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

them--wear them! I guess they'll be happier with you."
She smiled a little. "Should I have gathered all this quantity for myself? It has taken me nearly an hour."
"You should have told the gardener," he said. "You mustn't go tiring yourself out over me. I'm not worth it." He added, with that kindly courtesy of which adversity had never deprived him, "But I'm real grateful all the same. You mustn't think me unappreciative."
"I don't," she answered gently. "Wouldn't you like them in water?"
"Ah, yes," he said. "Put them near me. I shall smell them if I can't see them. Do you mind closing the window? I can't get warm to-day."
She moved to comply, passing across his line of vision. A moment she stood with the keen sweet air blowing in upon her, a tall, gracious figure in the full flower of comely womanhood, not beautiful, but possessing in every line of her that queenly, indescribable charm which is greater than beauty.
The man caught his breath as he watched her. His brows contracted.
Softly she closed the window and turned. She came back to her chair by his side, drew forward a little table, and began deftly to arrange her flowers.
Several seconds passed before Lucas broke the silence. "It does me good to watch you," he said. "You're always so serene."
She smiled at him across the violets. "You place serenity among the higher virtues?"
"I do," he said simply. "It's such a restful contrast to the strenuousness of life. You make me feel just by looking at you that everything's all right. You bring a peaceful atmosphere in with you, and"--his voice sank a little--"you take it away again when you go."
The smile went out of her grey eyes at his last words, but the steadfastness remained. "Then," she said gently, "I must come more often and stay longer."
But he instantly negatived that. "No--it wouldn't be good for you. It wouldn't be good for me either to get to lean on you too much. I should grow exacting."
She saw a gleam of his old smile as he spoke, but it was gone at once, lost among the countless lines that pain and weariness had drawn of late upon his face.
"I don't think that is very likely," Anne said. "I can't imagine it."
"Not yet perhaps. I haven't quite reached that stage. Maybe I shall be down and out before it comes. God grant it!"
The words were too deliberate to cause her any shock. They were, moreover, not wholly unexpected. There followed a short silence while she finished arranging her violets. Then very quietly she spoke:
"You say that because you are tired."
"I am more than tired," he answered. "I'm done. I'm beaten. I'm whipped off the field."
"You think you are not gaining ground?" she questioned.
"My dear Lady Carfax," he said quietly, "it's no use closing one's eyes to the obvious. I'm losing ground every day--every night."
"But you are not fighting," she said.
"No." He looked at her half-wistfully from under his heavy eyelids. "Do you think me quite despicable? I've done my best."
She was silent. Perhaps she was not fully prepared to cope with this open admission of failure.
"I've done my best," he said again. "But it's outlasted my strength. I'm like a man hanging on to the edge of a precipice. I know every instant that my grip is slackening, and I can't help it. I've got to drop."
"You haven't done your best yet," Anne said, her voice very low. "You've got to hold on to the very end. It may be help is nearer than you think."
"But if I don't want help?" he said. "If it would be more merciful to let me go?"
Again she was silent.
"You know," he said, "life hasn't many inducements. I've put up a fight for it because I gave my promise to Nap before he went. But it isn't good enough to keep on. I can't win through. The odds are too great."
"Do you think Nap would let you stop fighting?" she said.
He smiled again faintly. "I suppose--if he were here--I should subsist on his vitality for a little while. But the end would be the same. Even he can't work miracles."
"Don't you believe in miracles?" Anne said.
He looked at her interrogatively.
"Mr. Errol," she said, "I am going to remind you of something that I think you have forgotten. It was Dr. Capper who told me. It was when you were recovering consciousness after the operation. You sent me a message. 'Tell Anne,' you said, 'I am going to get well.'" She paused a moment, looking at him very steadily. "I don't know why exactly you sent that special message to me, but I have carried it in my heart ever since."
She had moved him at last. She saw a faint glow spread slowly over the tired face. The heavy eyes opened wide to meet her look.
"Did I say that?" he said. "Yes, I had forgotten."
He was silent for a little, gazing full at her with the eyes of one suddenly awakened.
She lowered her own, and bent her face to the violets. Though she had spoken so quietly it had not been without effort. She had not found it easy. Nor did she find his silence easy, implicitly though she trusted him.
Perhaps he understood, for when he spoke at length there was in his voice so reassuring a gentleness that on the instant her embarrassment passed.
"Anne," he said, "do you really want me to get well? Would such a miracle make much difference to you?"
"It would make all the difference in the world," she answered earnestly. "I want it more than anything else in life."
With the words she raised her eyes, found his fixed upon her with an expression so new, so tender, that her heart stirred within her as a flower that expands in sudden sunshine, and the next moment his hand lay between her own, and all doubt, all hesitation had fled.
"But, my dear," he said, "I always thought it was Nap. Surely it was Nap!"
She felt as if something had stabbed her. "No, never!" she said passionately. "Never! It might have been--once--before I knew him. But never since, never since!"
"That so?" said Lucas Errol, and was silent for a little. Then, "Anne"--and the soft drawl had in it a tremor that was almost a break--"I guess I do believe in miracles after all, dear. Anyway," he began to smile, "there are some things in life too mighty for explanation."
His face was turned towards her. There was something in the look it wore that seemed to her in some fashion superb. He was different from other men. That quiet kingliness of his was so natural to him, so sublimely free from arrogance. He was immeasurably greater than his fellows by reason of the very smallness of his self-esteem.
"Guess I must take up my burden again and step out," he said. "You won't catch me slacking any after this. And--if I don't win out, dear, you'll know that it just wasn't possible because God didn't will it so."
"Oh, but you will!" she said, clasping his hand more closely. "You will! God knows how badly I want you."
"His Will be done!" said Lucas Errol. "But I want you too, dearest. I want you too."
His fingers stirred in her hold. It was the merest movement, but she knew his meaning. She slipped to her knees by his side, leaned down and kissed him.


