She had not touched the keys since her last visit to Baronmead. She wondered, as idly she suffered her fingers to wander, how long it would be before she played again.
Yet it was hard to believe, sitting there in the quiet evening light, that the next day would witness her return to bondage, that bondage that had so cruelly galled her, the very thought of which had at one time filled her with repulsion. But her feelings had undergone a change of late. She could not feel that the old burden would ever return upon her. She had been emancipated too long. Her womanhood had developed too much during those months of liberty. No, it could never be the same. Patient and faithful wife she would still be. She was ready to devote herself ungrudgingly, without reservation, to her invalid husband. But his slave she would never be again. She had overcome her repugnance; she was willing to serve. But never again would he compel. The days of his tyranny were for ever gone.
It was no easy path that lay before her, but she had not forgotten how narrowly she had escaped the precipice. Even yet she still trembled when she remembered the all-engulfing pit of destruction that had opened before her, and the anguish of fear that had possessed her until deliverance had come. Lucas Errol had been her deliverer. She remembered that also, and a faint, sad smile touched her lips—Lucas Errol, king and cripple, ruler and weakling.
Softly the sunset faded. Anne's fingers ceased to roam over the keys. She clasped them in her lap and sat still.
All at once a quiet voice spoke. "My lady!"
With a start she turned. "Dimsdale! How you startled me!"
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," the old man said.
He was standing close behind her. There was an air of subdued importance about him. He was grave to severity.
But Anne did not look at him very critically. "I shall not want any tea," she said. "I will dine at eight in my sitting-room as usual. Is everything in readiness, Dimsdale? Is Sir Giles's room just as it should be?"
"Yes, my lady."
Anne rose and quietly closed the piano. She wondered why Dimsdale lingered, and after a moment it struck her that he had something to say. She took up her gloves and turned round to him.
"No one has been, I suppose?"
"No one, my lady."
"Are there any letters?"
"No letters, my lady."
"Then—" Anne paused, and for the first time looked at the old servant attentively. "Is anything the matter, Dimsdale?" she asked.
He hesitated, the fingers of one hand working a little, an unusual sign of agitation with him.
With an effort at last he spoke. "Your ladyship instructed me to open any telegram that might arrive."
Her heart gave a great throb of foreboding. "Certainly," she said. "Has there been a telegram then?"
Dimsdale's hand clenched. He looked at her anxiously, rather piteously.
"My lady—" he said, and stopped.
Anne stood like a statue. She felt as if her vitality were suddenly arrested, as if every pulse had ceased to beat.
"Please go on," she said in a whisper. "There has been a telegram. Either give it to me, or—tell me what was in it."
Dimsdale made a jerky movement, as if pulling himself together. He put an unsteady hand into his breast-pocket. "It came this afternoon, my lady, about an hour ago. I am afraid it's bad news—very bad news. Yes, my lady, I'm telling you, I'm telling you. I regret to say Sir Giles has been took worse, took very sudden like, and—and—"
"He is dead," Anne said very clearly, very steadily, in a tone that was neither of question nor of exclamation.
Dimsdale bent his head. "He died at half-past three, my lady."
He had the telegram in his hand. Anne took it from him and moved very quietly to the window.
Mutely the old man stood and watched her in the silence, thankful for her composure. He was himself severely shaken, and the ordeal of telling her had been no light one.
But as the silence still continued he began to grow uneasy again. He wondered if he ought to go, if she had forgotten to dismiss him. Her stately head was bent over the paper, which never crackled or stirred in her hand. There began to be something terrible, something fateful, in her passivity. Old Dimsdale shivered, and took the liberty of breaking the silence.
"Would your ladyship wish a message to be sent to Baronmead?"
She stirred at that, moved sharply as one suddenly awakened. Her face was quite white, but her eyes were alight, curiously vital, with a glitter that was almost of horror.
"To Baronmead!" she said, a queer note of sharpness in her voice. "No, certainly not, most certainly not!"
And there she stopped, stopped dead as though struck dumb. In the garden behind her, down among the lilac trees, a bird had begun to sing, eagerly, voluptuously, thrillingly, with a rapture as of the full spring-tide of life.
Anne stood for a space of many seconds and listened, her white face upraised, her eyes wide and shining.
And then suddenly her attitude changed. She put her hands over her face and tottered blindly from the open window.
Dimsdale started to support her, but she needed no support. In a moment she was looking at him again, but with eyes from which all light had faded.
