His eyes still rested upon her, but they seemed to be looking at

something beyond. "P'r'aps I'm over fond of regulating other folks'

affairs," he said. "It's a habit that easily grows on the head of a

family. But I've a sort of fancy for seeing you and Bertie married before

I go out. If you tell me it's quite impossible I won't say any more. But

if you could see your way to it--well, it would be a real kindness, and I

needn't say any more than that."

The weary, rather droning voice ceased to speak. The eyelids drooped more

heavily. It seemed to Dot that a grey shadow lay upon the worn face. He

looked so unutterably tired, so ready for the long, long sleep.

She sat quite still beside him, turning the matter in her mind.

After a little he went on speaking, with eyes half-closed. "It would hit

him hard if I went under, but he wouldn't feel so badly if you were

there. The mother too--she wants someone to lean on. There's Lady Carfax,

but she has her own burden. And there'd be a lot for Bertie to see to,

Nap being away. Besides--"

"Oh, Luke," Dot broke in, her eyes full of tears, "I--I can't imagine

this place without you."

"No? Well, you mustn't let it distress you any. We've all got to go,

sooner or later. There isn't anything in that. The main thing is to get

it over, when it comes, with as little fuss as possible. Life isn't long

enough for grieving. It's just a mortal waste of time. And what is Death

anyway?" He raised his eyes with what seemed an effort. "You won't blame

me," he said, "for wanting to close up the ranks a bit before I go. Of

course I may live as long as any of you. God knows I shall do my best. I

want to pull through--for several reasons. But if I've got to go, I'd

like to feel I've left things as ship-shape as possible. Bertie will tell

you what provision I desire to make for you. P'r'aps you and he will talk

it over, and if you're willing I'll see the padre about it. But I kind of

felt the first word ought to be with you. Bertie didn't like to speak

because he'd promised to wait. You'll find he's a man of his word. That's

why I've butted in. Say, child, I didn't mean to make you cry. That was

clumsy of me."

He patted her hand gently, while Dot blinked away her tears.

"Don't let us talk about it any more now," she besought him. "Oh,

Lucas--I do want you to live, more--more than anything."

"That's real kind of you," he said. "I'll do my best, you may be sure.

I can hear Lady Carfax talking in the drawing-room. Won't you go and

bring her out?"

He made no effort to rise when Anne came on to the terrace, but he gave

her so vivid a smile of welcome that she scarcely noted the omission. It

was their first meeting since Nap's departure, for Lucas had been

confined to his bed for days. But that smile of his banished any sense of

embarrassment from her mind. He was so candidly, so unaffectedly, pleased

to see her.

She sat down in the riotous sunshine and gave herself up unreservedly to

the pleasure of being with her friends. They were all congenial to her.

Mrs. Errol, Dot, Lucas, but most especially Lucas, who occupied a unique

position in her heart and in her thoughts. He had always been so

perfectly her friend in need.

As the long, sunny afternoon wore away, she found herself watching him

and in silence marvelling. How was it that this man in his utter,

piteous weakness accomplished so much, ruled thus supreme? Wherein lay

that potent charm of his which neither devil nor brute could effectively

resist? Whence came it, this power of the soul, this deliberate and

conscious mastery?

She watched Bertie waiting on him, hovering about him, ready to spring up

at his lightest word to execute his scarcely-uttered wish. Other

men--even great men--did not command this personal homage, this complete,

incessant devotion. Undoubtedly there was something kingly about him; but

wherein did it lie? Not in the impotent, unwieldy figure, not in the

pleasant, emotionless drawl, not even in the friendly quiet of his eyes,

the kindly sympathy of his smile. In none of these lay his power, and yet

in all of them it was in some fashion apparent. No great force of

personality characterised him, and yet his monarchy was absolute. No

splendour of intellect, no keenness of wit, no smartness of repartee were

his. Only a shrewdness of understanding that was never cruel, a humour

that had no edge.

And presently Anne remembered that his own mother had given her the key

to the problem, and she doubted not that it solved the whole. "It isn't

personal magnetism," Mrs. Errol had said, "nor anything of that sort.

It's just love."