CHAPTER VI
A VOICE THAT CALLED

Christmas came and went--the most peaceful Christmas that Anne had ever known. A wonderful peace had indeed begun to possess her. It was as if after long tossing she had come at last into quiet waters, and a contentment such as she had never known before was hers. Her health had improved in this calm, untroubled atmosphere. She slept without dreaming. She had put all regrets and fears out of her life.
Lucas filled all her thoughts. Had he allowed it, she would have devoted herself exclusively to him, but this he would not have. Very slowly, very painfully, he had struggled out of his Slough of Despond, and what that struggle had meant to him none but himself would ever know. And now that he had made it, and in a measure succeeded, he suffered scarcely less than before. His strength was undoubtedly greater, his spirits were more even; but these were the only visible signs of improvement. The long, sleepless nights with spells of racking pain continued. Perhaps they became less frequent as time went on, but they did not cease.
Anne always knew, though the same brave smile greeted her every day, when he had been through one of these ordeals. He was always so ready to tell her when the news was good, but when it was otherwise his lips were sealed upon the subject. He never uttered a desponding word in her presence.
But still, gradual, often halting though it was, he did make progress. He went forward more than he slipped back. And ever he carried in his eyes the light of a great hope. She knew that he did not despair, even in his own hidden soul.
And day by day her love and admiration for the man grew and spread, filling her life, renewing her youth, transforming her very existence. Day by day she sounded greater depths of a nature that made her feel infinitely small in comparison. Day by day she marvelled afresh at the greatness and the simplicity that went to the making of this man's soul.
No one, save Mrs. Errol, knew of what had passed between them. They scarcely referred to it even in private. There was no need, for the understanding between them was complete. By mutual consent they awaited the coming of Capper and the final miracle.
Slowly the dark, bitter days of January dragged away. The Hunt Ball had been postponed till the following month when the Town Hall, which had been building all the winter, should be complete. Anne, to her dismay, had been unanimously elected to perform the opening ceremony. Her position as Lady of the Manor made her prominent, and, no substitute being forthcoming, she had been obliged reluctantly to consent. Her deep mourning enabled her to avoid any succeeding social function, but, since she had broken her seclusion, she found it impossible to escape the ceremony itself.
She had never enjoyed social prominence, and she was thankful that at the Hunt Ball at least her presence could not be expected. She never thought of the last that she had attended without a shiver. It had been her birthday, and this fact brought it to mind the more persistently. This year she spent the day in the peaceful atmosphere of Baronmead, driving home at length, through the frosty starlight, in the Errols' car.
She strove as she went to put away from her the memory of that other ride of a year ago, when she had been borne swiftly through the darkness as though upon wings, when she had lain back exhausted in her corner and dreamed a strange, vivid dream, while Nap had sat upright beside her, alert, silent, inscrutable, plucking the gloves to tatters between his restless hands.
The vision would not be excluded, strive though she might. She leaned amongst the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to trick herself to drowsiness, but on the instant he was there beside her again, a ruthless, indomitable presence, which would not be ignored. She was glad when she came to her journey's end.
Entering the hall, she gathered up a few letters that lay there, and went straight to her room. With a feeling of unwonted fatigue she dropped into an