"I must write some messages at once," she said. "One of the grooms must take them. No, I shall not send to Mrs. Errol to-night. I wish to be alone—quite alone. Please admit no one. And—yes—tell them to pull down the blinds, and—shut all the windows!"
Her voice quivered and sank. She stood a moment, collecting herself, then walked quietly to the door.
"Come to me in ten minutes for those telegrams," she said. "And after that, remember, Dimsdale, I am not to be disturbed by anyone."
And with that she passed out, erect and calm, and went up to her room.
"I want to know!" said Capper.
He had said it several times during a muddy two-mile tramp from Baronford Station, and he said it again as he turned up the hill that was crowned by the old grey church, whose two cracked bells had just burst into as cheerful a marriage peal as they could compass.
"Sounds frisky!" he commented to himself, as he trudged up the steep lane. "My! What an all-fired fuss! Guess these muddy boots aren't exactly wedding-guesty. But that's their lookout for monopolising every vehicle in the place. I wonder if I'll have the audacity to show after all. Or shall I carry this almighty thirst of mine back to the Carfax Arms and quench it in British ale?"
But this latter idea did not apparently greatly lure him, for he continued to plod upwards, even while considering it, to the tune of the clamouring bells.
Arriving finally at the top of the hill and finding there a crowd of vehicles of all descriptions, he paused to breathe and to search for the Baronmead motors.
He found them eventually, but there was no one in attendance. The servants were all herded in the churchyard for a view of the bridal procession, for which a passage across the road to the Rectory grounds was being kept.
Capper stationed himself, with another rueful glance as his boots, as near as he could get to the open lych-gate, and there stood grimly conspicuous, watching the scene with his alert green eyes, that held the glint of a tolerant smile, and cracking his thin, yellow fingers one by one. No one gave him a second glance, or dreamed for an instant that one of the greatest men in the Western Hemisphere was standing on the edge of the crowd.
They came at last—bride and bridegroom—flushed and hastening through a shower of rose petals.
Bertie was laughing all over his brown face. He was holding Dot's hand very fast, and as they descended the red-carpeted steps into the road he leaned to her, whispering. She laughed back at him with shining eyes, her round face radiant beneath the orange blossom. Neither of them glanced to right or left. Swiftly through the fallen rose leaves they crossed to the Rectory gateway and were lost to view.
A bevy of bridesmaids ran laughing after them, and then came a pause.
Capper edged a little nearer to the churchyard steps and waited. The clamour of bells was incessant, wholly drowning the clamour of voices. Everyone was craning forward to see the crowd of guests. The long procession had already begun to issue from the church porch. It moved very slowly, for at the head of it, his hand on his mother's arm, came Lucas Errol.
He walked with extreme difficulty, leaning on a crutch. His head was uncovered, and the glare of the September sunlight smote full upon it. The hair was turning very grey.
He was smiling as he came, but his brows were slightly drawn, his eyes sunk in deep hollows.
Swiftly and comprehensively the man at the foot of the steps scanned every detail, marked the halting, painful progress, the lined forehead. And the next moment, as Lucas paused, preparatory to descending, he pushed forward with characteristic decision of movement and moved upwards to his side.
"I guess you'll find me useful at this juncture," he said.
Lucas's start of surprise was instantly followed by a smile of welcome.He gripped Capper's hand warmly.
"The very man I want! But how in wonder did you get here? You never walked all the way from the station?"
"I did," said Capper.
"You don't say! Why didn't you let me know? I guess we must move on. We are blocking the gangway."
"Easy does it," said Capper. "It won't hurt 'em any to wait. Get your arm over my shoulder. That's the way. These steps are the very devil for you."
He bent his wiry frame to Lucas Errol's need, and helped him to descend.At the foot he paused a moment and looked at him keenly.
"All serene," smiled Lucas. "I'll take your arm now, if it's all the same to the mother. You didn't expect to find us plunged in wedding gaieties, I guess."
"Wish it had been your own," said Capper.
At which Lucas turned up his face to the sky and laughed.
They crossed the flag-decked garden and entered by the conservatory door.People were beginning to crowd about them.
"We must find you a seat somehow," said Capper.
"I must have a word with the bride and bridegroom first," Lucas declared.
But the bride and bridegroom were for the moment inaccessible, being completely surrounded by well-wishers.
Capper seized upon the first chair he came upon and put Lucas into it.
"I seem to have come in the nick of time," he observed drily. "Why is no one detailed to look after you? Where is that tiger's whelp Nap?"
