"What makes you have such faith in me?" she said.

The light was too dim for her so see his face, but she knew that he was

smiling as he made reply.

"That's just one of the things I can't explain," he said. "But I think

God made you for a spar for drowning men to cling to."

She smiled with him in spite of the tears. "May the spar never fail

you!" she said.

"I am not afraid," he answered very steadily.

CHAPTER IX

THE BOON

It was long before Anne slept that night, but yet though restless she was

not wholly miserable. Neither was she perplexed. Her duty lay before her

clearly defined, and she meant to fulfil it. Those few words with Lucas

Errol had decided her beyond all hesitancy, so completely was she in

sympathy with this strong friend of hers. Perhaps her wavering had only

been the result of a moment's weakness, following upon sudden strain. But

the strain had slackened, and the weakness was over. She knew that even

Nap had not the power to move her now. With the memory of his firm

hand-grip came the conviction that he would not seek to do so. Like

herself he had been momentarily dismayed it might be, but he had taken

his place among her friends, not even asking to be foremost, and

remembering this, she resolutely expelled any lingering doubt of him. Had

she not already proved that she had but to trust him to find him

trustworthy? What tangible reason had he given her for withdrawing her

trust even for a moment? She reproached herself for it, and determined

that she would never doubt him again.

But yet sleep was long in coming to her. Once when it seemed near, the

hooting of an owl near the open window drove it away; and once in the

vague twilight before the dawn she started awake to hear the sharp

thudding of a horse's hoofs galloping upon the turf not very far away.

That last set her heart a-beating, she could not have said wherefore,

save that it reminded her vaguely of a day in the hunting-field that had

ended for her in disaster.

She slept at last and dreamed--a wild and fearful dream. She dreamed that

she was on horseback, galloping, galloping, galloping, in headlong flight

from someone, she knew not whom, but it was someone of whom she was

unspeakably afraid. And ever behind her at break-neck speed, gaining

upon her, merciless as fate, galloped her pursuer. It was terrible, it

was agonising, yet, though in her heart she knew it to be a dream, she

could not wake. And then, all suddenly, the race was over. Someone drew

abreast of her. A sinewy hand gripped her bridle-rein. With a gasping cry

she turned to face her captor, and saw--a Red Indian! His tigerish eyes

gazed into hers. He was laughing with a fiendish exultation. The eagle

feathers tossed above his swarthy face. It came nearer to her; it glared

into her own. And suddenly recognition stabbed her like a sword. It was

the face of Nap Errol....

He was on the stairs talking to Hudson, the valet, when she descended to

breakfast, but he turned at once to greet her.

"I am sorry to say Lucas has had a bad night. He will keep his room

to-day. How have you slept, Lady Carfax?"

She answered him conventionally. They went downstairs together.

Bertie was in the hall studying a newspaper. He came forward, scowling

heavily, shook hands with Anne, and immediately addressed his brother.

"I've just come in from the stable. Have you been out all night? You've

nearly ridden the mare to death."

Anne glanced at Nap instinctively. He was smiling. "Don't vex yourself,

my good Bertie," he said. "The mare will be all right after a feed."

"Will she?" growled Bertie. "She is half dead from exhaustion anyway."

"Oh, skittles!" said Nap, turning to go.

The boy's indignation leaped to a blaze. "Skittles to you! I know what

I'm saying. And if you're not ashamed of yourself, you damned well

ought to be!"

Nap stopped. "What?" he drawled.

Bertie glared at him and subsided. The explosion had been somewhat more

violent than he had intended.

Very quietly Nap stepped up to him. "Will you repeat that last remark

of yours?"

Bertie was silent.

"Or do you prefer to withdraw it?"

Bertie maintained a dogged silence. He was fidgeting with the paper in a

fashion that seemed to indicate embarrassment.

"Do you withdraw it?" Nap repeated, still quiet, still slightly drawling.

Bertie hunched his shoulders like a schoolboy. "Oh, get away, Nap!" he

growled. "Yes--sorry I spoke. Now clear out and leave me alone!"

Anne was already at the further end of the hall, but Nap overtook her

before she entered the breakfast room. He opened the door for her, and as

she passed him she saw that he was still faintly smiling.

"Pardon the _contretemps_!" he said. "You may have noticed before that I

am not particularly good at swallowing insults."

"I wonder if there was a cause for it," she said, looking at him

steadily. "Remember, I know what your riding is like."

He raised his eyebrows for a moment, then laughed. The room they entered

was empty.

"No one down yet!" he observed. "Take a seat by the window. What will

you have?"

He attended to her wants and his own, and finally sat down facing her. He

seemed to be in excellent spirits.

"Please don't look so severe!" he urged. "Just as I am going to ask a

favour of you, too!"

She smiled a little but not very willingly. "I don't like cruel people,"

she said. "Cruelty is a thing I can never forget because I abhor it so."

"And are you never cruel?" said Nap.

"I hope not."

"I hope not, too," he rejoined, giving her a hard look. "But I sometimes

have my doubts."

Anne looked out of the window in silence.

