The Knave of Diamonds by Ethel May Dell (book recommendations for teens TXT) 📖

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.