"Nap's in America, been gone two months or more."
"That so?" There was keen satisfaction in Capper's tone. "That clears the ground for action. And Lady Carfax? Is she here?"
"No." There was a hint of reserve in the quiet reply. "Lady Carfax is in deep mourning for her husband."
"That so?" said Capper again. He seemed to take but casual note of the information. He was pulling absently at his pointed yellow beard.
Lucas lay back in his chair and suffered himself to relax with a sigh. Capper's eyes darted lizard-like over him, taking in every line of him, keenly alive to each detail.
"If I were you I should shunt as soon as possible," he said. "Since it isn't your own show unfortunately, I should imagine you are not indispensable."
But at this point the throng parted, and Dot, looking very young in her bridal white, and supremely happy, burst eagerly through,
"Oh, here you are!" she cried. "Your mother said you were close by, but I couldn't see you anywhere. It's been too much for you. You're tired."
She bent over him in quick solicitude, then, as he smiled and drew her down to him, stooped and kissed him, whispering a few words for his ear alone.
Bertie was close behind her, but he had caught sight of Capper and had stopped short with a queer expression on his boyish face, a look that was a curious blend of consternation and relief.
A moment and he stepped up to the great doctor and took him by the elbow."You here already!" he said. "I didn't expect you so soon."
"I have only run down to have a look at things," said Capper. "I seem to have pitched on a busy day. I hope you are enjoying yourself."
"Thanks!" said Bertie, with a brief laugh. "Say, Doctor, you'll let me know your plans?"
"Certainly—when they are ripe." The green eyes gleamed humorously."Aren't you thinking of introducing me to Mrs. Bertie?" he suggested.
"Yes, yes, of course. But you won't do anything without me?" urged Bertie. "I should greatly like a talk with you, but I'm afraid it can't be managed."
"I mightily doubt if you could tell me anything that I don't know already," said Capper, "on any subject."
"It's about Luke," said Bertie anxiously.
"Just so. Well, I guess I know more about Luke than any other person on this merry little planet."
"Do you think he looks worse?" whispered Bertie.
Capper's long, yellow hand fastened very unobtrusively and very forcibly upon his shoulder. "One thing at a time, good Bertie!" he said. "Weren't you going to present me to—your wife?"
It was on a day of wild autumnal weather, when the wind moaned like a living thing in torture about the house, and the leaves eddied and drifted before the scudding rain, that they turned Tawny Hudson out of his master's room, and left him crouched and whimpering like a dog against the locked door. Save for his master's express command, no power on earth would have driven him away, not even Capper of the curt speech and magnetic will. But the master had spoken very definitely and distinctly, and it was Tawny Hudson's to obey. Therefore he huddled on the mat, rocking to and fro, shivering like some monstrous animal in pain, while within the room Capper wrought his miracles.
Downstairs Mrs. Errol sat holding Anne's hand very tightly, and talking incessantly lest her ears should be constrained to listen. And Anne, pale and still, answered her as a woman talking in her sleep.
Bertie and his young bride were still absent on their honeymoon; this also by Lucas's express desire.
"It won't help me any to have you here, boy," he had said at parting. "A certain fuss is inevitable, but I want you out of it. I am looking to Anne Carfax to help the dear mother."
He had known even then that he would not look in vain, and he had not been disappointed. So, sorely against his will, Bertie had submitted, with the proviso that if things went wrong he should be sent for immediately.
And thus Anne Carfax, who had lived in almost unbroken seclusion since her husband's death, now sat with Mrs. Errol's hand clasped in hers, and listened, as one listens in a nightmare, to the wailing of the wind about the garden and house, and the beat, beat, beat of her heart when the wind was still.
"Could you say a prayer, dear?" Mrs. Errol asked her once.
And she knelt and prayed, scarcely knowing what she said, but with a passion of earnestness that left her weak, quivering in every limb.
The wind was rising. It roared in the trees and howled against the panes. Sometimes a wild gust of rain lashed the windows. It made her think of an unquiet spirit clamouring for admittance.
"Anne dear, play to me, play to me!" besought Mrs. Errol. "If I listen I shall go mad! No one will hear you. We are right away from his part of the house."
And though every nerve shrank at the bare suggestion, Anne rose without a single protest and went to the piano. She sat down before it, and blindly, her eyes wide, fixed, unseeing, she began to play.
What she played she knew not. Her fingers found notes, chords, melodies mechanically.
