THE DESCENT FROM OLYMPUS
"Come and say good-bye to Lucas," said Bertie. "He is up and
asking for you."
So, with an impetuous hand upon Anne's arm, he whisked her away on the
following morning to his brother's room. She was dressed for departure,
and waiting for the motor that was to take her home. Of Nap she had seen
nothing. He had a way of absenting himself from meals whenever it suited
him to do so. She wondered if he meant to let her go without farewell.
She found the master of the house lying on a couch sorting his
correspondence. He pushed everything aside at her entrance.
"Come in, Lady Carfax! I am glad not to have missed you. A pity you have
to leave so soon."
"I only wish I could stop longer," Anne said. He looked up at her,
holding her hand, his shrewd blue eyes full of the most candid
friendliness.
"You will come again, I hope, when you can," he said.
"Thank you," she answered gently.
He still held her hand. "And if at any time you need the help--or
comfort--of friends," he said, "you won't forget where to look?"
"Thank you," she said again.
"Is Nap driving you?" he asked.
"No," said Bertie. "Nap's skiing."
"Then you, Bertie--"
"My dear fellow," said Bertie, "I'm fearfully sorry, but I can't. You
understand, don't you, Lady Carfax? I would if I could, but--" his
excuses trailed off unsatisfactorily.
He turned very red and furiously jabbed at the fire with his boot.
"Please don't think of it," said Anne. "I am so used to being alone. In
fact, your mother wanted to come with me, but I dissuaded her."
"Then I conclude it is useless for me to offer myself as an escort?"
said Lucas.
"Yes, quite useless," she smiled, "though I am grateful to you all the
same. Good-bye, Mr. Errol!"
"Good-bye!" he said.
As Bertie closed the door behind her he took up a letter from the heap at
his elbow; but his eyes remained fixed for several seconds.
At length: "Bertie," he said, without looking up, "are you due at the
Rectory this morning?"
"This afternoon," said Bertie.
He also bent over the pile of correspondence and began to sort. He often
did secretarial work for Lucas.
Lucas suffered him for some seconds longer. Then, "You don't generally
behave like a boor, Bertie," he said.
"Oh, confound it!" exclaimed Bertie, with vehemence. "You don't suppose I
enjoyed letting her think me a cad, do you?"
"I don't suppose she did," Lucas said thoughtfully.
"Well, you do anyway, which is worse."
Bertie slapped down the letters and walked to the fire.
Lucas returned without comment to the paper in his hand.
After a long pause Bertie wheeled. He came back to his brother's side and
pulled up a chair. His brown face was set in stern lines.
"I don't see why I should put up with this," he said, "and I don't
mean to. It was Nap's doing. I was going to drive her. He
interfered--as usual."
"I thought you said Nap was skiing." Lucas spoke without raising his
eyes. He also looked graver than usual.
"I did. He is. But he has got some game on, and he didn't want me
looking on. Oh, I'm sick to death of Nap and all his ways! He's rotten
to the core!"
"Gently, boy, gently! You go too far." Lucas looked up into the hot blue
eyes, the severity all gone from his own. "It isn't what things look like
that you have to consider. It is what they are. Nap, poor chap, is badly
handicapped; but he has been putting up a big fight for himself lately,
and he hasn't done so badly. Give the devil his due."
"What's he doing now?" demanded Bertie. "It's bad enough to have the
whole community gossiping about his flirtations with women that don't
count. But when it comes to a good woman--like Lady Carfax--oh, I tell
you it makes me sick! He might leave her alone, at least. She's miserable
enough without him to make matters worse."
"My dear boy, you needn't be afraid for Lady Carfax." Lucas Errol's voice
held absolute conviction. "She wouldn't tolerate him for an instant if he
attempted to flirt with her. Their intimacy is founded on something more
solid than that. It's a genuine friendship or I have never seen one."
"Do you mean to say you don't know he is in love with her?"
ejaculated Bertie.
"But he won't make love to her," Lucas answered quietly. "He is drawn by
a good woman for the first time in his life, and no harm will come of it.
She is one of those women who must run a straight course. There are a few
such, born saints, 'of whom the world is not worthy.'" He checked himself
with a sudden sigh. "Suppose we get to business, Bertie."
"It's all very fine," said Bertie, preparing to comply. "But if Nap ever
falls foul of Sir Giles Carfax, he may find that he has bitten off more
than he can chew. They say he is on the high road to the D.T.'s. Small
wonder that Lady Carfax looks careworn!"
