His voice was thick, the words somewhat difficult to distinguish.
Nap's smile was unmistakably sardonic. "Many times," he said. "You nearly rode over me on the last occasion. Doubtless the episode has escaped your memory, but it made a more lasting impression upon mine."
Sir Giles glared offensively, as if he deemed himself insulted. "I remember," he said. "Your animal came down with you. You pushed in front of me. But it was your own fault. You Americans never observe the rules of sport. I'm always glad to see you come a cropper."
"I am sure of it," said Nap politely. "It must gratify you immensely."
Sir Giles uttered a brief, snarling laugh, and advanced abruptly to the hearth. He towered above the slim American, but the latter did not appear to shirk comparison with him. With his hands in his pockets he nonchalantly opposed his insolence to the other man's half-tipsy tyranny.
And Anne Carfax sat silent behind the tea-table and endured the encounter with a mask-like patience that betrayed no faintest hint of what she carried in her heart.
"Well, what do you want to see me for?" Sir Giles demanded, with a ferocious kick at the coals.
Nap was quite ready with his answer. "I am really here on my brother's behalf. There is a scheme afoot, as no doubt you know, for the building of a Town Hall. My brother considers that the lord of the Manor"—he bowed with thinly-veiled irony—"should have first say in the matter. But I am at liberty to assure you that should you be in favour of the scheme he is ready to offer you his hearty support."
Sir Giles heard him out with lowering brows. It did not improve his temper to see Anne's eyes flash sudden interrogation at Nap's serenely smiling countenance, though he did not suspect the meaning of her glance.
"I am not in favour of the scheme," he said shortly, as Nap ended.
Nap slightly raised his brows. "No? I understood otherwise."
The blood mounted to Sir Giles's forehead. "Either you were misinformed or your intelligence is at fault," he said, with that in his voice that was so nearly an open insult that, for a second, even Nap looked dangerous.
Then quite quietly, without raising her eyes, Anne intervened. "I think you ought to explain to Mr. Errol, Giles, that you have only recently changed your mind."
Sir Giles rounded on her malignantly. "What the devil has that to do with it, or with you, for that matter? Do you think I don't know my own mind? Do you think—"
"I know exactly what Lady Carfax thinks," cut in Nap, moving deliberately so that he stood directly between Sir Giles and the tea-table. His back was turned to Anne, and he kept it so. "And in the main, I agree with her, though my sentiments are a little stronger than hers. I'll tell you exactly what they are some day. I think you would be interested, or at least not bored. But with regard to this Town Hall suggestion, what's wrong with it, anyway? Couldn't you come over and talk it out with my brother? He isn't well enough just now to come to you."
The coolness of this speech took effect. Sir Giles glared for a few moments till the speaker's steady regard became too much for him. Then, with a lurching movement, he turned away.
"No, I won't visit your brother! Why the deuce should I? Do you think I belong to the rag, tag, and bobtail, that'll mix with the very scum of society so long as there's money about? Do you think I'd lower myself to associate with fellows like you?"
"I guess you'd find it difficult," drawled Nap.
He still stood with his back to the tea-table. He seemed to have forgotten the woman who sat so rigid behind him. His fingers drummed a careless tattoo upon the table-edge. He was unquestionably master of the situation, and that without much apparent effort.
And Sir Giles knew it, knew himself to be worsted, and that in his wife's presence. He glanced at her through eyes narrowed to evil slits. Her very impassivity goaded him. It seemed in some fashion to express contempt. With violence he strode to the bell and pealed it vigorously.
On the instant Nap turned. "So long, Lady Carfax!"
She looked up at him. Her lips said nothing, but for that instant her eyes entreated, and his eyes made swift response.
He was smiling with baffling good humour as he turned round to Sir Giles.
"Good-bye, sir! Delighted to have met you. I'll give your message to my brother. It'll amuse him."
He departed without a backward glance as the servant opened the door, elaborately deaf to Sir Giles's half-strangled reply that he might go to the devil and take his brother with him.
He left dead silence in the room behind him, but the moment that the clang of the front door told of his final exit the storm burst.
Sir Giles, livid, stammering with rage, strode up and down and cursed the departed visitor in lurid language, cursed the errand that had brought him, and rated his wife for admitting him.
"I will not know these impertinent, opulent Americans!" was the burden of his maledictions. "As for that damned, insolent bounder, I will never have him in the house again. Understand that! I know him. I've heard Shirley talk of him. The man's a blackguard. And if I ever catch him alone in your company after this, I'll thrash him—do you hear?—I'll thrash him! So now you know what to expect!"
It was at this point that Anne rose, passed quietly, with the bearing of a queen, down the long room, and without a single word or glance went out and closed the door very softly behind her.
On one occasion, and one only, in the whole year were the gates of the Manor thrown open to all comers, opulent Americans and impecunious Britons alike. And this was when, in accordance with a custom that had been observed from time immemorial, the foxhounds met upon the Manor lawn.
It was then that Sir Giles, who cursed this obligatory hospitality for weeks beforehand, emerged with a smile as fixed as his scowl, shook hands with the select few whom he deigned to number among his acquaintances and pointedly ignored the many who did not enjoy this privilege.