Once she paused, but, "Ah, go on, dear child! Go on!" urged Mrs. Errol. And she went on, feeling vaguely through the maze of suspense that surrounded them, longing inarticulately to cease all effort, but spurred onward because she knew she must not fail.
And gradually as she played there came to her a curious sense of duality, of something happening that had happened before, of a record repeating itself. She turned her head, almost expecting to hear a voice speak softly behind her, almost expecting to hear a mocking echo of the words unspoken. "Has the Queen no further use for her jester?" No further use! No further use! Oh, why was she tortured thus? Why, when her whole soul yearned to forget, was she thus compelled to remember the man whose brutal passion and insatiable thirst for vengeance had caught and crushed her heart?
And still she played on as one beneath a spell, while the memory of him forced the gates of her consciousness and took arrogant possession. She saw again the swarthy face with its fierce eyes, the haughty smile, which for her was ever tinged with tenderness. Surely—oh, surely he had loved her once! She recalled his fiery love-making, and thrilled again to the eager insistence of his voice, the mastery of his touch. And then she remembered what they said of him, that women were his slaves, his playthings, the toys he broke in wantonness and carelessly tossed aside. She remembered how once in his actual presence she had overheard words that had made her shrink, a wonder as to who was his latest conquest, the cynical remark: "Anyone for a change and no one for long is his motto." What was he doing now, she asked herself, and trembled. He had gone without word or message of any sort. Her last glimpse of him had been in that violet glare of lightning, inexpressibly terrible, with tigerish eyes that threatened her and snarling lips drawn back. Thus—thus had she seen him many a time since in the long night-watches when she had lain sleepless and restless, waiting for the dawn.
Some such vision came to her now, forcing itself upon her shrinking imagination. Vividly there rose before her his harsh face alert, cruel, cynical, and the sinewy hands that gripped and crushed. And suddenly a shuddering sense of nausea overcame her. She left the piano as one seeking refuge from a horror unutterable. Surely this man had never loved her—was incapable of love! And she had almost wished him back!
"There is someone in the entry, dear child," whispered Mrs. Errol. "Go and see—go and see!"
She went, moving as one stricken blind. But before she reached the door it opened and someone entered. She saw Capper as through a mist in which bodily weakness and anguished fear combined to overwhelm her. And then very steadily his arm encircled her, drew her tottering to a chair.
"It's all right," he said in his expressionless drawl. "The patient has regained consciousness, and is doing O.K. Are you ladies thinking of lunch? Because if so, I guess I'll join you. No, Mrs. Errol, you can't see him before to-night at the earliest. Lady Carfax, I have a message for you—the first words he spoke when he came to. He was hardly conscious when he uttered them, but I guess you'll be kind of interested to hear what they were. 'Tell Anne,' he said, 'I'm going to get well.'"
The intense deliberation with which he spoke gave her time to collect herself, but the words affected her oddly. After a moment she rose, went to Mrs. Errol, who had covered her face with both hands while he was speaking, and knelt beside her. Neither of them uttered a sound.
Capper strolled to the window, his hands deep in his pockets, and looked out upon the wind-swept gardens. He whistled very softly to himself, as a man well satisfied.
He did not turn his head till at the end of five minutes Anne came to his side. She was very pale but quite self-possessed.
"Mrs. Errol has gone to her room," she said. "She wished to be alone."
"Gone to have a good cry, eh?" said Capper. "Healthiest thing she could do. And what about you?"
She smiled with lips that faintly quivered. "I am quite all right,Doctor. And—I have ordered luncheon."
He turned fully round and looked her up and down with lightning swiftness. "You're a very remarkable woman, Lady Carfax," he said after a moment.
"I hope you may never be disappointed in me," she answered gravely.
"I hope so too," he said, "for there is a good deal dependent upon you."
"What do you mean?" She raised her clear eyes interrogatively.
But he baffled her, as he baffled everyone, with the very keenness of his own scrutiny. He began to crack all his fingers in turn.
"I mean," he said, "that even I can't work miracles by myself. I can do the elementary part. I can cut and saw and sew, but I can't heal. I can't give life. That's the woman's part. That's where I count on you. And I don't think you are going to fail me, Lady Carfax."
"I promise you I will do my utmost," she said very earnestly.
He nodded. "I believe you will. But even so, you can't do too much. It's a serious case, even more serious than I expected. I don't say this to alarm you, but I guess you had better know it. It'll be a tough, uphill fight, and he'll need a deal of pushing behind. It may entail more than you dream of—a big sacrifice perhaps; who knows? But you women don't shy at sacrifices. And, believe me, he's worth a sacrifice."