Small wonder indeed! Yet as Anne sped along through the sunshine on that
winter day she found leisure from her cares to enjoy the swift journey in
the great luxurious car. The burden she carried perpetually weighed less
heavily upon her than usual. The genial atmosphere of Baronmead had
warmed her heart. The few words that Lucas had spoken with her hand in
his still echoed through her memory. Yes, she knew where to look for
friends; no carping critics, but genuine, kindly friends who knew and
sympathised.
She thought of Nap with regret and a tinge of anxiety. She was sure he
had not intended to let her go without farewell, but she hoped earnestly
that he would not pursue her to the Manor to tell her so.
And then she remembered his letter; that letter that her husband must
have intercepted, recalling his storm of unreasonable fury on the
occasion of her last return from Baronmead. He had doubtless read that
letter and been inflamed by it. Hating her himself, he yet was fiercely
jealous of her friends--these new friends of hers who had lavished upon
her every kindness in her time of need, to whom she must always feel
warmly grateful, however churlishly he might ignore the obligation.
He had raised no definite objection to this present visit of hers. Mrs.
Errol had, in her own inimitable fashion, silenced him, but she had known
that she had gone against his wish. And it was in consequence of this
knowledge that she was returning so early, though she did not expect him
back till night. He should have no rational cause for complaint against
her. For such causes as his fevered brain created she could not hold
herself responsible.
It was hard to lead such a life without becoming morbid, but Anne was
fashioned upon generous lines. She strove ever to maintain the calm level
of reason wherewith to temper the baleful influence of her husband's
caprice. She never argued with him; argument was worse than futile. But
steadfastly and incessantly she sought by her moderation to balance the
difficulties with which she was continually confronted. And to a certain
extent she succeeded. Open struggles were very rare. Sir Giles knew that
there was a limit to her submission, and he seldom, if ever now,
attempted to force her beyond that limit.
But she knew that a visit from Nap would place her in an intolerable
position, and with all her heart she hoped that her caution of the
previous day had taken effect. Though utterly reckless on his own
account, she fancied that she had made an impression upon him, and that
he would not act wholly without consideration for her. In bestowing her
friendship upon him she had therewith reposed a confidence which his
invariable compliance with her wishes had seemed to warrant. She did not
think that her trust would ever prove to have been misplaced. But she was
sorry, unquestionably she was sorry, to have left without bidding him
farewell. It might be long ere they would meet again.
And with the thought yet in her mind she looked out of the window in
front of her, and saw his slim, supple figure, clad in a white sweater,
shoot swiftly down a snow-draped slope ahead of her, like a meteor
flashing earthwards out of the blue.
His arms were extended; his movements had a lithe grace that was
irresistibly fascinating to the eye. Slight though he was, he might have
been a young god descending on a shaft of sunshine from Olympus. But the
thought that darted all unbidden through Anne's mind was of something far
different. She banished it on the instant with startled precipitancy; but
it left a scar behind that burned like the sudden searing of a hot iron.
"I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven."
The car was stopping. The figure on skis was waiting motionless by the
roadside. It ran smoothly up to him and stopped.
"Dramatic, wasn't it?" smiled Nap. "Did you think you were going to
escape without another word?"
"I had almost begun to think so," she admitted, smiling also.
He stooped to take off the skis, then stepped to the door. He leaned
towards her. There was no faintest sign of cynicism in his face that day.
He was in the mood of good comradeship in which she liked him best.
"Walk across to the park with me," he said. "It is scarcely a mile by the
downs. The man can go on to the Manor with your things and wait here for
me on his way back."
Anne considered for a moment, but only for a moment. It might make her
late for the luncheon hour, but she was convinced that her husband would
not return before the evening. And the world was very enchanting that
winter day. The very ground was scattered with diamonds!
"Yes, I will come," she said.
He handed her out, and picked up his discarded skis. His dark face smiled
with a certain triumph. The grim lines about his mouth were less apparent
than usual. He moved with the elastic swing of well-knit limbs.
And Anne, walking beside him, found it not difficult to thrust her cares
a little farther into the sombre background of her mind. The sun shone
and the sky was blue, and the ground was strewn with glittering diamonds.
She went over the hill with him, feeling that she had snatched one more
hour in paradise.