A puff of rain-washed air wandered in through the wide-flung window, and Lucas Errol turned his head languidly upon the pillow to feel it on his face. He sighed as he moved, as if even that slight exertion cost him some resolution. His eyes had a heavy, drugged look. They seemed more deeply sunken than usual, but there was no sleep in them, only the utter weariness that follows the sleep of morphia.
At the soft opening of the door a faint frown drew his forehead, but it turned to a smile as Bertie came forward with cautious tread.
"That you, dear fellow? I am awake."
Bertie came to his side, his brown face full of concern. "Are you better, old chap?"
"Yes, better, thanks. Only so dog-tired. Sit down. Have you brought the budget?"
"There's nothing much to-day. Only that chap Cradock writing again for instructions about the Arizona ranch, and a few Wall Street tips from Marsh by cable. Say, Luke, I don't think Cradock is overweighted with spunk, never have thought so. Guess that ranch wants a bigger man."
"I'll see his letter," said Lucas. "Presently will do. What about Marsh?"
"Oh, he's behind the scenes as usual. You'd better read him now. The rest will keep. When you've done that I want to talk to you."
"So I gathered. Stuff in another pillow behind me, will you? I can think better sitting up."
"I shouldn't, old chap, really. You're always easier lying down."
"Oh, shucks, Bertie! Do as you're told. And don't look at me like that, you old duffer. It's a mean advantage to take of a sick man. Steady now, steady! Go slow! You mustn't slam a creaking gate. It's bad for the hinges."
But notwithstanding Bertie's utmost care there were heavy drops on his brother's forehead as he sank again upon his pillows. Bertie wiped them away with a hand that trembled a little, and Lucas smiled up at him with twitching lips.
"Thanks, boy! It was only a twinge. Sit down again, and give me Marsh's cipher and the morning papers. The letters you shall read to me presently."
He straightway immersed himself in business matters with the shrewdness and concentration that ever aroused his young brother's deepest admiration.
"What a marvellous grip you've got on things, Luke!" he exclaimed at the end of it. "No wonder you are always on the top! You're great, man, you're great!"
"I guess it's just my speciality," the millionaire said, with his weary smile. "I must be getting another secretary soon, boy. It's a shame to eat up your time like this. What is it you want to talk to me about? Going to get married?"
Bertie shook his head. "The padre won't hear of it yet, and Dot herself—well, you know, I said I'd wait."
"Don't wait too long," said Lucas quietly. "You shall have the old Dower House to live in. Tell the padre that. It's only a stone's throw from the Rectory. We'll build a garage too, eh, Bertie? The wife must have her motor. And presently, when you are called to the Bar, you will want a flat in town."
"You're a brick, Luke!" the boy declared, with shining eyes. "Between ourselves, I don't expect to do much at the Bar, but I'm sticking to it just to show 'em I can work like the rest of creation. I'd sooner be your secretary for all time, and you know it."
"That so?" Lucas stretched a hand towards him. "But I guess you're right. I don't want you to depend on me for employment. If I were to go out one of these days you'd feel rather left. It's better you should have other resources."
"Luke, I say! Luke!"
But the quick distress of the words was checked by the gentle restraint of Lucas's hand. "I know! I know! But we've all got to die sooner or later, and one doesn't want to tear a larger hole than one need. That's all right, Bertie boy. We'll shunt the subject. Only, if you want to please me, get that nice little girl to marry you soon. Now what was it you wanted to say? Something about Nap?"
"Yes. How did you know? It's an infernal shame to worry you when you're not fit for it. But the mother and I both think you ought to know."
"Go ahead, dear fellow! I'm tougher than you think. What has become of Nap?"
"That's just the question. You know he went off in the car with LadyCarfax yesterday morning?"
"I didn't know," murmured Lucas. "That's a detail. Go on."
"Late last night the car had not returned, and the mother began to wonder. Of course if Lady Carfax hadn't been there it wouldn't have mattered much, but as it was we got anxious, and in the end I posted off to the Manor to know if she had arrived. She had not. But while I was there a wire came for the butler from a place called Bramhurst, which is about fifty miles away, to say that the car had broken down and they couldn't return before to-day. Well, that looked to me deuced queer. I'm convinced that Nap is up to some devilry. What on earth induced her to go there with him anyway? The mother was real bothered about it, and so was I. We couldn't rest, either of us. And in the end she ordered the big Daimler and went off to Bramhurst herself. I wanted to go with her, but she wouldn't have me at any price. You know the mother. So I stopped to look after things here. Everyone cleared off this morning, thank the gods. I don't think anyone smelt a rat. I told them the mother had gone to nurse a sick friend, and it seemed to go down all right."
Lucas had listened to the recital with closed eyes and a perfectly expressionless face. He did not speak for a few moments when Bertie ended. At length, "And the mother is not back yet?" he asked.
"No. But I'm not afraid for her. She knows how to hold her own."
"That's so," Lucas conceded; and fell silent again.
He was frowning a little as if in contemplation of some difficulty, but his composure was absolute.
"There may be nothing in it," he said at last.
Bertie grunted. "I knew he was in a wild beast mood before they started.He nearly rode the black mare to death in the early morning."
"Why wasn't I told of that?" Lucas opened his eyes with the question and looked directly at his brother's worried countenance.
"My dear fellow, you were too sick to be bothered. Besides, you were taking morphia. He saw to that."
Lucas closed his eyes again without comment, A long pause ensued before he spoke again.
Then: "Bertie," he said, "go down to the garage and leave word that as soon as Nap returns I want to speak to him."
"He won't return," said Bertie, with conviction.
"I think he will. It is even possible that he has returned already. In any case, go and tell them. Ah, Tawny, what is it?"
The valet came to his master's side. His hideous features wore an expression that made them almost benign. The dumb devotion of an animal looked out of his eyes.
"A note, sir, from the Manor."
"Who brought it?" asked Lucas.
"A groom, sir."
"Waiting for an answer?"
"Yes, sir."
Lucas opened the note. It was from Anne.
He read a few lines, then glanced at Bertie. "It's all right, Bertie. Go and give that message, will you? Say it's important—an urgent matter of business."
Bertie departed, and Lucas's eyes returned to the sheet he held.
Tawny Hudson stood motionless beside him, and several silent seconds ticked away. His master spoke at length.
"Pen and paper, Tawny. Yes, that's right. Now put your arm behind the pillows and give me a hoist. Slowly now, slowly!"
And then, as the man supported him, very slowly and unsteadily he traced a few words.
