
accompany me," he said, "a corner where one can see without being
seen--always an advantage, you will allow."

"You seem to know this place rather well," she observed, as she suffered
him to lead her away in triumph.

He smiled shrewdly. "A wise general always studies his ground," he said.




CHAPTER II

THE QUEEN'S JESTER


The chosen corner certainly had the advantage of privacy. It was an
alcove at the end of one of the long narrow passages in which the ancient
hostelry abounded, and the only light it boasted filtered through a
square aperture in the wall which once had held a window. Through this
aperture the curious could spy into the hall below, which just then was
thronged with dancers who were crowding out of the ballroom and drifting
towards the refreshment-room, the entrance to which was also visible.

An ancient settee had been placed in this coign of vantage, and upon this
they established themselves by mutual consent.

The man was laughing a little below his breath. "I feel like a
refugee," he said.

His companion leaned her arms upon the narrow row sill and gazed
downwards. "A refugee from boredom?" she suggested. "We are all that,
more or less."

"I dispute that," he said at once. "It is only the bores who are
ever bored."

"And I dispute that," she replied, without turning, "of necessity, in
self-defence."

He leaned forward to catch the light upon her profile. "You are bored?"

She smiled faintly in the gloom. "That is why I have engaged the services
of a jester."

"By Jove," he said, "I'm glad you pitched on me."

She made a slight movement of impatience. "Isn't it rather futile to say
that sort of thing?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you know quite well it was not a matter of choice."

"Rather a matter of _manque de mieux_?" he suggested coolly.

She turned from her contemplation of the crowd below. "I am not going to
contradict you," she said, "I never foster _amour propre_ in a man. It is
always a plant of hardy growth."

"'Hardy' is not the word," he declared. "Say 'rank,' and you will be
nearer the mark. I fully endorse your opinion. We are a race of
conceited, egotistical jackanapeses, and we all think we are going to
lick creation till a pretty woman comes along and makes us dance to her
piping like a row of painted marionettes. But is the pretty woman any
the happier, do you think, for tumbling us thus ruthlessly off our
pedestals? I sometimes wonder if the sight of the sawdust doesn't make
her wish she hadn't."

The drawl in his voice was very apparent as he uttered the last sentence.
His chin was propped upon his hands. He was obviously studying her with a
deliberate criticism that observed and considered every detail.

But his scrutiny held without embarrassing her. She met it with no
conscious effort.

"I can't bear cynicism," she told him frankly.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Cynics--real cynics--never can."

"But I am not a cynic."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, quite sure."

"And yet you tell me that you never take the trouble to flatter the
inferior male. That's conflicting evidence, you know. Are you a
man-hater, by the way?"

She shivered as if at a sudden draught. "I'm not prepared to answer that
question off-hand." she said.

"Very prudent of you!" he commented. "Do you know I owe you an apology?"

"I shouldn't have said so."

"No? Well, let me confess. I'm rather good at confessing. I didn't
believe you just now when you said you were twenty-five. Now I do. That
single streak of prudence was proof absolute and convincing."

"I usually tell the truth," she said somewhat stiffly.

"Yes, it takes a genius to lie properly. I am not so good at it myself as
I should like to be. But a woman of twenty-five ought not to look like a
princess of eighteen--a tired princess moreover, who ought to have been
sent to bed long ago."

Her laugh had in it a note of bitterness. "You certainly are not the sort
of genius you aspire to be," she said, "any more than I am a princess of
eighteen."

"But you will be a queen at thirty," he said. "Hullo! Here is someone
coming! Don't speak, and p'r'aps they won't discover us. They can't
stay long."

He rose swiftly with the words and blocked the little spy-hole with
his body. Certainly footsteps were approaching, but they ceased before
they reached the alcove at the end of the passage. There was another
settee midway.

"Oh, this is quite comfortable," said a woman's voice. "Here I am, Major
Shirley! It's dark, isn't it, but rather a relief after the glare
downstairs. What a crush it is! I am beginning to think the Hunt Ball
rather a farce, for it is next to impossible to dance."

"People don't know how to dance nowadays," grumbled Major Shirley in
response. "I can't stand these American antics. That young Nap Errol
fairly sickens me."

"Oh, but he is a splendid dancer," protested his partner tolerantly.

"Oh course you say so," growled the Major. "All women like that horrid
little whipper-snapper. I can't see what in thunder they find to attract
them. I call him a downright cad myself, and I'm inclined to think him a
blackguard as well. He wouldn't be tolerated if it weren't for his
dollars, and they all belong to his brother, I'm told."

"Ah! He is a charming man. Such a pity he is a cripple!"

"He would probably be as insufferable as Nap if he weren't," rejoined the
Major gloomily. "I can't think what the County are coming to. They will
accept anybody nowadays, it seems to me. I even met that little bounder
at the Rifle Club the other day. Heaven knows how he got in. Dollars
again, I suppose, confound his audacity!"

His partner made a slight movement of uneasiness. "I wonder where he
is. I haven't seen him for some time. I hope he isn't anywhere
within earshot."

"Not he! He is stowed away in some corner well out of the way with his
latest conquest. He won't turn up again this evening. He never does when
once he goes to earth--the wily young fox."

"Who is his latest conquest, I wonder?" mused the woman. "I thought it
was Mrs. Damer. But I have just seen her dancing with young Waring."

"Mrs. Damer! Why, that was the day before yesterday!" The Major laughed
unpleasantly. "'Anyone for a change, but no one for long,' is his motto.
The fellow is an infernal bounder through and through. He will get a
sound hiding one of these days, and serve him jolly well right, say I!"

"My dear Major, how you hate him! Anyone would think he had tried to
flirt with Violet."

"He'd better," growled the Major.

There came a slight sound from the darkness of the alcove, as though
someone faintly chuckled.

"What's that?" asked the woman's voice nervously.

"Nothing--nothing!" said the Major testily. "Somebody laughing in the
hall. I wonder where my wife is. I shall clear out soon. I'm tired of
this show. Haven't had a decent dance all the evening. Shouldn't think
you have either. They ought to build a Town Hall in this place, and do
the thing properly."

"There is some talk of it, you know. Now that there is a millionaire in
the neighbourhood it really might be done. The Carfaxes would help too, I
am sure. Sir Giles is very open-handed."

"Drunken beast!" commented the Major. "A pretty spectacle he has been
making of himself to-night. He is sitting in a corner of the
refreshment-room now absolutely incapable. He reached the noisy stage
very early in the evening. I am not sure that he even came sober."

"No! Isn't it too pitiful for words? That young wife of his! I can't
think how she endures it. It must be positive martyrdom."

"Lady Carfax is a fool!" said the Major crossly. "I can't stand these
martyrs. If she leads a dog's life it's her own fault. She's a fool to
put up with it."

"Perhaps she can't help herself," pleaded the woman.

"Stuff and nonsense! No woman need be the slave of a drunken sot like
that. It's a downright offence to me to be in the same room with the
fellow. He always reeks of drink. And she has, or professes to have, a
certain amount of refinement. Not much, I dare say. She was nothing but
his bailiff's daughter, you know, and people of that class don't
generally suffer from an exaggerated sense of duty. She probably sticks
to the man because she wants to keep in with the County. I don't like the
woman, never did. Her airs and graces always rub me up wrong way. Why
couldn't Sir Giles have married in his own set? He probably wouldn't be
so fond of the whiskey bottle now if he had."

"I must say I like Lady Carfax," broke in the woman with decision.
"Whatever her origin, that queenliness of hers is not assumed. I believe
her to be intensely reserved, and, perhaps for that very reason, I have a
genuine admiration for her."

"My dear Mrs. Randal, you'd find points to admire in a wax candle,"
grunted the Major. "She always makes me think of one; pale and pure and
saintly--I can't stand the type. Let's go downstairs and find Violet."

"Oh, not saintly, I think," protested Mrs. Randal charitably. "Saintly
people are so uninteresting."

The Major laughed. He was already on his feet.

"Probably not--probably not. But a show of saintliness is more than
enough to frighten me away. A woman who can't understand a wink I
invariably strike forthwith off my visiting-list."

"How cruel of you!" laughed Mrs. Randal. They were already moving away
down the corridor. Her voice receded as they went. "But I can't
understand any man daring to wink at Lady Carfax; I can't, indeed."

"That's just what I complain about," grumbled Major Shirley. "Those
wax-candle sort of women never see a joke. What fools they are to leave
the place in darkness like this! Can you see where you are going?"

"Yes, we are just at the head of the stairs. It is rather foolish as you
say. People might hurt themselves."

"Of course they might. Infernally dangerous. I shall complain."

The voices fell away into distance; the band in the ballroom struck
up again, and the woman on the settee in the alcove sat up and
prepared to rise.

"Suppose we go down now," she said.

Her companion moved away from the little window as one coming out of a
reverie. "Our gallant Major Shirley seems somewhat disgruntled tonight,"
he said. "Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him." Her words fell with icy precision.

"So do I." The man's tone was one of sheer amusement. "I had the pleasure
of meeting him at the Rifle Club the other day. Someone introduced us. It
was great fun. If there were a little more light, I would show you what
he looked like. For some reason he wasn't pleased. Do you really want to
go downstairs though? It is much nicer here."

She had risen. They were facing one another in the twilight. "Yes," she
said, and though still quiet her voice was not altogether even. "I want
to go, please."

"Mayn't I tell you something first?" he said.

She stood silent, evidently waiting for his communication.

"It's not of paramount importance," he said. "But I think you may as well
know it for your present edification and future guidance. Madam, I am
that wicked, wanton, wily fox, that whipper-snapper, that unmitigated
bounder--Nap Errol!"

He made the announcement with supreme complacence. It was evident that he
felt not the faintest anxiety as to how she would receive it. There was
even a certain careless hauteur about him as though the qualities he
thus frankly enumerated were to him a source of pride.

She heard him with no sign of astonishment. "I knew it," she said
quietly. "I have known you by sight for some time."

"And you were not afraid to speak to such a dangerous scoundrel?" he
said.

"You don't strike me as being very formidable," she answered. "Moreover,
if you remember, it was you who spoke first."

"To be sure," he said. "It was all of a piece with my habitual confounded
audacity. Shall I tell you something more? I wonder whether I dare."

"Wait!" she said imperatively. "It is my turn to tell you something,
though it is more than possible that you know it already. Mr. Errol, I
am--Lady Carfax!"

He bowed low. "I did know," he said, in a tone from which all hint of
banter had departed. "But I thank you none the less for telling me. I
much doubted if you would. And that brings me to my second--or is it my
third?--confession. I did not take you for Mrs. Damer in the card-room a
little while ago. I took you for no one but yourself. No man of ordinary
intelligence could do otherwise. But I had been wanting to make your
acquaintance all the evening, and no one would be kind enough to present
me. So I took the first opportunity that occurred, trusting to the end to
justify the means."

"But why have you told me?" she said.

"Because I think you are a woman who appreciates the truth."

"I am," she said. "But I do not often hear it as I have heard it
to-night"

He put out his hand to her impulsively. "Say, Lady Carfax, let me go and
kick that old scandal-monger into the middle of next week!"

Involuntarily almost she gave her hand in return. "No, you mustn't," she
said, laughing faintly. "The fault was ours. You know the ancient adage
about listeners. We deserved it all."

"Don't talk about deserts!" he exclaimed, with unexpected vehemence. "He
doesn't deserve to have a whole bone left in his body for speaking of you
so. Neither do I for suffering it in my presence!"

She freed her hand gently. "You could not have done otherwise. Believe
me, I am not altogether sorry that you were with me when it happened. It
is just as well that you should know the truth, and I could not have told
it you myself. Come, shall we go down?"

"Wait a minute!" he said. "Let me know how I stand with you first. Have
you decided to pass over that lie of mine, or are you going to cut me
next time we meet?"

"I shall not cut you," she said.

"You are going to acknowledge me then with the coldest of nods, which is
even more damnable," he returned, with gloomy conviction.

She hesitated for an instant. Then, "Mr. Errol," she said gently, "will
you believe me when I say that, however I treat you in the future, that
lie of yours will in no way influence me? You have helped me much more
than you realise by your trifling to-night. I am not sure that you meant
to do so. But I am grateful to you all the same."

"Then we are friends?" said Nap, quickly.

"Yes, we are friends; but it is very unlikely that we shall meet again. I
cannot invite you to call."

"And you won't call either on my mother?" he asked.

"I am afraid not."

He was silent a moment. Then, "So let it be!" he said. "But I fancy we
shall meet again notwithstanding. So _au revoir_, Lady Carfax! Can you
find your own way down?"

She understood in an instant the motive that prompted the question, and
the impulse to express her appreciation of it would not be denied. She
extended her hand with an assumption of royal graciousness that did not
cloak her gratitude. "Good-bye, Sir Jester!" she said.

He took her fingers gallantly upon his sleeve and touched them with his
lips. "Farewell to your most gracious majesty!" he responded.




CHAPTER III

THE CHARIOT OF THE GODS


The Hunt Ball was over, and Mrs. Damer, wife of the M.F.H., was
standing on the steps of the Carfax Arms, bidding the last members of
the Hunt farewell.

Nap Errol was assisting her. He often did assist Mrs. Damer with that
careless, half-insolent gallantry of his that no woman ever dreamed of
resenting. Like his namesake of an earlier date he held his own wherever
he went by sheer, stupendous egotism.

The crowd had thinned considerably, the band had begun to pack up. In the
refreshment-room waiters were hurrying to and fro.

"Isn't it horrid?" laughed Mrs. Damer, shrugging her shoulders and
shivering. "One feels so demoralised at this end of the night. Nap, I
wish you would find my husband. I've said good-night to everybody, and I
want to go home to bed."

"Lady Carfax hasn't gone yet," observed Nap. "I saw her standing in the
doorway of the ladies' cloak-room just now."

"Lady Carfax! Are you sure? I thought they went long ago. Is their
carriage waiting then?"

"Yes. It is still there."

Mrs. Damer hastened into the ladies' cloak-room, still half-incredulous.

At her entrance Anne Carfax, clad in a white wrap that made her face look
ghastly, turned from the dying fire.

"My dear Lady Carfax!" exclaimed Mrs. Damer. "I quite thought you left
ages ago. What is it? Is anything the matter?"

The pale lips smiled. "No, nothing, thank you. I am only waiting for
my husband."

"Ah! Then we are in the same plight. I am waiting for mine." Mrs. Damer
hastened to veil her solicitude, which was evidently unwelcome. She
caught up her cloak and began to fumble with it. The attendant had gone.

"Let me!" said Anne, in her quiet voice, and took it from her.

Her fingers touched Mrs. Damer's neck, and Mrs. Damer shivered audibly.
"Thank you, thank you! You are as cold as ice. Are you well wrapped up?"