The sharp rapping of his knuckles on the table recalled her. She turned,

slightly startled, and met his imperious eyes. He smiled at her.

"Queen Anne, I crave a boon."

Almost involuntarily she returned his smile. "So you said before."

"And you don't even ask what it is."

"I am not quite sure that I want to know, Nap," she said.

"You are not liking me this morning," he observed.

She made no answer.

"What is it?" he said. "Is it the mare?"

She hesitated. "Perhaps, in part."

"And the other part?" He leaned forward, looking at her keenly. "Are you

afraid of me, Anne?" he said.

His voice was free from reproach, yet her heart smote her. She reminded

herself of how he had once pleaded with her for her trust.

"I'm sorry I pressed the mare," he said, "but it was quite as much her

fault as mine. Moreover, the cub exaggerated. I will fetch him in and

make him own it if you like."

She stayed him with a gesture. "No, don't, please! I think Bertie was

probably in the right."

"Do you, though?" Nap leaned back again, regarding her with supercilious

attention. "It's rather--daring of you to say so."

"Do you really think I stand in awe of you?" she said.

"You are such a truly remarkable woman," he made answer, "that I scarcely

know what to think. But since you are not afraid of me--apparently,

perhaps I may venture to come to the point. Do you know I have been

laying plans for a surprise picnic for you and--one other? It's such a

gorgeous day. Don't refuse!"

The boyish note she liked to hear sounded suddenly in his voice. He

discarded his cynicism and leaned towards her again, eager, persuasive.

"Don't refuse," he reiterated. "Look at the sunshine, listen to the

birds, think of a whole day in the open! I'll take you to the loveliest

place I know in this quaint little island, and I'll be your slave all day

long. Oh, I promise you won't find me in the way. Now don't look prudish.

Be a girl for once. Never mind the rest of creation. No one else will

know anything about it. We leave Baronmead this morning in the motor, and

who cares what time we reach the Manor? It can't matter to you or anyone.

Say you'll come! Say it!"

"My dear Nap!" Anne looked at him dubiously, uncertain whether to take

him seriously.

"Say it!" he repeated. "There is no earthly reason why you shouldn't. And

I'll take such care of you. Why shouldn't you have a real good time for

once? You never have had in all your life."

True, only too true! But it was not that fact that made her waver.

"Will you tell me what plans you have made for this picnic?" she asked

at length.

He began to smile. "My plans, Lady Carfax, are entirely subject to your

approval. About forty miles from here there is a place called

Bramhurst--a place after your own heart--a paradise. With judicious

driving we could be there by one or soon after--in time for luncheon."

"Yes?" she said, as he stopped.

"That's all," said Nap.

"But--afterwards?" she hazarded.

"My dear Lady Carfax, if it is to be a surprise picnic, where's the use

of settling all the details beforehand?" Nap's tone was one of indulgent

protest; he was eating and drinking rapidly, as if he had an appointment

to keep. "My suggestion is that we then follow our inclinations--your

inclinations." He smiled at her again. "I am your slave till sunset."

"Could we be back at the Manor by then?" she asked.

"Of course we could."

"Will you promise that we shall be?" She looked up at him seriously.

He was still smiling. "If you ordain it," he said.

"I must be back by dinner-time," she asserted.

"And you dine?"

"At eight."

He pushed back his chair and rose. "Very discreet of you! The sun sets at

eight-ten. At what hour will you deign to be ready?"

"At eleven," said Anne.

He glanced at his watch. "I am afraid you can't see Lucas to say

good-bye. Hudson has just given him morphia."

"Is he so bad then?" she asked quickly.

"No worse than he has been before. Bad pain all night. He always fights

against taking the stuff. I persuaded him." He spoke shortly, as if the

subject were distasteful to him. "No doubt he is easier by this time," he

added. "Eleven o'clock then! I will go and get ready." But even then he

paused, his hand on the back of her chair. "Can you keep a secret?" he

asked lightly.

She glanced up at him. "A secret?"

"An it please you," he said, "let this be a secret between yourself and

your humble slave!"

And with the words he turned with an air of finality and went away.

CHAPTER X

A DAY IN PARADISE

It was a day in the very heart of the summer, a day of cloudless skies

and wonderful, magic breezes, a day for the dreaming--and perchance for

the fulfilment--of dreams. Swift and noiseless as the swoop of a monster

bird the motor glided on its way; now rushing, now slackening, but never

halting. Sometimes it seemed to Anne that she sat motionless while the

world raced by her. She had often seen herself thus. And then with a

thrill of the pulses came the exultation of rapid movement, banishing the

illusion, while the very heart of her rejoiced in the knowledge thereof.

For this one day--for this one day--she had left the desert behind her.

She had yielded half against her judgment, but she knew no regret. On the

morrow she would be back in the waste places where, during all her

womanhood, she had wandered. But for this one day the roses bloomed for

her and she drank deep of their fragrance. It had come to her so

unexpectedly, so dazzlingly, this brief and splendid hour. She marvelled

at herself that she had hesitated even for a moment to accept it.