"He deserves the best," she said warmly.
"Yes, but you don't take me," said Capper.
He paused a moment, then suddenly laid a quiet hand on her shoulder. "I may be a wise man," he said, "and again I may be a meddling fool. You and the gods must decide between you. But I'm old enough to be your father anyway. So p'r'aps you'll bear with me. Lady Carfax, hasn't it struck you that a time will come—probably pretty soon—when he will begin to reach out for something that you—and you alone—can give?"
Anne's quick gesture of protest was his answer. She stood motionless, her eyes still raised, waiting for him to continue. But he felt her tremble under his hand. He knew that inwardly she was not so calm as she would have had him think.
He went on in his precise, emotionless fashion, as though he perceived nothing. "He won't ask for it—anyway till he feels he can make a fair return. He will never ask a sacrifice of you. He will break his heart sooner. The point is, Are you capable of offering the sacrifice unasked? For that is what it amounts to, now that the gods have cleared the way."
"Ah!" Anne said. "And—if—not?"
She spoke rather as if to gain time than because she desired an answer.
But he answered her nevertheless very quietly, without a shade of emotion, as if he were discussing some technical matter of no personal interest to him. Only as he answered he took his hand from her shoulder and thrust it back into his pocket.
"In that case he will die, having nothing left to live for. He probably won't suffer much, simply go out like a candle. He hasn't much vitality. He may die either way. There is no responsibility attached—only possibilities."
He turned with the words, and walked across the room with the air of a man who has said his say.
She uttered no word to stop him, nor did she move to follow. She stood alone with her face to the grey storm-clouds that drifted perpetually overhead. Somehow she did not for a moment doubt the truth of what Capper had just told her. She even felt sub-consciously that she had known it for some time. Neither did she ask herself what she was going to do. For deep in the heart of her she knew already. Deep in the heart of her she knew that when Lucas Errol began to reach out for something which she alone could give, it would not be in vain. He had given of his best to her, and she was ready to give of her best in return. If she could not give him passion, she could give him that which was infinitely greater—a deep, abiding love, a devotion born of complete sympathy. She could give him happiness, and in the giving she might find it for herself.
Over in the west the clouds were breaking, and a shaft of pale sunshine streamed upon the distant hills, turning the woods to living gold. Her eyes brightened a little as they caught the radiance. It seemed as if the door before which she had knelt so long in impotence were opening to her at last, as if one more opportunity were to be given her even yet after long and bitter failure of turning her corner of the desert into a garden of flowers and singing birds.
It was nearly a month after Lucas Errol's operation that Bertie and his bride came home from their honeymoon and began the congenial task of setting their house in order.
Dot was thoroughly in her element. The minutest details were to her matters of vital importance.
"We must make it comfy," she said to Bertie, and Bertie fully agreed.
He had relinquished his study of the law, and had resumed his secretarial duties, well aware that Lucas could ill spare him. He was in fact Lucas's right hand just then, and the burden that devolved upon him was no light one. But he bore it with a cheerful spirit, for Lucas was making progress. Despite his utter helplessness, despite the inevitable confinement to one room, despite the weariness and the irksomeness which day by day were his portion, Lucas was very gradually gaining ground. Already he suffered less severely and slept more naturally.
His last words to Capper at parting had been, "Come again in the spring and complete the cure. I shall be ready for you."
And Capper had smiled upon him with something approaching geniality and had answered, "You'll do it, and so shall I. So long then!"
But the months that intervened were the chief stumbling-block, and Capper knew it. He knew that his patient would have to face difficulties and drawbacks that might well dismay the bravest. He knew of the reaction that must surely come when the vitality was low, and progress became imperceptible, and the long imprisonment almost unendurable. He knew of the fever that would lurk in the quickening blood, of the torturing cramp that would draw the unused muscles, of the depression that was its mental counterpart, of the black despair that would hang like a paralysing weight upon soul and body, of theennui, of the weariness of life, of the piteous weakness that nothing could alleviate.
He had to a certain extent warned Lucas what to expect; but the time for these things had not yet arrived. He was hardly yet past the first stage, and his courage was buoyed up by high hopes as yet undashed. He had faced worse things without blenching, and he had not begun to feel the monotony that Capper had dreaded as his worst enemy.