That was the magic to which even Nap, the fierce, the passionate, the

treacherous, had been forced to bow. In the midst of his weakness this

man wielded an all-potent power--a power before which they all

instinctively did homage--before which even devils humbled

themselves--because it was Divine.

That was the secret of his strength. That was the weapon by which he

conquered. She wondered if it had always been so, or if his physical

weakness had tended to develop in him a greatness of heart of which more

active men were quite incapable. It might be true, as Mrs. Errol had

contended, that all men had their possibilities, but, this was the only

man she had ever met who had turned them to account. All unconsciously,

perhaps in response to a reaction which had been necessarily violent,

Anne yielded herself that day for the first time in her life to a species

of hero-worship that could not but beautify her own sad life.

When later she found herself alone with him, they talked for a space upon

indifferent things, and then they did not talk at all. The intimacy

between them made conversation unnecessary, and Lucas Errol's silence was

as easy as his speech.

"You'll take care of yourself," he said once, "or I shan't be easy

about you."

And, when she had promised that: "And you'll look us up as often as

you find you can. P'r'aps if you can't come very often you'll manage

to write."

But he made no direct reference to her husband's return. His sympathy

neither sought nor needed expression in words.

Neither did he speak of himself. He only at parting held her hand very

closely for several silent seconds. And Anne went away with a hushed

feeling at her heart as if he had invoked a benediction.

Back to her home she went, strangely quiet and at peace. She had thought

that visit to Baronmead would have been painful to her. She had expected

to suffer afresh. But it was instead as if a healing hand had been laid

upon her, and as she went she thought no more of Nap, the savage, the

sudden, the terrible; but of Lucas, the gentle, the patient, the

chivalrous, who had won and would for ever keep her perfect trust.

The light of a golden evening lay upon the Manor as she entered. It was

wonderfully quiet. She went in by the French windows that led into the

drawing-room, and here, tempted by an impulse that had not moved her for

long, she sat down at the piano and began very softly to play.

She had not touched the keys since her last visit to Baronmead. She

wondered, as idly she suffered her fingers to wander, how long it would

be before she played again.

Yet it was hard to believe, sitting there in the quiet evening light,

that the next day would witness her return to bondage, that bondage that

had so cruelly galled her, the very thought of which had at one time

filled her with repulsion. But her feelings had undergone a change of

late. She could not feel that the old burden would ever return upon her.

She had been emancipated too long. Her womanhood had developed too much

during those months of liberty. No, it could never be the same. Patient

and faithful wife she would still be. She was ready to devote herself

ungrudgingly, without reservation, to her invalid husband. But his slave

she would never be again. She had overcome her repugnance; she was

willing to serve. But never again would he compel. The days of his

tyranny were for ever gone.

It was no easy path that lay before her, but she had not forgotten how

narrowly she had escaped the precipice. Even yet she still trembled when

she remembered the all-engulfing pit of destruction that had opened

before her, and the anguish of fear that had possessed her until

deliverance had come. Lucas Errol had been her deliverer. She remembered

that also, and a faint, sad smile touched her lips--Lucas Errol, king

and cripple, ruler and weakling.

Softly the sunset faded. Anne's fingers ceased to roam over the keys. She

clasped them in her lap and sat still.

All at once a quiet voice spoke. "My lady!"

With a start she turned. "Dimsdale! How you startled me!"

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," the old man said.

He was standing close behind her. There was an air of subdued importance

about him. He was grave to severity.

But Anne did not look at him very critically. "I shall not want any

tea," she said. "I will dine at eight in my sitting-room as usual. Is

everything in readiness, Dimsdale? Is Sir Giles's room just as it

should be?"

"Yes, my lady."

Anne rose and quietly closed the piano. She wondered why Dimsdale

lingered, and after a moment it struck her that he had something to say.

She took up her gloves and turned round to him.

"No one has been, I suppose?"

"No one, my lady."

"Are there any letters?"

"No letters, my lady."

"Then--" Anne paused, and for the first time looked at the old servant

attentively. "Is anything the matter, Dimsdale?" she asked.

He hesitated, the fingers of one hand working a little, an unusual sign

of agitation with him.

With an effort at last he spoke. "Your ladyship instructed me to open any

telegram that might arrive."

Her heart gave a great throb of foreboding. "Certainly," she said. "Has

there been a telegram then?"