Perhaps memories of another day came now and again to her as she leaned

back on the cushions and opened her soul to the sunshine, memories of a

day of sparkling winter which had begun in much the same genial

atmosphere and had ended in most hideous disaster. But if they came she

put them resolutely from her. There was no time to waste upon past or

future. For this one day she would drink the wine of the gods; she

would live.

Nap drove in almost unbroken silence. He was wearing a mask, and she had

no clue to his thoughts; but she scarcely speculated about him. She did

not want to talk. She only desired to give herself up to the pure

pleasure of rapid movement. She had complete faith in his driving. If

daring, he was never reckless, with her beside him.

The meadows were full of hay, and the scent of it lay like a spell upon

the senses. The whirr of the mowing machine filled the air with a lazy

droning. It was like a lullaby. And ever they sped on, through towns and

villages and hamlets, through woods and lanes and open country, sure and

swift and noiseless save for the cheery humming of the motor, which sang

softly to itself like a spinning top.

They went through country of which Anne had no knowledge, but Nap seemed

fully acquainted with it; for he never paused to ask the way, never

raised his eyes to the finger-posts that marked the cross-roads. She

marvelled at his confidence, but asked no questions. It was not a day for

questions.

Only when they emerged at last upon a wide moor, where the early heather

grew in tufts of deepest rose, she cried to him suddenly to stop.

"I must get some of it. It is the first I have seen. Look! How

exquisite!"

He drew up at the side of the long white road that zigzagged over the

moor, and they went together into the springy heath, wading in it after

the waxen flowers.

And here Anne sat down in the blazing sunshine and lifted her clear eyes

to his. "I won't thank you, because we are friends," she said. "But this

is the best day I have ever had."

He pushed up his goggles and sat down beside her. "So you are not sorry

you came?" he said.

"I could not be sorry to-day," she answered. "How long have you known

this perfect place?"

He lay back in the heather with his arms flung wide. "I came here first

one day in the spring, a day in May. The place was a blaze of gorse and

broom--as if it were on fire. It suited me--for I was on fire too."

In the silence that succeeded his words he turned and leisurely

scrutinised her. She was snapping a stalk of heather with minute care. A

deep flush rose and spread over her face under his eyes.

"Why don't you look at me?" he said.

Very slowly her eyes came down to him. He was smiling in a secret

fashion, not as if he expected her to smile in return. The sunlight beat

down upon his upturned face. He blinked at her lazily and stretched every

limb in succession, like a cat.

"Let me know when you begin to feel bored," he said. "I am quite ready to

amuse you."

"I thought it was only the bores who were ever bored," she said.

He opened his eyes a little. "Did I say that or did you?"

She returned to her heather-pulling. "I believe you said it originally."

"I remember," he returned composedly. "It was on the night you bestowed

upon me the office of court-jester, the night you dreamed I was the Knave

of Diamonds, the night that--"

She interrupted very gently but very resolutely; "The night that we

became friends, Nap."

"A good many things happened that night," he remarked, pulling off his

cap and pitching it from him.

"Is that wise?" she said. "The sun is rather strong."

He sat up, ignoring the warning. "Anne," he said, "have you ever dreamed

about me since that night?"

She was silent, all her attention concentrated upon her bunch of heather.

His eyes left her face and began to study her hands.

After a moment he pulled a bit of string out of his pocket and without

a word proceeded to wind it round the stalks she held. As he knotted

it he spoke.

"So that is why you were afraid of me to-day. I knew there was something.

I winded it the moment we met. Whenever I hold your hand in mine I can

see into your soul. What was it, Anne? The Knave of Diamonds on a black

mare--riding to perdition?"

He laughed at her softly as though she had been a child. He was still

watching her hands. Suddenly he laid his own upon them and looked

into her face.

"Or was it just a savage?" he asked her quietly.

Against her will, in spite of the blaze of sunshine, she shivered.

"Yes," he said. "But isn't it better to face him than to run away?

Haven't you always found it so? You kissed him once, Anne. Do you

remember? It was the greatest thing that ever happened to him."

He spoke with a gentleness that amazed her. His eyes held hers, but

without compulsion. He was lulling her fear of him to rest, as he

alone knew how.

She answered him with quivering lips. "I have wondered since if I

did wrong."

"Then don't wonder," he said. "For I was nearer to the God you worship

at that moment than I had ever been before. I never believed in Him till

then, but that night I wrestled with Him--and got beaten." He dropped

suddenly into his most cynical drawl, so that she wondered if, after

all, he were mocking her. "It kind of made an impression on me. I

thought it might interest you to know. Have you had enough of this yet?

Shall we move on?"

She rose in silence. She was very far from certain, and yet she fancied

there had been a ring of sincerity in his words.

As they reached the car she laid her hand for an instant on his arm. "If

it did that for you, Nap," she said, "I do not regret it."

He smiled in his faint, cynical fashion. "I believe you'll turn me out a

good man some day," he said. "And I wonder if you will like me any when

it's done."

"I only want you to be your better self," she answered gently.