He took a keen interest in the doings of the young couple at the DowerHouse, and Dot's breezy presence was ever welcome.
As for Anne, she went to and fro between Baronmead and the Manor, of which her husband's will had left her sole mistress, no longer leading a hermit's life, no longer clinging to her solitude, grave and quiet, but not wholly unhappy. Those few words Capper had spoken on the day of Lucas's operation had made a marvellous difference to her outlook. They had made it possible for her to break down the prison-walls that surrounded her. They had given her strength to leave the past behind her, all vain regrets and cruel disillusionments, to put away despair and rise above depression. They had given her courage to go on.
Of Nap no word was ever spoken in her presence. He might have been dead, so completely had he dropped out of her life. In fact, he was scarcely ever mentioned by anyone, a fact which aroused in Dot a curiously keen indignation, but upon which a certain shyness kept her from commenting. She kept him faithfully in mind, praying for him as regularly as she prayed for old Squinny, who still lingered on with exasperating tenacity, and continued to enjoy such help, spiritual or otherwise, as he could extract from the parson's daughter.
That Bertie strongly disapproved of his brother she was aware, but she held no very high opinion of Bertie's judgment, though even he could scarcely have forbidden her to pray for the black sheep of the family. She had not been brought up to rely upon anyone's judgment but her own, and, deeply as she loved him, she could not help regarding her husband as headlong and inclined to prejudice. He was young, she reflected, and doubtless these small defects would disappear as he grew older. True, he was nearly four years her senior; but Dot did not regard years as in any degree a measure of age. It was all a question of development, she would say, and some people—women especially—developed much more quickly than others. She herself, for instance—At which stage of the argument Bertie invariably said or did something rude, and the rest of her logic became somewhat confused. He was a dear boy and she couldn't possibly be cross with him, but somehow he never seemed to realise when she was in earnest. Another of the deficiencies of youth!
Meanwhile she occupied herself in her new home with all the zest of the young housewife, returned calls with commendable punctuality, and settled down once more to the many parochial duties which had been her ever-increasing responsibility for almost as long as she could remember.
"You are not going to slave like this always," Bertie said to her one evening, when she came in late through a November drizzle to find him waiting for her.
"I must do what I've got to do," said Dot practically, suffering him to remove her wet coat.
"All very well," said Bertie, whose chin looked somewhat more square than usual. "But I'm not going to have my wife wearing herself out over what after all is not her business."
"My dear boy!" Dot laughed aloud, twining her arm in his. "I think you forget, don't you, that I was the rector's daughter before I was your wife? I must do these things. There is no one else to do them."
"Skittles!" said Bertie rudely.
"Yes, dear, but that's no argument. Let's go and have tea, and for goodness' sake don't frown at me like that. It's positively appalling. Put your chin in and be good."
She passed her hand over her husband's face and laughed up at him merrily. But Bertie remained grave.
"You're wet through and as cold as ice. Come to the fire and let's get off your boots."
She went with him into the drawing-room, where tea awaited them.
"I'm not wet through," she declared, "and I'm not going to let you take off my boots. You may, if you are very anxious, give me some tea."
Bertie pulled up a chair to the fire and put her into it; then turned aside and began to make the tea.
Dot lay back with her feet in the fender and watched him. She was looking very tired, and now that the smile had faded from her face this was the more apparent.
When he brought her her tea she reached up, caught his hand, and held it for a moment against her cheek.
"One's own fireside is so much nicer than anyone else's," she said."We'll have a nice cosy talk presently. How is Luke to-day?"
"Not quite so flourishing. A brute of a dog howled in the night and woke him up. He didn't get his proper sleep afterwards."
"Poor old Luke! What a shame!"
"Yes, it made a difference. He has been having neuralgia down his spine nearly all day. I believe he's worrying too. I'm going back after dinner to see if I can do anything. I manage to read him to sleep sometimes, you know."
"Shall I come too?" said Dot.
"No." Bertie spoke with decision. "You had better go to bed yourself."
She made a face at him. "I shall do nothing of the sort. I shall sit up and do the Clothing Club accounts."
Bertie frowned abruptly. "Not to-night, Dot."
"Yes, to-night. They have got to be done, and I can think better at night."
"You are not to do them to-night," Bertie said, with determination. "I will do them myself if they must be done."
"My dear boy, you! You would never understand my book-keeping. Just imagine the muddle you would make! No, I must get through them myself, and since I must spend the time somehow till you come home, why shouldn't I do them to-night?"