"Yes, quite. I am never very warm, you know. It is not my nature. Is Mr.
Damer ready? I hope you will not delay your departure on my account. Sir
Giles will not be long, I think."

"We will send Nap Errol to find him," said Mrs. Damer.

"Oh, no, thank you. That is quite unnecessary. Please do not trouble
about me. A few minutes more or less make little difference."

The words came with the patience of deadly weariness. She was still
faintly smiling as she wound a scarf about Mrs. Damer's head.

"I am quite ready, you see," she said. "I shall leave the moment
he appears."

"My dear Lady Carfax, you have the patience of a saint. I am afraid
Phil does not find me so long-suffering." Mrs. Damer bustled back into
the hall. "Are you there, Nap? Do see if you can find Sir Giles. Poor
Lady Carfax is half-dead with cold and fit to drop with fatigue. Go and
tell him so."

"Please do nothing of the sort," said Lady Carfax behind her. "No doubt
he will come when he is ready."

Nap Errol looked from one to the other with swift comprehension in his
glance. "Let me put you into your carriage first, Mrs. Damer," he said,
offering his arm. "Your husband is busy for the moment--some trifling
matter. He begs you will not wait for him. I will drive him back in my
motor. I have to pass your way, you know."

Mrs. Damer shook hands hurriedly with Lady Carfax and went with him.
There was something imperative about Nap just then. They passed out
together on to the baize-covered pavement, and Anne Carfax breathed a
faint sigh of relief.

A few seconds later the Damer carriage was clattering down the street,
and Nap Errol was once more by her side.

"Look here," he said. "Let me take you home in my motor first. No one
will know."

She looked at him, her lips quivering a little as though they still tried
to smile. "Thank you very much," she said. "But--I think not."

"No one will ever know," he reiterated. "I will just set you down at your
own door and go away. Come, Lady Carfax!" His dark eyes gazed straight
into her own, determined, dominating. The high cheek-bones and long, lean
jaw looked as though fashioned in iron.

"Come!" he said again.

She made a slight forward movement as if to yield, and then drew back
again. "Really, I had better wait and go with my husband," she said.

"You had better not!" he said with emphasis. "I have just seen him. He is
in the smoke-room. I won't tell you what he is like. You probably know.
But if you are a wise woman you will leave him for Damer to look after,
and come with me."

That decided her. She threw the hood of her cloak over her head and
turned in silence to the door.

Errol paused to pull on an overcoat and then followed her on to the
steps. A large covered motor had just glided up. He handed her into it.
"By Jove, you are cold!" he said.

She made no rejoinder.

He stepped in beside her, after a word with the chauffeur, and
shut the door.

Almost instantly they were in motion, and in another moment were shooting
forward swiftly down the long, ill-lighted street.

Anne Carfax sank back in her corner and lay motionless. The glare of the
little electric lamp upon her face showed it white and tired. Her eyes
were closed.

The man beside her sat bolt upright, his eyes fixed unblinkingly upon the
window in front, his jaw set grimly. He held the gloves he had worn all
the evening between his hands, and his fingers worked at them
unceasingly. He was rending the soft kid to ribbons.

They left the desolate street behind and came into total darkness.

Suddenly, but very quietly, Anne spoke. "This is very kind of you,
Mr. Errol."

He turned towards her. She had opened her eyes to address him, but the
lids drooped heavily.

"The kindness is on your side, Lady Carfax," he said deliberately. "If
you manage to inspire it in others, the virtue is still your own."

She smiled and closed her eyes again. It was evident that she did not
desire to talk.

He looked away from her, glanced at his torn gloves, and tossed them
impatiently from him.

For ten minutes neither spoke. The car ran smoothly on through the night
like an inspired chariot of the gods. There was no sound of wheels. They
seemed to be borne on wings.

For ten minutes the man sat staring stonily before him, rigid as a
statue, while the woman lay passive by his side.

But at the end of that ten minutes the speed began to slacken. They came
softly to earth and stopped.

Errol opened the door and alighted. "Have you a key?" he said, as he gave
her his hand.

She stood above him, looking downwards half-dreamily as one emerging from
a deep slumber.

"Do you know," she said, beginning to smile, "I thought that you were the
Knave of Diamonds?"

"You've been asleep," he said rather curtly.

She gave a slight shudder as the night air brought her back, and in a
moment, like the soft dropping of a veil, her reserve descended upon her.

"I am afraid I have," she said, "Please excuse me. Are we already at the
Manor? Yes, I have the key."

She took his hand and stepped down beside him.

"Good night, Mr. Errol," she said. "And thank you."

He did not offer to accompany her to the door. A light was burning
within, and he merely stood till he heard the key turn in the lock, then
stepped back into the motor and slammed it shut without response of any
sort to her last words.

Anne Carfax was left wondering if her dream had been a cause of offense.




CHAPTER IV

CAKE MORNING


"Oh, bother! It's cake morning." Dot Waring turned from the Rectory
breakfast-table with a flourish of impatience. "And I do so want to hear
all about it," she said. "You might have come down earlier, Ralph."

"My good sister," said the rector's son, helping himself largely to bread
and honey, "consider yourself lucky that I have come down at all after
dancing half the night with Mrs. Damer, who is no light weight."

"You didn't, Ralph! I am quite sure you didn't! I'm not going to believe
anything so absurd." Nevertheless she paused on her way to the door for
further details.

"All right. I didn't," said Ralph complacently. "And Sir Giles didn't get
drunk as a lord and tumble about the ballroom, and yell comic--awfully
comic--songs, till someone hauled him off to the refreshment-room and
filled him up with whiskey till he could sing no more!"

"Oh, Ralph! Not really! How utterly beastly! Was Lady Carfax there?"

"She was at first, but she cleared out. I don't know where she went to."

"Oh, poor Lady Carfax! How horrid for her! Ralph, I--I could kick
that man!"

"So could I," said Ralph heartily, "if someone would kindly hold him for
me. He is a drunken blackguard, and if he doesn't end in an asylum, I
shall never express a medical opinion again."

"P'r'aps he'll die of apoplexy first," said Dot vindictively.

"Whatever he dies of," said Ralph, "I shall attend his funeral with the
greatest pleasure. Hadn't you better go and make that cake? I shall want
it by tea-time."

"You are a pig!" the girl declared, pushing the sunny hair back from her
gay young face. "Isn't Bertie late this morning? Perhaps he isn't coming.
Dad won't be able to take him anyhow, for old Squinny is bad again and
sent for him in a hurry."

"That wretched old humbug! That means more beef-tea, not approaching
dissolution. Old Squinny will never dissolve in the ordinary way."

"Well, I must go." Dot reached the door and began to swing it to and
fro, gathering impetus for departure. "By the way, was Bertie there?"
she asked.

"Bertie who?"

"Bertie Errol, of course. Who else?"

"There are plenty of Berties in the world," remarked Ralph, helping
himself again to bread and honey. "No, Bertram Errol was not present. But
Napoleon Errol was. It was he who so kindly shunted Mrs. Damer on to me.
_Nota bene_! Give Napoleon Errol a wide berth in future. He has the craft
of a conjurer and the subtlety of a serpent. I believe he is a Red
Indian, myself."

"Oh, Ralph, he isn't! He is as white as you are."

"He isn't white at all," Ralph declared, "outside or in. Outside he is
the colour of a mangold-wurzel, and inside he is as black as ink. You
will never get that cake made if you don't go."

"Oh, bother!" Dot swung open the door for the last time, turned to
depart, and then exclaimed in a very different tone, "Why, Bertie, so
here you are! We were just talking of you."

A straight, well-made youth, with a brown face that laughed
good-temperedly, was advancing through the hall.

"Hullo!" he said, halting at the doorway. "Awfully nice of you! What were
you saying, I wonder? Hullo, Ralph! Only just down, you lazy beggar?
Ought to be ashamed of yourself."

He stood, slapping his riding-boots with a switch, looking at Dot with
the direct eyes of good-fellowship. His eyes were clear and honest as
a child's.

"Dad's away," said Dot. "He was sent for early this morning."

"Is he though? That means a holiday. What shall we do?"

"I don't know what you will do," said Dot. "I am going to bake cakes."

"I'll come and bake cakes too," said Bertie promptly. "I'm rather a swell
at that. I can make fudge too, real American fudge, the most aristocratic
thing on the market. It's a secret, of course, but I'll let you into it,
if you'll promise not to tell."

"How do you know I can keep a secret?" laughed Dot, leading the way to
the kitchen.

"You would keep a promise," he said with conviction.

"If I made one," she threw back.

"I would trust you without," he declared.

"Very rash of you! I wonder if you are as trustworthy as that."

"My word is my bond--always," said Bertie.

She turned and looked at him critically. "Yes, I think it is," she
admitted. "You are quite the honestest boy I ever met. They ought to have
called you George Washington."

"You may if you like," said Bertie.

She laughed--her own inexpressibly gay laugh. "All right, George! It
suits you perfectly. I always did think Bertie was a silly name. Why
didn't you go to the Hunt Ball last night?"

Bertie's merry face sobered. "My brother wasn't so well yesterday. I was
reading to him half the night. He couldn't sleep, and Tawny Hudson is no
good for that sort of thing."

The merriment went out of Dot's face too. It grew softer, older, more
womanly. "You are very good to your brother," she said.

He frowned abruptly. "Good to him! Great Scot! Why, he's miles too good
for any of us. Don't ever class him with Nap or me! We're just ordinary
sinners. But he--he's a king."

A queer little gleam that was not all mirth made Dot's eyes grow
brighter. "I like you for saying that," she said.

"Why, of course I say it!" he protested. "It's true! He's the finest chap
in the world, all true gold and not a grain of dross. That's how it is we
all knock under to him. Even Nap does that, though he doesn't care a
tinker's curse for anyone else on this muddy little planet."

"You are awfully fond of him, aren't you?" said Dot sympathetically.

"Fond of Lucas! I'd die for him!" the boy declared with feeling. "He's
father and brother and friend to me. There isn't anything I wouldn't do
for him. Did you ever hear how he came to be a cripple?"

"Never," said Dot.

"He was knocked down by an electric car," Bertie said, rushing through
the story with headlong ardour, "trying to save his best girl's dog from
being run over. He did save it, but he was frightfully hurt--paralysed
for months. It's years ago now. I was only a little shaver at the time.
But I shall never forget it. He always was good to me, and I thought he
was done for."

"And the girl?" asked Dot rather breathlessly.

"Married an English nobleman," he rejoined, with a brevity that spoke
volumes. "I say, what about those cakes? Hadn't we better begin?"

Dot turned her attention to the fire. "I should like to meet your
brother," she remarked. "I've never spoken to a real flesh-and-blood hero
in my life."

"Nothing easier," said Bertie promptly. "Come over and have tea. Come
this afternoon, you and Ralph."

But Dot hesitated in evident doubt. "I don't know what Dad would
say," she said.

"Oh, rats! He wouldn't mind. And my mother would be delighted. Come early
and I'll show you the hunters. Nap has just bought a beauty. She's a
blood mare, black as ink."

"Like Nap," said Dot absently; then in haste, "No, I didn't mean that. I
wasn't thinking."

Bertie was looking at her shrewdly. "What do you know about Nap?" he
said.

She coloured deeply. "Nothing, nothing whatever. I only know him
by sight."

"And you don't like him?"

"I--I think he looks rather wicked," she stammered.

Bertie grunted. "Do you think I look wicked too?"

"Of course I don't. No one could."

He laughed. "That's all right. You can think what you like of Nap.
Everybody does. But even he is not all bad, you know."

"I'm sure he isn't. But--but--" Desperately Dot turned from the fire and
faced him. "I've got to say it, Bertie," she said rather piteously.
"Please don't be offended. You know I--I'm young. I don't know many
people. And--and--though I would like to know your eldest brother
immensely, I think I won't come to Baronmead if Nap is there. My father
doesn't want me to meet him--unless I am obliged."

She uttered the last words in evident distress. Bertie's face had grown
quite serious, even stern. He was looking at her with a directness which
for the first time in their acquaintance she found disconcerting.

He did not speak for several seconds. At length, "How old are you?" he
said abruptly.

"Eighteen," she murmured.

He continued to look at her speculatively. "Well," he said at length,
speaking with something of a twang, "I guess your father knows what he's
about, but it beats me to understand why he has me here to study. I guess
I'd better shunt."

"Oh, please don't!" she said quickly. "It isn't you at all. It's
only Nap."

"Damn Nap!" said Bertie, with some fervour. "Oh, does that shock you? I
forgot you were a parson's daughter. Well, it may be your father is
right after all. Anyway, I shan't quarrel with him so long as he doesn't
taboo me too."

"He won't do that," said Dot, with confidence. "He likes you."

Bertie's good-looking face began to smile again. "Well, I'm not a
blackguard anyway," he said. "And I never shall be if you keep on being
kind to me. That's understood, is it? Then shake!"

They shook, and Dot realised with relief that the difficult subject was
dismissed.




CHAPTER V

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER


It was a week after the Hunt Ball that Anne Carfax, sitting alone at tea
in her drawing-room before a blazing fire, was surprised by the sudden
opening of the door, and the announcement of old Dimsdale the butler,
"Mr. Nap Errol to see your ladyship!"

She rose to meet him, her surprise in her face, and he, entering with
that light, half-stealthy tread of his, responded to it before his hand
touched hers.

"I know my presence is unexpected, and my welcome precarious, but as none
of my friends have been able to give me any news of you, I determined to
chance my reception and come myself to inquire for your welfare."

"You are very good," said Anne, but she spoke with a certain stateliness
notwithstanding. There was no pleasure in her eyes.

Nap, however, was sublimely self-assured. "I am beginning to think I must
be," he said, "since you say so. For I know you to be strictly truthful."

Anne made no response. She did not even smile.

"I am in luck to find you alone," proceeded Nap, surveying her with bold
dark eyes that were nothing daunted by her lack of cordiality.

"My husband will be in soon," she answered quietly.

"I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance," said Nap imperturbably.
"Has he been hunting?"

"Yes." Anne's tone was distant. She seemed to be unaware of the fact that
her visitor was still on his feet.

But Nap knew no embarrassment. He stood on the hearth with his back to
the fire. "You ought to hunt," he said. "Why don't you?"

"I do--occasionally," Anne said.

"What's the good of that? You ought to regularly. There's nothing like
it. Say, Lady Carfax, why don't you?" He smiled upon her disarmingly.
"Are you wondering if I take one lump or two? I take neither, and no
milk, please."

Against her will she faintly smiled.

"I thought that was it," said Nap. "Why didn't you ask me? Are these
scones in the fender? May I offer you one?"

He dropped upon his knees to pick up the dish, and in that attitude
humbly proffered it to her.