With old Dimsdale the butler rather than with his master rested the honours of the house, and old Dimsdale did his part nobly; so nobly that Major Shirley was heard to remark more than once that it was a pity he and Sir Giles couldn't change places. It was the great day of Dimsdale's year, and his was the proud task to see that none of the guests were neglected.
Anne usually rode to hounds on this occasion. Tall and stately, clad in the conventional black riding-habit that only added grace to her severity of outline, she moved among her husband's guests. And even those of them who, like Major Shirley, resented that queenliness which was an inborn part of her very nature, were fain to admit that she filled her position as lady of the Manor with striking success. Though she had withdrawn herself more and more of late from the society of the neighbourhood, she acted the part of hostess with unfailing graciousness. On foot she moved among the throng, greeting everyone she knew.
Little Dot Waring, standing in the background with her brother on a certain misty morning in January marked her progress with looks of loving admiration. Lady Carfax's mount, a powerful grey with nervous ears and gleaming eyes, was being held in unwilling subjection close to them.
"Be ready to mount her when she comes this way, Ralph," Dot whispered, as the tall figure drew nearer.
But the honour of mounting Lady Carfax was not for Ralph. A man on a black mare—a slight man with high cheek-bones and an insolent bearing—was threading his way towards them through the crowd. The mare, like the grey, was restive, and her rider swore at her whimsies as he came.
Meeting Dot's frank regard, he checked himself and raised his hat with a courtesy half-instinctive.
Dot stared, coloured, and very slightly bowed.
Ralph sniggered. "Let yourself in for it that time, my child! Here comesBertie to effect a formal introduction."
"Bertie won't introduce him," she said quickly.
Bertie, looking very handsome and stalwart, was already close to them. He leaned down from the saddle to shake hands.
"Are you following on foot? I wish I was. Never thought of it till this moment."
"I would much rather follow on horseback," Dot declared, looking as if she did not believe him.
He laughed. "I'll take you in front of me if you'll come."
"No. I shouldn't like that," said Dot very decidedly.
"How can you possibly know till you try?"
Dot looked up at him with the sunshine in her clear eyes. "How do you know that you would prefer to follow the hounds on foot? I don't suppose you ever have."
"How do I know?" laughed Bertie. "Because I should be in your company, of course. Isn't that reason enough?"
"Idiot!" said Dot tersely.
"Minx!" said Bertie.
She flushed, looked angry for a moment, and then in spite of herself dimpled into a smile. "Bertie, you're a beast! Say that again if you dare!"
"I daren't," said Bertie.
"No, I thought not. Now apologise!"
"Oh, not now! Not in public!" he pleaded. "I'll drop in this evening and you can shrive me before I go to bed."
"I shan't be at home," said Dot, with her head in the air.
"Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, I'm bound to catch you if I wait long enough." Bertie spoke with cheery assurance. "Hullo! What do you want?"
His expression altered as his glance fell upon his brother, who had just come to his side. He looked inclined to scowl.
But Nap was not apparently desiring an introduction to the rector's daughter. "Hold the mare a minute, will you?" he said.
Bertie complied and he swung himself to the ground.
Lady Carfax was coming towards them and he went to meet her.
Her grey eyes smiled a friendly welcome. "I was just wondering if you were here."
He bowed low. "I am honoured indeed to be in your thoughts for a single instant."
"I hope I do not forget my friends so easily," she said. "Oh, here are some more of them! Excuse me for a moment."
She went straight to Dot, shook hands with her and her brother, and stood chatting for a few seconds.
Nap remained close behind her, and after a little she turned toInclude him in the group. "Have you ever met this Mr. Errol. Dot? Mr.Errol—Miss Waring!"
Dot bowed again with a scarlet countenance, but the next instant a friendly inspiration delivered her from the moment's awkwardness.
"And you don't know Bertie Errol, do you, Lady Carfax?" she said eagerly."Let me introduce him. He studies with Dad, you know."
"When he isn't hunting, or paper-chasing, or—baking cakes," said Bertie. "He's such a nice boy, Lady Carfax. He can do almost anything. I'm sure you'll like him!"
Dot laughed and protested. "He isn't a bit nice, and he isn't clever either, though he thinks he is. I don't believe he learns anything with Dad. They study natural history most of the time."
"Harmless, anyway!" commented Nap, with a sneer.
"Yes, quite harmless," assented Bertie, looking straight at him.
"And very interesting, no doubt," said Lady Carfax, turning towards her mount.
Ralph moved to assist her, but Nap pushed before him. "My job, I think," he drawled, with that in his face which made the English youth draw sullenly back.
"Cad!" whispered Dot fiercely.
And Bertie from his perch above her laughed through clenched teeth.
In a few minutes more the hunt was off. The whole crowd streamed briskly away, hounds leading, horses, motors, carriages, and the usual swarm of pedestrians, following in promiscuous array.
The sun shone through a mist. The weather was perfect for hunting, but looked as if it might end in rain.
Sir Giles rode with the master. He seemed in better spirits than usual.His customary scowl had lifted.
His wife rode nearer the end of the procession with Nap Errol next to her. His brother was immediately behind them, a very decided frown on his boyish face, a frown of which in some occult fashion Nap must have been aware, for as they reached a stretch of turf and the crowd widened out, he turned in the saddle.