Dimsdale's hand clenched. He looked at her anxiously, rather piteously.

"My lady--" he said, and stopped.

Anne stood like a statue. She felt as if her vitality were suddenly

arrested, as if every pulse had ceased to beat.

"Please go on," she said in a whisper. "There has been a telegram. Either

give it to me, or--tell me what was in it."

Dimsdale made a jerky movement, as if pulling himself together. He put an

unsteady hand into his breast-pocket. "It came this afternoon, my lady,

about an hour ago. I am afraid it's bad news--very bad news. Yes, my

lady, I'm telling you, I'm telling you. I regret to say Sir Giles has

been took worse, took very sudden like, and--and--"

"He is dead," Anne said very clearly, very steadily, in a tone that was

neither of question nor of exclamation.

Dimsdale bent his head. "He died at half-past three, my lady."

He had the telegram in his hand. Anne took it from him and moved very

quietly to the window.

Mutely the old man stood and watched her in the silence, thankful for her

composure. He was himself severely shaken, and the ordeal of telling her

had been no light one.

But as the silence still continued he began to grow uneasy again. He

wondered if he ought to go, if she had forgotten to dismiss him. Her

stately head was bent over the paper, which never crackled or stirred in

her hand. There began to be something terrible, something fateful, in

her passivity. Old Dimsdale shivered, and took the liberty of breaking

the silence.

"Would your ladyship wish a message to be sent to Baronmead?"

She stirred at that, moved sharply as one suddenly awakened. Her face was

quite white, but her eyes were alight, curiously vital, with a glitter

that was almost of horror.

"To Baronmead!" she said, a queer note of sharpness in her voice. "No,

certainly not, most certainly not!"

And there she stopped, stopped dead as though struck dumb. In the garden

behind her, down among the lilac trees, a bird had begun to sing,

eagerly, voluptuously, thrillingly, with a rapture as of the full

spring-tide of life.

Anne stood for a space of many seconds and listened, her white face

upraised, her eyes wide and shining.

And then suddenly her attitude changed. She put her hands over her face

and tottered blindly from the open window.

Dimsdale started to support her, but she needed no support. In a

moment she was looking at him again, but with eyes from which all

light had faded.

"I must write some messages at once," she said. "One of the grooms must

take them. No, I shall not send to Mrs. Errol to-night. I wish to be

alone--quite alone. Please admit no one. And--yes--tell them to pull down

the blinds, and--shut all the windows!"

Her voice quivered and sank. She stood a moment, collecting herself,

then walked quietly to the door.

"Come to me in ten minutes for those telegrams," she said. "And after

that, remember, Dimsdale, I am not to be disturbed by anyone."

And with that she passed out, erect and calm, and went up to her room.

CHAPTER II

THE WORKER OF MIRACLES

"I want to know!" said Capper.

He had said it several times during a muddy two-mile tramp from Baronford

Station, and he said it again as he turned up the hill that was crowned

by the old grey church, whose two cracked bells had just burst into as

cheerful a marriage peal as they could compass.

"Sounds frisky!" he commented to himself, as he trudged up the steep

lane. "My! What an all-fired fuss! Guess these muddy boots aren't exactly

wedding-guesty. But that's their lookout for monopolising every vehicle

in the place. I wonder if I'll have the audacity to show after all. Or

shall I carry this almighty thirst of mine back to the Carfax Arms and

quench it in British ale?"

But this latter idea did not apparently greatly lure him, for he

continued to plod upwards, even while considering it, to the tune of the

clamouring bells.

Arriving finally at the top of the hill and finding there a crowd of

vehicles of all descriptions, he paused to breathe and to search for the

Baronmead motors.

He found them eventually, but there was no one in attendance. The

servants were all herded in the churchyard for a view of the bridal

procession, for which a passage across the road to the Rectory grounds

was being kept.

Capper stationed himself, with another rueful glance as his boots, as

near as he could get to the open lych-gate, and there stood grimly

conspicuous, watching the scene with his alert green eyes, that held the

glint of a tolerant smile, and cracking his thin, yellow fingers one by

one. No one gave him a second glance, or dreamed for an instant that one

of the greatest men in the Western Hemisphere was standing on the edge of

the crowd.

