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

/> He folded his arms about her as though he had been a woman, and held her fast.
Long after the awful sounds had died away Anne knelt there, sobbing, utterly unstrung, all her pride laid low, herself no more than a broken, agonised woman. But gradually, from sheer exhaustion, her sobs became less anguished, till at length they ceased. A strange peace, wholly unaccountable, fell gently upon her torn spirit. But even then it was long before she moved. She felt an overwhelming reluctance to withdraw herself from the shelter of those quiet arms.
"What must you think of me?" she whispered at last, her face still hidden.
"My dear," he said, "I understand."
He did not offer to release her, but as she moved she found herself free, she found herself able to look into his face.
"I shall never forget your goodness to me," she said very earnestly.
He smiled a little, after a fashion she did not wholly comprehend. "My dear Lady Carfax! You underrate friendship when you say a thing like that. Sit down, won't you? And let me tell you what brought me here."
"Nap told you--" she hazarded.
"Yes, Nap told me. And I decided I had better come at once. I wasn't in when he got back, or I should have been here sooner. I saw there had been a gross misunderstanding, and I hoped I should be able to get your husband to take a reasonable view."
"Ah!" she said, with a shiver. "I--I'm thankful you didn't meet."
"I am sorry," Lucas said quietly. And though he said no more, she knew that he was thinking of her.
"How is Nap?" she ventured hesitatingly.
"Nap," he said with deliberation, "will be himself again in a very few weeks. You need have no anxiety for him."
Again she did not wholly understand his tone. She glanced at him nervously, half afraid that he was keeping something from her.
"You really mean that?"
His eyes met hers, very level and direct. "He is badly battered, of course. But--he is not quite like other men. He has no nerves to speak of in a physical sense. He will make a quick recovery. Broken bones mean very little to a man of his calibre."
She heard him with relief mingled with a faint wonder at his confidence on this point.
"The doctor has seen him?" she asked.
"Yes; and I have sent my man in the motor to ask him to come on here."
She shivered again irrepressibly. "Giles hates Dr. Randal."
"I do not think that will make any difference," Lucas said gently.
Thereafter they sat together almost in silence, till the buzzing of the motor told of the doctor's arrival. Then with the aid of a stick Lucas began to drag himself laboriously to his feet. Anne rose to help him.
He took her arm, looking at her shrewdly.
"Lady Carfax, will you let me speak to him alone?"
"If you wish it," she said.
"I do wish it." His eyes passed hers suddenly and rested upon the lace at her neck. In one place it was torn, and the soft flesh was revealed; revealed also was a long red stripe, swollen and turning. In an instant his glance fell, but she saw his brows contract as if at a sharp twinge of pain. "I do wish it," he said again very gently. "P'r'aps you will wait for me here."
And with that he relinquished her arm, and made his halting, difficult way across the room to the door.
Anne sat down before the fire to wait. She had, to a large extent, recovered her self-control, but a deadly weariness was upon her which she found it impossible to shake off. She kept it at bay for a time while she listened for any sound. But no sound came, and at length exhausted nature prevailed.
When Lucas came back she was sunk in her chair asleep.
He took up his stand near her while he waited for the doctor, and again that deep furrow showed between his brows. But the eyes that watched her were soft and tender as a woman's. There was something almost maternal in their regard, a compassion so deep as to be utterly unconscious of itself. When the doctor's step sounded at length outside he shuffled away without disturbing her.
It was hours later when Anne awoke and sat up with a confused sense of something wrong. She was still in her easy-chair before the fire, which burned brightly as ever, while on the other side of the hearth, propped upright upon cushions and watching her with those steady blue eyes, whose kindness never varied, was Lucas Errol.
He spoke to her at once, very softly and gently, as if she had been a child.
"I'm real pleased you've had a sleep. You needed it. Don't look so startled. It's all right--a little late, but that's nothing. Dimsdale and I agreed that it would be a pity to disturb you. So we let you sleep on. And he brought in a tray of refreshments to fortify you when you awoke. He's a thoughtful old chap, Lady Carfax. You're lucky to have such a servant."
But Anne scarcely heard him. She was staring at the clock in amazement. It was half-past three! Just twelve hours since--She repressed a violent shudder.
"Don't be shocked any!" besought Lucas in his easy drawl. "I'm often awake at this hour. I guessed you wouldn't sleep if we woke you to go to your room, and I didn't quite like the thought of being down here out of reach. You are not vexed with me, I hope?"
"No," she said. "I am not vexed."
But she looked at him very strangely, as if that were not all she desired to say.
"Dimsdale has been in and out," he said, "keeping the fire going. He and one of the others are watching upstairs. But all is quiet there. Sir Giles has been asleep ever since the doctor left."
Anne got up slowly. "You look very uncomfortable," she said.
He smiled up at her. "My dear Lady Carfax, I am all right. The advantage of this position is that one can rise at a moment's notice."
As if to demonstrate the truth of this he rose, but not without considerable effort.
"Ah, please don't!" she said, putting out a quick, restraining hand. "It hurts me to see you suffer on my account. It was too kind of you--much too kind--to stay with me like this. You will never know how much you have helped me, and I thank you for it with all my heart. Now please sit down again, and let me wait upon you for a change. Have you had anything to eat or drink?"
He sat down again, looking quizzical. "I have been waiting for my hostess to join me," he said.
"Do you ever think of yourself at all?" she asked, turning aside to the tray that Dimsdale's consideration had provided.
"A great deal more often than you imagine," smiled Lucas. "Must you really do the waiting? It's very bad for me, you know."
He joked with her gently through the light repast that followed. And though she scarcely responded, she let him see her gratitude.
Finally, he laid aside all pretence of humour and spoke to her very quietly and gravely of her husband. The doctor thought it advisable to remove him from the Manor with as little delay as possible. He would consult her about it in the morning. His brain was without doubt very seriously affected, and it might take some months to recover. It was essential that he should be taken away from familiar surroundings and people whom he knew.
Anne listened with a whitening face. She asked no questions. Lucas supplied every detail with the precision that characterised most of his utterances. Finally he spoke of her position, advised her strongly to employ an agent for the estate, and promised his help in this or any other matter in which she might care to avail herself of it.
He seemed to take it for granted that she would remain at the head of affairs, and it gradually dawned upon Anne that she could not well do otherwise. Her presence for a time at least seemed indispensable. The responsibility had become hers and she could not at that stage shake it off. Her dream of freedom was over. Of what the future might hold for her she could not even begin to think. But the present was very clearly defined. It remained only for her to "do the work that was nearest" as bravely as she might.
When Lucas ended she leaned forward and gave him her hand. "I wonder what I should have done without you," she said. "I believe I should have gone mad too."
"No, no, Lady Carfax!"
She smiled faintly; the tears were standing in her eyes. "Yes, I know. You don't like to be thanked. But you have been like a mother to me in my trouble, and--I shall always remember it."
The blue eyes began to twinkle humorously. The hand that held hers closed with a very friendly pressure.
"Well," drawled the kindly American voice, "I'll be shot if that isn't the kindest thing that anyone ever said to me. And I believe you meant it too."
"Yes, I meant it," Anne said.
And though she smiled also there was genuine feeling in her words.