"Get on ahead, Bertie! I can't stand you riding at my heels."
Bertie looked at him as if he had a retort ready, but he did not utter it. With tightened lips he rode past and shot ahead.
Nap smiled a little. "That young puppy is the best of the Errol bunch," he said. "But he hasn't been licked enough. It's not my fault. It's my brother's."
"He looks a nice boy," Anne said.
Nap's smile became supercilious. "He is a nice boy, Lady Carfax. But nice boys don't always make nice men, you know. They turn into prigs sometimes."
Anne diverted the subject with an instinctive feeling that it was one upon which they might not agree.
"There is a considerable difference between you?" she asked.
"Eight years," said Nap. "I am thirty, Lucas five years older. Most people take me for the eldest of the lot."
"I wonder why?" said Anne.
He shrugged his shoulders. "It is not really surprising, is it? Lucas has been on the shelf for the past ten years and I"—he glanced at her shrewdly—"have not!"
"Oh!" said Anne, and asked no more.
For the first time the definite question arose in her mind as to whether in admitting this man to her friendship she had made a mistake. He had a disquieting effect upon her, she was forced to acknowledge.
Yet as they drifted apart in the throng she knew with unalterable conviction that the matter did not rest with her. From the outset the choice had not been hers.
He had entered the gates of her lonely citadel on the night of the Hunt Ball, and though she was by no means sure that she liked him there, she fully realised that it was too late now to try to bar him out.
They found a fox after some delay in a copse on the side of a hill, and the run that followed scattered even Anne's sedateness to the winds. Something of youth, something of girlishness, yet dwelt within her and bounded to the surface in response to the wild excitement of the chase.
The grey went like the wind. He and the black mare that Nap Errol rode led the field, a distinction that Anne had never sought before, and which she did not greatly appreciate on this occasion. For when they killed in a chalky hollow, after half-an-hour's furious galloping across country with scarcely a check, she dragged her animal round with a white, set face and forced him from the scene.
Nap followed her after a little and found her fumbling at a gate into a wood.
"I've secured the brush for you," he began. Then, seeing her face, "What is it? You look sick."
"I feel sick," Anne said shakily.
He opened the gate for her, and followed her through. They found themselves alone, separated from the rest of the hunt by a thick belt of trees.
"Do you mean to say you have never seen a kill before?" he said.
"Never at close quarters," murmured Anne, with a shudder.
He rode for a little in silence. At length, "I'm sorry you didn't like being in at the death," he said. "I thought you would be pleased."
"Pleased!" she said, and shuddered again.
"Personally," said Nap, "I enjoy a kill."
Anne's face expressed horror.
"Yes," he said recklessly, "I am like that. I hunt to kill. It is my nature." A red gleam shone suddenly in his fiery eyes. He looked at her aggressively. "What do you hunt for anyway?" he demanded.
"I don't think I shall hunt any more," she said.
"Oh, nonsense, Lady Carfax! That's being ultrasqueamish," he protested."You mustn't, you know. It's bad for you."
"I can't help it," she said. "I never realised before how cruel it is."
"Of course it's cruel," said Nap. "But then so is everything, so is life.Yet you've got to live. We were created to prey on each other."
"No, no!" she said quickly, for his words hurt her inexplicably. "I take the higher view."
"I beg your pardon," said Nap, in the tone of one refusing a discussion.
She turned to him impulsively. "Surely you do too!" she said, and there was even a note of pleading in her voice.
Nap's brows met suddenly. He turned his eyes away. "I am nothing but an animal," he told her rather brutally. "There is nothing spiritual about me. I live for what I can get. When I get the chance I gorge. If I have a soul at all, it is so rudimentary as to be unworthy of mention."
In the silence that followed he looked at her again with grim comprehension. "P'r'aps you don't care for animals," he suggested cynically. "To change the subject, do you know we are leaving the hunt behind?"
She reined in somewhat reluctantly. "I suppose we had better go back."
"If your majesty decrees," said Nap.
He pulled the mare round and stood motionless, waiting for her to pass. He sat arrogantly at his ease. She could not fail to note that his horsemanship was magnificent. The mare stood royally as though she bore a king. The man's very insignificance of bulk seemed to make him the more superb.
"Will you deign to lead the way?" he said.
And Anne passed him with a vague sense of uneasiness that almost amounted to foreboding. For it seemed to her as if for those few moments he had imposed his will upon hers, had without effort overthrown all barriers of conventional reserve, and had made her acknowledge in him the mastery of man.
Rejoining the hunt, she made her first deliberate attempt to avoid him, an attempt that was so far successful that for the next hour she saw nothing of him beyond casual glimpses. She did not join her husband, for he resented her proximity in the hunting-field.
They drew blank in a wood above the first kill, but finally found after considerable delay along a stubbly stretch of ground bordering Baronmead, a large estate that the eldest Errol had just bought. The fox headed straight for the Baronmead woods and after him streamed the hunt pell-mell along a stony valley.