They came at last--bride and bridegroom--flushed and hastening through a

shower of rose petals.

Bertie was laughing all over his brown face. He was holding Dot's hand

very fast, and as they descended the red-carpeted steps into the road he

leaned to her, whispering. She laughed back at him with shining eyes, her

round face radiant beneath the orange blossom. Neither of them glanced to

right or left. Swiftly through the fallen rose leaves they crossed to the

Rectory gateway and were lost to view.

A bevy of bridesmaids ran laughing after them, and then came a pause.

Capper edged a little nearer to the churchyard steps and waited. The

clamour of bells was incessant, wholly drowning the clamour of voices.

Everyone was craning forward to see the crowd of guests. The long

procession had already begun to issue from the church porch. It moved

very slowly, for at the head of it, his hand on his mother's arm, came

Lucas Errol.

He walked with extreme difficulty, leaning on a crutch. His head was

uncovered, and the glare of the September sunlight smote full upon it.

The hair was turning very grey.

He was smiling as he came, but his brows were slightly drawn, his eyes

sunk in deep hollows.

Swiftly and comprehensively the man at the foot of the steps scanned

every detail, marked the halting, painful progress, the lined forehead.

And the next moment, as Lucas paused, preparatory to descending, he

pushed forward with characteristic decision of movement and moved upwards

to his side.

"I guess you'll find me useful at this juncture," he said.

Lucas's start of surprise was instantly followed by a smile of welcome.

He gripped Capper's hand warmly.

"The very man I want! But how in wonder did you get here? You never

walked all the way from the station?"

"I did," said Capper.

"You don't say! Why didn't you let me know? I guess we must move on. We

are blocking the gangway."

"Easy does it," said Capper. "It won't hurt 'em any to wait. Get

your arm over my shoulder. That's the way. These steps are the very

devil for you."

He bent his wiry frame to Lucas Errol's need, and helped him to descend.

At the foot he paused a moment and looked at him keenly.

"All serene," smiled Lucas. "I'll take your arm now, if it's all the

same to the mother. You didn't expect to find us plunged in wedding

gaieties, I guess."

"Wish it had been your own," said Capper.

At which Lucas turned up his face to the sky and laughed.

They crossed the flag-decked garden and entered by the conservatory door.

People were beginning to crowd about them.

"We must find you a seat somehow," said Capper.

"I must have a word with the bride and bridegroom first," Lucas declared.

But the bride and bridegroom were for the moment inaccessible, being

completely surrounded by well-wishers.

Capper seized upon the first chair he came upon and put Lucas into it.

"I seem to have come in the nick of time," he observed drily. "Why is no

one detailed to look after you? Where is that tiger's whelp Nap?"

"Nap's in America, been gone two months or more."

"That so?" There was keen satisfaction in Capper's tone. "That clears the

ground for action. And Lady Carfax? Is she here?"

"No." There was a hint of reserve in the quiet reply. "Lady Carfax is in

deep mourning for her husband."

"That so?" said Capper again. He seemed to take but casual note of the

information. He was pulling absently at his pointed yellow beard.

Lucas lay back in his chair and suffered himself to relax with a sigh.

Capper's eyes darted lizard-like over him, taking in every line of him,

keenly alive to each detail.

"If I were you I should shunt as soon as possible," he said. "Since it

isn't your own show unfortunately, I should imagine you are not

indispensable."

But at this point the throng parted, and Dot, looking very young in her

bridal white, and supremely happy, burst eagerly through,

"Oh, here you are!" she cried. "Your mother said you were close by, but I

couldn't see you anywhere. It's been too much for you. You're tired."

She bent over him in quick solicitude, then, as he smiled and drew her

down to him, stooped and kissed him, whispering a few words for his

ear alone.

Bertie was close behind her, but he had caught sight of Capper and had

stopped short with a queer expression on his boyish face, a look that was

a curious blend of consternation and relief.

A moment and he stepped up to the great doctor and took him by the elbow.

"You here already!" he said. "I didn't expect you so soon."

"I have only run down to have a look at things," said Capper. "I seem to

have pitched on a busy day. I hope you are enjoying yourself."

"Thanks!" said Bertie, with a brief laugh. "Say, Doctor, you'll let me

know your plans?"