"Don't worry. All's well.—Lucas."
Abruptly the pen fell from his fingers; his head dropped back. His face was drawn and ghastly as he uttered a few gasping whispers. "Tawny, give me something—quick! This pain is—killing me!"
The man lowered him again, and took a bottle from a side-table. As he measured some drops into a glass the only sound in the room was his master's agonised breathing.
Yet he knew without turning that someone had entered, and he betrayed no surprise when Nap's hand suddenly whisked the glass from his hold and held it to the panting lips.
The first words Lucas uttered when utterance became possible to him were,"No morphia!"
Nap was deftly drawing away the pillows to ease his position. "All right, old fellow," he made answer. "But you know you can't sit up when you are like this. What possessed you to try?"
"Business," murmured Lucas. "Don't go again, Boney. I want you."
"So I've been told. I am quite at your service. Don't speak till you feel better."
"Ah! I am better now. There's magic about you, I believe. Or is it electricity?" Lucas's eyes rested on the grim face above him with a certain wistfulness.
Nap only smiled cynically. "Is Hudson to take this note? Can I address it for you?"
If he expected to cause any discomfiture by the suggestion he was disappointed. Lucas answered him with absolute composure.
"Yes; to Lady Carfax at the Manor. It is to go at once."
Nap thrust it into an envelope with a perfectly inscrutable countenance, scrawled the address, and handed it to the valet. "You needn't come back till you are rung for," he said.
And with that he calmly seated himself by his brother's side with the air of a man with ample leisure at his disposal.
As the door closed he spoke. "Hadn't you better have a smoke?"
"No. I must talk first. I wish you would sit where I can see you."
Nap pulled his chair round at once and sat in the full glare of the noonday sun. "Is that enough lime-light for you? Now, what ails the great chief? Does he think his brother will run away while he sleeps?"
There was a hint of tenderness underlying the banter in his voice. He stooped with the words and picked up a letter that lay on the floor. "This yours?"
Lucas's half-extended hand fell. "And you may read it," he said.
"Many thanks! I don't read women's letters unless they chance to be addressed to me—no, not even if they concern me very nearly." Nap's teeth gleamed for a moment. "I'm afraid you must play off your own bat, my worthy brother, though if you take my advice you'll postpone it. You're about used up, and I'm deuced thirsty. It's not a peaceful combination."
Again, despite the nonchalance of his speech, it was not without a certain gentleness. He laid the letter on the bed within reach of his brother's hand.
"I won't leave the premises till you have had your turn," he said. "I guess that's a fair offer anyway. Now curl up and rest."
But Lucas negatived the suggestion instantly though very quietly. "I'll take my turn now if you've no objection. That ranch in Arizona, Boney, is beginning to worry me some. I want you to take it in hand. It's a little job peculiarly suited to your abilities."
Nap jerked up his head with an odd gesture, not solely indicative of surprise. "What do you know of my abilities?"
"More than most." Very steadily Lucas made answer. "I depend on you in a fashion you little dream of, and I guess you won't fail me."
Nap's jaw slowly hardened. "I'm not very likely to disappoint you," he observed, "more especially as I have no intention of removing to Arizona at present."
"No?"
"No."
"Not if I make a point of it?" Lucas spoke heavily, as if the effort of speech were great. His hand had clenched upon Anne's letter.
Nap leaned forward without replying, the sunlight still shining upon his face, and looked at him attentively.
"Yes," Lucas said very wearily. "It has come to that. I can't have you here disturbing the public peace. I won't have my own brother arraigned as a murderer. Nor will I have Anne Carfax pilloried by you for all England to throw mud at. I've stood a good deal from you, Boney, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand this."
"The only question is, Can you prevent it?" said Nap, without the faintest change of countenance.
"I am going to prevent it."
"If you can."
"I am going to prevent it," Lucas repeated. "Before we go any further, give me that shooter of yours."
Nap hesitated for a single instant, then, with a gesture openly contemptuous, he took the revolver from his pocket and tossed it on to the bed.
Lucas laid his hand upon it. He was looking full into Nap's face. "Now, I want you to tell me something," he said. "I seem to remember your saying to me once in this very room that you and Lady Carfax were friends, no more, no less. You were mighty anxious that I shouldn't misunderstand. Remember that episode?"
"Perfectly," said Nap.
"I surmised that you told me that because you honestly cared for her as a friend. Was that so?"
Nap made a slight movement, such a movement as a man makes when he catches sight of a stone to his path too late to avoid it.
"You may say so if you wish," he said.
"Meaning that things have changed since then?" questioned Lucas, in his tired drawl.
Nap threw up his head with the action of a jibbing horse. "You can put it how you like. You can say—if you like—that I am a bigger blackguard now than I was then. It makes no difference how you put it."
"But I want to know," said Lucas quietly. "Are you a blackguard, Boney?"
His eyes were fixed steadily upon the dusky face with its prominent cheek-bones and mocking mouth. Perhaps he knew, what Anne had discovered long before, that those sensitive lips might easily reveal what the fierce eyes hid.
"A matter of opinion," threw back Nap. "If I am, Anne Carfax has made me so."
"Anne Carfax," said Lucas very deliberately, "has done her best to make a man of you. It is not her fault if she has failed. It is not her fault that you have chosen to drag her friendship through the mire."
"Friendship!" broke in Nap. "She gave me more than that."
Lucas's brows contracted as if at a sudden dart of pain, but his voice was perfectly level as he made reply: "Whatever she gave you was the gift of a good woman of which you have proved yourself utterly unworthy."
Nap sprang to his feet. "Be it so!" he exclaimed harshly. "I am unworthy.What of it? She always knew I was."
"Yet she trusted you."
"She trusted me, yes. Having cast out the devil she found in possession, she thought there was nothing more to me. She thought that I should be content to wander empty all my days through dry places, seeking rest. She forgot the sequel, forgot what was bound to happen when I found none. You seem to have forgotten that too. Or do you think that I am indeed that interesting vacuum that you are pleased to call a gentleman?" He flung his arms wide with a sudden, passionate laugh. "Why, my good fellow, I'd sooner rank myself with the beasts that perish. And I'd sooner perish too; yes, die with a rope round my throat in the good old English fashion. There's nothing in that. I'd as soon die that way as any other. It may not be so artistic as our method, but it's quite a clean process, and the ultimate result is the same."
"Do you mind sitting down?" said Lucas.
Nap looked at him sharply. "In pain again?"