It was not Anne's intention to be in at a second death that day, and she deliberately checked the grey's enthusiasm when he would have borne her headlong through the scampering crowd. To his indignation, instead of pursuing the chase in the valley, she headed him up the hill. He protested with vehemence, threatening to rebel outright, but Anne was determined, and eventually she had her way. Up the hill they went.
It was a scramble to reach the top, for the ground was steep and sloppy, but on the summit of the ridge progress was easier. She gave the grey the rein and he carried her forward at a canter. From here she saw the last of the horsemen below her sweep round the curve towards Baronmead, and the hubbub growing fainter in the distance told her that the hounds were already plunging through the woods. Ahead of her the ridge culminated in a bare knoll whence it was evident that she could overlook a considerable stretch of country. She urged her animal towards it.
The mist was thickening in the valley, and it had begun to drizzle. The watch on her wrist said two o'clock, and she determined to turn her face homewards as soon as she had taken this final glimpse.
The grey, snorting and sweating, stumbled up the slippery ascent. He was plainly disgusted with his rider's tactics. They arrived upon the summit, and Anne brought him to a standstill. But though she still heard vague shoutings below her the mist had increased so much in the few minutes they had taken over the ascent that she could discern nothing. Her horse was winded after the climb, however, and she remained motionless to give him time to recover. The hubbub was dying away, and she surmised that the fox had led his pursuers out on the farther side of the woods. She shivered as the chill damp crept about her. A feeling of loneliness that was almost physical possessed her. She half wished that she had not forsaken the hunt after all.
Stay! Was she quite alone? Out of the clinging, ever-thickening curtain there came sounds—the sounds of hoofs that struggled upwards, of an animal's laboured breathing, of a man's voice that encouraged and swore alternately.
Her heart gave a sudden sharp throb. She knew that voice. Though she had only met the owner thereof three times she had come to know it rather well. Why had he elected to come that way, she asked herself? He almost seemed to be dogging her steps that day.
Impulse urged her to strike in another direction before he reached her. She did not feel inclined for anothertête-à-têtewith Nap Errol just then.
She tapped the grey smartly with her switch, more smartly than she intended, for he started and plunged. At the same instant there broke out immediately below them a hubbub of yelling and baying that was like the shrieking of a hundred demons. It rose up through the fog as from the mouth of an invisible pit, and drove the grey horse clean out of his senses. He reared bolt upright in furious resistance to his rider's will, pawed the air wildly, and being brought down again by a sharp cut over the ears, flung out his heels in sheer malice and bolted down the hill, straight for that pandemonium of men and hounds. If the pleasures of the hunt failed to attract his mistress, it was otherwise with him, and he meant to have his fling in spite of her.
For the first few seconds of that mad flight Anne scarcely attempted to check his progress. She was taken by surprise and was forced to give all her attention to keeping in the saddle.
The pace was terrific. The scampering hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the ground at all. Like shadows they fled through the rising mist. It struck chill upon her face as they swooped downwards. She seemed to be plunging into an icy, bottomless abyss.
And then like a dagger, stabbing through every nerve, came fear, a horror unspeakable of the depth she could not see, into which she was being so furiously hurled. She was clinging to the saddle, but she made a desperate effort to drag the animal round. It was quite fruitless. No woman's strength could have availed to check that headlong gallop. He swerved a little, a very little, in answer, that was all, and galloped madly on.
And then—all in a moment it came, a moment of culminating horror more awful than anything she had ever before experienced—the ground fell suddenly away from the racing feet. A confusion of many lights danced before her eyes—a buzzing uproar filled her brain—she shot forward into space….
Sir Giles was in a decidedly evil temper as he rode home from the hunt in the soaking rain that afternoon. The second fox had led them miles out of the way, and they had not been rewarded by a kill. The brute had eluded them, profiting by the downpour that had washed away the scent. So Sir Giles, having solaced himself several times with neat brandy from the large silver flask without which he never rode abroad, was in anything but a contented mood with the world in general and his own luck in particular. Dusk had long descended when at length he turned in at his own gates. He had given up urging his jaded animal, being too jaded himself for the effort. But, hearing a clatter of hoofs on the drive before him, he did rouse himself to holler into the darkness, supposing that his wife was ahead of him. If it were she, she was later in returning than was her wont, but no answer came back to him, and he did not repeat his call. After all, why should he hail her? He did not want her company, Heaven knew. That stately demeanour of hers which once had attracted him generally inspired in him a savage sense of resentment nowadays. There were times when he even suspected her of despising him—him, the lord of the Manor, who had given her all she possessed in the world!
He swore a furious oath under his breath as he rode. The darkness ahead of him was all pricked by tiny red sparks, that glanced and flashed like fireflies whichever way he looked. He rubbed his eyes and they departed, only to swarm again a little farther on. The rain had soaked him to the skin. He shivered and swore again as he fumbled for his flask.
The fiery gleams faded wholly away as the raw spirit warmed his blood and revived his brain. He drew a breath of relief. Again he heard the sound of a horse's feet some distance in front. They seemed to fall unevenly, as though the animal were lame. Could it be the grey, he asked himself? If so, why had Anne not answered his call? She must have heard him. He ground his teeth. It was like her habitual impudence to ignore him thus. He gathered himself together and sent a furious bellow into the darkness.