PART II


CHAPTER I
THE JESTER'S RETURN

The gradual coming of spring that year was like a benediction after the prolonged rigour of the frost. The lengthening evenings were wrapped in pearly mystery, through which the soft rain fell in showers of blessing upon the waiting earth. To Anne, it was as though a great peace had descended upon all things, quelling all tumult. She had resolutely taken up her new burden, which was so infinitely easier than the old, and she found a strange happiness in the bearing of it. The management of her husband's estate kept her very fully occupied, so that she had no time for perplexing problems. She took each day as it came, and each day left her stronger.
Once only had she been to Baronmead since the masquerade on the ice. It was in fulfilment of her promise to Nap, but she had not seen him; and as the weeks slipped by she began to wonder at his prolonged silence. For no word of any sort reached her from him. He seemed to have forgotten her very existence. That he was well again she knew from Lucas, who often came over in the motor with his mother.
As his brother had predicted he had made a rapid recovery; but no sooner was he well than he was gone with a suddenness that surprised no one but Anne. She concluded that his family knew where he was to be found, but no news of his whereabouts reached her. Nap was the one subject upon which neither Mrs. Errol nor her elder son ever expanded, and for some nameless reason Anne shrank from asking any questions regarding him. She was convinced that he would return sooner or later. She was convinced that, whatever appearances might be, he had not relinquished the bond of friendship that linked them. She did not understand him. She believed him to be headlong and fiercely passionate, but beneath all there seemed to her to be a certain stability, a tenacity of purpose, that no circumstance, however tragic, could thwart. She knew, deep in the heart of her she knew, that he would come back.
She would not spend much thought upon him in those days. Something stood ever in the path of thought. Invariably she encountered it, and as invariably she turned aside, counting her new peace as too precious to hazard.
Meanwhile she went