"Sit down," Lucas reiterated. "You can't do anything more than that. Now will you take the trouble to make me understand what exactly are your present intentions, and why?"
"Doesn't that letter tell you?" said Nap.
"This letter," Lucas answered, "is the desperate appeal of a very unhappy woman who is in mortal dread of your murdering her husband."
"That all?" said Nap. The red glare of savagery flickered for an instant in his eyes. "She has no fears on her own account then?"
"Will you explain?"
"Oh, certainly, if you need explanation. I mean that the death of Sir Giles Carfax is no more than a stepping-stone, a means to an end. So long as he lives, he will stand in my way. Therefore Sir Giles will go. And mark me, any other man who attempts to come between us I will kill also. Heaven knows what there is in her that attracts me, but there is something—something I have never seen in any other woman—something that goes to my head. Oh, I'm not in love with her. I'm long past that stage. One can't be in love for ever, and she is as cold as the North Star anyway. But she has driven me mad, and I warn you—I warn you—you had better not interfere with me!"
He flung the words like a challenge. His lower jaw was thrust forward. He looked like a savage animal menacing his keeper.
But Lucas lay without moving a muscle, lay still and quiet, without tension and without emotion of any description, simply watching, as a disinterested spectator might watch, the fiery rebellion that had kindled against him.
At length very deliberately he held out the revolver.
"Well," he drawled, "my life isn't worth much, it's true. And you are quite welcome to take your gun and end it here and now if you feel so disposed. For I warn you, Nap Errol, that you'll find me considerably more in your way than Sir Giles Carfax or any other man. I stand between you already, and while I live you won't shunt me."
Nap's lips showed their scoffing smile. "Unfortunately—or otherwise—you are out of the reckoning," he said.
"Am I? And how long have I been that?"
Nap was silent. He looked suddenly stubborn.
Lucas waited. There was even a hint of humour in his steady eyes.
"And that's where you begin to make a mistake," he said presently."You're a poor sort of blackguard at best, Boney, and that's why youcan't break away. Take this thing! I've no use for it. But maybe inArizona you'll find it advisable to carry arms. Come over here and readCradock's letter."
But Nap swung away with a gesture of fierce unrest. He fell to prowling to and fro, stopping short of the bed at each turn, refusing doggedly to face the quiet eyes of the man who lay there.
Minutes passed. Lucas was still watching, but he was no longer at his ease. His brows were drawn heavily. He looked like a man undergoing torture. His hand was still fast closed upon Anne's letter.
He spoke at last, seeming to grind out the words through clenched teeth. "I guess there's no help for it, Boney. We've figured it out before, you and I. I'm no great swell at fighting, but—I can hold my own against you. And if it comes to a tug-of-war—you'll lose."
Nap came to his side at last and stood there, still not looking at him."You seem almighty sure of that," he said.
"That's so," said Lucas simply. "And if you care to know why, I'll tell you. It's just because your heart isn't in it. One half of you is on my side. You're just not blackguard enough."
"And so you want to send me to Arizona to mature?" suggested Nap grimly.
"Or to find yourself," Lucas substituted. "Say, Boney, if you don't give in pretty soon I'll make you take me along."
"You!" Nap's eyes came down at last to the drawn face. He gave a slight start, and the next moment stooped to lift the tortured frame to another position. "If Capper were here he'd say I was killing you," he said. "For Heaven's sake, man, rest!"
"No," gasped Lucas. "No! I haven't finished—yet. Boney, you—you've got to listen. There's no quarrel between us. Only if you will be so damned headstrong, I must be headstrong too. I mean what I say. If you won't go to Arizona alone, you will go with me. And we'll start to-night."
Nap's thin lips twitched, but with no impulse to ridicule. He rearranged the pillows with his usual dexterous rapidity, then deliberately laid his hand upon the lined forehead and stood so in utter silence, staring unblinking straight before him.
For many seconds Lucas also lay passive. His eyelids drooped heavily, but he would not suffer them to close. He was yet watching, watching narrowly, the flame that still smouldered and might blaze afresh at any moment.
"Give it up, Boney!" he said at last. "I'll go with you to the ends of the earth sooner than let you do this thing, and you'll find me a very considerable encumbrance. Do you honestly believe yourself capable of shunting me at will?"
"I honestly believe you'll kill yourself if you don't rest," Nap said.
He looked down suddenly into the tired eyes. The fierce glare had gone utterly out of his own. His very pose had altered.
"Then I shall die in a good cause," Lucas murmured, with the ghost of a smile. "You needn't say any more, Boney. I guess I shall rest now."
"Because you think you've beaten me," Nap said curtly.
"Guess it's your victory, dear fellow, not mine," Lucas answered very gently.
A gleam that was not a smile crossed the harsh face, softening but not gladdening. "It's a mighty hollow one anyway. And I'm not going for nothing—not even to please you."
"Anything—to the half of my kingdom," Lucas said.
Nap sat down on the edge of the bed. The madness had passed, or he had thrust it back out of sight in the darkest recesses of his soul. He laid a hand upon his brother's arm and felt it speculatively.
"No sinew, no flesh, and scarcely any blood!" he said. "And yet"—his mouth twisted a little—"my master! Luke, you're a genius!"
"Oh, shucks, Boney! What's brute strength anyway?"
"Not much," Nap admitted. "But you—you haven't the force of a day-old puppy. Maybe, when I'm out of the way fighting my devils in the desert, you'll give Capper a free hand, and let him make of you what you were always intended to be—a human masterpiece. There won't be any obstacles when I'm out of the way."
Lucas's hand felt for and closed upon his. "If that's your condition, it's a bargain," he said simply.
"And you'll put up a fight for it, eh, Luke? You're rather apt to slack when I'm not by." Was there a hint of wistfulness in the words? It almost seemed so.
A very tender look came into the elder man's eyes. "With God's help,Boney," he said, "I'll pull through."
Nap rose as if that ended the interview. Yet, rising, he still gripped the weak hand of the man who was his master.
A moment he stood, then suddenly bent very low and touched it with his forehead.
"I leave to-night," he said, and turning went very quickly and noiselessly from the room.
It was a very cheery Dot Waring who ran across the wet fields that afternoon to the Manor to acquaint Lady Carfax with the gratifying intelligence that the proceeds of the great entertainment at which she had so kindly assisted actually amounted to close upon thirty pounds. Baronford had done its humble best towards providing itself with a Town Hall, had in fact transcended all expectations, and Dot was in high spirits in consequence.