But there came back no reply. The hoofs ahead seemed to quicken into a shambling trot, that was all. And after a little he heard them no more.
She had reached the house then, and gone within into light and comfort, and again feverishly he execrated her for not waiting for him, the cold and the rain and the dark notwithstanding. Again fitfully he began to see those leaping points of light; but it was only here and there. Whenever he focussed his attention upon them they eluded him. For these also he held his wife in some fashion responsible. What did she mean by leaving him thus? How dared she enter the house that was his while he was still groping without? He believed that she would shut his own door against him if she dared. He was sure she hated him, as he hated her—as he hated her!
And then—suddenly a strange thing happened. Suddenly, clear-cut as a cameo before his fevered vision, there arose against the dripping darkness his wife's face. Pale and pure as the face of a saint, it shone before him like a star. There was no reproach in the level eyes; there was no contempt. But they looked through him, they looked beyond him, and saw him not.
A violent tremor went through him, a nameless, unspeakable dread. The curses died upon his lips. He stared and stared again.
And while he stared, the vision faded before his eyes into nothingness. He was alone once more in the darkness and the drenching rain; alone with a little gibing voice that seemed to come from within and yet was surely the voice of a devil jeering a devil's tattoo in time to his horse's hoof-beats, telling him he was mad, mad, mad!
Three minutes later he rode heavily into his own stable-yard.
A group of servants scattered dumbly before him as he appeared. The glare of lights dazzled him, but he fancied they looked at him strangely. He flung an oath at the groom who stepped forward to take his horse.
"What are you staring at? What's the matter?"
The man murmured something unintelligible.
Sir Giles dismounted and scowled around. His limbs were stiff and not over steady.
"What's the matter with you all?" he growled. "You look like a crowd of death's heads. Hullo! What's this?"
He had caught sight of something he had not seen before, something that sent him striding furiously forward. For there in the centre of the yard, standing huddled on three legs, was the grey horse his wife had ridden. Limp and draggled, plastered with mud and foam, with a great streaming gash on the shoulder, and head hanging down in utter exhaustion, stood the grey.
"What's this?" demanded Sir Giles again. "Where's her ladyship?"
A shudder seemed to run through the assembled men. There was a moment's silence. Then old Dimsdale, the butler, who was standing in the doorway that led to the servants' quarters, stumped forward and made reply.
"The animal's come home alone, Sir Giles."
"What?" thundered his master.
The old man faced him with respectful firmness. No one had ever seenDimsdale agitated.
"As I said, Sir Giles," he answered, with a certain deferential obstinacy. "The animal's come back alone."
"Only just come in, sir," chimed in a groom. "We was just beginning to wonder when he came limping in in this state. Looks as if her ladyship had met with a accident."
Sir Giles rounded upon him with a violence that brought his surmisings to an abrupt end. Then, having worked off the first heat of his fury, he turned again to Dimsdale.
"What the devil is to be done? I never saw her after the first kill."
"And where might that be, Sir Giles?" questioned Dimsdale.
"Up Baronmead way. It was hours ago."
Dimsdale considered. "Shall we send and make inquiries at Baronmead,Sir Giles?"
"No, I'm damned if I do!" said Sir Giles.
Dimsdale considered again. "Was her ladyship riding with anyone in particular?" he asked next.
"No, I don't think so. Stay! I believe I saw that Errol bounder talkingto her—the one who was here the other day. But I forget when.Anyhow"—his voice rising again—"I won't have any traffic with them.I've said I won't, and I won't!"
Dimsdale grunted. "Seems to me the only thing to do, Sir Giles. You can't leave her lady ship to die under a hedge maybe, and not do anything to find her."
He spoke very deliberately, looking straight into his master's bloodshot eyes as he did so.
"It wouldn't be hardly right, Sir Giles," he pointed out gravely. "It's likely that young Mr. Errol will be able to give us a clue, and we can't leave any stone unturned, being such a serious matter. I'll send on my own responsibility if you like, Sir Giles. But send we must."
The bystanders glanced uneasily at one another in the silence that followed this bold speech. The old butler's temerity was unheard of. Not one among them would have dared thus to withstand the master to his face. They waited, nervously expectant, for the vials of wrath to descend.
Old Dimsdale waited too, still firmly watching Sir Giles. If he felt any anxiety on his own account, however, it was not apparent. Nor did he display any relief when the unpleasant tension passed and Sir Giles with a shrug turned away from him.
"Oh, go your own way, and be damned to you! I don't care what you do. Don't stand gaping there, you fools! Get to your work! Better send for the vet. Can't afford to have a valuable animal spoilt. Dimsdale, take some brandy and hot water up to my room at once, before you do anything else. Do you hear?"
And with that he tramped within, leaving an atmosphere of mingled relief and indignation behind him.
But if his words were callous, the soul of the man was far from easy as he mounted to his room. He flung himself into the nearest chair when he arrived there and sat with eyes fixed sullenly before him. He ought to go in search of her, of course, but he was powerless. His brain was a smouldering furnace in which anxiety and anger strove luridly for the mastery. But through it all he sat there torpidly staring. His body felt as though it were weighted with leaden fetters.