She found it impossible to remain ungracious. She could only seat herself
at the tea-table and abandon the attempt.

"Sit down and help yourself," she said.

He pulled a large hassock to him and sat facing her. "Now we can be
sociable," he said. "Really, you know, you ought to hunt more often. I
have never seen you in the field once. What on earth do you do with
yourself?"

"Many things," said Anne.

"What things?" he persisted.

"I help my husband to the best of my ability with the estate and try to
keep an eye on the poorest tenants. And then I practise the piano a good
deal. I haven't time for much besides."

"I say, do you play?" said Nap, keenly interested. "I do myself, a
little, not the piano--the violin. Lucas likes it, or I suppose I should
have given it up long ago. But I generally have to manage without an
accompaniment. There is no one can accompany at our place. It's a bit
thin, you know, playing by yourself."

Anne's face reflected his interest. "Tell me more about it," she said.
"What sort of music do you care for?"

"Oh, anything, from Christmas carols to sonatas. I never play to please
myself, and Lucas has very varied tastes."

"He is your elder brother?" questioned Anne.

"Yes, and one of the best." Nap spoke with unwonted feeling. "He is
hopelessly crippled, poor chap, and suffers infernally. I often wonder
why he puts up with it. I should have shot myself long ago, had I been
in his place."

"Perhaps he is a good man," Anne said.

He shot her a keen glance. "What do you mean by a good man?"

"I mean a man who does his duty without shirking."

"Is that your ideal?" he said, "There are plenty of men that do that, and
yet their lives are anything but blameless."

"Quite possibly," she agreed. "But if a man does his duty, he has not
lived in vain. It can be no man's duty to destroy himself."

"And how would you define 'duty'?" said Nap.

She let her eyes meet his for a moment. "I can only define it for
myself," she said.

"Will you do so for my benefit?" he asked.

A faint colour rose to her face. She looked past him into the fire. There
was a deep sadness about her lips as she made reply.

"I have not been given much to do. I have to content myself with 'the
work that's nearest.'"

Nap was watching her closely. "And if I did the same," he questioned in a
drawl that was unmistakably supercilious, "should I be a good man?"

"I don't know what your capabilities are," she said.

"I have vast capabilities for evil," he told her, with a cynical twist of
his thin-lipped mouth.

She met his look again. "I am sorry," she said.

"Are you really? But why? Doesn't the devil attract you? Honestly
now!" He leaned forward, staring straight at her, challenging her. "I
tell you frankly," he said, "I am not what you would call a good man.
But--the truth, mind!--would you like me any better if I were?"

She smiled a little. There was undoubted fascination in the upturned face
with its fiery eyes and savage jaw. Perhaps the lips were cruel, but they
were not coarse. They were keenly sensitive.

She did not answer him immediately, and during the pause his eyes never
flinched from hers. They were alive, glowing with insistence.

"Yes," she said at length. "Quite honestly, I do prefer good men."

"That wasn't exactly what I asked," said Nap, thrusting out his chin.

"I think you are capable of drawing your own conclusions," she
answered gently.

His look fell away from her. He began to munch scone with a
contemplative air.

Anne gave him some tea, and he set it on the hearthrug between his
feet. The silence became lengthy. She was conscious of something in
the atmosphere that made her vaguely uneasy. Was it a cat he resembled,
crouching there in front of her? No, there was nothing domestic about
him though she had a feeling that he could purr when he was pleased.
Yes, there was undoubtedly something feline about him, a supple grace,
a noiselessness, a guile, that made her aware of the necessity for
caution in her dealings with him. This was a man of many
subtleties--she knew it instinctively--a man of tigerish temperament,
harmless as a kitten in sunshine, merciless as a fiend in storm. Yes,
he was certainly like a tiger, forcible even in repose. She had never
before encountered so dominant a personality. It affected her
strangely, half-attracting, half-repelling, arousing in her a sense of
antagonism that yet was not aversion.

"I wish you would say all that out loud," said Nap. "You have such
interesting thoughts, it is really selfish of you not to express them."

"Surely not," she said, "if you know what they are."

He gave her an odd look as he lifted his tea-cup.

"The Queen's jester is a privileged person," he said. "When the door of
her pleasaunce is closed to him he climbs up and looks over the wall."

"Not always a discreet proceeding, I fear," Anne remarked.

"Discretion, Lady Carfax, is but another term for decrepitude. I have
detected no symptoms of the disease at present." He drained his tea with
an arrogant gesture and handed the cup for more. "Which is the exact
reason why I have no intention of remaining on the top of the wall," he
said. "I will have a stronger dose this time, please."

An unsteady hand began to fumble at the door, and Anne glanced up with a
start. The blood rose to her face. "I think it is my husband," she said,
in a low voice.

Nap did not turn his head or answer. He sat motionless, still staring at
her, till the door began to open. Then, with a sudden, lithe movement, he
rose and kicked the hassock to one side.

A big man in riding-dress tramped heavily into the room, and stopped in
the centre, peering before him under scowling brows. Not the kindest of
critics could have called Sir Giles Carfax handsome, though every feature
in his face was well formed. The blotchy complexion of the man and his
eyes of glaring malice marred him all too completely. He looked about
fifty, to judge by his iron-grey hair and moustache, but he might have
been less. He had immensely powerful shoulders that stooped a little.

He continued to stand in the middle of the room and glare at the visitor
till Anne quietly bridged the gulf.

"This is Mr. Nap Errol, Giles. Mr. Errol--my husband."

She made the introduction without a tremor, but she kept her eyes
downcast as if she did not wish to see them meet. Perhaps she divined
that a gleam of supercilious humour flickered in Nap's eyes as he made
easy response.

"I have been waiting for the pleasure of meeting you," he drawled.
"I dropped in on the chance, and Lady Carfax assured me you
wouldn't be long."

Sir Giles scowled more heavily than before. He shot a malignant glance
at his wife.

"Who in thunder made her so clever?" he growled. "And what did you want
to see me for? Have I ever met you before?"

His voice was thick, the words somewhat difficult to distinguish.

Nap's smile was unmistakably sardonic. "Many times," he said. "You nearly
rode over me on the last occasion. Doubtless the episode has escaped your
memory, but it made a more lasting impression upon mine."

Sir Giles glared offensively, as if he deemed himself insulted. "I
remember," he said. "Your animal came down with you. You pushed in front
of me. But it was your own fault. You Americans never observe the rules
of sport. I'm always glad to see you come a cropper."

"I am sure of it," said Nap politely. "It must gratify you immensely."

Sir Giles uttered a brief, snarling laugh, and advanced abruptly to the
hearth. He towered above the slim American, but the latter did not appear
to shirk comparison with him. With his hands in his pockets he
nonchalantly opposed his insolence to the other man's half-tipsy tyranny.

And Anne Carfax sat silent behind the tea-table and endured the encounter
with a mask-like patience that betrayed no faintest hint of what she
carried in her heart.

"Well, what do you want to see me for?" Sir Giles demanded, with a
ferocious kick at the coals.

Nap was quite ready with his answer. "I am really here on my brother's
behalf. There is a scheme afoot, as no doubt you know, for the building
of a Town Hall. My brother considers that the lord of the Manor"--he
bowed with thinly-veiled irony--"should have first say in the matter. But
I am at liberty to assure you that should you be in favour of the scheme
he is ready to offer you his hearty support."

Sir Giles heard him out with lowering brows. It did not improve his
temper to see Anne's eyes flash sudden interrogation at Nap's serenely
smiling countenance, though he did not suspect the meaning of her glance.

"I am not in favour of the scheme," he said shortly, as Nap ended.

Nap slightly raised his brows. "No? I understood otherwise."

The blood mounted to Sir Giles's forehead. "Either you were misinformed
or your intelligence is at fault," he said, with that in his voice that
was so nearly an open insult that, for a second, even Nap looked
dangerous.

Then quite quietly, without raising her eyes, Anne intervened. "I think
you ought to explain to Mr. Errol, Giles, that you have only recently
changed your mind."

Sir Giles rounded on her malignantly. "What the devil has that to do with
it, or with you, for that matter? Do you think I don't know my own mind?
Do you think--"

"I know exactly what Lady Carfax thinks," cut in Nap, moving deliberately
so that he stood directly between Sir Giles and the tea-table. His back
was turned to Anne, and he kept it so. "And in the main, I agree with
her, though my sentiments are a little stronger than hers. I'll tell you
exactly what they are some day. I think you would be interested, or at
least not bored. But with regard to this Town Hall suggestion, what's
wrong with it, anyway? Couldn't you come over and talk it out with my
brother? He isn't well enough just now to come to you."

The coolness of this speech took effect. Sir Giles glared for a few
moments till the speaker's steady regard became too much for him. Then,
with a lurching movement, he turned away.

"No, I won't visit your brother! Why the deuce should I? Do you think I
belong to the rag, tag, and bobtail, that'll mix with the very scum of
society so long as there's money about? Do you think I'd lower myself to
associate with fellows like you?"

"I guess you'd find it difficult," drawled Nap.

He still stood with his back to the tea-table. He seemed to have
forgotten the woman who sat so rigid behind him. His fingers drummed a
careless tattoo upon the table-edge. He was unquestionably master of the
situation, and that without much apparent effort.

And Sir Giles knew it, knew himself to be worsted, and that in his
wife's presence. He glanced at her through eyes narrowed to evil slits.
Her very impassivity goaded him. It seemed in some fashion to express
contempt. With violence he strode to the bell and pealed it vigorously.

On the instant Nap turned. "So long, Lady Carfax!"

She looked up at him. Her lips said nothing, but for that instant her
eyes entreated, and his eyes made swift response.

He was smiling with baffling good humour as he turned round to Sir Giles.

"Good-bye, sir! Delighted to have met you. I'll give your message to my
brother. It'll amuse him."

He departed without a backward glance as the servant opened the door,
elaborately deaf to Sir Giles's half-strangled reply that he might go to
the devil and take his brother with him.

He left dead silence in the room behind him, but the moment that the
clang of the front door told of his final exit the storm burst.

Sir Giles, livid, stammering with rage, strode up and down and cursed the
departed visitor in lurid language, cursed the errand that had brought
him, and rated his wife for admitting him.

"I will not know these impertinent, opulent Americans!" was the burden of
his maledictions. "As for that damned, insolent bounder, I will never
have him in the house again. Understand that! I know him. I've heard
Shirley talk of him. The man's a blackguard. And if I ever catch him
alone in your company after this, I'll thrash him--do you hear?--I'll
thrash him! So now you know what to expect!"

It was at this point that Anne rose, passed quietly, with the bearing of
a queen, down the long room, and without a single word or glance went out
and closed the door very softly behind her.




CHAPTER VI

AT THE MEET


On one occasion, and one only, in the whole year were the gates of
the Manor thrown open to all comers, opulent Americans and
impecunious Britons alike. And this was when, in accordance with a
custom that had been observed from time immemorial, the foxhounds met
upon the Manor lawn.

It was then that Sir Giles, who cursed this obligatory hospitality for
weeks beforehand, emerged with a smile as fixed as his scowl, shook hands
with the select few whom he deigned to number among his acquaintances and
pointedly ignored the many who did not enjoy this privilege.

With old Dimsdale the butler rather than with his master rested the
honours of the house, and old Dimsdale did his part nobly; so nobly that
Major Shirley was heard to remark more than once that it was a pity he
and Sir Giles couldn't change places. It was the great day of Dimsdale's
year, and his was the proud task to see that none of the guests were
neglected.

Anne usually rode to hounds on this occasion. Tall and stately, clad in
the conventional black riding-habit that only added grace to her severity
of outline, she moved among her husband's guests. And even those of them
who, like Major Shirley, resented that queenliness which was an inborn
part of her very nature, were fain to admit that she filled her position
as lady of the Manor with striking success. Though she had withdrawn
herself more and more of late from the society of the neighbourhood, she
acted the part of hostess with unfailing graciousness. On foot she moved
among the throng, greeting everyone she knew.

Little Dot Waring, standing in the background with her brother on a
certain misty morning in January marked her progress with looks of loving
admiration. Lady Carfax's mount, a powerful grey with nervous ears and
gleaming eyes, was being held in unwilling subjection close to them.

"Be ready to mount her when she comes this way, Ralph," Dot whispered, as
the tall figure drew nearer.

But the honour of mounting Lady Carfax was not for Ralph. A man on
a black mare--a slight man with high cheek-bones and an insolent
bearing--was threading his way towards them through the crowd. The mare,
like the grey, was restive, and her rider swore at her whimsies as he
came.

Meeting Dot's frank regard, he checked himself and raised his hat with a
courtesy half-instinctive.

Dot stared, coloured, and very slightly bowed.

Ralph sniggered. "Let yourself in for it that time, my child! Here comes
Bertie to effect a formal introduction."

"Bertie won't introduce him," she said quickly.

Bertie, looking very handsome and stalwart, was already close to them. He
leaned down from the saddle to shake hands.

"Are you following on foot? I wish I was. Never thought of it till
this moment."

"I would much rather follow on horseback," Dot declared, looking as if
she did not believe him.

He laughed. "I'll take you in front of me if you'll come."

"No. I shouldn't like that," said Dot very decidedly.

"How can you possibly know till you try?"

Dot looked up at him with the sunshine in her clear eyes. "How do you
know that you would prefer to follow the hounds on foot? I don't suppose
you ever have."

"How do I know?" laughed Bertie. "Because I should be in your company, of
course. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Idiot!" said Dot tersely.

"Minx!" said Bertie.

She flushed, looked angry for a moment, and then in spite of herself
dimpled into a smile. "Bertie, you're a beast! Say that again if you
dare!"

"I daren't," said Bertie.

"No, I thought not. Now apologise!"

"Oh, not now! Not in public!" he pleaded. "I'll drop in this evening and
you can shrive me before I go to bed."

"I shan't be at home," said Dot, with her head in the air.

"Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, I'm bound to catch you if I wait long
enough." Bertie spoke with cheery assurance. "Hullo! What do you want?"

His expression altered as his glance fell upon his brother, who had just
come to his side. He looked inclined to scowl.

But Nap was not apparently desiring an introduction to the rector's
daughter. "Hold the mare a minute, will you?" he said.

Bertie complied and he swung himself to the ground.

Lady Carfax was coming towards them and he went to meet her.

Her grey eyes smiled a friendly welcome. "I was just wondering if you
were here."

He bowed low. "I am honoured indeed to be in your thoughts for a
single instant."

"I hope I do not forget my friends so easily," she said. "Oh, here are
some more of them! Excuse me for a moment."

She went straight to Dot, shook hands with her and her brother, and stood
chatting for a few seconds.