It was something of a disappointment to be met by old Dimsdale with the intelligence that her ladyship was very tired and resting. He added, seeing Dot's face fall, that Mrs. Errol was spending a few days at the Manor and would no doubt be very pleased to see her.
So Dot entered, and was presently embraced by Mrs. Errol and invited to take tea with her in the conservatory.
"Yes, dear Anne's in bed," she said. "She and Nap went for a motor ride yesterday, and broke down and were benighted. Nap always was sort of reckless. We had a message late last night telling us what had happened, and I went off at once in the big car and brought Anne back. Nap had to wait for his own car, but I guess he's back by this time. And poor Anne was so worn out when we got back that I persuaded her to go to bed right away. And I stopped to take care of her."
In view of the fact that Mrs. Errol was never happier than when she had someone to take care of, this seemed but natural, and Dot's straightforward mind found nothing unusual in the story.
She remained for nearly an hour, chattering gaily upon a thousand topics.She was always at her ease with Mrs. Errol.
At parting, the latter held her for a moment very closely. "Happy, dearie?" she asked.
"Oh, ever so happy," said Dot, with warm arms round her friend's neck.
Mrs. Errol sighed a little, smiled and kissed her. "God keep you so, child!" she said.
And Dot went forth again into the hazy summer sunshine with a vague wonder if dear Mrs. Errol were quite happy too. Somehow she had not liked to ask.
Her way lay over the shoulder of a hill, that same hill on which SirGiles Carfax had once wreaked his mad vengeance upon his enemy.
A mist lay along the valley, and Dot kept on the ridge as long as she could. She was essentially a creature of sunshine.
She was obliged, however, at last to strike downwards, and with regret she left the sunshine behind.
The moment it was out of her eyes she caught sight of something she had not expected to see in the valley below her. It was not a hundred yards away, but the mist rising from the marshy ground partially obscured it. A dark object, curiously shapeless, that yet had the look of an animal, was lying in a hollow, and over it bent the figure of a man.
Dot's heart quickened a little. Had there been an accident, she asked herself? She hastened her steps and drew near.
As she did so, the man straightened himself suddenly, and turned round, and instantly a thrill of recognition and of horror went through the girl. It was Nap Errol, and the thing on the ground was his black mare.
She knew in a flash what had happened. Bertie had predicted disaster too often for her not to know. A great wave of repulsion surged through her. She was for the moment too horrified for speech.
Nap stood, erect, motionless, waiting for her. There was a terrible set smile on his face like the smile on a death-mask. He did not utter a word as she came up.
The mare was quite dead. The starting, bloodshot eyes were already glazing. She lay in a huddled heap, mud-stained, froth-splashed, with blood upon her flanks. White-faced and speechless, Dot stood and looked. It was the first time that tragedy had ever touched her gay young life.
She stooped at last, and with trembling, pitiful fingers touched the velvet muzzle. Then suddenly indignation, fierce, overwhelming, headlong, swept over her, crowding out even her horror. She stood up and faced Nap in such a tornado of fury as had never before shaken her.
"You brute!" she said. "You fiend! You—you—"
"Devil," said Nap. "Why not say it? I shan't contradict you."
He spoke quite quietly, so quietly that, even in the wild tempest of her anger she was awed. There was something unfathomable about him, something that nevertheless arrested her at the very height of her fury. His manner was so still, so deadly still, and so utterly free from cynicism.
She stood and stared at him, a queer sensation of dread making her very heart feel cold.
"I should go if I were you," he said.
But Dot stood still, as if struck powerless.
"You can't do any good," he went on, his tone quite gentle, even remotely kind. "I had to kill something, but it was a pity you chanced to see it. You had better go home and forget it."
Dot's white lips began to move, but it was several seconds before any sound came from them. "What are you going to do?"
"That's my affair," said Nap.
He was still faintly smiling, but his smile appalled her. It was so cold, so impersonal, so void of all vitality.
"Really, you had better go," he said.
But Dot's dread had begun to take tangible form. Perhaps the very shock she had undergone had served to awaken in her some of the dormant instincts of her womanhood.
She stood her ground, obedient to an inner prompting that she dared not ignore. "Will you—walk a little way with me?" she said at last.
For the first time Nap's eyes looked at her intently, searched her closely, unsparingly. She faced the scrutiny bravely, but she trembled under it.
At the end of a lengthy pause he spoke. "Are you going to faint?"
"No," she answered quickly. "I never faint. Only—only—I do feel—rather sick."
He put his hand under her arm with a suddenness that allowed of no protest and began to march her up the hill.
Long before they reached the top Dot's face was scarlet with exertion and she was gasping painfully for breath; but he would not let her rest till they were over the summit and out of sight of the valley and what lay there.
Then, to her relief, he stopped. "Better now?"
"Yes," she panted.
His hand fell away from her. He turned to go. But swiftly she turned also and caught his arm "Nap, please—" she begged, "please—"
He stood still, and again his eyes scanned her. "Yes?"
The brief word sounded stern, but Dot was too anxious to take any note of that.
"Come a little farther," she urged. "It—it's lonely through the wood."
"What are you afraid of?" said Nap.
She could not tell him the truth, and she hesitated to lie. But his eyes read her through and through without effort. When he turned and walked beside her she was quite sure that he had fathomed the unspeakable dread which had been steadily growing within her since the moment of their meeting.
He did not say another word, merely paced along with his silent tread till they reached the small wood through which her path lay. Dot's anger had wholly left her, but her fear remained. A terrible sense of responsibility was upon her, and she was utterly at a loss as to how to cope with it. Her influence over this man she believed to be absolutely nil. She had not the faintest notion how to deal with him. Lady Carfax would have known, she reflected, and she wished with all her heart that Lady Carfax had been there.
He vaulted the stile into the wood, and held up his hand to her. As she placed hers within it she summoned her resolution and spoke.
"Nap, I'm sorry I said what I did just now."
He raised his brows for the fraction of a second. "I forget what you said."
She flushed a little. "Because you don't choose to remember. But I am sorry I spoke all the same. I lost my temper, and I—I suppose I had no right to."
"Pray don't apologise," he said. "It made no difference, I assure you."
But this was not what Dot wanted. She descended to the ground and tried again. It was something at least to have broken the silence.
"Nap," she said, standing still with her hands nervously clasped behind her, "please don't think me—impertinent, or anything of that sort. But I can't help knowing that you are feeling pretty bad about it. And—and" she began to falter—"I know you are not a brute really. You didn't mean to do it."
A curious little smile came into Nap's face. "It's good of you to make excuses for me," he observed. "You happen to know me rather well, don't you?"