"Because I forbid it," said Bertie unexpectedly.
He was standing on the rug, cup in hand. He looked straight down at her with the words, meeting her surprised eyes with most unwonted sternness.
Dot raised her eyebrows as high as they would go, kept them so for several seconds, then very deliberately lowered them and began to stir her tea.
"You understand me, don't you?" he said.
She shook her head. "Not in the least. I don't think I have ever met you before, have I?"
He set his cup upon the mantelpiece and went suddenly down on his knees by her side. "I haven't been taking proper care of you," he said. "But I'm going to begin right now. Do you know when you came in just now you gave me an absolute shock?"
She laughed faintly, her eyes fixed upon her cup "I didn't know I was looking such a fright."
"You can never look anything but sweet to me," he said. "But it's a fact you're not looking well. I'm sure you are doing too much."
"I'm not doing any more than usual," said Dot, still intent upon the drain of tea in her cup.
"Well, it's too much for you anyway, and I'm going to put a stop to it."
"Do you know how to read your fortune in tea leaves?" said Dot.
"No," said Bertie. With a very gentle hand he deprived her of this engrossing pastime. "I want you to attend to me for a minute," he said.
Dot snuggled against him with a very winning gesture. "I don't want to,Bertie, unless you can find something more interesting to talk about.Really, there is nothing wrong with me. Tell me about Luke. Why is heworrying?"
Bertie frowned. "He doesn't say so, but I believe he's bothered about Nap. Heaven knows why he should be. He was supposed to go to Arizona, but he didn't turn up there. As a matter of fact, if he never turned up again anywhere it would be about the best thing that could possibly happen."
"Oh, don't, Bertie!" Dot spoke sharply, almost involuntarily. There was a quick note of pain in her voice. "I don't like you to talk like that. It isn't nice of you to be glad he's gone, and—it's downright horrid to want him to stay away for ever."
"Good heavens!" said Bertie.
He was plainly amazed, and she resented his amazement, feeling that in some fashion it placed her in a false position from which she was powerless to extricate herself. The last thing she desired was to take up the cudgels on Nap's behalf, nevertheless she prepared herself to do so as in duty bound. For Nap was a friend, and Dot's loyalty to her friends was very stanch.
"I mean it," she said, sitting up and facing him. "I don't think it's right of you, and it certainly isn't kind. He doesn't deserve to be treated as an outcast. He isn't such a bad sort after all. There is a whole lot of good in him, whatever people may say. You at least ought to know him better. Anyhow, he is a friend of mine, and I won't hear him abused."
Bertie's face changed while she was speaking, grew stern, grew almost implacable.
"Look here," he said plainly, "if you want to know what Nap is, he's a damned blackguard, not fit for you to speak to. So, if you've no objection, we'll shunt him for good and all!"
It was Dot's turn to look amazed. She opened her eyes to their widest extent. "What has he done?"
"Never mind!" said Bertie.
"But I do mind!" Swiftly indignation swamped her surprise. "Why should I shunt him, as you call it, for no reason at all? I tell you frankly, Bertie, I simply won't!"
Her eyes were very bright as she ended. She sat bolt upright obviously girded for battle.
Bertie also looked on the verge of an explosion, but with a grim effort he restrained himself. "I have told you he is unworthy of your friendship," he said. "Let that be enough."
"That's not enough," said Dot. "I think otherwise."
He bit his lip. "Well, if you must have it—so did Lady Carfax till she found out her mistake."
"Lady Carfax!" Dot's face changed. "What about Lady Carfax?"
"She gave him her friendship," Bertie told her grimly, "and he rewarded her with about as foul a trick as any man could conceive. You heard the story of the motor breaking down that day in the summer when he took her for a ride? It was nothing but an infernal trick. He wanted to get her for himself, and it wasn't his fault that he failed. It was in consequence of that that Lucas sent him away."
"Oh!" said Dot. "He was in love with her then!"
"If you call it love," said Bertie. "He is always in love with someone."
Dot's eyes expressed enlightenment. She seemed to have forgotten their difference of opinion. "So that was why he was so cut up," she said. "Of course—of course! I was a donkey not to think of it. What a mercy Sir Giles is dead! Has anyone written to tell him?"
"No," said Bertie shortly.
"But why not? Surely he has a right to know? Lady Carfax herself might wish it."
"Lady Carfax would be thankful to forget his very existence," saidBertie, with conviction.
"My dear boy, how can you possibly tell? Are you one of those misguided male creatures who profess to understand women?"