He heard a step in the passage, but did not turn his head. Someone knocked discreetly. He heard, but he took no notice. The door opened softly, and old Dimsdale entered.
"We have news, Sir Giles."
Sir Giles neither looked at him nor spoke. He continued to glare heavily into space.
Dimsdale paused beside him. "A messenger has just come from Baronmead in their motor, Sir Giles," he said, speaking very distinctly. "Her ladyship has had a fall, and has been taken there. Mr. Errol begs that you will go back in the motor, as her ladyship's condition is considered serious."
He stopped. Sir Giles said nothing whatever.
"The messenger is waiting, Sir Giles."
Still no response of any sort.
Dimsdale waited a moment, then very respectfully he bent and touched his master's shoulder.
"Sir Giles!"
Sir Giles turned slowly at last, with immense effort it seemed. He glowered at Dimsdale for a space. Then, "Bring some brandy and water," he said, "hot!"
"But the messenger, Sir Giles!"
"What?" Sir Giles glared a moment longer, then as anger came uppermost, the smouldering furnace leapt into sudden seething flame. "Tell him to go to the devil!" he thundered. "And when you've done that, bring me some brandy and water—hot!"
As Dimsdale departed upon his double errand he dropped back into his former position, staring dully before him, under scowling brows.
When Dimsdale returned he was sunk in the chair asleep.
"Hullo, Lucas! Can I come in?"
Nap Errol stood outside his brother's door, an impatient frown on his face, his hand already fidgeting at the handle.
"Come in, old chap," drawled back a kindly voice.
He entered with an abruptness that seemed to denote agitation.
The room was large and brilliantly lighted. In an easy chair by the fire the eldest Errol was reclining, while his valet, a huge man with the features of an American Indian half-breed and fiery red hair, put the finishing touches to his evening dress.
Nap approached the fire with his usual noiseless tread despite the fact that he was still in riding boots.
"Be quick, Hudson!" he said. "We don't want you."
Hudson rolled a nervous eye at him and became clumsily hasty.
"Take your time," his master said quietly. "Nap, my friend, hadn't you better dress?"
Nap stopped before the fire and pushed it with his foot. "I am not going to dine," he said.
Lucas Errol said no more. He lay still in his chair with his head back and eyes half-closed, a passive, pathetic figure with the shoulders of a strong man and the weak, shrunken limbs of a cripple. His face was quite smooth. It might have belonged to a boy of seventeen save for the eyes, which were deeply sunken and possessed the shrewd, quizzical intelligence of age.
He lay quite motionless as though he were accustomed to remain for hours in one position. Hudson the valet tended him with the reverence of a slave. Nap fell to pacing soundlessly to and fro, awaiting the man's exit with what patience he could muster.
"You can go now, Tawny," the elder Errol drawled at last. "I will ring when I want you. Now, Boney, what is it? I wish you would sit down."
There was no impatience in the words, but his brows were slightly drawn as he uttered them,
Nap, turning swiftly, noted the fact. "You are not so well to-night?"
"Sit down," his brother repeated gently. "How is Lady Carfax?"
Nap sat down with some reluctance. He looked as if he would have preferred to prowl.
"She is still unconscious, and likely to remain so. The doctor thinks very seriously of her."
"Her husband has been informed?"
"Her husband," said Nap from between his teeth, "has been informed, and he declines to come to her. That's the sort of brute he is."
Lucas Errol made no comment, and after a moment Nap continued:
"It is just as well perhaps. I hear he is never sober after a day's sport. And I believe she hates the sight of him if the truth were told—and small wonder!"
There was unrestrained savagery in the last words. Lucas turned his head and looked at him thoughtfully.
"You know her rather well?" he said.
"Yes." Nap's eyes, glowing redly, met his with a gleam of defiance.
"You have known her for long?" The question was perfectly quiet, uttered in the tired voice habitual to this man who had been an invalid for almost the whole of his manhood.
Yet Nap frowned as he heard it. "I don't know," he said curtly. "I don't estimate friendships by time."
Lucas said no more, but he continued to look at his brother with unvarying steadiness till at length, as if goaded thereto, Nap spoke again.
"We are friends," he said, "no more, no less. You all think me a blackguard, I know. It's my speciality, isn't it?" He spoke with exceeding bitterness. "But in this case you are wrong. I repeat—we are friends."
He said it aggressively; his tone was almost a challenge, but the elderErrol did not appear to notice.
"I have never thought you a blackguard, Boney," he said quietly.
Nap's thin lips smiled cynically. "You have never said it."
"I have never thought it." There was no contradicting the calm assertion. It was not the way of the world to contradict Lucas Errol. "And I know you better than a good many," he said.
Nap stirred restlessly and was silent.
Lucas turned his eyes from him and seemed to fall into a reverie.Suddenly, however, he roused himself.
"What does the doctor say about her?"
Nap frowned. "He says very little. After the manner of his tribe, he is afraid to commit himself; thinks there may be this injury or there may be that, but says definitely nothing. I shall get someone down from town to-morrow. I'd go tonight, only—" he broke off, hammering impotently with his clenched fist on the arm of his chair. "I must be at hand to-night," he said, after a moment, controlling himself. "The mater has promised to call me if there is any change. You see," he spoke half-apologetically, "she might feel kind of lonely waking up in a crowd of strangers, and mine is the only face she knows."