"I know you are in trouble," she answered rather piteously."And—I'm sorry."
"Thanks!" he said. "Do we part here?"
She thrust out her hand impulsively. "I thought we decided to be—friends," she said, a sharp quiver in her voice.
"Well?" said Nap. He did not touch her hand. His fingers were wound in the thong of his riding-crop and strained at it incessantly as if seeking to snap it asunder.
Dot was on the verge of tears. She choked them back desperately. "You might behave as if we were," she said.
He continued to tug grimly at the whip-lash. "I'm not friends with anyone at the present moment," he said. "But it isn't worth crying over anyway. Why don't you run home and play draughts with Bertie?"
"Because I'm not what you take me for!" Dot suddenly laid trembling hands on the creaking leather and faced him with all her courage. "I can't help what you think of me," she said rather breathlessly. "But I'm not going to leave you here by yourself. You may be as furious as you like. I simply won't!"
He pulled the whip sharply from her grasp. She thought for the moment that he actually was furious and braced herself to meet the tempest of his wrath. And then to her amazement he spoke in a tone that held neither sarcasm nor resentment, only a detached sort of curiosity.
"Are you quite sure I'm worth all this trouble?"
"Quite sure," she answered emphatically.
"And I wonder how you arrived at that conclusion," he said with a twist of the mouth that was scarcely humorous.
She did not answer, for she felt utterly unequal to the discussion.
They began to walk on down the mossy pathway. Suddenly an idea came toDot. "I only wish Lady Carfax were here," she exclaimed impetuously."She would know how to convince you of that."
"Would she?" said Nap. He shot a swift look at the girl beside him, then:"You see, Lady Carfax has thrown me over," he told her very deliberately.
Dot gave a great start. "Oh, surely not! She would never throw over anyone. And you have always been such friends."
"Till I offended her," said Nap.
"Oh, but couldn't you go and apologise?" urged Dot eagerly. "She is so sweet. I know she would forgive anybody."
He jerked up his head. "I don't happen to want her forgiveness. And even if I did, I shouldn't ask for it. I'm not particularly great at humbling myself."
"Isn't that rather a mistake?" said Dot.
"No," he rejoined briefly. "Not when I'm despised already for a savage and the descendant of savages."
"I am afraid I don't understand," she said.
He uttered a sudden harsh laugh. "I see you don't. Or you would be despising me too."
"I shall never do that," she said quickly.
He looked at her again, still with a mocking smile upon his lips. He bore himself with a certain royal pride that made her feel decidedly small.
"You will never say that again," he remarked.
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because," he answered, with a drawling sneer, "you are like the rest of creation. You put breed before everything. Unless a man has what you are pleased to term pure blood in his veins he is beyond the pale."
"Whatever are you talking about?" said Dot, frankly mystified.
He stopped dead and faced her. "I am talking of myself, if you want to know," he told her very bitterly. "I am beyond the pale, an illegitimate son, with a strain of Red Indian in my veins to complete my damnation."
"Good gracious!" said Dot.
She stared at him for a few seconds mutely, as if the sudden announcement had taken her breath away.
At last: "Then—then—Mrs. Errol—" she stammered.
"Is not my mother," he informed her grimly. "Did you ever seriously think she was?" He flung back his shoulders arrogantly. "You're almighty blind, you English."
Dot continued to contemplate him with her frank eyes, as if viewing for the first time a specimen of some rarity.
"Well, I don't see that it makes any difference," she said at length."You are you just the same. I—I really don't see quite why you told me."
"No?" said Nap, staring back at her with eyes that told her nothing. "P'r'aps I just wanted to show you that you are wasting your solicitude on an object of no value."
"How—funny of you!" said Dot.
She paused a moment, still looking at him; then with a quick, childish movement she slipped her hand through his arm. Quite suddenly she knew how to deal with him.
"You seem to forget," she said with a little smile, "that I'm going to be your sister one day."
He stiffened at her action, and for a single moment she wondered if she could have made a mistake. And then as suddenly he relaxed. He took the hand that rested on his arm and squeezed it hard.
And Dot knew that in some fashion, by a means which she scarcely understood, she had gained a victory.
They went on together along the mossy, winding path. A fleeting shower was falling, and the patter of it sounded on the leaves.
Nap walked with his face turned up to the raindrops, sure-footed, with the gait of a panther. He did not speak a word to the girl beside him, but his silence, did not disconcert her. There was even something in it that reassured her.
They were approaching the farther end of the wood when he abruptly spoke.
"So you think it makes no difference?"
Was there a touch of pathos in the question? She could not have said. But she answered it swiftly, with all the confidence—and ignorance—of youth.
"Of course I do! How could it make a difference? Do you suppose—if it had been Bertie—I should have cared?"
"Bertie!" he said. "Bertie is a law-abiding citizen. And you—pardon me for saying so—are young."
"Oh, yes, I know," she admitted. "But I've got some sense all the same.And—and—Nap, may I say something rather straight?"
The flicker of a smile shone and died in his eyes. "Don't mind me!" he said. "The role of an evangelist becomes you better than some."
"Don't!" said Dot, turning very red.
"I didn't," said Nap. "I'm only being brotherly. Hit as straight as you like."
"I was going to say," she said, taking him at his word, "that if a man is a good sort and does his duty, I don't believe one person in a million cares a rap about what his parents were. I don't indeed."
She spoke with great earnestness; it was quite obvious that she meant every word. It was Dot's straightforward way to speak from her heart.
"And I'm sure Lady Carfax doesn't either," she added.
But at that Nap set his teeth. "My child, you don't chance to know Lady Carfax as I do. Moreover, suppose the man doesn't chance to be a good sort and loathes the very word 'duty'? It brings down the house of cards rather fast, eh?"
An older woman might have been discouraged; experience would probably have sadly acquiesced. But Dot possessed neither age nor experience, and so she only lost her patience.
"Oh, but you are absurd!" she exclaimed, shaking his arm with characteristic vigour. "How can you be so disgustingly flabby? You're worse than old Squinny, who sends for Dad or me every other day to see him die. He's fearfully keen on going to heaven, but that's all he ever does to get there."
Nap broke into a brief laugh. They had reached the stile and he faced round with extended hand. "After that—good-bye!" he said. "With your permission we'll keep this encounter to ourselves. But you certainly are a rousing evangelist. When you mount the padre's pulpit I'll come and sit under it."
Dot's fingers held fast for a moment. "It'll be all right, will it?" she asked bluntly. "I mean—you'll be sensible?"