"I know that Lady Carfax loathes the very thought of him," Bertie maintained. "She is not a woman to forgive and forget very easily. Moreover, as I told you before, no one knows where he is."
"I see," said Dot thoughtfully. "But surely he has a club somewhere?"
"Yes, he belongs to the Phoenix Club, New York, if they haven't kicked him out. But what of that? I'm not going to write to him. I don't want him back, Heaven knows." There was a fighting note in Bertie's voice. He spoke as if prepared to resist to the uttermost any sudden attack upon his resolution.
But Dot attempted none; she abandoned the argument quite suddenly, and nestled against his breast. "Darling, don't let's talk about it any more! It's a subject upon which we can't agree. And I'm sorry I've been so horrid to you. I know it isn't my fault that we haven't quarrelled. Forgive me, dear, and keep on loving me. You do love me, don't you, Bertie?"
"Sweetheart!" he whispered, holding her closely.
She uttered a little muffled laugh. "That's my own boy! And I'm going to be so good, you'll hardly know me. I won't go out in the rain, and I won't do the Clothing Club accounts, and I won't overwork. And—and—I won't be cross, even if I do look and feel hideous. I'm going to be a perfect saint, Bertie."
"Sweetheart!" he said again.
She turned her face up against his neck. "Shall I tell you why?" she said, clinging to him with hands that trembled. "It's because if I let myself get cross-grained and ugly now, p'r'aps someone else—some day—will be cross-grained and ugly too. And I should never forgive myself for that. I should always feel it was my fault. Fancy if it turned out a shrew like me, Bertie! Wouldn't—wouldn't it be dreadful?"
She was half-laughing, half-crying, as she whispered the words. Bertie's arms held her so closely that she almost gasped for breath.
"My precious girl!" he said. "My own precious wife! Is it so? You know, I wondered."
She turned her lips quickly to his. There were tears on her cheeks though she was laughing.
"How bright of you, Bertie! You—you always get there sooner or later, don't you? And you're not cross with me any more? You don't think me very unreasonable about Nap?"
"Oh, damn Nap!" said Bertie, for the second time, with fervour.
"Poor Nap!" said Dot gently.
That evening, when Bertie was at Baronmead, she scribbled a single sentence on a sheet of paper, thrust it into an envelope and directed it to the Phoenix Club, New York.
This done, she despatched a servant to the postoffice with it and sat down before the fire.
"I expect it was wrong of me," she said. "But somehow I can't help feeling he ought to know. Anyway"—Dot's English was becoming lightly powdered with Americanisms, which possessed a very decided charm on her lips—"anyway, it's done, and I won't think any more about it. It's the very last wrong thing I'll do for—ever so long." Her eyes grew soft as she uttered this praiseworthy resolution. She gazed down into the fire with a little smile, and gave herself up to dreams.
"O God, give me rest!"
Painfully the words came through quivering lips, the first they had uttered for hours. Lucas Errol lay, as he had lain for nearly three months, with his face to the ceiling, his body stretched straight and rigid, ever in the same position, utterly helpless and weary unto death.
Day after day he lay there, never stirring save when they made him bend his knees, an exercise upon which the doctor daily insisted, but which was agony to him. Night after night, sleepless, he waited the coming of the day. His general health varied but little, but his weakness was telling upon him. His endurance still held, but it was wearing thin. His old cheeriness was gone, though he summoned it back now and again with piteous, spasmodic effort. Hope and despair were fighting together in his soul, and at that time despair was uppermost. He had set out with a brave heart, but the goal was still far off, and he was beginning to falter. He had ceased to make any progress, and the sheer monotony of existence was wearing him out. The keen, shrewd eyes were dull and listless. At the opening of the door he did not even turn his head.
And yet it was Anne who entered, Anne with the flush of exercise on her sweet face, her hands full of Russian violets.
"See how busy I have been!" she said. "I am not disturbing you? You weren't asleep?"
"I never sleep," he answered, and he did not look at her or the violets; he kept his eyes upon the ceiling.
She came and sat beside him. "I gathered them all myself," she said."Don't you want to smell them?"
He moved his lips without replying, and she leaned down, her eyes full of the utmost compassionate tenderness and held the violets to him. He raised a hand with evident effort and fumblingly took her wrist. He pressed the wet flowers against his face.
"It's a shame to bring them here, Lady Carfax," he said, letting her go."Take 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 wasNap!"
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.
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 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?"