Silence followed the words. Lucas had closed his eyes, and there was nothing in his face to indicate the trend of his thoughts.
Nap sat with his face to the fire, and stared unblinkingly into the red depths. There was no repose in his attitude, only the tension of suppressed activity.
Softly at length his brother's voice came through the silence. "Why not dine, dear fellow, while you are waiting? You will do no good to anyone by starving yourself."
Nap looked round. "In Heaven's name, don't talk to me of eating!" he said savagely. "You don't know what I've been through." Again he paused to control himself, then added in a lower tone, "I thought she was dead, you know."
"It was you who picked her up?" Lucas asked.
"Yes. There was no one else near." He spoke with feverish rapidity, as though he found speaking a relief. "It was the old chalk-pit. You know the place—or p'r'aps you don't. It's a ten-foot drop. The brute went clean over, and he must have rolled on her or kicked her getting up." He drew a sharp breath between his teeth. "When I found her she was lying all crumpled up. I thought her back was broken at first."
A sudden shudder assailed him. He repressed it fiercely.
"And then, you know, it was foggy. I couldn't leave her. I was afraid of losing my bearings. And so I just had to wait—Heaven knows how long—till one of the keepers heard me shouting, and went for help. And all that time—all that time—I didn't know whether she was alive or dead."
His voice sank to a hard whisper. He got up and vigorously poked the fire.
Lucas Errol endured the clatter for several seconds in silence: then, "Boney," he said, "since you are feeling energetic, you might lend me a hand."
Nap laid down the poker instantly. "I am sorry, old fellow. I forgot. Let me ring for Hudson."
"Can't you help me yourself?" Lucas asked.
Nap hesitated for a second; then stooped in silence to give the required assistance. Lucas Errol, with a set face, accepted it, but once on his feet he quitted Nap's support and leaned upon the mantelpiece to wipe his forehead.
"I knew I should hurt you," Nap said uneasily.
The millionaire forced a smile that was twisted in spite of him. "Never mind me!" he said. "It is your affairs that trouble me just now, not my own. And, Boney, if you don't have a meal soon, you'll be making a big fool of yourself and everyone will know it."
The very gentleness of his speech seemed to make the words the more emphatic. Nap raised no further protest.
"Go and have it right now," his brother said.
"And—in case I don't see you again—goodnight!"
He held out his hand, still leaning against the mantelpiece. His eyes, blue and very steady, looked straight into Nap's. So for a second or two he held him while Nap, tight-lipped, uncompromising, looked straight back.
Then, "Good-night," Lucas said again gravely, and let him go.
Yet for an instant longer Nap lingered as one on the verge of speech. But nothing came of it. He apparently thought better—or worse—of the impulse, and departed light-footed in silence.
What had happened to her? Slowly, with a sensation of doubt that seemed to weigh her down, Anne rose to the surface of things, and looked once more upon the world that had rushed so giddily away from her and left her spinning through space.
She was horribly afraid during those first few minutes, afraid with a physical, overwhelming dread. She seemed to be yet falling, falling through emptiness to annihilation. And as she fell she caught the sounds of other worlds, vague whisperings in the dark. She was sinking, sinking fast into a depth unfathomable, where no worlds were.
And then—how it came to her she knew not, for she was powerless to help herself—out of the chaos and the awful darkness a hand reached out and grasped her own; a hand strong and vital that gripped and held, that lifted her up, that guided her, that sustained her, through all the terror that girt her round.
The light dawned gradually in her eyes. She found herself gazing up into a face she knew, a lean, brown face, alert and keen, that watched her steadfastly.
With an effort she clasped her nerveless fingers upon the sustaining hand.
"Hold me!" she whispered weakly. "I'm falling!"
"Don't be afraid!" he made answer with infinite gentleness. "I have you safe."
Someone whom she saw but vaguely came behind him and whispered in a vigorous undertone. A large white hand, on which flashed many rings, rested upon his shoulder.
He moved slightly, took something into his free hand and held it to her lips. Submissively, in answer to an influence that seemed to fold her about and gently to compel, she drank.
Slowly the mist of dread cleared from her brain. Slowly she awoke to full consciousness, and found Nap Errol bending over her, her hand fast clasped in his.
"What happened?" she asked him faintly. "Where am I?"
"You are at Baronmead," he said. "You were thrown and we brought you here."
"Ah!" Her brows contracted a little. "Am I much hurt?" she asked.
"Nothing to worry about," Nap said with quiet confidence. "You will soon be all right again. I will leave you to get a good sleep, shall I? If you are wanting anything my mother will be here."
She looked at him doubtfully. Her hand still clung to his, half-mechanically it seemed.
"Mr. Errol," she faltered, "my husband—does he know?"
"Yes, he knows." Very softly Nap made answer, as though he were soothing a child. "Don't trouble about that. Don't trouble about anything. Just lie still and rest."
But the anxiety in her eyes was growing. "He isn't here?" she questioned.
"No."