He smiled at her in a way she did not wholly understand, yet which went straight to her quick heart.
"So long, little sister!" he said. "Yes, it will be quite all right. I'll continue to cumber the ground a little longer, if you call that being sensible. And if you think my chances of heaven are likely to be improved by your kind intervention, p'r'aps you'll put up a prayer now and then on my behalf to the Power that casts out devils—for we are many."
"I will, Nap, I will!" she said very earnestly.
When he was gone she mounted the stile and paused with her face to the sky. "Take care of him, please, God!" she said.
Notwithstanding her largeness of heart, Mrs. Errol was something of a despot, and when once she had assumed command she was slow to relinquish it.
"I guess you must let me have my own way, dear Anne," she said, "for I've never had a daughter."
And Anne, to whom the burden of life just then was more than ordinarily heavy, was fain to submit to the kindly tyranny. Mrs. Errol had found her alone at the inn at Bramhurst on the night of the storm, and in response to her earnest request had taken her without delay straight back to her home. Very little had passed between them on the circumstances that had resulted in this development. Scarcely had Nap's name been mentioned by either. Mrs. Errol seemed to know him too well to need an explanation. And Anne had noted this fact with a sick heart.
It meant to her the confirmation of what had already become a practical conviction, that the man she had once dreamed that she loved was no more than a myth of her own imagination. Again and yet again she had been deceived, but her eyes were open at last finally and for all time. No devil's craft, however wily, however convincing, could ever close them again.
Lying in her darkened room, with her stretched nerves yet quivering at every sound, she told herself over and over that she knew Nap Errol now as others knew him, as he knew himself, a man cruel, merciless, unscrupulous, in whose dark soul no germ of love had ever stirred.
Why he had ever desired her she could not determine. Possibly her very faith in him—that faith that he had so rudely shattered—had been the attraction; possibly only her aloofness, her pride, had kindled in him the determination to conquer. But that he had ever loved her, as she interpreted love, she now told herself was an utter impossibility. She even questioned in the bitterness of her disillusionment if Love, that True Romance to which she had offered sacrifice, were not also a myth, the piteous creation of a woman's fond imagination, a thing non-existent save in the realms of fancy, a dream-goal to which no man might attain and very few aspire.
All through the long day she lay alone with her problem, perpetually turning it in her mind, perpetually asking by what tragic influence she had ever been brought to fancy that this man with his violent, unrestrained nature, his fierce egoism, his murderous impulses, had ever been worthy of the halo her love had fashioned for him. No man was worthy! No man was worthy! This man least of all! Had not he himself warned her over and over again, and she had not listened? Perhaps he had not meant her to listen. Perhaps it had only been another of his devilish artifices for ensnaring her, that attitude of humility, half-scoffing, half-persuasive, with which he had masked his inner vileness.
Oh, she was sick at heart that day, sick with disappointment, sick with humiliation, sick with a terrible foreboding that gave her no rest. Slowly the hours dragged away. She had despatched her urgent message to Lucas immediately upon her arrival at the Manor, and his prompt reply had in a measure reassured her. But she knew that he was ill, and she could not drive from her mind the dread that he might fail her. How could he in his utter physical weakness hope to master the demons that tore Nap Errol's turbulent soul? And if Lucas failed her, what then? What then? She had no city of refuge to flee unto. She and her husband were at the mercy of a murderer. For that he would keep his word she did not for a moment doubt. Nap Errol was not as other men. No second thoughts would deter him from his purpose. Unless Lucas by some miracle withheld him, no other influence would serve. He would wreak his vengeance with no hesitating hand. The fire of his savagery was an all-consuming flame, and it was too strongly kindled to be lightly quenched.
Her thoughts went back to her husband. The date of his return had not been definitely fixed. The letter had suggested that it should take place some time in the following week. She had not yet replied to the suggestion. She put her hand to her head. Actually she had forgotten! Ought she not to send a message of warning? But in what terms could she couch it? Lucas might even yet succeed. It might be that even now he was fighting the desperate battle.
Inaction became intolerable. She had promised Mrs. Errol that she would take a long rest, but there was no rest for her. She knew that she would hear from Lucas the moment he had anything definite to report; but a new and ghastly fear now assailed her. What if Nap had not returned to Baronmead? What if he had gone direct to the asylum, there to snatch his opportunity while his fury was at its height?
The thought turned her sick. She rose, scarcely knowing what she did, and moved across the room to her escritoire. The vague idea of penning some sort of warning was in her mind, but before she reached it the conviction stabbed her that it would be too late. No warning would be of any avail. If that had been Nap Errol's intention, by this time the deed was done. And if that were so, she was in part guilty of her husband's murder.
Powerless, she sank upon her knees by the open window, striving painfully, piteously, vainly, to pray. But no words came to her, no prayer rose from her wrung heart. It was as though she knelt in outer darkness before a locked door.
In that hour Anne Carfax went down into that Place of Desolation which some call hell and some the bitter school of sorrow—that place in which each soul is alone with its agony and its sin, that place where no light shines and no voice is heard, where, groping along the edge of destruction, the wanderer seeks its Maker and finds Him not, where even the Son of God Himself once lost His faith.
And in that hour she knew why her love lay wounded unto death, though not then did she recognise the revelation as a crowning mercy. She saw herself bruised and abased, humbled beyond belief. She saw her proud purity brought low, brought down to the very mire which all her life she had resolutely ignored, from the very though of which she had always withdrawn herself as from an evil miasma that bred corruption. She saw herself a sinner, sunk incredibly low, a woman who had worshipped Love indeed, but at a forbidden shrine, a woman moreover bereft of all things, who had seen her sacrifice crumble to ashes and had no more to offer.
Through her mind flashed a single sentence that had often and often set her wondering: "From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he seemeth to have." She knew its meaning now. It scorched her inmost soul. Such an one was she. No effort had she ever made to possess her husband's love. No love had she ever offered to him; duty and submission indeed, but love—never. Her heart had been unwarmed, nor had she ever sought to kindle within it the faintest spark. She had hated him always. She knew it now. Or perhaps her feeling for him had been something too cold for even hatred. If he had made her drink the waters of bitterness, she had given him in return the icy draught of contempt.
There had been a time when his passion for her might have turned to love, but she had let it slide. She had not wanted love. Or else—like so many fevered souls—she had yearned for the full blossom thereof, neglecting to nourish the parched seed under her feet.