"Which is a myth," he returned, as he handed her in, "which exists only

in your most gracious imagination."

And with that he pulled the mask over his face once more and turned to

the wheel.

CHAPTER XI

THE RETURN TO EARTH

It was nearly two before they reached Bramhurst and drew up before the

one ancient inn the place possessed. Upstairs, in a lattice-windowed room

with sloping floor and bulging ceiling, a room that was full of the scent

of honeysuckle, Anne washed away the dust of the road. Turning to the

mirror on the dressing-table when this was over, she stood a moment

wide-eyed, startled. Through her mind there swept again the memory of a

day that seemed very far away--a day begun in sunshine and ended in

storm, a day when she had looked into the eyes of a white-faced woman in

the glass and had shrunk away in fear. It was a very different vision

that now met her gaze, and yet she had a feeling that there was something

in it that remained unaltered. Was it in the eyes that shone from a face

so radiant that it might have been the face of a girl?

She could not have said. Only after that one brief glimpse she

looked no more.

Descending, she found Nap waiting for her in the oak-beamed coffee-room.

He made her sit facing the open window, looking forth upon hill and

forest and shallow winding river.

The stout old English waiter who attended to their wants very

speedily withdrew.

"He thinks we are on our wedding-trip," said Nap.

She glanced at him sharply.

"Yes, I let him have it so," he returned. "I never destroy a pretty

illusion if I can help it."

"What time do we start back?" said Anne, aware of burning cheeks, which

he was studying with undisguised amusement.

"Would you like some ice?" he suggested.

She laughed, with something of an effort. "Don't be ridiculous, Nap!"

"I am sure you have never done anything so improper in all your life

before," he went on. "What must it feel like? P'r'aps you would have

preferred me to explain the situation to him in detail? I will have him

in and do it now--if you really think it worth while. I shouldn't myself,

but then I seldom suffer from truthfulness in its most acute form. It's a

tiresome disease, isn't it? One might almost call it dashed inconvenient

on an occasion such as this. There is only one remedy that I can suggest,

and that is to pretend it's true."

"I am not good at pretending," Anne answered gravely.

He laughed. "Very true, O Queen! Horribly true! But I am, you know, a

positive genius in that respect. So I'm going to pretend I'm an

Englishman--of the worthy, thick-headed, bulldog breed. (I am sure you

admire it; you wouldn't be an Englishwoman if you didn't). And you are my

devoted and adorable wife. You needn't look shocked. It's all for the

sake of that chap's morals. Do you think I can do it?"

"I don't want you to do it, Nap," she said earnestly.

He dropped the subject instantly. "Your wish is law. There is only one

other person in this world who can command my implicit obedience in this

fashion. So I hope you appreciate your power."

"And that other is Lucas?" said Anne.

He nodded. "Luke the irresistible! Did you ever try to resist him?"

She shook her head with a smile.

"Take my advice then," he said. "Never do! He could whip creation with

his hands tied behind him. Oh, I know you all think him mild-tempered and

easy-going, more like a woman than a man. But you wait till you're hard

up against him. Then you'll know what I mean when I tell you he's

colossal." There was a queer ring of passion in his voice as he ended. It

sounded to Anne like the half-stifled cry of a wounded animal.

Because of it she repressed the impulse to ask him what he meant.

Nevertheless, after a moment, as if impelled by some hidden force, he

continued.

"There was a time when I thought of him much as you do. And then one day

there came a reckoning--an almighty big reckoning." He leaned back in his

chair and stared upwards, while the grim lines of his mouth tightened.

"It was down in Arizona. We fought a duel that lasted a day and a night.

He was a worse cripple in those days than he is now, but he won out--he

won out." Again came the cynical drawl, covering his actual feelings as

with an impenetrable veil. "I've had a kind of respect for him ever

since," he said. "One does, you know."

"One would," said Anne, and again refrained from asking questions.

She was thinking of the complete confidence with which Lucas had spoken

of his ascendency over this man.

Finishing luncheon they went out over the common that stretched from the

very door, down the hill-side of short, sun-baked grass, passing between

masses of scorched broom, whose bursting pods crackled perpetually in the

sunshine, till they came to the green shade of forest trees and the gleam

of a running stream.

The whirr of grasshoppers filled the air and the humming of insects

innumerable. Away in the distance sounded the metal clang of a cow-bell.

It was the only definite sound that broke the stillness. The heat was

intense. A dull, copper haze had risen and partially obscured the sun.

Anne stopped on the edge of the stream. Wonderful dragon-flies such as

she had never seen before, peacock, orange and palest green, darted to

and fro above the brown water. Nap leaned against a tree close to her and

smoked a cigarette.

She spoke at last without turning. "Am I in fairyland, I wonder?"

"Or the Garden of Eden," suggested Nap.

She laughed a little, and stooping tried to reach a forget-me-not that

grew on the edge of the water.

"Beware of the serpent!" he warned. "Anyway, don't tumble in!"

She stretched back a hand to him. "Don't let me go!"