"Then—then I think I ought to go to him. He will think it so strange. He will—he will—"
"Lady Carfax, listen!" Quietly but insistently he broke in upon her rising agitation. "Your husband knows all about you. He couldn't come to-night, but he is coming in the morning. Now won't you be content and try to sleep?"
"I can't sleep," she said, with a shudder. "I am afraid of falling."
"No, you're not. See! I am holding your hands. You can't fall. Look at me! Keep looking at me and you will see how safe you are!"
His voice had sunk almost to a whisper. His eyes dusky, compelling, yet strangely impersonal, held hers by some magic that was too utterly intangible to frighten her. With a sigh she yielded to the mastery she scarcely felt.
And as she floated away into a peace indescribable, unlike anything she had ever known before, she heard a woman's voice, hushed to a sibilant whisper, remark, "My, Nap! You're too smart to be human. I always said so."
When she opened her eyes again it was many hours later, and she was lying in the broad sunshine with the doctor, whom she knew, stooping over her.
"Ah, you are awake at last!" he said. "And I find a marvellous improvement. No, I shouldn't try to move at present. But I don't suppose you can for a moment. You have had a wonderful escape, my dear lady, a most wonderful escape. But for all that I shall keep you where you are for the next fortnight or so. A badly jarred spine is not a thing to play with."
"Is that all?" Anne asked.
He became cautious on the instant. "I don't say that is all. In any case we will run no risks. Let me congratulate you upon having fallen into such good hands."
He glanced over Anne's head at someone on the other side of the bed, and Anne turned slightly to see the person thus indicated. And so she had her first sight of the woman who ruled Lucas Errol's house.
She had heard of her more than once. People smiled, not unkindly, when they mentioned Mrs. Errol, a good sort, they said; but, like many another woman of inelegant exterior, how good a sort only her Maker knew. She was large in every way. It was the only word that described her; large-boned, large-featured, and so stout that she wheezed—a fact which in no way limited her activity. Her voice was as deep as a man's, and it went even deeper when she laughed.
But she was not laughing now. Her face was full of the most kindly concern. "Lord bless the child!" she said. "She don't know me yet. I'm Mrs. Errol, dear, Mrs. Lucas Blenheim Errol. And if there's anything you want—well, you've only got to mention it to me and it's as good as done."
She spoke with a strong American accent. A Yankee of the Yankees was Mrs. Errol, and she saw no reason to disguise the fact. She knew that people smiled at her, but it made no difference to her. She was content to let them smile. She even smiled at herself.
"You are very good," Anne murmured.
"Not a bit," said Mrs. Errol cheerfully. "I'm real pleased to have you, dear. And don't you think you're giving any trouble to anybody, for there isn't anything that pleases me so much as to have a girl to look after. It's the biggest treat the Lord could send."
Anne smiled a little, conscious of a glow at the heart that she had not known for many a day. She tried weakly to give her hand to her new friend, but the pain of moving was so intense that she uttered a quick gasp and abandoned the attempt.
But in an instant Mrs. Errol's fingers were wound closely about her own, the large face, wonderfully smooth, save for a few kindly wrinkles about the eyes, was bent to hers.
"There, dearie, there!" said the motherly voice, tender for all its gruffness. "You're stiff in every limb, and no wonder. It's just natural. Just you lie still and leave everything to me."
She was, in fact, determined to take the whole burden of nursing upon herself, and when the doctor had gone she began to show Anne how capable she was of fulfilling the responsibility she had thus undertaken. No trained nurse could have given her more dexterous attention.
"I've spent a great part of my life in sickrooms," she told Anne. "First my husband, and then poor Lucas, that's my eldest boy. But Lucas won't have me to wait on him now. He doesn't like his mother to see him in his bad hours, and they are mighty bad now and then. So my nursing talents would run to seed if it weren't for a casual patient like yourself."
It was so evident that she enjoyed her self-appointed task that Anne could only smile and thank her. She was helpless as an infant and could not have refused her hostess's ministrations even had she desired to do so. She suffered a good deal of pain also, and this kept her from taking much note of her surroundings during that first day at Baronmead.
She refrained from asking further about her husband for some time, avoiding all mention of him, but she was possessed by a nervous dread that increased steadily as the hours wore on. At last, as Mrs. Errol seemed equally determined to volunteer no information, she summoned her resolution and compelled herself to speak.
"My husband has not come yet?" she asked.
"No, dear." Mrs. Errol smiled upon her with much kindness, but her tone did not encourage further inquiries.
Anne lay silent for a little. It was a difficult matter to handle. "Did he send no message?" she asked at last, with knitted brows. "I thought—or did I dream it?—that your son said he was coming."
"To be sure he did," said Mrs. Errol. "You would like to speak to Nap about it, wouldn't you?"
Anne hesitated. Mrs. Errol was already on her way to the door. It was plain that here was a responsibility she was unprepared to shoulder. But Anne called her back.
"No, please!" she said, a slight flush on her face. "Don't call him in again! Really, it is of no consequence."
But in spite of this assertion her uneasiness regarding her husband grew rapidly from that moment—an uneasiness that she was powerless to control or hide. Could it be—was it possible?—that he meant to leave her thus abandoned to the pitying kindness of strangers? She could hardly believe it. And yet—and yet—he had done un-heard-of things before. There were times, 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.