She had committed sacrilege. That was why Love had come to her at last with a flaming sword, devastating her whole life, depriving her of even that which she had seemed to have. That was why she now knelt impotent before a locked door. That was why God was angry.
A long, long time passed. She did not hear the rain pattering upon the green earth, nor feel the soft breeze on her neck. She had lost touch with things physical. She was yet groping in outer darkness.
A hand very softly turned the handle of her door, and a motherly face looked in.
"Why, Anne, dear child, I thought you were asleep!" the deep voice said reproachfully. "I've been listening outside for ages, and you were so quiet!"
She raised her head quickly, and in a moment rose. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, but they bore no trace of tears.
"I could not sleep," she said. "But you mustn't trouble about me. I am quite well. I will dress and come down."
Mrs. Errol came forward, shaking her head disapprovingly. "I have a note from Lucas," she said. "It arrived a quarter of an hour ago, but there was no answer, so I thought it would be real wicked to wake you up to read it."
Anne stretched out a hand that shook. "Please!" she said almost inarticulately.
With the note open in her hand she turned and sat down suddenly as if incapable of standing. The clumsy, uneven writing danced before her eyes. One sentence only, but it took her many seconds to read!
"My brother Nap leaves to-night for Arizona.—Lucas."
She raised her face with a deep, deep breath. She felt as if she had not breathed for hours. Silently, after a moment, she held out the brief message to Mrs. Errol.
"My!" said the latter. "Well, thank the Lord for that!"
And then very tenderly she laid her hand upon Anne's shoulder. "My dearie, would it help you any to speak of him?"
Anne leaned her weary head against her. "I don't know," she said.
"I often wanted to warn you," Mrs. Errol said. "But I thought—I hoped—it was unnecessary. You were always so kind of frank with him that I thought maybe it would be an impertinence to say anything. It wasn't as if you were an inexperienced girl. If you had been—but to give him his due, Nap never tried to trap inexperience. He's got some morals, knave as he is. Say, Anne dear, you know he is no son of mine?"
"Yes," whispered Anne, gently drawing her friend's hand round her neck.
"And I sometimes wonder," Mrs. Errol went on, in her deep sing-song voice that yet somehow held a note of pathos, "if I did wrong to take him as I did. He was the quaintest baby, Anne—the cutest morsel you ever saw. His dying mother brought him to me. She was only a girl herself—a broken-hearted girl, dying before her time. I couldn't refuse. I felt he had a sort of claim upon us. Maybe I was wrong. My husband didn't view it that way, but at that time I hadn't much faith in his judgment. So I took the boy—his boy—and he was brought up as one of my own. But he was always unaccountable. He had queer lapses. I tried to be kind to him. I guess I always was kind. But I surmise that he always suspected me of resenting his existence. Lucas was the only one who ever had any influence over him. Latterly I've thought you had some too, but I guess that was where I went wrong. He and Bertie never got on. P'r'aps it was my fault. P'r'aps he inherited some of my antagonism. The Lord knows I tried to suppress it, but somehow it was always there."
"Dear Mrs. Errol!" Anne murmured softly. "Not one woman in a thousand would have done as much."
"Oh, you mustn't say that, dearie. I'm a very poor specimen. I gave him what advantages I could, but I never loved him. P'r'aps if I had, he'd have been a better boy. It's only love that counts for anything in God's sight, and I never gave him any. Lucas did. That's how it is he knows how to manage him. It isn't personal magnetism or anything of that sort. It's just love. He can't help answering to that, because it's Divine."
"Ah!" breathed Anne. "You think him capable of love then?"
"I guess so, dear. He's raw and undeveloped, but like the rest of creation he has his possibilities. You've seen him in his better moods yourself. I always thought he kept his best side for you."
"I know," Anne said. She leaned slowly back, looking up into the kindly eyes above her. "But it was only a mask. I see it now. I think there are many men like that, perhaps all are to a certain extent. They are only themselves to one another. No woman would ever love a man if she saw him as he is."
"My dear! My dear!" Mrs. Errol said. "That's a bitter thing to say. And it isn't true either. You'll see better by-and-by. Men are contemptible, I own—the very best of them; but they've all got possibilities, and it's just our part to draw them out. It's the divine foolishness of women's love that serves their need, that makes them feel after better things. No woman ever won a man by despising him. He may be inferior—he is—but he wants real love to bolster him up. I guess the dear Lord thought of that when He fashioned women."
But Anne only smiled, very sadly, and shook her head. It might be true, but she was in no state to judge. She was blinded by present pain. She felt she had given her love to the wrong man, and though it had flourished like a tropical flower in the fiery atmosphere of his passion, it had been burnt away at last by the very sun that had called it into being. And she would love in that way no more for ever. There was only duty left down all the long grey vista of her life.
"Well, if this isn't a pleasure!"
Thus Lucas Errol, sitting on the terrace on a certain hot afternoon early in August, greeted Dot, whose multifarious duties did not permit her to be a very frequent visitor. He smiled at her with that cordiality which even on his worst days was never absent, but she thought him looking very ill.
"Are you sure I shan't tire you too much?" she asked him, as he invited her to sit down.
"Quite sure, my dear Dot!" he answered. "It does me good to see people. Lady Carfax is coming presently. The mother has gone to fetch her. It will be her last appearance, I am afraid, for the present. She is expecting her husband home to-morrow. But I'm glad you are here first. I was just wishing I could see you."
"Were you really?" said Dot.
"Yes, really. No, you needn't look at me like that. I'm telling the truth. I always do, to the best of my ability. Is that chair quite comfortable? Do you mind if I smoke?"
"I don't mind anything," Dot said. "And I'm so comfortable that I want to take off my hat and go to sleep."
"You may do the first," said Lucas. "But not the second, because I want to talk, and it's sort of uninteresting not to have an audience, especially when there is something important to be said."
"Something important!" echoed Dot. "I hope it's something nice."
"Oh, quite nice," he assured her. "It's to do with Bertie." He was smiling in his own peculiarly kindly fashion. "By the way, he's stewing indoors, studying for that exam, which he isn't going to pass."
"Not going to pass?" Dot looked up in swift anxiety. "Oh, don't you think he will?"
Lucas shook his head. "What's success anyway? I guess the Creator finds the failures just as useful to Him in the long run."
"But I don't want him to fail!" she protested.