Nap remained close behind her, and after a little she turned to
Include him in the group. "Have you ever met this Mr. Errol. Dot? Mr.
Errol--Miss Waring!"

Dot bowed again with a scarlet countenance, but the next instant a
friendly inspiration delivered her from the moment's awkwardness.

"And you don't know Bertie Errol, do you, Lady Carfax?" she said eagerly.
"Let me introduce him. He studies with Dad, you know."

"When he isn't hunting, or paper-chasing, or--baking cakes," said Bertie.
"He's such a nice boy, Lady Carfax. He can do almost anything. I'm sure
you'll like him!"

Dot laughed and protested. "He isn't a bit nice, and he isn't clever
either, though he thinks he is. I don't believe he learns anything with
Dad. They study natural history most of the time."

"Harmless, anyway!" commented Nap, with a sneer.

"Yes, quite harmless," assented Bertie, looking straight at him.

"And very interesting, no doubt," said Lady Carfax, turning towards
her mount.

Ralph moved to assist her, but Nap pushed before him. "My job, I think,"
he drawled, with that in his face which made the English youth draw
sullenly back.

"Cad!" whispered Dot fiercely.

And Bertie from his perch above her laughed through clenched teeth.

In a few minutes more the hunt was off. The whole crowd streamed briskly
away, hounds leading, horses, motors, carriages, and the usual swarm of
pedestrians, following in promiscuous array.

The sun shone through a mist. The weather was perfect for hunting, but
looked as if it might end in rain.

Sir Giles rode with the master. He seemed in better spirits than usual.
His customary scowl had lifted.

His wife rode nearer the end of the procession with Nap Errol next to
her. His brother was immediately behind them, a very decided frown on his
boyish face, a frown of which in some occult fashion Nap must have been
aware, for as they reached a stretch of turf and the crowd widened out,
he turned in the saddle.

"Get on ahead, Bertie! I can't stand you riding at my heels."

Bertie looked at him as if he had a retort ready, but he did not utter
it. With tightened lips he rode past and shot ahead.

Nap smiled a little. "That young puppy is the best of the Errol bunch,"
he said. "But he hasn't been licked enough. It's not my fault. It's my
brother's."

"He looks a nice boy," Anne said.

Nap's smile became supercilious. "He is a nice boy, Lady Carfax. But nice
boys don't always make nice men, you know. They turn into prigs
sometimes."

Anne diverted the subject with an instinctive feeling that it was one
upon which they might not agree.

"There is a considerable difference between you?" she asked.

"Eight years," said Nap. "I am thirty, Lucas five years older. Most
people take me for the eldest of the lot."

"I wonder why?" said Anne.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It is not really surprising, is it? Lucas has
been on the shelf for the past ten years and I"--he glanced at her
shrewdly--"have not!"

"Oh!" said Anne, and asked no more.

For the first time the definite question arose in her mind as to whether
in admitting this man to her friendship she had made a mistake. He had a
disquieting effect upon her, she was forced to acknowledge.

Yet as they drifted apart in the throng she knew with unalterable
conviction that the matter did not rest with her. From the outset the
choice had not been hers.

He had entered the gates of her lonely citadel on the night of the Hunt
Ball, and though she was by no means sure that she liked him there, she
fully realised that it was too late now to try to bar him out.




CHAPTER VII

THE FALL


They found a fox after some delay in a copse on the side of a hill, and
the run that followed scattered even Anne's sedateness to the winds.
Something of youth, something of girlishness, yet dwelt within her and
bounded to the surface in response to the wild excitement of the chase.

The grey went like the wind. He and the black mare that Nap Errol rode
led the field, a distinction that Anne had never sought before, and which
she did not greatly appreciate on this occasion. For when they killed in
a chalky hollow, after half-an-hour's furious galloping across country
with scarcely a check, she dragged her animal round with a white, set
face and forced him from the scene.

Nap followed her after a little and found her fumbling at a gate
into a wood.

"I've secured the brush for you," he began. Then, seeing her face, "What
is it? You look sick."

"I feel sick," Anne said shakily.

He opened the gate for her, and followed her through. They found
themselves alone, separated from the rest of the hunt by a thick
belt of trees.

"Do you mean to say you have never seen a kill before?" he said.

"Never at close quarters," murmured Anne, with a shudder.

He rode for a little in silence. At length, "I'm sorry you didn't like
being in at the death," he said. "I thought you would be pleased."

"Pleased!" she said, and shuddered again.

"Personally," said Nap, "I enjoy a kill."

Anne's face expressed horror.

"Yes," he said recklessly, "I am like that. I hunt to kill. It is my
nature." A red gleam shone suddenly in his fiery eyes. He looked at her
aggressively. "What do you hunt for anyway?" he demanded.

"I don't think I shall hunt any more," she said.

"Oh, nonsense, Lady Carfax! That's being ultrasqueamish," he protested.
"You mustn't, you know. It's bad for you."

"I can't help it," she said. "I never realised before how cruel it is."

"Of course it's cruel," said Nap. "But then so is everything, so is life.
Yet you've got to live. We were created to prey on each other."

"No, no!" she said quickly, for his words hurt her inexplicably. "I take
the higher view."

"I beg your pardon," said Nap, in the tone of one refusing a discussion.

She turned to him impulsively. "Surely you do too!" she said, and there
was even a note of pleading in her voice.

Nap's brows met suddenly. He turned his eyes away. "I am nothing but an
animal," he told her rather brutally. "There is nothing spiritual about
me. I live for what I can get. When I get the chance I gorge. If I have a
soul at all, it is so rudimentary as to be unworthy of mention."

In the silence that followed he looked at her again with grim
comprehension. "P'r'aps you don't care for animals," he suggested
cynically. "To change the subject, do you know we are leaving the
hunt behind?"

She reined in somewhat reluctantly. "I suppose we had better go back."

"If your majesty decrees," said Nap.

He pulled the mare round and stood motionless, waiting for her to pass.
He sat arrogantly at his ease. She could not fail to note that his
horsemanship was magnificent. The mare stood royally as though she bore
a king. The man's very insignificance of bulk seemed to make him the
more superb.

"Will you deign to lead the way?" he said.

And Anne passed him with a vague sense of uneasiness that almost
amounted to foreboding. For it seemed to her as if for those few moments
he had imposed his will upon hers, had without effort overthrown all
barriers of conventional reserve, and had made her acknowledge in him
the mastery of man.

Rejoining the hunt, she made her first deliberate attempt to avoid him,
an attempt that was so far successful that for the next hour she saw
nothing of him beyond casual glimpses. She did not join her husband, for
he resented her proximity in the hunting-field.

They drew blank in a wood above the first kill, but finally found after
considerable delay along a stubbly stretch of ground bordering Baronmead,
a large estate that the eldest Errol had just bought. The fox headed
straight for the Baronmead woods and after him streamed the hunt
pell-mell along a stony valley.

It was not Anne's intention to be in at a second death that day, and she
deliberately checked the grey's enthusiasm when he would have borne her
headlong through the scampering crowd. To his indignation, instead of
pursuing the chase in the valley, she headed him up the hill. He
protested with vehemence, threatening to rebel outright, but Anne was
determined, and eventually she had her way. Up the hill they went.

It was a scramble to reach the top, for the ground was steep and sloppy,
but on the summit of the ridge progress was easier. She gave the grey the
rein and he carried her forward at a canter. From here she saw the last
of the horsemen below her sweep round the curve towards Baronmead, and
the hubbub growing fainter in the distance told her that the hounds were
already plunging through the woods. Ahead of her the ridge culminated in
a bare knoll whence it was evident that she could overlook a considerable
stretch of country. She urged her animal towards it.

The mist was thickening in the valley, and it had begun to drizzle. The
watch on her wrist said two o'clock, and she determined to turn her face
homewards as soon as she had taken this final glimpse.

The grey, snorting and sweating, stumbled up the slippery ascent. He was
plainly disgusted with his rider's tactics. They arrived upon the summit,
and Anne brought him to a standstill. But though she still heard vague
shoutings below her the mist had increased so much in the few minutes
they had taken over the ascent that she could discern nothing. Her horse
was winded after the climb, however, and she remained motionless to give
him time to recover. The hubbub was dying away, and she surmised that the
fox had led his pursuers out on the farther side of the woods. She
shivered as the chill damp crept about her. A feeling of loneliness that
was almost physical possessed her. She half wished that she had not
forsaken the hunt after all.

Stay! Was she quite alone? Out of the clinging, ever-thickening curtain
there came sounds--the sounds of hoofs that struggled upwards, of an
animal's laboured breathing, of a man's voice that encouraged and swore
alternately.

Her heart gave a sudden sharp throb. She knew that voice. Though she had
only met the owner thereof three times she had come to know it rather
well. Why had he elected to come that way, she asked herself? He almost
seemed to be dogging her steps that day.

Impulse urged her to strike in another direction before he reached
her. She did not feel inclined for another _tête-à-tête_ with Nap
Errol just then.

She tapped the grey smartly with her switch, more smartly than she
intended, for he started and plunged. At the same instant there broke out
immediately below them a hubbub of yelling and baying that was like the
shrieking of a hundred demons. It rose up through the fog as from the
mouth of an invisible pit, and drove the grey horse clean out of his
senses. He reared bolt upright in furious resistance to his rider's will,
pawed the air wildly, and being brought down again by a sharp cut over
the ears, flung out his heels in sheer malice and bolted down the hill,
straight for that pandemonium of men and hounds. If the pleasures of the
hunt failed to attract his mistress, it was otherwise with him, and he
meant to have his fling in spite of her.

For the first few seconds of that mad flight Anne scarcely attempted to
check his progress. She was taken by surprise and was forced to give all
her attention to keeping in the saddle.

The pace was terrific. The scampering hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the
ground at all. Like shadows they fled through the rising mist. It struck
chill upon her face as they swooped downwards. She seemed to be plunging
into an icy, bottomless abyss.

And then like a dagger, stabbing through every nerve, came fear, a
horror unspeakable of the depth she could not see, into which she was
being so furiously hurled. She was clinging to the saddle, but she
made a desperate effort to drag the animal round. It was quite
fruitless. No woman's strength could have availed to check that
headlong gallop. He swerved a little, a very little, in answer, that
was all, and galloped madly on.

And then--all in a moment it came, a moment of culminating horror more
awful than anything she had ever before experienced--the ground fell
suddenly away from the racing feet. A confusion of many lights danced
before her eyes--a buzzing uproar filled her brain--she shot forward
into space....




CHAPTER VIII

THE RIDE HOME


Sir Giles was in a decidedly evil temper as he rode home from the hunt in
the soaking rain that afternoon. The second fox had led them miles out of
the way, and they had not been rewarded by a kill. The brute had eluded
them, profiting by the downpour that had washed away the scent. So Sir
Giles, having solaced himself several times with neat brandy from the
large silver flask without which he never rode abroad, was in anything
but a contented mood with the world in general and his own luck in
particular. Dusk had long descended when at length he turned in at his
own gates. He had given up urging his jaded animal, being too jaded
himself for the effort. But, hearing a clatter of hoofs on the drive
before him, he did rouse himself to holler into the darkness, supposing
that his wife was ahead of him. If it were she, she was later in
returning than was her wont, but no answer came back to him, and he did
not repeat his call. After all, why should he hail her? He did not want
her company, Heaven knew. That stately demeanour of hers which once had
attracted him generally inspired in him a savage sense of resentment
nowadays. There were times when he even suspected her of despising
him--him, the lord of the Manor, who had given her all she possessed in
the world!

He swore a furious oath under his breath as he rode. The darkness ahead
of him was all pricked by tiny red sparks, that glanced and flashed like
fireflies whichever way he looked. He rubbed his eyes and they departed,
only to swarm again a little farther on. The rain had soaked him to the
skin. He shivered and swore again as he fumbled for his flask.

The fiery gleams faded wholly away as the raw spirit warmed his blood and
revived his brain. He drew a breath of relief. Again he heard the sound
of a horse's feet some distance in front. They seemed to fall unevenly,
as though the animal were lame. Could it be the grey, he asked himself?
If so, why had Anne not answered his call? She must have heard him. He
ground his teeth. It was like her habitual impudence to ignore him thus.
He gathered himself together and sent a furious bellow into the darkness.

But there came back no reply. The hoofs ahead seemed to quicken into a
shambling trot, that was all. And after a little he heard them no more.

She had reached the house then, and gone within into light and comfort,
and again feverishly he execrated her for not waiting for him, the cold
and the rain and the dark notwithstanding. Again fitfully he began to
see those leaping points of light; but it was only here and there.
Whenever he focussed his attention upon them they eluded him. For these
also he held his wife in some fashion responsible. What did she mean by
leaving him thus? How dared she enter the house that was his while he
was still groping without? He believed that she would shut his own door
against him if she dared. He was sure she hated him, as he hated her--as
he hated her!

And then--suddenly a strange thing happened. Suddenly, clear-cut as a
cameo before his fevered vision, there arose against the dripping
darkness his wife's face. Pale and pure as the face of a saint, it shone
before him like a star. There was no reproach in the level eyes; there
was no contempt. But they looked through him, they looked beyond him, and
saw him not.

A violent tremor went through him, a nameless, unspeakable dread. The
curses died upon his lips. He stared and stared again.

And while he stared, the vision faded before his eyes into nothingness.
He was alone once more in the darkness and the drenching rain; alone with
a little gibing voice that seemed to come from within and yet was surely
the voice of a devil jeering a devil's tattoo in time to his horse's
hoof-beats, telling him he was mad, mad, mad!

Three minutes later he rode heavily into his own stable-yard.

A group of servants scattered dumbly before him as he appeared. The glare
of lights dazzled him, but he fancied they looked at him strangely. He
flung an oath at the groom who stepped forward to take his horse.

"What are you staring at? What's the matter?"

The man murmured something unintelligible.

Sir Giles dismounted and scowled around. His limbs were stiff and not
over steady.

"What's the matter with you all?" he growled. "You look like a crowd of
death's heads. Hullo! What's this?"

He had caught sight of something he had not seen before, something that
sent him striding furiously forward. For there in the centre of the
yard, standing huddled on three legs, was the grey horse his wife had
ridden. Limp and draggled, plastered with mud and foam, with a great
streaming gash on the shoulder, and head hanging down in utter
exhaustion, stood the grey.

"What's this?" demanded Sir Giles again. "Where's her ladyship?"

A shudder seemed to run through the assembled men. There was a moment's
silence. Then old Dimsdale, the butler, who was standing in the doorway
that led to the servants' quarters, stumped forward and made reply.

"The animal's come home alone, Sir Giles."

"What?" thundered his master.

The old man faced him with respectful firmness. No one had ever seen
Dimsdale agitated.

"As I said, Sir Giles," he answered, with a certain deferential
obstinacy. "The animal's come back alone."