"Certainly--when they are ripe." The green eyes gleamed humorously.

"Aren't you thinking of introducing me to Mrs. Bertie?" he suggested.

"Yes, yes, of course. But you won't do anything without me?" urged

Bertie. "I should greatly like a talk with you, but I'm afraid it can't

be managed."

"I mightily doubt if you could tell me anything that I don't know

already," said Capper, "on any subject."

"It's about Luke," said Bertie anxiously.

"Just so. Well, I guess I know more about Luke than any other person on

this merry little planet."

"Do you think he looks worse?" whispered Bertie.

Capper's long, yellow hand fastened very unobtrusively and very forcibly

upon his shoulder. "One thing at a time, good Bertie!" he said. "Weren't

you going to present me to--your wife?"

CHAPTER III

THE WOMAN'S PART

It was on a day of wild autumnal weather, when the wind moaned like a

living thing in torture about the house, and the leaves eddied and

drifted before the scudding rain, that they turned Tawny Hudson out of

his master's room, and left him crouched and whimpering like a dog

against the locked door. Save for his master's express command, no power

on earth would have driven him away, not even Capper of the curt speech

and magnetic will. But the master had spoken very definitely and

distinctly, and it was Tawny Hudson's to obey. Therefore he huddled on

the mat, rocking to and fro, shivering like some monstrous animal in

pain, while within the room Capper wrought his miracles.

Downstairs Mrs. Errol sat holding Anne's hand very tightly, and talking

incessantly lest her ears should be constrained to listen. And Anne, pale

and still, answered her as a woman talking in her sleep.

Bertie and his young bride were still absent on their honeymoon; this

also by Lucas's express desire.

"It won't help me any to have you here, boy," he had said at parting. "A

certain fuss is inevitable, but I want you out of it. I am looking to

Anne Carfax to help the dear mother."

He had known even then that he would not look in vain, and he had not

been disappointed. So, sorely against his will, Bertie had submitted,

with the proviso that if things went wrong he should be sent for

immediately.

And thus Anne Carfax, who had lived in almost unbroken seclusion since

her husband's death, now sat with Mrs. Errol's hand clasped in hers, and

listened, as one listens in a nightmare, to the wailing of the wind about

the garden and house, and the beat, beat, beat of her heart when the wind

was still.

"Could you say a prayer, dear?" Mrs. Errol asked her once.

And she knelt and prayed, scarcely knowing what she said, but with a

passion of earnestness that left her weak, quivering in every limb.

The wind was rising. It roared in the trees and howled against the panes.

Sometimes a wild gust of rain lashed the windows. It made her think of an

unquiet spirit clamouring for admittance.

"Anne dear, play to me, play to me!" besought Mrs. Errol. "If I listen I

shall go mad! No one will hear you. We are right away from his part of

the house."

And though every nerve shrank at the bare suggestion, Anne rose without

a single protest and went to the piano. She sat down before it, and

blindly, her eyes wide, fixed, unseeing, she began to play.

What she played she knew not. Her fingers found notes, chords, melodies

mechanically.

Once she paused, but, "Ah, go on, dear child! Go on!" urged Mrs. Errol.

And she went on, feeling vaguely through the maze of suspense that

surrounded them, longing inarticulately to cease all effort, but spurred

onward because she knew she must not fail.

And gradually as she played there came to her a curious sense of duality,

of something happening that had happened before, of a record repeating

itself. She turned her head, almost expecting to hear a voice speak

softly behind her, almost expecting to hear a mocking echo of the words

unspoken. "Has the Queen no further use for her jester?" No further use!

No further use! Oh, why was she tortured thus? Why, when her whole soul

yearned to forget, was she thus compelled to remember the man whose

brutal passion and insatiable thirst for vengeance had caught and crushed

her heart?

And still she played on as one beneath a spell, while the memory of him

forced the gates of her consciousness and took arrogant possession. She

saw again the swarthy face with its fierce eyes, the haughty smile, which

for her was ever tinged with tenderness. Surely--oh, surely he had loved

her once! She recalled his fiery love-making, and thrilled again to the

eager insistence of his voice, the mastery of his touch. And then she

remembered what they said of him, that women were his slaves, his

playthings, the toys he broke in wantonness and carelessly tossed aside.