His hand closed instantly and firmly upon her wrist. In a moment she

drew back with the flower in her hand, to find his cigarette smouldering

on a tuft of moss. He set his foot upon it without explanation and

lighted another.

"Ought we not to be starting back?" she asked.

"It won't be so hot in half-an-hour," he said.

"But how long will it take?"

"It can be done in under three hours. If we start at half-past-four you

should be home well before sunset."

He smiled with the words, and Anne suffered herself to be persuaded.

Certainly the shade of the beech trees was infinitely preferable to the

glare of the dusty roads, and the slumberous atmosphere made her feel

undeniably languorous.

She sat down therefore on the roots of a tree, still watching the

dragon-flies flitting above the water.

Nap stripped off his coat and made it into a cushion. "Lean back on this.

Yes, really. I'm thankful for the excuse to go without it. How is that?

Comfortable?"

She thanked him with a smile. "I mustn't go to sleep."

"Why not?" said Nap. "There is nothing to disturb you. I'm going back to

the inn to order tea before we start."

He was off with the words with that free, agile gait of his that always

made her think of some wild creature of the woods.

She leaned back with a sense of complete well-being and closed her

eyes....

When she opened them again it was with a guilty feeling of having been

asleep at a critical juncture. With a start she sat up and looked

around her. The sun-rays were still slanting through the wood, but

dully, as though they shone through a sheet of smoked glass. The

stillness was intense.

A sharp sense of nervousness pricked her. There seemed to be something

ominous in the atmosphere; or was it only in her own heart that it

existed? And where was Nap? Surely he had been gone for a very long time!

She rose stiffly and picked up his coat. At the same instant a shrill

whistle sounded through the wood, and in a moment she saw him coming

swiftly towards her.

Quietly she moved to meet him.

He began to speak before he reached her. "I was afraid you would be tired

of waiting and wander about till you got frightened and lost yourself. Do

you ever have hysterics?"

"Never," said Anne firmly.

He took his coat and began to wriggle into it, surveying her meantime

with a smile half-speculative, half-rueful.

"Well, that's a weight off my mind, anyway," he remarked at length.

"For I have a staggering piece of news for you which I hardly dare to

impart. Oh, it's no good looking at your watch. It's hopelessly late,

nearly six o'clock, and in any case I can't get you home to-night.

There's no petrol."

"Nap!" Anne's voice was a curious compound of consternation and relief.

Somehow--doubtless it was the effect of thunder in the atmosphere--she

had expected something in the nature of tragedy.

Nap put on his most contrite air. "Do be a brick and take it nicely!" he

pleaded. "I know I was an all-fired fool not to see to it for myself. But

I was called away, and so I had to leave it to those dunderheads at the

garage. I only made the discovery when I left you a couple of hours ago.

There was just enough left to take me to Rodding, so I pelted off at once

to some motorworks I knew of there, only to find the place was empty.

It's a hole of a town. There was some game on, and I couldn't get a

conveyance anywhere. So I just put up the motor and came back across

country on foot. I don't see what else I could have done, do you?"

Anne did not for the moment, but she was considering the situation too

rapidly to answer him.

"My only consolation," he went on, "is that you have got a change of

raiment, which is more than I have. Oh, yes, I had the sense to think of

that contingency. Your bag is at the inn here, waiting for you."

"You had better have taken me back with you to Rodding," Anne said.

"Yes, I know. But I expected to be back in half an hour if all went well.

It's easy to be wise after the event, isn't it? I've thought of that

myself since." Nap picked up a twig and bit it viciously. "Anyway, there

is some tea waiting for us. Shall we go back?"

Anne turned beside him. "Then what do you propose to do?"

He glanced at her. "Nothing before morning, I'm afraid. There is no

vehicle to be had here. I will send someone down to Rodding in the

morning for a conveyance. We can take the train from there to Staps,

where I can get some petrol. We ought by that means to reach home

sometime in the afternoon. It is the only feasible plan, I am afraid;

unless you can suggest a better."

He looked at her keenly, still biting at the twig between his teeth.

Anne walked for several seconds in silence. At last, "Would it be quite

impossible to walk to Rodding now?" she asked.

"Not at all," said Nap. "It is about eight miles through the woods. We

should be benighted, of course. Also I fancy there is a storm coming up.

But if you wish to make the attempt--"

"I was only wondering," she said quietly, "if we could get an evening

train to Staps. That, I know, is on the main line. You could put up

there, and I could take the night train to town."

"Oh, quite so," said Nap. "Shall we have tea before we start?"

They had emerged from the wood and were beginning to climb the hill. The

veiled sunlight gave an unreal effect to the landscape. The broom bushes

looked ghostly.

Anne gave an uneasy glance around. "I believe you are right about the

storm," she said.

"I generally am right," observed Nap.

They walked on. "I shouldn't like to be benighted in the woods," she said

presently.

His scoffing smile showed for an instant. "Alone with me too! Most

improper!"

"I was thinking we might miss the way," Anne returned with dignity. "I

wonder--shall we risk it?"

She turned to him as if consulting him, but Nap's face was to the sky.