"Only just come in, sir," chimed in a groom. "We was just beginning to
wonder when he came limping in in this state. Looks as if her ladyship
had met with a accident."

Sir Giles rounded upon him with a violence that brought his surmisings to
an abrupt end. Then, having worked off the first heat of his fury, he
turned again to Dimsdale.

"What the devil is to be done? I never saw her after the first kill."

"And where might that be, Sir Giles?" questioned Dimsdale.

"Up Baronmead way. It was hours ago."

Dimsdale considered. "Shall we send and make inquiries at Baronmead,
Sir Giles?"

"No, I'm damned if I do!" said Sir Giles.

Dimsdale considered again. "Was her ladyship riding with anyone in
particular?" he asked next.

"No, I don't think so. Stay! I believe I saw that Errol bounder talking
to her--the one who was here the other day. But I forget when.
Anyhow"--his voice rising again--"I won't have any traffic with them.
I've said I won't, and I won't!"

Dimsdale grunted. "Seems to me the only thing to do, Sir Giles. You can't
leave her lady ship to die under a hedge maybe, and not do anything to
find her."

He spoke very deliberately, looking straight into his master's bloodshot
eyes as he did so.

"It wouldn't be hardly right, Sir Giles," he pointed out gravely. "It's
likely that young Mr. Errol will be able to give us a clue, and we can't
leave any stone unturned, being such a serious matter. I'll send on my
own responsibility if you like, Sir Giles. But send we must."

The bystanders glanced uneasily at one another in the silence that
followed this bold speech. The old butler's temerity was unheard of. Not
one among them would have dared thus to withstand the master to his face.
They waited, nervously expectant, for the vials of wrath to descend.

Old Dimsdale waited too, still firmly watching Sir Giles. If he felt any
anxiety on his own account, however, it was not apparent. Nor did he
display any relief when the unpleasant tension passed and Sir Giles with
a shrug turned away from him.

"Oh, go your own way, and be damned to you! I don't care what you do.
Don't stand gaping there, you fools! Get to your work! Better send for
the vet. Can't afford to have a valuable animal spoilt. Dimsdale, take
some brandy and hot water up to my room at once, before you do anything
else. Do you hear?"

And with that he tramped within, leaving an atmosphere of mingled relief
and indignation behind him.

But if his words were callous, the soul of the man was far from easy as
he mounted to his room. He flung himself into the nearest chair when he
arrived there and sat with eyes fixed sullenly before him. He ought to go
in search of her, of course, but he was powerless. His brain was a
smouldering furnace in which anxiety and anger strove luridly for the
mastery. But through it all he sat there torpidly staring. His body felt
as though it were weighted with leaden fetters.

He heard a step in the passage, but did not turn his head. Someone
knocked discreetly. He heard, but he took no notice. The door opened
softly, and old Dimsdale entered.

"We have news, Sir Giles."

Sir Giles neither looked at him nor spoke. He continued to glare heavily
into space.

Dimsdale paused beside him. "A messenger has just come from Baronmead in
their motor, Sir Giles," he said, speaking very distinctly. "Her ladyship
has had a fall, and has been taken there. Mr. Errol begs that you will go
back in the motor, as her ladyship's condition is considered serious."

He stopped. Sir Giles said nothing whatever.

"The messenger is waiting, Sir Giles."

Still no response of any sort.

Dimsdale waited a moment, then very respectfully he bent and touched his
master's shoulder.

"Sir Giles!"

Sir Giles turned slowly at last, with immense effort it seemed. He
glowered at Dimsdale for a space. Then, "Bring some brandy and water," he
said, "hot!"

"But the messenger, Sir Giles!"

"What?" Sir Giles glared a moment longer, then as anger came uppermost,
the smouldering furnace leapt into sudden seething flame. "Tell him to go
to the devil!" he thundered. "And when you've done that, bring me some
brandy and water--hot!"

As Dimsdale departed upon his double errand he dropped back into his
former position, staring dully before him, under scowling brows.

When Dimsdale returned he was sunk in the chair asleep.




CHAPTER IX

THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE


"Hullo, Lucas! Can I come in?"

Nap Errol stood outside his brother's door, an impatient frown on his
face, his hand already fidgeting at the handle.

"Come in, old chap," drawled back a kindly voice.

He entered with an abruptness that seemed to denote agitation.

The room was large and brilliantly lighted. In an easy chair by the fire
the eldest Errol was reclining, while his valet, a huge man with the
features of an American Indian half-breed and fiery red hair, put the
finishing touches to his evening dress.

Nap approached the fire with his usual noiseless tread despite the fact
that he was still in riding boots.

"Be quick, Hudson!" he said. "We don't want you."

Hudson rolled a nervous eye at him and became clumsily hasty.

"Take your time," his master said quietly. "Nap, my friend, hadn't you
better dress?"

Nap stopped before the fire and pushed it with his foot. "I am not going
to dine," he said.

Lucas Errol said no more. He lay still in his chair with his head back
and eyes half-closed, a passive, pathetic figure with the shoulders of a
strong man and the weak, shrunken limbs of a cripple. His face was quite
smooth. It might have belonged to a boy of seventeen save for the eyes,
which were deeply sunken and possessed the shrewd, quizzical
intelligence of age.

He lay quite motionless as though he were accustomed to remain for hours
in one position. Hudson the valet tended him with the reverence of a
slave. Nap fell to pacing soundlessly to and fro, awaiting the man's exit
with what patience he could muster.

"You can go now, Tawny," the elder Errol drawled at last. "I will ring
when I want you. Now, Boney, what is it? I wish you would sit down."

There was no impatience in the words, but his brows were slightly drawn
as he uttered them,

Nap, turning swiftly, noted the fact. "You are not so well to-night?"

"Sit down," his brother repeated gently. "How is Lady Carfax?"

Nap sat down with some reluctance. He looked as if he would have
preferred to prowl.

"She is still unconscious, and likely to remain so. The doctor thinks
very seriously of her."

"Her husband has been informed?"

"Her husband," said Nap from between his teeth, "has been informed, and
he declines to come to her. That's the sort of brute he is."

Lucas Errol made no comment, and after a moment Nap continued:

"It is just as well perhaps. I hear he is never sober after a day's
sport. And I believe she hates the sight of him if the truth were
told--and small wonder!"

There was unrestrained savagery in the last words. Lucas turned his head
and looked at him thoughtfully.

"You know her rather well?" he said.

"Yes." Nap's eyes, glowing redly, met his with a gleam of defiance.

"You have known her for long?" The question was perfectly quiet, uttered
in the tired voice habitual to this man who had been an invalid for
almost the whole of his manhood.

Yet Nap frowned as he heard it. "I don't know," he said curtly. "I don't
estimate friendships by time."

Lucas said no more, but he continued to look at his brother with
unvarying steadiness till at length, as if goaded thereto, Nap
spoke again.

"We are friends," he said, "no more, no less. You all think me a
blackguard, I know. It's my speciality, isn't it?" He spoke with
exceeding bitterness. "But in this case you are wrong. I repeat--we
are friends."

He said it aggressively; his tone was almost a challenge, but the elder
Errol did not appear to notice.

"I have never thought you a blackguard, Boney," he said quietly.

Nap's thin lips smiled cynically. "You have never said it."

"I have never thought it." There was no contradicting the calm assertion.
It was not the way of the world to contradict Lucas Errol. "And I know
you better than a good many," he said.

Nap stirred restlessly and was silent.

Lucas turned his eyes from him and seemed to fall into a reverie.
Suddenly, however, he roused himself.

"What does the doctor say about her?"

Nap frowned. "He says very little. After the manner of his tribe, he is
afraid to commit himself; thinks there may be this injury or there may be
that, but says definitely nothing. I shall get someone down from town
to-morrow. I'd go tonight, only--" he broke off, hammering impotently
with his clenched fist on the arm of his chair. "I must be at hand
to-night," he said, after a moment, controlling himself. "The mater has
promised to call me if there is any change. You see," he spoke
half-apologetically, "she might feel kind of lonely waking up in a crowd
of strangers, and mine is the only face she knows."

Silence followed the words. Lucas had closed his eyes, and there was
nothing in his face to indicate the trend of his thoughts.

Nap sat with his face to the fire, and stared unblinkingly into the red
depths. There was no repose in his attitude, only the tension of
suppressed activity.

Softly at length his brother's voice came through the silence. "Why not
dine, dear fellow, while you are waiting? You will do no good to anyone
by starving yourself."

Nap looked round. "In Heaven's name, don't talk to me of eating!" he
said savagely. "You don't know what I've been through." Again he paused
to control himself, then added in a lower tone, "I thought she was dead,
you know."

"It was you who picked her up?" Lucas asked.

"Yes. There was no one else near." He spoke with feverish rapidity, as
though he found speaking a relief. "It was the old chalk-pit. You know
the place--or p'r'aps you don't. It's a ten-foot drop. The brute went
clean over, and he must have rolled on her or kicked her getting up." He
drew a sharp breath between his teeth. "When I found her she was lying
all crumpled up. I thought her back was broken at first."

A sudden shudder assailed him. He repressed it fiercely.

"And then, you know, it was foggy. I couldn't leave her. I was
afraid of losing my bearings. And so I just had to wait--Heaven
knows how long--till one of the keepers heard me shouting, and went
for help. And all that time--all that time--I didn't know whether
she was alive or dead."

His voice sank to a hard whisper. He got up and vigorously poked the
fire.

Lucas Errol endured the clatter for several seconds in silence:
then, "Boney," he said, "since you are feeling energetic, you might
lend me a hand."

Nap laid down the poker instantly. "I am sorry, old fellow. I forgot. Let
me ring for Hudson."

"Can't you help me yourself?" Lucas asked.

Nap hesitated for a second; then stooped in silence to give the required
assistance. Lucas Errol, with a set face, accepted it, but once on his
feet he quitted Nap's support and leaned upon the mantelpiece to wipe
his forehead.

"I knew I should hurt you," Nap said uneasily.

The millionaire forced a smile that was twisted in spite of him. "Never
mind me!" he said. "It is your affairs that trouble me just now, not my
own. And, Boney, if you don't have a meal soon, you'll be making a big
fool of yourself and everyone will know it."

The very gentleness of his speech seemed to make the words the more
emphatic. Nap raised no further protest.

"Go and have it right now," his brother said.

"And--in case I don't see you again--goodnight!"

He held out his hand, still leaning against the mantelpiece. His eyes,
blue and very steady, looked straight into Nap's. So for a second or
two he held him while Nap, tight-lipped, uncompromising, looked
straight back.

Then, "Good-night," Lucas said again gravely, and let him go.

Yet for an instant longer Nap lingered as one on the verge of speech. But
nothing came of it. He apparently thought better--or worse--of the
impulse, and departed light-footed in silence.




CHAPTER X

THE HAND OF A FRIEND


What had happened to her? Slowly, with a sensation of doubt that seemed
to weigh her down, Anne rose to the surface of things, and looked once
more upon the world that had rushed so giddily away from her and left her
spinning through space.

She was horribly afraid during those first few minutes, afraid with a
physical, overwhelming dread. She seemed to be yet falling, falling
through emptiness to annihilation. And as she fell she caught the sounds
of other worlds, vague whisperings in the dark. She was sinking, sinking
fast into a depth unfathomable, where no worlds were.

And then--how it came to her she knew not, for she was powerless to help
herself--out of the chaos and the awful darkness a hand reached out and
grasped her own; a hand strong and vital that gripped and held, that
lifted her up, that guided her, that sustained her, through all the
terror that girt her round.

The light dawned gradually in her eyes. She found herself gazing up into
a face she knew, a lean, brown face, alert and keen, that watched her
steadfastly.

With an effort she clasped her nerveless fingers upon the
sustaining hand.

"Hold me!" she whispered weakly. "I'm falling!"

"Don't be afraid!" he made answer with infinite gentleness. "I have
you safe."

Someone whom she saw but vaguely came behind him and whispered in a
vigorous undertone. A large white hand, on which flashed many rings,
rested upon his shoulder.

He moved slightly, took something into his free hand and held it to her
lips. Submissively, in answer to an influence that seemed to fold her
about and gently to compel, she drank.

Slowly the mist of dread cleared from her brain. Slowly she awoke to full
consciousness, and found Nap Errol bending over her, her hand fast
clasped in his.

"What happened?" she asked him faintly. "Where am I?"

"You are at Baronmead," he said. "You were thrown and we brought
you here."

"Ah!" Her brows contracted a little. "Am I much hurt?" she asked.

"Nothing to worry about," Nap said with quiet confidence. "You will soon
be all right again. I will leave you to get a good sleep, shall I? If
you are wanting anything my mother will be here."

She looked at him doubtfully. Her hand still clung to his,
half-mechanically it seemed.

"Mr. Errol," she faltered, "my husband--does he know?"

"Yes, he knows." Very softly Nap made answer, as though he were soothing
a child. "Don't trouble about that. Don't trouble about anything. Just
lie still and rest."

But the anxiety in her eyes was growing. "He isn't here?" she questioned.

"No."

"Then--then I think I ought to go to him. He will think it so strange. He
will--he will--"

"Lady Carfax, listen!" Quietly but insistently he broke in upon her
rising agitation. "Your husband knows all about you. He couldn't come
to-night, but he is coming in the morning. Now won't you be content and
try to sleep?"

"I can't sleep," she said, with a shudder. "I am afraid of falling."

"No, you're not. See! I am holding your hands. You can't fall. Look at
me! Keep looking at me and you will see how safe you are!"

His voice had sunk almost to a whisper. His eyes dusky, compelling, yet
strangely impersonal, held hers by some magic that was too utterly
intangible to frighten her. With a sigh she yielded to the mastery she
scarcely felt.

And as she floated away into a peace indescribable, unlike anything
she had ever known before, she heard a woman's voice, hushed to a
sibilant whisper, remark, "My, Nap! You're too smart to be human. I
always said so."

When she opened her eyes again it was many hours later, and she was lying
in the broad sunshine with the doctor, whom she knew, stooping over her.

"Ah, you are awake at last!" he said. "And I find a marvellous
improvement. No, I shouldn't try to move at present. But I don't suppose
you can for a moment. You have had a wonderful escape, my dear lady, a
most wonderful escape. But for all that I shall keep you where you are
for the next fortnight or so. A badly jarred spine is not a thing to
play with."

"Is that all?" Anne asked.

He became cautious on the instant. "I don't say that is all. In any case
we will run no risks. Let me congratulate you upon having fallen into
such good hands."

He glanced over Anne's head at someone on the other side of the bed, and
Anne turned slightly to see the person thus indicated. And so she had her
first sight of the woman who ruled Lucas Errol's house.

