The Knave of Diamonds - Ethel May Dell (best novels for students txt) 📗

easy-chair and sat for awhile inert. On her right hand she wore a ring that Lucas had given her only that day.
He had half-apologised for his offering. "If you think it premature, don't wear it!" he had said.
And she had slipped it on to her right hand and worn it ever since.
She recalled the kindling of his tired eyes at her action, and smiled sadly to herself. How little she had to give him after all! And yet he was content!
Sitting there, she raised her hand and looked closely at the gift. It was a complete circle of diamonds. She had never seen such a ring before. It must have cost a fortune. She wondered if she ought to wear it. Again memory began to crowd upon her, strive though she would.
"Do you like diamonds?" asked a casual voice.
Her hand fell into her lap. She sat as one watching a scene upon a stage, rapt and listening. She wanted to rise and move away, to break the magic spell that bound her, to flee--to flee--but she was powerless.
"No," said the voice. "You haven't a passion for anything at present. You will have soon."
There fell a silence in her soul, a brief darkness, then again words, no longer casual, but quick, burning, passionate.
"I am mad--I am mad for you, Anne! Goddess--queen--woman--you are mine--you are mine--you are mine!" And then, less fiery, less vehement, but infinitely more compelling: "Where is your love for me? I will swear that you loved me once!"
The voice ceased, was lost in the wild throbbing of her heart, and Anne's hands clenched unconsciously. In that moment there came to her the conviction, inexplicable but extraordinarily vivid, that across the world Nap Errol had called to her--and had called in vain.
Minutes passed. She sat as one in a trance. Her eyes were wide and fixed. Her face was grey.
She rose at last and stood looking down into the red depths of the fire. The coals sank together under her eyes, and a sudden flame flared fiercely for a moment and died. It was like the opening and the shutting of a furnace door. A long, long shiver went through her. She turned away....
Anne Carfax did not look in her glass again that day. For the third time in her life she was afraid to meet her own eyes.
And all night long her brain thrummed like a vibrating wire to a voice that sometimes pleaded but more often gibed. "Has the Queen no further use for her jester?"