"In my opinion," Lucas said slowly, "it doesn't matter a single red cent, so long as a man does his best. Believe me, it isn't success that counts. We're apt to think it's everything when we're young. I did myself once—before I began to realise that I hadn't come to stay." The shrewd blue eyes smiled at her under their heavy lids. "Now I don't want to distress you any," he said, "but I'm going to say something that p'r'aps you'll take to heart though you mustn't let it grieve you. Capper is coming here next month to perform an operation on me. It may be successful, and on the other hand—it may not. The uncertainty worries me some. I'm trying to leave my affairs in good order, but—there are some things beyond my scope that I'd like unspeakably to see settled before I take my chances. You can understand that?"
Dot's hand, warm, throbbing with life, slipped impulsively into his."Dear Lucas, of course—of course I understand."
"Thanks! That's real nice of you. I always knew you were a woman of sense. I wonder if you can guess what it is I've set my heart on, eh, Dot?"
"Tell me," murmured Dot.
His eyes still rested upon her, but they seemed to be looking at something beyond. "P'r'aps I'm over fond of regulating other folks' affairs," he said. "It's a habit that easily grows on the head of a family. But I've a sort of fancy for seeing you and Bertie married before I go out. If you tell me it's quite impossible I won't say any more. But if you could see your way to it—well, it would be a real kindness, and I needn't say any more than that."
The weary, rather droning voice ceased to speak. The eyelids drooped more heavily. It seemed to Dot that a grey shadow lay upon the worn face. He looked so unutterably tired, so ready for the long, long sleep.
She sat quite still beside him, turning the matter in her mind.
After a little he went on speaking, with eyes half-closed. "It would hit him hard if I went under, but he wouldn't feel so badly if you were there. The mother too—she wants someone to lean on. There's Lady Carfax, but she has her own burden. And there'd be a lot for Bertie to see to, Nap being away. Besides—"
"Oh, Luke," Dot broke in, her eyes full of tears, "I—I can't imagine this place without you."
"No? Well, you mustn't let it distress you any. We've all got to go, sooner or later. There isn't anything in that. The main thing is to get it over, when it comes, with as little fuss as possible. Life isn't long enough for grieving. It's just a mortal waste of time. And what is Death anyway?" He raised his eyes with what seemed an effort. "You won't blame me," he said, "for wanting to close up the ranks a bit before I go. Of course I may live as long as any of you. God knows I shall do my best. I want to pull through—for several reasons. But if I've got to go, I'd like to feel I've left things as ship-shape as possible. Bertie will tell you what provision I desire to make for you. P'r'aps you and he will talk it over, and if you're willing I'll see the padre about it. But I kind of felt the first word ought to be with you. Bertie didn't like to speak because he'd promised to wait. You'll find he's a man of his word. That's why I've butted in. Say, child, I didn't mean to make you cry. That was clumsy of me."
He patted her hand gently, while Dot blinked away her tears.
"Don't let us talk about it any more now," she besought him. "Oh,Lucas—I do want you to live, more—more than anything."
"That's real kind of you," he said. "I'll do my best, you may be sure. I can hear Lady Carfax talking in the drawing-room. Won't you go and bring her out?"
He made no effort to rise when Anne came on to the terrace, but he gave her so vivid a smile of welcome that she scarcely noted the omission. It was their first meeting since Nap's departure, for Lucas had been confined to his bed for days. But that smile of his banished any sense of embarrassment from her mind. He was so candidly, so unaffectedly, pleased to see her.
She sat down in the riotous sunshine and gave herself up unreservedly to the pleasure of being with her friends. They were all congenial to her. Mrs. Errol, Dot, Lucas, but most especially Lucas, who occupied a unique position in her heart and in her thoughts. He had always been so perfectly her friend in need.
As the long, sunny afternoon wore away, she found herself watching him and in silence marvelling. How was it that this man in his utter, piteous weakness accomplished so much, ruled thus supreme? Wherein lay that potent charm of his which neither devil nor brute could effectively resist? Whence came it, this power of the soul, this deliberate and conscious mastery?
She watched Bertie waiting on him, hovering about him, ready to spring up at his lightest word to execute his scarcely-uttered wish. Other men—even great men—did not command this personal homage, this complete, incessant devotion. Undoubtedly there was something kingly about him; but wherein did it lie? Not in the impotent, unwieldy figure, not in the pleasant, emotionless drawl, not even in the friendly quiet of his eyes, the kindly sympathy of his smile. In none of these lay his power, and yet in all of them it was in some fashion apparent. No great force of personality characterised him, and yet his monarchy was absolute. No splendour of intellect, no keenness of wit, no smartness of repartee were his. Only a shrewdness of understanding that was never cruel, a humour that had no edge.
And presently Anne remembered that his own mother had given her the key to the problem, and she doubted not that it solved the whole. "It isn't personal magnetism," Mrs. Errol had said, "nor anything of that sort. It's just love."
That was the magic to which even Nap, the fierce, the passionate, the treacherous, had been forced to bow. In the midst of his weakness this man wielded an all-potent power—a power before which they all instinctively did homage—before which even devils humbled themselves—because it was Divine.
That was the secret of his strength. That was the weapon by which he conquered. She wondered if it had always been so, or if his physical weakness had tended to develop in him a greatness of heart of which more active men were quite incapable. It might be true, as Mrs. Errol had contended, that all men had their possibilities, but, this was the only man she had ever met who had turned them to account. All unconsciously, perhaps in response to a reaction which had been necessarily violent, Anne yielded herself that day for the first time in her life to a species of hero-worship that could not but beautify her own sad life.
When later she found herself alone with him, they talked for a space upon indifferent things, and then they did not talk at all. The intimacy between them made conversation unnecessary, and Lucas Errol's silence was as easy as his speech.
"You'll take care of yourself," he said once, "or I shan't be easy about you."
And, when she had promised that: "And you'll look us up as often as you find you can. P'r'aps if you can't come very often you'll manage to write."
But he made no direct reference to her husband's return. His sympathy neither sought nor needed expression in words.
Neither did he speak of himself. He only at parting held her hand very closely for several silent seconds. And Anne went away with a hushed feeling at her heart as if he had invoked a benediction.
Back to her home she went, strangely quiet and at peace. She had thought that visit to Baronmead would have been painful to her. She had expected to suffer afresh. But it was instead as if a healing hand had been laid upon her, and as she went she thought no more of Nap, the savage, the sudden, the terrible; but of Lucas, the gentle, the patient, the chivalrous, who had won and would for ever keep her perfect trust.
The light of a golden evening lay upon the Manor as she entered. It was wonderfully quiet. She went in by the French windows that led into the drawing-room, and here, tempted by an impulse that had not moved her for long, she sat down at the piano and began very softly to play.