She had heard of her more than once. People smiled, not unkindly, when
they mentioned Mrs. Errol, a good sort, they said; but, like many another
woman of inelegant exterior, how good a sort only her Maker knew. She was
large in every way. It was the only word that described her;
large-boned, large-featured, and so stout that she wheezed--a fact which
in no way limited her activity. Her voice was as deep as a man's, and it
went even deeper when she laughed.

But she was not laughing now. Her face was full of the most kindly
concern. "Lord bless the child!" she said. "She don't know me yet.
I'm Mrs. Errol, dear, Mrs. Lucas Blenheim Errol. And if there's
anything you want--well, you've only got to mention it to me and it's
as good as done."

She spoke with a strong American accent. A Yankee of the Yankees was Mrs.
Errol, and she saw no reason to disguise the fact. She knew that people
smiled at her, but it made no difference to her. She was content to let
them smile. She even smiled at herself.

"You are very good," Anne murmured.

"Not a bit," said Mrs. Errol cheerfully. "I'm real pleased to have you,
dear. And don't you think you're giving any trouble to anybody, for there
isn't anything that pleases me so much as to have a girl to look after.
It's the biggest treat the Lord could send."

Anne smiled a little, conscious of a glow at the heart that she had not
known for many a day. She tried weakly to give her hand to her new
friend, but the pain of moving was so intense that she uttered a quick
gasp and abandoned the attempt.

But in an instant Mrs. Errol's fingers were wound closely about her own,
the large face, wonderfully smooth, save for a few kindly wrinkles about
the eyes, was bent to hers.

"There, dearie, there!" said the motherly voice, tender for all its
gruffness. "You're stiff in every limb, and no wonder. It's just natural.
Just you lie still and leave everything to me."

She was, in fact, determined to take the whole burden of nursing upon
herself, and when the doctor had gone she began to show Anne how capable
she was of fulfilling the responsibility she had thus undertaken. No
trained nurse could have given her more dexterous attention.

"I've spent a great part of my life in sickrooms," she told Anne. "First
my husband, and then poor Lucas, that's my eldest boy. But Lucas won't
have me to wait on him now. He doesn't like his mother to see him in his
bad hours, and they are mighty bad now and then. So my nursing talents
would run to seed if it weren't for a casual patient like yourself."

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.

"I know, and I'm sorry. But I can't help it. There are times when a
man--if he is a man--must act for himself. And I--" he broke off, still
chafing, his hand seeking without violence to free him from that hold
which could not have been so very powerful, though it resisted his
efforts. "Luke," he said suddenly, and the anger was gone from his voice,
"let me go, old chap. You must let me go. It isn't right--it isn't just
to--to take advantage of being--what you are."

The quick falter in the words deprived them of any sting, yet on the
instant Lucas's hand fell, setting him free.

"All right, Bertie! Go!" he said.

And Bertie went--three steps, and halted. Lucas remained motionless
before the fire. He was not so much as looking at him.

Several seconds passed in silence. Then impulsively Bertie turned. His
lips were quivering. He went straight back to the quiet figure on the
hearth, lifted the free arm, and drew it boyishly round his neck.

"Old chap, forgive me!" he said.

"For what you haven't done?" Lucas asked, with a very kindly smile.

"For being an unconscionable brute!" Bertie said, with feeling. "I didn't
mean, it, old man. I didn't mean it!"

"Oh, shucks, dear fellow! Don't be such a silly ass! It's demoralising
for all concerned." Lucas Errol's hand pressed his shoulder
admonishingly. "She's a nice little girl, Bertie. I've taken a kind of
fancy to her myself."

Bertie looked up quickly. "Luke, you're a brick!"

Lucas shook his head. "But you mustn't ask her yet, lad. She's not ready
for it. I'm not sure that you are ready for it yourself."

Bertie's face fell. "Why not? I'm in dead earnest. I want to marry her,
just as soon as she will have me."

"Quite so," drawled Nap, from the depths of the lounge behind him. "And
she, I doubt not, wants to marry you--even sooner, if possible."

He had come up in his noiseless fashion unobserved. Attired in evening
dress, slim, sleek, well-groomed, he lay at full length and gazed up at
the two brothers, a malicious glitter in his eyes. He held an unlighted
cigarette between his fingers.

"Pray don't let me interrupt, Lucas," he said airily, ignoring Bertie's
sharp exclamation, which was not of a pacific nature. "I always enjoy
seeing you trying to teach the pride of the Errols not to make a fool of
himself. It's a gigantic undertaking, isn't it? Let me know if you
require any assistance."

He placed the cigarette between his lips and felt for some matches.

"I am going to turn my attention to you now," Lucas rejoined in his tired
voice. "Bertie, old chap, go and dress, will you? You can come to my room
afterwards."

"Bring me one of those spills first," said Nap.

Bertie stood rigid. He was white to the lips with the effort to control
himself. Nap, outstretched, supple as a tiger, lay and watched him
unwaveringly.

"Go, Bertie!" Lucas said very quietly.

He took a spill himself from the mantelpiece, and tried to hold it to the
blaze. But he stooped with difficulty, and sharply Bertie reached forward
and took it from him.

"I will," he said briefly, and lighting the spill, carried it to Nap, at
ease on the sofa.

With a faint smile Nap awaited him. He did not offer to take the burning
spill, and Bertie held it in sullen silence to the end of his cigarette.
His hand was not very steady, and after a moment Nap took his wrist.

The cigarette glowed, and Nap looked up. "It's a pity you're too big to
thrash, Bertie," he said coolly, and with a sudden movement doubled the
flaming paper back upon the fingers that held it.

Bertie's yell was more of rage than pain. He struck furiously at his
tormentor with his free hand, but Nap, by some trick of marvellous
agility, evaded the blow. He leapt over the back of the settee with a
laugh of devilish derision.

And, "Bertie, go!" said Lucas peremptorily.

Without a word Bertie checked himself as it were in mid career, stood a
second as one gathering his strength, then turned in utter silence and
marched away.




CHAPTER XIII

THE JESTER'S INFERNO


Between the two men who were left not a word passed for many minutes. Nap
prowled to and fro with his head back and his own peculiarly insolent
smile curving the corners of his mouth. There was a ruddy glare in his
eyes, but they held no anger.

Lucas, still leaning on his crutch, stood with his back turned, his face
to the fire. There was no anger about him either. He looked spent.

Abruptly Nap ceased his pacing and came up to him. "Come!" he said. "You
have had enough of this. I will help you to your room."

Slowly Lucas lifted his heavy eyes. "Send Hudson to me," he said.

Nap looked at him sharply. Then, "Lean on me," he said. "I'll help you."

"No. Send Hudson." The words ended upon a stifled groan.

Nap turned swiftly and dragged forward the settee. "Lie down here for a
minute, while I fetch him. Don't faint, man! You will be easier
directly. You have been on your feet too long. There! Is that better?"

Lucas drew a long, shuddering breath and slowly suffered his limbs to
relax. His face was ghastly though he forced himself to smile.

"Yes, I am better. Don't call Hudson for a minute. Nap!"

Nap bent.

"Put your hand under my shoulders. Ah! That's a help. I always like your
touch. Say, Boney," the words came gaspingly, the sunken eyes were heavy
with pain, "you'll think me a mean brute. I am, dear fellow, I am; a
coward, too, from the same point of view. But--ill or well, I've got to
say it. You've been running amok to-day, and it's been altogether too
lively to be just pleasant. You've got to pull up. I say it."

Nap's smile had utterly departed. It was some other impulse that twitched
his lips as he made reply.

"Whatever you say is law."

"Thanks! I'm duly grateful. Do you mind wiping my forehead? I'm too lazy
to move. Boney, old chap, he's a well-behaved youngster on the whole.
What do you want to bait him for?"

"Because I'm a jealous devil," Nap said through his teeth.

"Oh, rats, dear fellow! We are not talking in parables. You're a bit of a
savage, I know, but--"

"More than that," threw in Nap.

"No--no! You can hold yourself in if you try. And why jealous, anyway?
We're all brothers. Say, Boney, I'm going to hurt you infernally. You hit
the youngster below the belt. It was foul play."

"What can you expect?" muttered Nap.

"I expect--better things. If you must be a beast, be a clean beast. If
you must hit out now and then, give him a chance to hit back. It's kind
of shabby--the game you played today."

"Are you going to make me apologise?" asked Nap grimly.

"Shucks, no; He would think you were laughing at him. Clap him on the
back and tell him not to be a fool. He'll understand that."

"And wish him luck with the parson's daughter?" said Nap, with a sneer.

"Why not, old chap?"

"You really mean to let him marry the first girl who runs after
his dollars?"

"It isn't the dollars," said the millionaire gently. "And she isn't
running after him either. She's running away."

"Same thing sometimes," said Nap.

"Oh, don't be cynical, Boney! It's so damned cheap! There! I've done
swearing at you for the present. It's wonderful how you fellows bear with
me. Find Hudson, will you? And then go and tell Lady Carfax that I am
afraid I can't visit her this evening as I had hoped."

"Do you know she talks of leaving tomorrow?" said Nap.

"Yes, I know. Guess she is quite right to go."

"She's not fit for it," said Nap, in a fierce undertone. "It's madness. I
told her so. But she wouldn't listen."

"She is the best judge," his brother said. "Anyway, she is in an
intolerable position. We can't press her to prolong it. Besides--whatever
he is--her husband has first right."

"Think so?" said Nap.

"It is so," Lucas asserted quietly, "whether you admit it or not."

Nap did not dispute the point, but his jaw looked exceedingly
uncompromising as he departed to find the valet.

When a little later he asked for admission to Anne's presence, however,
his bitter mood seemed to have modified. He entered with the air of one
well assured of his welcome.

"Are you in a mood for chess tonight?" he asked.

"Now, you're not to plague her, Nap," put in Mrs. Errol. "She isn't going
to spend her last evening amusing you."

"Oh, please," protested Anne. "It is your son who has had all the
amusing to do."

Nap smiled. "There's for you, alma mater!" he remarked as he sat down.

"Lady Carfax is much too forbearing to say anything else," retorted
Mrs. Errol.

"Lady Carfax always tells the truth," said Nap, beginning to set the
chess-board, "which is the exact reason why all her swains adore her."

"Well," said Mrs. Errol very deliberately, though without venom, "I guess
that's about the last quality I should expect you to appreciate."

"Strange to say, it is actually the first just now," said Nap. "Are you
going, alma mater? Don't let me drive you away!"

He rose, nevertheless, to open the door for her; and Mrs. Errol went,
somewhat with the air of one complying with an unspoken desire.

Nap came softly back and resumed his task. "P'r'aps you will be good
enough to refrain from referring to me again as the august lady's son,"
he said. "She doesn't like it."

"Why not?" said Anne in astonishment.

He glanced up at her as if contemplating something. Then, "You see, the
benign mother is not over and above proud of me," he drawled. "If it were
Bertie now--well, I guess even you will admit that Bertie is the flower
of the flock."

His manner mystified her, but it was not her way to seek to probe
mysteries. She smiled as she said, "I have yet to discover that you are
so very despicable."

"You have yet to discover--many things," said Nap enigmatically. "Will
you be pleased to make the first move?"

She did so silently. They had played together several times before. He
had formed a habit of visiting her every evening, and though her skill
at the game was far from great, it had been a welcome diversion from the
constant anxiety that pressed so heavily upon her. Nap was an expert
player, yet he seemed to enjoy the poor game which was all she had to
offer. Perhaps he liked to feel her at his mercy. She strongly suspected
that he often deliberately prolonged the contest though he seldom allowed
her to beat him.

To-night, however, he seemed to be in a restless mood, and she soon saw
that he was bent upon a swift victory. He made his moves with a quick
dexterity that baffled her completely, and but a very few minutes elapsed
before he uttered his customary warning.

"You would do well to beware."

"Which means that I am beaten, I suppose," she said, with a smile of
resignation.

"You can save yourself if you like," he said, with his eyes on the board,
"if you consider it worth while."

"I don't think I do," she answered. "The end will be the same."

His eyes flashed up at her. "You surrender unconditionally?"

She continued to smile despite the sadness of her face. "Absolutely. I am
so accustomed to defeat that I am getting callous."

"You seem to have great confidence in my chivalry," he said, looking
full at her.

"I have--every confidence, Mr. Errol," she answered gravely. "I think
that you and your brother are the most chivalrous men I know."

His laugh had a ring of harshness. "Believe me, I am not accustomed to
being ranked with the saints," he said. "How shall I get away from your
halo? I warn you, it's a most awful misfit. You'll find it out presently,
and make me suffer for your mistake."

"You haven't a very high opinion of my sense of justice," Anne said, with
just a tinge of reproach in her gentle voice.

"No," he said recklessly. "None whatever. You are sure to forget who
fashioned the halo. Women always do."

Anne was silent.

He leaned suddenly towards her, careless of the chessmen that rolled in
all directions. "I haven't been living up to the halo to-day," he said,
and there was that in his voice that touched her to quick pity. "I've
been snapping and biting like a wild beast all day long. I've been in
hell myself, and I've made it hell wherever I went."

"Oh, but why?" Half involuntarily she held out her hand to him as one who
would assist a friend in deep waters.

He took it, held it closely, bowed his forehead upon it, and so sat
tensely silent.

"Something is wrong. I wish I could help you," she said at last.

He lifted his head, met her eyes of grave compassion, and abruptly
set her free.

"You have done what you could for me," he said. "You've made me hate my
inferno. But you can't pull me out. You have"--she saw his teeth for a
second though scarcely in a smile--"other fish to fry."

"Whatever I am doing, I shall not forget my friends, Nap," she said, with
great earnestness.

"No," he returned, "you won't forget them. I shouldn't wonder if you
prayed for them even. I am sure you are one of the faithful." There was
more of suppressed misery than irony in his voice. "But is that likely to
help when you don't so much as know what to pray for?"

He got up and moved away from her with that noiseless footfall that was
so like the stealthy padding of a beast.

Anne lay and silently watched him. Her uncertainty regarding him had long
since passed away. Though she was far from understanding him, he had
become an intimate friend, and she treated him as such. True, he was
unlike any other man she had ever met, but that fact had ceased to
embarrass her. She accepted him as he was.

He came back at length and sat down, smiling at her, though
somewhat grimly.

"You will pardon your poor jester," he said, "if he fails to make a joke
on your last night. He could make jokes--plenty of them, but not of the
sort that would please you."

Anne said nothing. She would not, if she could help it, betray to any
how much she was dreading the morrow. But she felt that he knew it in
spite of her.

His next words revealed the fact. "You are going to purgatory," he
said, "and I am going to perdition. Do you know, I sometimes wonder if
we shouldn't do better to turn and fly in the face of the gods when
they drive us too hard? Why do we give in when we've nothing to gain
and all to lose?"

