The Knave of Diamonds Part 64

"If you call it love," said Bertie. "He is always in love with someone."

Dot's eyes expressed enlightenment. She seemed to have forgotten their difference of opinion. "So that was why he was so cut up," she said. "Of course--of course! I was a donkey not to think of it. What a mercy Sir Giles is dead! Has anyone written to tell him?"

"No," said Bertie shortly.

"But why not? Surely he has a right to know? Lady Carfax herself might wish it."

"Lady Carfax would be thankful to forget his very existence," said Bertie, with conviction.

"My dear boy, how can you possibly tell? Are you one of those misguided male creatures who profess to understand women?"

"I know that Lady Carfax loathes the very thought of him," Bertie maintained. "She is not a woman to forgive and forget very easily.

Moreover, as I told you before, no one knows where he is."

"I see," said Dot thoughtfully. "But surely he has a club somewhere?"

"Yes, he belongs to the Phoenix Club, New York, if they haven't kicked him out. But what of that? I'm not going to write to him. I don't want him back, Heaven knows." There was a fighting note in Bertie's voice. He spoke as if prepared to resist to the uttermost any sudden attack upon his resolution.

But Dot attempted none; she abandoned the argument quite suddenly, and nestled against his breast. "Darling, don't let's talk about it any more! It's a subject upon which we can't agree. And I'm sorry I've been so horrid to you. I know it isn't my fault that we haven't quarrelled. Forgive me, dear, and keep on loving me. You do love me, don't you, Bertie?"

"Sweetheart!" he whispered, holding her closely.

She uttered a little m.u.f.fled laugh. "That's my own boy! And I'm going to be so good, you'll hardly know me. I won't go out in the rain, and I won't do the Clothing Club accounts, and I won't overwork. And--and--I won't be cross, even if I do look and feel hideous. I'm going to be a perfect saint, Bertie."

"Sweetheart!" he said again.

She turned her face up against his neck. "Shall I tell you why?" she said, clinging to him with hands that trembled. "It's because if I let myself get cross-grained and ugly now, p'r'aps someone else--some day--will be cross-grained and ugly too. And I should never forgive myself for that. I should always feel it was my fault. Fancy if it turned out a shrew like me, Bertie! Wouldn't--wouldn't it be dreadful?"

She was half-laughing, half-crying, as she whispered the words. Bertie's arms held her so closely that she almost gasped for breath.

"My precious girl!" he said. "My own precious wife! Is it so? You know, I wondered."

She turned her lips quickly to his. There were tears on her cheeks though she was laughing.

"How bright of you, Bertie! You--you always get there sooner or later, don't you? And you're not cross with me any more? You don't think me very unreasonable about Nap?"

"Oh, d.a.m.n Nap!" said Bertie, for the second time, with fervour.

"Poor Nap!" said Dot gently.

That evening, when Bertie was at Baronmead, she scribbled a single sentence on a sheet of paper, thrust it into an envelope and directed it to the Phoenix Club, New York.

This done, she despatched a servant to the postoffice with it and sat down before the fire.

"I expect it was wrong of me," she said. "But somehow I can't help feeling he ought to know. Anyway"--Dot's English was becoming lightly powdered with Americanisms, which possessed a very decided charm on her lips--"anyway, it's done, and I won't think any more about it. It's the very last wrong thing I'll do for--ever so long." Her eyes grew soft as she uttered this praiseworthy resolution. She gazed down into the fire with a little smile, and gave herself up to dreams.

CHAPTER V

THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

"O G.o.d, give me rest!"

Painfully the words came through quivering lips, the first they had uttered for hours. Lucas Errol lay, as he had lain for nearly three months, with his face to the ceiling, his body stretched straight and rigid, ever in the same position, utterly helpless and weary unto death.

Day after day he lay there, never stirring save when they made him bend his knees, an exercise upon which the doctor daily insisted, but which was agony to him. Night after night, sleepless, he waited the coming of the day. His general health varied but little, but his weakness was telling upon him. His endurance still held, but it was wearing thin. His old cheeriness was gone, though he summoned it back now and again with piteous, spasmodic effort. Hope and despair were fighting together in his soul, and at that time despair was uppermost. He had set out with a brave heart, but the goal was still far off, and he was beginning to falter. He had ceased to make any progress, and the sheer monotony of existence was wearing him out. The keen, shrewd eyes were dull and listless. At the opening of the door he did not even turn his head.

And yet it was Anne who entered, Anne with the flush of exercise on her sweet face, her hands full of Russian violets.

"See how busy I have been!" she said. "I am not disturbing you? You weren't asleep?"

"I never sleep," he answered, and he did not look at her or the violets; he kept his eyes upon the ceiling.

She came and sat beside him. "I gathered them all myself," she said.

"Don't you want to smell them?"

He moved his lips without replying, and she leaned down, her eyes full of the utmost compa.s.sionate tenderness and held the violets to him. He raised a hand with evident effort and fumblingly took her wrist. He pressed the wet flowers against his face.

"It's a shame to bring them here, Lady Carfax," he said, letting her go.

"Take them--wear them! I guess they'll be happier with you."

She smiled a little. "Should I have gathered all this quant.i.ty for myself? It has taken me nearly an hour."

"You should have told the gardener," he said. "You mustn't go tiring yourself out over me. I'm not worth it." He added, with that kindly courtesy of which adversity had never deprived him, "But I'm real grateful all the same. You mustn't think me unappreciative."

"I don't," she answered gently. "Wouldn't you like them in water?"

"Ah, yes," he said. "Put them near me. I shall smell them if I can't see them. Do you mind closing the window? I can't get warm to-day."

She moved to comply, pa.s.sing across his line of vision. A moment she stood with the keen sweet air blowing in upon her, a tall, gracious figure in the full flower of comely womanhood, not beautiful, but possessing in every line of her that queenly, indescribable charm which is greater than beauty.

The man caught his breath as he watched her. His brows contracted.

Softly she closed the window and turned. She came back to her chair by his side, drew forward a little table, and began deftly to arrange her flowers.

Several seconds pa.s.sed before Lucas broke the silence. "It does me good to watch you," he said. "You're always so serene."

She smiled at him across the violets. "You place serenity among the higher virtues?"

"I do," he said simply. "It's such a restful contrast to the strenuousness of life. You make me feel just by looking at you that everything's all right. You bring a peaceful atmosphere in with you, and"--his voice sank a little--"you take it away again when you go."

The smile went out of her grey eyes at his last words, but the steadfastness remained. "Then," she said gently, "I must come more often and stay longer."

But he instantly negatived that. "No--it wouldn't be good for you. It wouldn't be good for me either to get to lean on you too much. I should grow exacting."

She saw a gleam of his old smile as he spoke, but it was gone at once, lost among the countless lines that pain and weariness had drawn of late upon his face.