"That is for you to decide," he said. "We might do it. The storm won't

break at present."

"It will be violent when it does," she said.

He nodded. "It will."

She quickened her steps instinctively, and he lengthened his stride. The

smile had ceased to twitch his lips.

"Have you decided?" he asked her suddenly, and his voice sounded

almost stern.

They were nearing the top of the hill. She paused, panting a little.

"Yes. I will spend the night here."

He gave her a glance of approval. "You are a wise woman."

"I hope so," said Anne. "I must telegraph at once to Dimsdale and tell

him not to expect me."

Nap's glance fell away from her. He said nothing whatever.

CHAPTER XII

IN THE FACE OF THE GODS

"Thank the gods, we are the only guests!" said Nap that evening, as they

sat down to dine at the table at which they had lunched.

The glare of a lurid sunset streamed across the sky and earth. There was

a waiting stillness upon all things. It was the hush before the storm.

An unwonted restlessness had taken possession of Anne. She did not echo

his thanksgiving, an omission which he did not fail to note, but upon

which he made no comment.

It was in fact scarcely a place for any but day visitors, being some

considerable distance from the beaten track. The dinner placed before

them was not of a very tempting description, and Anne's appetite dwindled

very rapidly.

"You must eat something," urged Nap. "Satisfy your hunger with

strawberries and cream."

But Anne had no hunger to satisfy, and she presently rose from the table

with something like a sigh of relief.

They went into the drawing-room, a room smelling strongly of musk, and

littered largely with furniture of every description. Nap opened wide a

door-window that led into a miniature rosegarden. Beyond stretched the

common, every detail standing out with marvellous vividness in the weird

storm-light.

"St. Christopher!" he murmured softly. "We are going to catch it."

Anne sat down in a low chair near him, gazing forth in silence, her chin

on her hand.

He turned a little and looked down at her, and thus some minutes slipped

away, the man as tensely still as the awe-stricken world without, the

woman deep in thought.

He moved at last with a curious gesture as if he freed and restrained

himself by the same action.

"Why don't you think out loud?" he said.

She raised her eyes for a moment. "I was thinking of my husband," she

said.

He made a sharp movement--a movement that was almost fierce--and again

seemed to take a fresh grip upon himself. His black brows met above his

brooding eyes. "Can't you leave him out of the reckoning for this one

night?" he asked.

"I think not," she answered quietly.

He turned his face to the sinking sun. It shone like a smouldering

furnace behind bars of inky cloud.

"You told me once," he said, speaking with obvious constraint, "that you

did not think you would ever live with him again."

She stifled a sigh in her throat. "I thought so then."

"And what has happened to make you change your mind?"

Anne was silent. She could not have seen the fire that leapt and darted

in the dusky eyes had she been looking at him, but she was not looking.

Her chin was back upon her hand. She was gazing out into the darkening

world with the eyes of a woman who sees once more departed visions.

"I think," she said slowly at length, as he waited immovably for her

answer, "that I see my duty more clearly now than then."

"Duty! Duty!" he said impatiently. "Duty is your fetish. You sacrifice

your whole life to it. And what do you get in return? A sense of virtue

perhaps, nothing more. There isn't much warming power in virtue. I've

tried it and I know!" He broke off to utter a very bitter laugh. "And so

I've given it up," he said. "It's a trail that leads to nowhere."

Anne's brows drew together for an instant. "I hoped you might come to

think otherwise," she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. "How can I? I've lived the life of a saint for

the past six months, and I am no nearer heaven than when I began. It's

too slow a process for me. I wasn't made to plough an endless furrow."

"We all of us say that," said Anne, with her faint smile. "But do we

any of us really know what we were made for? Are we not all in the

making still?"

He thrust out his chin. "I can't be abstruse tonight. I know what I

was made for, and I know what you were made for. That--anyway for

tonight--is all that matters."

He spoke almost brutally, yet still he held himself as it were aloof. He

was staring unblinking into the sunset. Already the furnace was dying

down. The thunder-clouds were closing up. The black bars had drawn

together into one immense mass, advancing, ominous. Only through a single

narrow slit the red light still shone.

Mutely they watched it pass, Anne with her sad eyes fixed and thoughtful,

Nap still with that suggestion of restrained activity as if he watched

for a signal.

Gradually the rift closed, and a breathless darkness came.

Anne uttered a little sigh. "I wish the storm would break," she said. "I

am tired of waiting."

As if in answer, out of the west there rose a long low rumble.

"Ah!" she said, and no more.

For as if the signal had come, Nap turned with a movement

incredibly swift, a movement that was almost a spring, and caught her

up into his arms.

"Are you tired of waiting, my Queen--my Queen?" he said, and there was a

note of fierce laughter in his words. "Then--by heaven--you shall wait

no longer!"

His quick breath scorched her face, and in a moment, almost before she

knew what was happening, his lips were on her own. He kissed her as she

had never been kissed before--a single fiery kiss that sent all the blood

in tumult to her heart. She shrank and quivered under it, but she was

powerless to escape. There was sheer unshackled savagery in the holding

of his arms, and dismay thrilled her through and through.

