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

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