She met his look with her steadfast eyes. "Does duty count as
nothing?" she said.

He made an impatient movement, and would have spoken, but she
stopped him.

"Please don't rail at duty. I know your creed is pleasure, but the
pursuit of pleasure does not, after all, bring happiness."

"Who wants pleasure?" demanded Nap fiercely. "That's only the anesthetic
when things get unbearable. You use duty in the same way. But what we
both want, what we both hanker for, starve for, is just life! Who cares
if there is pain with it? I don't, nor do you. And yet we keep on
stunting and stultifying ourselves with these old-fashioned remedies for
a disease we only half understand, when we might have all the world and
then some. Oh, we're fools--we're fools!" His voice rang wildly
passionate. He flung out his arms as if he wrestled with something.
"We've been cheated for centuries of our birthright, and we still put up
with it, still bring our human sacrifices to an empty shrine!"

And there he broke off short, checked suddenly at the height of his
outburst though she had made no second effort to stop him.

Her quiet eyes had not flinched from his. She had made no sign of
shrinking. With the utmost patience she had listened to him. Yet by some
means intangible the fiery stream of his rebellion was stayed.

There fell a brief silence. Then he rose. "I am afraid I am not fit for
civilised society to-night," he said. "I will say good-bye." He held her
hand for a moment. "You will let me see you sometimes?"

"I hope to come now and then to Baronmead," she answered quietly. "But
you will not--please--come to the Manor again."

He looked down at her with eyes that had become inscrutable. "I shall not
come against your will," he said.

"Thank you," she answered simply.

And so he left her.




CHAPTER XIV

A BIG THING


As the widowed rector's only daughter, Dot's occupations were many and
various, and it was in consequence no difficult matter to be too deeply
engrossed in these occupations to have any time to spare for intercourse
with the rector's pupil.

Her brother had gone back to college, and there was therefore no excuse
for the said pupil to linger when his studies were over, though he
invented many that would not have borne a very close investigation.

But his ingenuity was all to no purpose. Dot could be ingenious too, and
she evaded him so adroitly that at the end of a week he had abandoned
his efforts.

He went about with a certain sternness in those days, but it was not the
sternness of the vanquished, rather the dogged patience of the man who is
quite sure of ultimate success. Dot, peeping from the kitchen window to
see him ride away, marked this on more than one occasion and
strengthened her defences in consequence. She had not the remotest
intention of seeing Bertie alone again for many a month, if ever. His
persistence had scared her badly on that night at Baronmead. She was
horribly afraid of what he might feel impelled to say to her, almost
terrified at the bare notion of an explanation, and the prospect of a
possible apology was unthinkable. It was easier for her to sacrifice his
good comradeship, though that of itself was no easy matter, and she could
only thrust her sense of loss into the background of her thoughts by the
most strenuous efforts.

She was sturdily determined to make him relinquish their former pleasant
intimacy before they should meet again. She was growing up, she told
herself severely, growing up fast; and intimacies of that sort were
likely to be misconstrued.

She took the counsel of none upon this difficult matter. Her father was
too vague a dreamer to guide her, or so much as to realise that she stood
in need of guidance. And Dot had gone her own independent way all her
life. Her healthy young mind was not accustomed to grapple with problems,
but she did not despair on that account. She only resolutely set herself
to cope with this one as best she might, erecting out of her multifarious
duties a barrier calculated to dishearten the most hopeful knight.

But in thus constructing her defences there was one force with which she
omitted to reckon and against which she in consequence made no
preparation, a force which, nevertheless, was capable of shattering all
her carefully-laid schemes at a touch.

As she emerged among the last of the congregation from the church on the
Sunday morning following her visit to Baronmead, she found Lucas Errol
leaning upon the open lych-gate.

He greeted her with that shrewd, kindly smile of his before which it was
almost impossible to feel embarrassed or constrained. Yet she blushed
vividly at meeting him, and would gladly have turned the other way had
the opportunity offered. For there in the road below, doing something to
the motor, was Bertie.

"It's a real pleasure to meet you again, Miss Waring," said Lucas, in his
pleasant drawl. "I was just hoping you would come along. I met your
father before the service, and he promised to show me his orchids."

"Oh!" said Dot, nervously avoiding a second glance in Bertie's direction.
"Won't you come across to the Rectory then and wait for him there?"

"May I?" said Lucas.

He straightened himself with an effort and transferred his weight to his
crutch. Dot shyly proffered her arm.

"Let me!" said Bertie.

He was already on the steps, but Lucas waved him down, and accepted the
girl's help instead.

"We will go in the garden way," said Dot. "It's only just across
the road."

He halted terribly in the descent, and glancing at him in some anxiety
she saw that his lips were tightly closed. Overwhelming pity for the man
overcame her awkwardness, and she spoke sharply over her shoulder.

"Bertie, come and take my place! You know what to do better than I do."

In an instant Bertie was beside her, had slipped his arm under his
brother's shoulder, and taken his weight almost entirely off the crutch.
His active young strength bore the great burden unfalteringly and with
immense tenderness, and there ran through Dot, watching from above, a
queer little indefinable thrill that made her heart beat suddenly faster.
He certainly was a nice boy, as he himself had declared.

"That didn't hurt so badly, eh, old chap?" asked the cheery voice. "Come
along, Dot. You can give him a hand now while I fetch the car round.
There are no steps to the Rectory, so he will be all right."

His airy friendliness banished the last of Dot's confusion. With a keen
sense of relief she obeyed him. Those few seconds of a common solicitude
had bridged the gulf at least temporarily.

"This is real good of you," Lucas Errol said, as he took her arm again.
"And it's a luxury I ought not to indulge in, for I can walk alone on
the flat."

"Oh, it is horrid for you!" she said with vehemence. "How ever do
you bear it?"

"We can all of us bear what we must," he said, smiling whimsically.

"But we don't all of us do it well," said Dot, as she opened the
Rectory gate.

"I guess that's a good deal a matter of temperament," said the
American. "A fellow like Nap, for instance, all hustle and quicksilver,
might be expected to kick now and then. One makes allowances for a
fellow like that."

"I believe you make allowances for everyone," said Dot, impetuously.

"Don't you?" he asked.

"No, I am afraid I don't."

There was a pause. The garden door was closed behind them. They
stood alone.

Lucas Errol's eyes travelled over the stretch of lawn that lay between
them and the house, dwelt for a few thoughtful seconds upon nothing in
particular, and finally sought those of the girl at his side.

"One must be fair, Miss Waring," he said gently. "I can't imagine you
being deliberately unfair to anyone."

She flushed again. There was something in his manner that she could not
quite fathom, but it was something that she could not possibly resent.

"Not deliberately--of course," she said after a moment, as he waited for
an answer.

"Of course not," he agreed, in his courteous, rather tired voice. "If,
for instance, you were out with a friend and met a scorpion in a rage who
stung you both, you'd want to take it out of the scorpion, wouldn't you,
not the friend?"

She hesitated, seeing in a flash the trend of the conversation, and
unwilling to commit herself too deeply.

He read her reluctance at a glance. "Please don't be afraid of me," he
said, with that most winning smile of his. "I promise you on my honour
that whatever you say shall not be used against you."

She smiled involuntarily. "I am not afraid of you, only--"

"Only--" he said.

"I think there are a good many scorpions about," she told him rather
piteously. "I could name several, all venomous."

"I understand," said Lucas Errol. He passed his hand within her arm again
and pressed it gently. "And so you are flinging away all your valuables
to escape them?" he questioned. "Forgive me--is that wise?"

She did not answer.

He began to make his difficult progress towards the house.

Suddenly, without looking at her he spoke again. "I believe you're a
woman of sense, Miss Waring, and you know as well as I do that there is a
price to pay for everything. And the biggest things command the highest
prices. If we haven't the means to pay for a big thing when it is
offered us, we must just let it go. But if we have--well, I guess we'd be
wise to sell out all the little things and secure it. Those same little
things are so almighty small in comparison."

He ceased, but still Dot was silent. It was not the silence of
embarrassment, however. He had spoken too kindly for that.

He did not look at her till they were close to the house, then for a few
moments she was aware of his steady eyes searching for the answer she
had withheld.

"Say, Miss Waring," he said, "you are not vexed any?"

She turned towards him instantly, her round face full of the most earnest
friendliness. "I--I think you're a brick, Mr. Errol," she said.

He shook his head. "Nothing so useful, I am afraid, but I'm grateful to
you all the same for thinking so. Ah! Here comes your father."

The rector was hastening after them across the grass. He joined them on
the path before the house and urged his visitor to come in and rest. The
orchids were in the conservatory. He believed he had one very rare
specimen. If Mr. Errol would sit down in the drawing-room he would bring
it for his inspection.

And so it came to pass that when Bertie entered he found his brother deep
in a botanical discussion with the enthusiastic rector while Dot had
disappeared. Bertie only paused to ascertain this fact before he turned
round and went in quest of her.

He knew his way about the lower regions of the Rectory, and he began a
systematic search forthwith. She was not, however, to be very readily
found. He glanced into all the downstairs rooms without success. He was,
in fact, on the point of regretfully abandoning his efforts on the
supposition that she had retreated to her own room when her voice rang
suddenly down the back stairs. She was calling agitatedly for help.

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 _tête-à-tête_ 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.

When they went out at last on to the terrace the whole garden was
transformed into a paradise of glowing colours. The lake shone like a
prism of glass, and over all the stars hung as if suspended very near
the earth.

Lucas went down to the edge of the ice, leaning on his valet. Bertie,
clad as a Roman soldier, was already vanishing in the distance with
someone attired as a Swiss peasant girl. Mrs. Errol, sensibly wrapped
in a large motoring coat, was maintaining a cheery conversation with
the rector, who looked cold and hungry and smiled bluely at
everything she said.

Anne stood by her host and watched the gay scene silently. "You ought to
be skating," he said presently.

She shook her head. "Not yet. I like watching. It makes me think of when
I was a girl."

"Not so very long ago, surely!" he said, with a smile.

"Seven years," she answered.

"My dear Lady Carfax!"

"Yes, seven years," she repeated, and though she also smiled there was a
note of unspeakable dreariness in her voice. "I was married on my
eighteenth birthday."

"My dear Lady Carfax," he said again. And with that silence fell once
more between them, but in some magic fashion his sympathy imparted itself
to her. She could feel it as one feels sudden sunshine on a cold day. It
warmed her to the heart.

She moved at length, turning towards him, and at once he spoke, as if
she had thereby set him at liberty to do so.

"Shall I tell you what I do when I find myself very badly up against
anything?" he said.

"Yes, tell me." Instinctively she drew nearer to him. There was that
about this man that attracted her irresistibly.

"It's a very simple remedy," he said, "simpler than praying. One can't
always pray. I just open the windows wide, Lady Carfax. It's a
help--even that."

"Ah!" she said quickly. "I think your windows must be always open."

"It seems a pity to shut them," he answered gently. "There is always a
sparrow to feed, anyway."

She laughed rather sadly. "Yes, there are always sparrows."

"And sometimes bigger things," he said, "things one wouldn't miss for
half creation."

"Or lose again for the other half," said the cool voice of a skater who
had just glided up.

Anne started a little, but Lucas scarcely moved.

"Lady Carfax is waiting to go on the ice," he said.

"And I am waiting to take her," the new-comer said.

His slim, graceful figure in its black, tight-fitting garb sparkled at
every turn. His eyes shone through his velvet mask like the eyes of an
animal in the dark.

He glided nearer, but for some reason inexplicable to herself, Anne
stepped back.

"I don't think I will," she said. "I am quite happy where I am."

"You will be happier with me," said the harlequin, with imperial
confidence.

He waved his hand to Hudson standing a few paces away with her skates,
took them from him, motioned her to the bank.

She stepped forward, not very willingly. Hudson, at another sign, spread
a rug for her. She sat down, and the glittering harlequin kneeled upon
the ice before her and fastened the blades to her feet.

It only took a couple of minutes; he was deft in all his ways. And
then he was on his feet again, and with a royal gesture had helped
her to hers.

Anne looked at him half dazzled. The shimmering figure seemed to be
decked in diamonds.

"Are you ready?" he said.

She looked into the glowing eyes and felt as if some magic attraction
were drawing her against her will.

"So long!" called Lucas from the bank. "Take care of her, Boney."

In another moment they were gliding into that prism of many lights and
colours, and the harlequin, holding Anne's hands, laughed enigmatically
as he sped her away.




CHAPTER XVII

THE SLAVE OF GOODNESS


It seemed to Anne presently that she had left the earth altogether, and
was gliding upwards through starland without effort or conscious movement
of any sort, simply as though lifted by the hands that held her own.
Their vitality thrilled through her like a strong current of electricity.
She felt that whichever way they turned, wherever they led her, she must
be safe. And there was a quivering ecstasy in that dazzling, rapid rush
that filled her veins like liquid fire.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked her once.

And she answered, in a species of breathless rapture, "I feel as if I
were caught in a rainbow."

He laughed again at that, a soft, exultant laugh, and drew her more
swiftly on.

They left the other masqueraders behind; they left the shimmering
lake and its many lights; and at last in the starlight only they
slackened speed.

Anne came out of her trance of delight to find that they were between the
banks of the stream that fed the lake. The ground on each side of them
shone white and hard in the frost-bound silence. The full moon was just
rising over a long silver ridge of down. She stood with her face to its
cold splendour, her hands still locked in that vital grip.

Slowly at last, compelled she knew not how, she turned to the man beside
her. His eyes were blazing at her with a lurid fire, and suddenly that
sensation that had troubled her once before in his presence--a sensation
of sharp uneasiness--pricked through her confidence.

She stood quite still, conscious of a sudden quickening of her heart. But
she did not shrink from that burning gaze. She met it with level eyes.

For seconds they stood so, facing one another. He seemed to be trying in
some fashion to subjugate her, to beat her down; but she would not yield
an inch. And it was he who finally broke the spell.

"Am I forgiven?"

"For what?" she said.

"For pretending to disbelieve you this morning."

"Was it pretence?" she asked.

"No, it wasn't!" he told her fiercely. "It was deadly earnest. I would
have given all I had to be able to disbelieve you. Do you know that?"

"But why, Nap?"

"Why?" he said. "Because your goodness, your purity, are making a slave
of me. If I could catch you--if I could catch you only once--cheating, as
all other women cheat, I should be free. But you are irreproachable and
incorruptible. I believe you are above temptation."

"Oh, you don't know me," she interposed quietly. "But even if I were all
these things, why should it vex you?"

"Why?" he said. "Because you hold me back, you check me at every turn.
You harness me to your chariot wheels, and I have to run in the path of
virtue whether I will or not!"