Yet, as his lips left hers, she managed to speak, though her voice was no

more than a gasping whisper. "Nap, are you mad? Let me go!"

But he only held her faster, faster still.

"Yes, I am mad," he said, and the words came quick and passionate, the

lips that uttered them still close to her own. "I am mad for you, Anne. I

worship you. And I swear that while I live no other man shall ever hold

you in his arms again. Anne--goddess--queen--woman--you are mine--you

are mine--you are mine!"

Again his lips pressed hers, and again from head to foot she felt as if a

flame had scorched her. Desperately she began to resist him though

terribly conscious that he had her at his mercy. But he quelled her

resistance instantly, with a mastery that made her know more thoroughly

her utter impotence.

"Do you think that you can hold me in check for ever?" he said. "I tell

you it only makes me worse. I am a savage, and chains of that sort won't

hold me. What is the good of fighting against fate? You have done it as

long as I have known you; but you are beaten at last. Oh, you may turn

your face from me. It makes no difference now. I've played for this, and

I've won! You have been goddess to me ever since the day I met you.

To-night--you shall be woman!"

He broke into a low, exultant laugh. She could feel the fierce beating of

his heart, and her own died within her. The blaze of his passion ringed

her round like a forest fire in which all things perish.

But even then she knew that somewhere, somewhere, there was a way of

escape, and with the instinct of the hunted creature she sought it.

"To-night," she said, "I shall know whether you have ever really

loved me."

"What?" he said. "You dare to question that now? Do you want to put me to

the proof then? Shall I show you how much I love you?"

"No," she said. "Take your arms away!"

She did not expect his obedience, but on the instant he spread them wide

and released her.

"And now?" he said.

She almost tottered, so amazing had been his compliance. And then as

swiftly--came the knowledge that he had not really set her free. It had

pleased him to humour her, that was all. He stood before her with all the

arrogance of a conqueror. And through the gathering darkness his eyes

shone like the eyes of a tiger--two flames piercing the gloom.

She mustered all her strength to face him, confronting him with that

unconscious majesty that first had drawn him to her.

"And now," she said, "let us once and for all understand one another."

"What?" he said. "Don't you understand me yet? Don't you

realise--yet--that when a man of my stamp wants a woman he--takes her?"

Again there throbbed in his voice that deep note of savagery, such

savagery as made her quail. But it was no moment for shrinking. She knew

instinctively that at the first sign of weakness he would take her back

into his arms.

She straightened herself therefore, summoning all her pride. "Do you

really think I am the sort of woman to be taken so?" she asked. "Do you

really think I am yours for the taking? If so, then you have never known

me. Nor--till this moment--have I known you."

He heard her without the faintest hint of astonishment or shame, standing

before her with that careless animal grace of his that made him in some

fashion superb.

"Yes," he said, "I really do think you are mine for the taking this time,

but you will admit I've been patient. And I've taken the trouble to make

things easy for you. I've spirited you away without putting you through

any ordeals of hesitation or suspense. I've done it all quite

unobtrusively. To-morrow we go to London, after that to Paris, and after

that--whithersoever you will--anywhere under the sun where we can be

alone. As to knowing each other"--his voice changed subtly, became soft,

with something of a purring quality--"we have all our lives before us,

and we shall be learning every day."

His absolute assurance struck her dumb. There was something implacable

about it, something unassailable--a stronghold which she felt powerless

to attack.

"Doesn't that programme attract you?" he said, drawing nearer to her.

"Can you suggest a better? The whole world is before us. Shall we go

exploring, you and I, alone in the wilds, and find some Eden that no man

has ever trodden before? Shall we, Anne? Shall we? Right away from

everywhere, somewhere in the sun, where I can teach you to be happy and

you can teach me to be--good."

But at his movement she moved also, drawing back. "No!" she said. Her

voice was low, but not lacking in strength. Having spoken, she went on

almost without effort. "You are building upon a false foundation. If it

were not so, I don't think I could possibly forgive you. As it is, I

think when you realise your mistake you will find it hard to forgive

yourself. I have treated you as a friend because I thought I could do so

with safety. I thought for the sake of my friendship you had given up all

thought of anything else. I thought you were to be trusted and I trusted

you. Oh, I admit I ought to have known you better. But I shall never

make that mistake again."

"No," Nap said. "I don't think you will."

He spoke deliberately; he almost drawled. Yet a sense of danger stabbed

her. His sudden coldness was more terrible than his heat.

"But why say this to me now?" he said. "Do you think it will make any

difference?"

He had not moved as he uttered the words, and yet she felt as if he

menaced her. He made her think of a crouching tiger--a tiger whose

devotion had turned to sudden animosity.

She did not shrink from him, but her heart quickened. "It must make a

difference," she said. "You have utterly misunderstood me, or you would

never have brought me here."

"Don't be too sure of that," he returned. "It may be that you can deceive

yourself more easily than you can deceive me. Or again, it may be that I

have come to the end of my patience and have decided to take by storm

what cannot be won by waiting."