CHAPTER VII
THE UNINVITED GUEST

Spring came early that year, and the day fixed for the opening of the Baronford Town Hall was brilliantly fine and warm. Anne was staying at Baronmead for the event. The end of February was approaching. Lucas was decidedly better. His sleep was becoming less broken. He suffered considerably less; and he took a keen interest in all that passed.
On the morning before the ceremony he greeted Anne with an eagerness that almost amounted to impatience. "Come in! Come in! I've something to show you."
He was alone. She went to his side and kissed him.
His hands caught hers, and she marvelled at the strength of his grip. "Sweetheart," he said, "I've had a letter from Capper."
She felt the blood ebb suddenly from her face. She stood a moment in silence, then sat down and pressed his hand close against her heart.
"What does he say?" she asked.
He looked at her oddly for a few seconds. Then: "It's good news, dear," he said. "You mustn't let it scare you."
She began to smile, though her lips were trembling. "No, of course not. Tell me what he says."
He gave her the letter and she read. Capper wrote that he had received an excellent report from Dr. Randal of his patient's progress, that he expected to be in England in about a fortnight and would come down himself to ascertain if the time for the second operation had arrived. He wrote in a cheery strain, and at the end of the letter was a postscript: "Have you taken my advice yet with regard to _la femme_?"
"An ancient joke," explained Lucas with a smile. "He told me long ago that I should need a woman's help to pull me through. And"--his voice dropped--"I guess he was right."
The colour came back to her face. She pressed his hand without speaking.
"I shouldn't be here now but for you, Anne," he said, his blue eyes watching her. "I sometimes think it must have been a mortal strain upon you. Have you felt it so very badly, I wonder?"
She met his look with eyes grown misty. "Luke--my dearest--you have done far greater things for me. You have kept me from starvation. You have no idea what you are to me."
The words came brokenly. She checked a sudden sob and, rising, moved to the window.
Lucas lay silent, but his eyes watched her with a great tenderness.
When she came back to him she was smiling. "Have you ever begun to think of what you will do when you are well?" she said.
"I am thinking of it always," he answered. "I make wonderful pictures for myself sometimes. You are the central figure of them all."
She clasped his hand again in hers. "Lucas," she said, "will you take me away?"
"Yes, dear," he said.
"Far away from anywhere I have ever been before?" Her voice shook a little. "I want to begin life over again where everything is new."
A certain shrewdness gleamed in the steady eyes that watched her, but it was mingled with the utmost kindness.
"I guess I'd better show you my best picture right now," he said. "It's got a steam yacht in it, and a state cabin fit for a queen. And it goes rocking around the world, looking for the Happy Islands. I guess we shall find them some day, sweetheart--maybe sooner than we think."
"Ah, yes," she said. "We won't stop looking till we do. How soon shall we start, Luke?"
He answered her with a smile, but there was a thrill of deep feeling in his words. "Just as soon as I can stand on my feet like any other man, Anne, and hold the woman I love in my arms."
She bent her face suddenly, pressing her cheek to the hand she held. "I am ready for you when ever you will," she murmured.
"I know it," he said. "And God bless you for telling me so!"
He was full of kindness to her that day, and she thought him cheerier than he had been all the winter. When she bade him good-bye that afternoon he seemed in excellent spirits. Yet after she was gone he lay for a long while staring at the specks of dust that danced in a shaft of sunlight, with the air of a man seeking the solution of a problem that baffled him. And once very suddenly he sighed.
Anne went through the ordeal of publicity with less embarrassment than she had anticipated. Mrs. Errol was with her, and she was surrounded by friends. Even Major Shirley deigned to look upon her with a favourable eye. Bertie was hunting, but Dot was present to view the final achievement of her favourite scheme.
She seized the first opportunity to slip her arm through Anne's. "Do--do come home with me to tea," she whispered very urgently. "I want to show you some things I have been making. And make the dear mater come too, if someone else doesn't snap her up first."
But the dear mater was already snapped up, and Anne had some difficulty in avoiding a like fate.
Eventually, however, she succeeded in making her escape, and she and Dot drove back to the Dower House, congratulating themselves.
"I am lucky to get you all to myself," Dot said. "And do you know, dear Lady Carfax, you are looking simply lovely to-day?"
Anne smiled a little. She had discarded her widow's veil for the first time, and she felt like a woman emerging from a long imprisonment. People would call it premature, she knew. Doubtless they were already discussing her not too charitably. But after all, why should she consider them? The winter was past and over, and the gold of the coming spring was already dawning. Why should she mourn? Were not all regrets put away for ever?
"I wish you would call me Anne, Dot," she said.
"To be sure I will," said Dot, with shining eyes. "I never liked the name before I knew you. And now I love it."
There was something wonderfully genuine and childlike about Dot, a youthfulness that would probably cling to her all her life. Anne drew her on to speak of herself and her coming happiness, which she did with that cheery simplicity of hers that had first drawn Bertie to her.
"He makes a tremendous fuss," she said, displaying Bertie's favourite dimple at the thought. "I don't, you know. I somehow feel it's going to be all right. But it's rather nice being petted for months together. I haven't had a tantrum for ages. I'm afraid I'm getting spoilt."
At which piece of logic Anne could not repress a smile.
"He won't be home to tea," said Dot, when they finally turned in at the Dower House. "He stables his hunters at Baronmead, and he is sure to go in and see Luke. So we shall have it all to ourselves. I'm so glad, for I have been wanting your advice for days. I wonder if anyone has been. Hullo! Bertie's back after all!"
A glow of firelight met them from the little square hall as they entered, and a smell of cigarette smoke mingled with the scent from the burning logs.
Dot stood back for her guest to precede her, but Anne stood suddenly still.
"Hullo!" said Dot again.
A slim, straight figure was standing outlined against the firelight. Dot stared as she stepped forward.
"Why--Nap!" she said incredulously.
He made a swift, elastic movement to meet her, caught her hands, laughed, and kissed her.
"Why--Dot!" he said.
Dot continued to stare. "Good gracious!" she said.
And in the doorway Anne stood like a statue, the soft spring dusk behind her.
"My sister seems surprised," said Nap. "I hope I haven't come at an unlucky moment."
He did not even glance towards the silent figure in the doorway. It was as if he had not observed it.
"I am surprised," said Dot. "Hugely surprised. But I'm very glad to see you," she added. "When did you come?"
"I have been here about half an hour," he told her coolly. "I went to the Rectory first, where I learned for the first time of your marriage. You forgot to mention that detail when you wrote. Hence my brotherly salute, which you must have missed on your wedding-day!"
At this point Dot remembered her other guest, and turned with flushed cheeks. "Lady Carfax--Anne--you--you know my brother-in-law Nap?"
The pleading in her voice was unmistakable. She was evidently agitated, wholly at a loss how to manage a most difficult situation.
But Nap hastened to relieve her of the responsibility. He had dealt with difficult situations before. He went straight to Anne and stood before her.
"Are you going to know me, Lady Carfax?" he asked.
There was no arrogance in voice or bearing as he uttered the question. He looked as if he expected to be dismissed, as if he were ready at a word to turn and go. His eyes were lowered. His foot was already on the threshold.
But Anne stood speechless and rigid. For those few seconds she was as one stricken with paralysis. She knew that if she moved or tried to speak she would faint.
She wondered desperately