He broke off with a laugh that had in it a note of savagery.

"Don't you even care to know what was in that letter that you never had?"
he asked abruptly.

"Tell me!" she said.

"I told you that I was mad to have missed you that day. I begged you to
let me have a line before you came again. I besought you to let me call
upon you and to fix a day. I signed myself your humble and devoted slave,
Napoleon Errol."

He ceased, still laughing queerly, with his lower lip between his teeth.

Anne stood silent for many seconds.

At last, "You must never come to see me," she said very decidedly.

"Not if I bring the mother as a chaperon?" he jested.

"Neither you nor your mother must ever come to see me again," she
said firmly. "And--Nap--though I know that the writing of that
letter meant nothing whatever to you, I am more sorry than I can say
that you sent it."

He threw back his head arrogantly. "What?" he said. "Has the queen no
further use for her jester? Am I not even to write to you then?"

"I think not," she said.

"And why?" he demanded imperiously.

"I think you know why," she said.

"Do I know why? Is it because you are afraid of your husband?"

"No."

"Afraid of me then?" There was almost a taunt in the words.

"No," she said again.

"Why, then?" He was looking full into her eyes. There was something
peculiarly sinister about his masked face. She almost felt as if he were
menacing her.

Nevertheless she made unfaltering reply. "For a reason that means much
to me, though it may not appeal to you. Because my husband is not
always sane, and I am afraid of what he might do to you if he were
provoked any further."

"Great Lucifer!" said Nap. "Does he think I make love to you then?"

She did not answer him. "He is not always sane," she repeated.

"You are right," he said. "That reason does not appeal to me. Your
husband's hallucinations are not worth considering. But I don't propose
on that account to write any more letters for his edification. For the
future--" He paused.

"For the future," Anne said, "there must be no correspondence between us
at all. I know it seems unreasonable to you, but that cannot be helped.
Mr. Errol, surely you are generous enough--chivalrous enough--to
understand."

"No, I don't understand," Nap said. "I don't understand how you can, by
the widest stretch of the imagination, believe it your duty to conform to
the caprices of a maniac."

"How can I help it?" she said very sadly.

He was silent a moment. His hands were still gripping hers; she
could feel her wedding-ring being forced into her flesh. "Like our
mutual friend, Major Shirley," he said slowly, "I wonder why you
stick to the man."

She turned her face away with a sound that was almost a moan.

"You never loved him," he said with conviction.

She was silent. Yet after a little, as he waited, she spoke as one
compelled.

"I live with him because he gave me that for which I married him. He
fulfilled his part of the bargain. I must fulfil mine. I was nothing but
his bailiff's daughter, remember; a bailiff who had robbed him--for whose
escape from penal servitude I paid the price."

"Great Heavens!" said Nap.

She turned to him quickly, with an impulsiveness that was almost girlish.
"I have never told anyone else," she said. "I tell you because I know
you are my friend and because I want you to understand. We will
never--please--speak of it again."

"Wait!" Nap's voice rang stern. "Was it part of the bargain that he
should insult you, trample on you, make you lead a dog's life without a
single friend to make it bearable?"

She did not attempt to answer him. "Let us go back," she said.

He wheeled at once, still holding her hands.

They skated a few yards in silence. Then suddenly, almost under his
breath, he spoke. "I am not going to give up my friendship with you. Let
that be clearly understood."

"You are very good to me," she said simply.

"No. I am not. I am human, that's all. I don't think this state of
affairs can last much longer."

She shuddered. Her husband's condition had been very much worse of late,
but she did not tell him so.

They were skating rapidly back towards the head of the lake. In front of
them sounded the swirling rush of skates and the laughter of many voices.

"I'm sorry I've been a beast to you," Nap said abruptly. "You mustn't
mind me. It's just my way."

"Oh, I don't mind you, Nap," she answered gently.

"Thanks!" he said.

And with that he stooped suddenly and shot forward like a meteor, bearing
her with him.

They flashed back into the gay throng of masqueraders, and mingled with
the crowd as though they had never left it.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE DESCENT FROM OLYMPUS


"Come and say good-bye to Lucas," said Bertie. "He is up and
asking for you."

So, with an impetuous hand upon Anne's arm, he whisked her away on the
following morning to his brother's room. She was dressed for departure,
and waiting for the motor that was to take her home. Of Nap she had seen
nothing. He had a way of absenting himself from meals whenever it suited
him to do so. She wondered if he meant to let her go without farewell.

She found the master of the house lying on a couch sorting his
correspondence. He pushed everything aside at her entrance.

"Come in, Lady Carfax! I am glad not to have missed you. A pity you have
to leave so soon."

"I only wish I could stop longer," Anne said. He looked up at her,
holding her hand, his shrewd blue eyes full of the most candid
friendliness.

"You will come again, I hope, when you can," he said.

"Thank you," she answered gently.

He still held her hand. "And if at any time you need the help--or
comfort--of friends," he said, "you won't forget where to look?"

"Thank you," she said again.

"Is Nap driving you?" he asked.

"No," said Bertie. "Nap's skiing."

"Then you, Bertie--"

"My dear fellow," said Bertie, "I'm fearfully sorry, but I can't. You
understand, don't you, Lady Carfax? I would if I could, but--" his
excuses trailed off unsatisfactorily.

He turned very red and furiously jabbed at the fire with his boot.

"Please don't think of it," said Anne. "I am so used to being alone. In
fact, your mother wanted to come with me, but I dissuaded her."

"Then I conclude it is useless for me to offer myself as an escort?"
said Lucas.

"Yes, quite useless," she smiled, "though I am grateful to you all the
same. Good-bye, Mr. Errol!"

"Good-bye!" he said.

As Bertie closed the door behind her he took up a letter from the heap at
his elbow; but his eyes remained fixed for several seconds.

At length: "Bertie," he said, without looking up, "are you due at the
Rectory this morning?"

"This afternoon," said Bertie.

He also bent over the pile of correspondence and began to sort. He often
did secretarial work for Lucas.

Lucas suffered him for some seconds longer. Then, "You don't generally
behave like a boor, Bertie," he said.

"Oh, confound it!" exclaimed Bertie, with vehemence. "You don't suppose I
enjoyed letting her think me a cad, do you?"

"I don't suppose she did," Lucas said thoughtfully.

"Well, you do anyway, which is worse."

Bertie slapped down the letters and walked to the fire.

Lucas returned without comment to the paper in his hand.

After a long pause Bertie wheeled. He came back to his brother's side and
pulled up a chair. His brown face was set in stern lines.

"I don't see why I should put up with this," he said, "and I don't
mean to. It was Nap's doing. I was going to drive her. He
interfered--as usual."

"I thought you said Nap was skiing." Lucas spoke without raising his
eyes. He also looked graver than usual.

"I did. He is. But he has got some game on, and he didn't want me
looking on. Oh, I'm sick to death of Nap and all his ways! He's rotten
to the core!"

"Gently, boy, gently! You go too far." Lucas looked up into the hot blue
eyes, the severity all gone from his own. "It isn't what things look like
that you have to consider. It is what they are. Nap, poor chap, is badly
handicapped; but he has been putting up a big fight for himself lately,
and he hasn't done so badly. Give the devil his due."

"What's he doing now?" demanded Bertie. "It's bad enough to have the
whole community gossiping about his flirtations with women that don't
count. But when it comes to a good woman--like Lady Carfax--oh, I tell
you it makes me sick! He might leave her alone, at least. She's miserable
enough without him to make matters worse."

"My dear boy, you needn't be afraid for Lady Carfax." Lucas Errol's voice
held absolute conviction. "She wouldn't tolerate him for an instant if he
attempted to flirt with her. Their intimacy is founded on something more
solid than that. It's a genuine friendship or I have never seen one."

"Do you mean to say you don't know he is in love with her?"
ejaculated Bertie.

"But he won't make love to her," Lucas answered quietly. "He is drawn by
a good woman for the first time in his life, and no harm will come of it.
She is one of those women who must run a straight course. There are a few
such, born saints, 'of whom the world is not worthy.'" He checked himself
with a sudden sigh. "Suppose we get to business, Bertie."

"It's all very fine," said Bertie, preparing to comply. "But if Nap ever
falls foul of Sir Giles Carfax, he may find that he has bitten off more
than he can chew. They say he is on the high road to the D.T.'s. Small
wonder that Lady Carfax looks careworn!"

Small wonder indeed! Yet as Anne sped along through the sunshine on that
winter day she found leisure from her cares to enjoy the swift journey in
the great luxurious car. The burden she carried perpetually weighed less
heavily upon her than usual. The genial atmosphere of Baronmead had
warmed her heart. The few words that Lucas had spoken with her hand in
his still echoed through her memory. Yes, she knew where to look for
friends; no carping critics, but genuine, kindly friends who knew and
sympathised.

She thought of Nap with regret and a tinge of anxiety. She was sure he
had not intended to let her go without farewell, but she hoped earnestly
that he would not pursue her to the Manor to tell her so.

And then she remembered his letter; that letter that her husband must
have intercepted, recalling his storm of unreasonable fury on the
occasion of her last return from Baronmead. He had doubtless read that
letter and been inflamed by it. Hating her himself, he yet was fiercely
jealous of her friends--these new friends of hers who had lavished upon
her every kindness in her time of need, to whom she must always feel
warmly grateful, however churlishly he might ignore the obligation.

He had raised no definite objection to this present visit of hers. Mrs.
Errol had, in her own inimitable fashion, silenced him, but she had known
that she had gone against his wish. And it was in consequence of this
knowledge that she was returning so early, though she did not expect him
back till night. He should have no rational cause for complaint against
her. For such causes as his fevered brain created she could not hold
herself responsible.

It was hard to lead such a life without becoming morbid, but Anne was
fashioned upon generous lines. She strove ever to maintain the calm level
of reason wherewith to temper the baleful influence of her husband's
caprice. She never argued with him; argument was worse than futile. But
steadfastly and incessantly she sought by her moderation to balance the
difficulties with which she was continually confronted. And to a certain
extent she succeeded. Open struggles were very rare. Sir Giles knew that
there was a limit to her submission, and he seldom, if ever now,
attempted to force her beyond that limit.

But she knew that a visit from Nap would place her in an intolerable
position, and with all her heart she hoped that her caution of the
previous day had taken effect. Though utterly reckless on his own
account, she fancied that she had made an impression upon him, and that
he would not act wholly without consideration for her. In bestowing her
friendship upon him she had therewith reposed a confidence which his
invariable compliance with her wishes had seemed to warrant. She did not
think that her trust would ever prove to have been misplaced. But she was
sorry, unquestionably she was sorry, to have left without bidding him
farewell. It might be long ere they would meet again.

And with the thought yet in her mind she looked out of the window in
front of her, and saw his slim, supple figure, clad in a white sweater,
shoot swiftly down a snow-draped slope ahead of her, like a meteor
flashing earthwards out of the blue.

His arms were extended; his movements had a lithe grace that was
irresistibly fascinating to the eye. Slight though he was, he might have
been a young god descending on a shaft of sunshine from Olympus. But the
thought that darted all unbidden through Anne's mind was of something far
different. She banished it on the instant with startled precipitancy; but
it left a scar behind that burned like the sudden searing of a hot iron.
"I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven."

The car was stopping. The figure on skis was waiting motionless by the
roadside. It ran smoothly up to him and stopped.

"Dramatic, wasn't it?" smiled Nap. "Did you think you were going to
escape without another word?"

"I had almost begun to think so," she admitted, smiling also.

He stooped to take off the skis, then stepped to the door. He leaned
towards her. There was no faintest sign of cynicism in his face that day.
He was in the mood of good comradeship in which she liked him best.

"Walk across to the park with me," he said. "It is scarcely a mile by the
downs. The man can go on to the Manor with your things and wait here for
me on his way back."

Anne considered for a moment, but only for a moment. It might make her
late for the luncheon hour, but she was convinced that her husband would
not return before the evening. And the world was very enchanting that
winter day. The very ground was scattered with diamonds!

"Yes, I will come," she said.

He handed her out, and picked up his discarded skis. His dark face smiled
with a certain triumph. The grim lines about his mouth were less apparent
than usual. He moved with the elastic swing of well-knit limbs.

And Anne, walking beside him, found it not difficult to thrust her cares
a little farther into the sombre background of her mind. The sun shone
and the sky was blue, and the ground was strewn with glittering diamonds.
She went over the hill with him, feeling that she had snatched one more
hour in paradise.




CHAPTER XIX

VENGEANCE


By what magic he cajoled her into trying her skill upon skis Anne never
afterwards remembered. It seemed to her later that the exhilarating
atmosphere of that cloudless winter day must in some magic fashion have
revived in her the youth which had been crushed out of existence so long
ago. A strange, irresponsible happiness possessed her, so new, so subtly
sweet, that the heavy burden she had borne for so long seemed almost to
have shrunk into insignificance. It permeated her whole being like an
overpowering essence, so that she forgot the seven dreary years that
separated her from her girlhood, forgot the bondage to which she was
returning, the constant, ever-increasing anxiety that wrought so
mercilessly upon her; and remembered only the splendour of the sunshine
that sparkled on the snow, and the ecstasy of the keen clear air she
breathed. It was like an enchanting dream to her, a dream through which
she lived with all the greater zest because it so soon must pass.

All the pent energies of her vanished youth were in the dream. She could
not--for that once she could not--deny them vent.

And Nap, strung to a species of fierce gaiety that she had never seen in
him before, urged her perpetually on. He would not let her pause to
think, but yet he considered her at every turn. He scoffed like a boy at
her efforts to ski, but he held her up strongly while he scoffed, taking
care of her with that adroitness that marked everything he did. And while
they thus dallied the time passed swiftly, more swiftly than either
realised. The sun began to draw to the south-west. The diamonds ceased to
sparkle save here and there obliquely. The haze of a winter afternoon
settled upon the downs.

Suddenly Anne noticed these things, suddenly the weight of care which had
so wonderfully been lifted from her returned, suddenly the shining
garment of her youth slipped from her, and left her like Cinderella when
the spell of her enchantment was broken.

"Nap!" she exclaimed. "I must go! I must have been dreaming to forget
the time!"

"Time!" laughed Nap. "What is time?"

"It is something that I have to remember," she said. "Why, it must be
nearly two o'clock!"

Nap glanced at the sun and made no comment. Anne felt for and consulted
her watch. It was already three.

She looked up in amazement and dismay. "I must go at once!"

"Don't!" said Nap. "I am sure your watch is wrong."

"I must go at once," she repeated firmly. "It is long past the luncheon
hour. I had no idea we had been here so long. You must go too. Your
chauffeur will think you are never coming."

The skis were still on her feet. Nap looked at her speculatively.

"This is rather a

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