She drew herself up proudly. "And you call that--love!" she said, with a

scorn that she had never before turned against him. "You dare to call

that--love!"

"Call it what you will!" he flashed back. "It is something that can crush

your cold virtue into atoms, something that can turn you from a marble

saint into a living woman of flesh and blood. For your sake I've

tried--I've agonised--to reach your level. And I've failed because I

can't breathe there. To-night you shall come down from your heights to

mine. You who have never lived yet shall know life--as I know

it--to-night!"

Fiercely he flung the words, and the breath of his passion was like a

fiery blast blown from the heart of a raging furnace. But still she did

not shrink before him. Proud and calm she waited, bearing herself with a

queenly courage that never faltered.

And it was as if she stood in a magic circle, for he raised no hand to

touch her. Without word or movement she kept him at bay. Erect,

unflinching, regal, she held her own.

He caught his breath as he faced her. The beast in him slunk back afraid,

but the devil urged him forward. He came close to her, peering into her

face, searching for that weak place in every woman's armour which the

devil generally knows how to find. But still he did not offer to touch

her. He had let her go out of his arms when he had believed her his own,

and now he could not take her again.

"Anne," he said suddenly, "where is your love for me? I will swear you

loved me once."

"I never loved you," she answered, her words clear-cut, cold as steel. "I

never loved you. Once, it is true, I fancied that you were such a man as

I could have loved. But that passed. I did not know you in those days. I

know you now."

"And hate me for what you know?" he said.

"No," she answered. "I do not even hate you."

"What then?" he gibed. "You are--sorry for me perhaps?"

"No!" Very distinct and steady came her reply. "I only despise you now."

"What?" he said.

"I despise you," she repeated slowly, "knowing what you might be, and

knowing--what you are."

The words passed out in silence--a silence so tense that it seemed as if

the world itself had stopped. Through it after many seconds came Nap's

voice, so softly that it scarcely seemed to break it.

"It is not always wise to despise an enemy, Lady Carfax--especially if

you chance to be in that enemy's power."

She did not deign to answer; but her gaze did not flinch from his, nor

did her pride waver.

He drew something abruptly from his pocket and held it up before her. "Do

you see this?"

She stirred then, ever so slightly, a movement wholly involuntary,

instantly checked. "Are you going to shoot me?" she asked.

"I thought that would make you speak," he remarked. "And you still

despise me?"

Her breathing had quickened, but her answer was instant; for the first

time it held a throb of anger. "I despise you for a coward. You are even

viler than I thought."

He returned the weapon to his pocket. "It is not for you," he said. "I am

more primitive than that. It is for the man who stands between us, for

the man who thought he could whip Nap Errol--and live. I have never gone

unarmed since."

He paused a moment, grimly regarding her. Then, "There is only one

thing I will take in exchange for that man's life," he said.

"Only--one--thing!"

But she stood like a statue, uttering no word.

A sudden gust of passion swept over him, lashing him to headlong fury.

"And that one thing I mean to have!" he told her violently. "No power in

heaven or hell shall keep you from me. I tell you"--his voice rose, and

in the darkness those two flames glowed more redly, such flames as had

surely never burned before in the face of a man--"whatever you may say,

you are mine, and in your heart you know it. Sooner or later--sooner or

later--I will make you own it." His voice sank suddenly to a whisper, no

longer passionate, only inexpressibly evil. "Will you despise me then,

Queen Anne? I wonder!--I wonder!"

She moved at last, raised her hand, stiffly pointed. "Go!" she

said. "Go!"

Yet for a space he still stood in the doorway, menacing her, a vital

figure, lithe, erect, dominant. The tension was terrible. It seemed to be

strained to snapping point, and yet it held.

It was the fiercest battle she had ever known--a battle in which his will

grappled with hers in a mighty, all-mastering grip, increasing every

instant till she felt crushed, impotent, lost, as if all the powers of

evil were let loose and seething around her, dragging her down.

Her resolution began to falter at last. She became conscious of a numbing

sense of physical weakness, an oppression so overwhelming that she

thought her heart would never beat again. Once more she seemed to totter

on the edge of a depth too immense to contemplate, to hover above the

very pit of destruction...

And then suddenly the ordeal was over. A blinding flash of lightning lit

the room, glimmered weirdly, splitting the gloom as a sword rending a

curtain, and was gone. There came a sound like the snarl of a startled

animal, and the next instant a frightful crash of thunder.

Anne reeled back, dazed, stunned, utterly unnerved, and sank into a

chair.

When she came to herself she was alone.

CHAPTER XIII

AN APPEAL AND ITS ANSWER

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 Lady

Carfax 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.

CHAPTER XIV

THE IRRESISTIBLE

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 you

can't break away. Take this thing! I've no use for it. But maybe in

Arizona you'll find it advisable to carry arms. Come over here and read

Cradock'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.

CHAPTER XV

ON THE EDGE OF THE PIT

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 Sir

Giles 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 to

Dot. "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.

CHAPTER XVI

DELIVERANCE

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.

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE POWER DIVINE

"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.