She remembered how once in his actual presence she had overheard words

that had made her shrink, a wonder as to who was his latest conquest, the

cynical remark: "Anyone for a change and no one for long is his motto."

What was he doing now, she asked herself, and trembled. He had gone

without word or message of any sort. Her last glimpse of him had been in

that violet glare of lightning, inexpressibly terrible, with tigerish

eyes that threatened her and snarling lips drawn back. Thus--thus had she

seen him many a time since in the long night-watches when she had lain

sleepless and restless, waiting for the dawn.

Some such vision came to her now, forcing itself upon her shrinking

imagination. Vividly there rose before her his harsh face alert, cruel,

cynical, and the sinewy hands that gripped and crushed. And suddenly a

shuddering sense of nausea overcame her. She left the piano as one

seeking refuge from a horror unutterable. Surely this man had never loved

her--was incapable of love! And she had almost wished him back!

"There is someone in the entry, dear child," whispered Mrs. Errol. "Go

and see--go and see!"

She went, moving as one stricken blind. But before she reached the door

it opened and someone entered. She saw Capper as through a mist in which

bodily weakness and anguished fear combined to overwhelm her. And then

very steadily his arm encircled her, drew her tottering to a chair.

"It's all right," he said in his expressionless drawl. "The patient has

regained consciousness, and is doing O.K. Are you ladies thinking of

lunch? Because if so, I guess I'll join you. No, Mrs. Errol, you can't

see him before to-night at the earliest. Lady Carfax, I have a message

for you--the first words he spoke when he came to. He was hardly

conscious when he uttered them, but I guess you'll be kind of interested

to hear what they were. 'Tell Anne,' he said, 'I'm going to get well.'"

The intense deliberation with which he spoke gave her time to collect

herself, but the words affected her oddly. After a moment she rose, went

to Mrs. Errol, who had covered her face with both hands while he was

speaking, and knelt beside her. Neither of them uttered a sound.

Capper strolled to the window, his hands deep in his pockets, and looked

out upon the wind-swept gardens. He whistled very softly to himself, as a

man well satisfied.

He did not turn his head till at the end of five minutes Anne came to his

side. She was very pale but quite self-possessed.

"Mrs. Errol has gone to her room," she said. "She wished to be alone."

"Gone to have a good cry, eh?" said Capper. "Healthiest thing she could

do. And what about you?"

She smiled with lips that faintly quivered. "I am quite all right,

Doctor. And--I have ordered luncheon."

He turned fully round and looked her up and down with lightning

swiftness. "You're a very remarkable woman, Lady Carfax," he said

after a moment.

"I hope you may never be disappointed in me," she answered gravely.

"I hope so too," he said, "for there is a good deal dependent upon you."

"What do you mean?" She raised her clear eyes interrogatively.

But he baffled her, as he baffled everyone, with the very keenness of his

own scrutiny. He began to crack all his fingers in turn.

"I mean," he said, "that even I can't work miracles by myself. I can do

the elementary part. I can cut and saw and sew, but I can't heal. I can't

give life. That's the woman's part. That's where I count on you. And I

don't think you are going to fail me, Lady Carfax."

"I promise you I will do my utmost," she said very earnestly.

He nodded. "I believe you will. But even so, you can't do too much. It's

a serious case, even more serious than I expected. I don't say this to

alarm you, but I guess you had better know it. It'll be a tough, uphill

fight, and he'll need a deal of pushing behind. It may entail more than

you dream of--a big sacrifice perhaps; who knows? But you women don't shy

at sacrifices. And, believe me, he's worth a sacrifice."

"He deserves the best," she said warmly.

"Yes, but you don't take me," said Capper.

He paused a moment, then suddenly laid a quiet hand on her shoulder. "I

may be a wise man," he said, "and again I may be a meddling fool. You and

the gods must decide between you. But I'm old enough to be your father

anyway. So p'r'aps you'll bear with me. Lady Carfax, hasn't it struck you

that a time will come--probably pretty soon--when he will begin to reach

out for something that you--and you alone--can give?"

Anne's quick gesture of protest was his answer. She stood motionless, her

eyes still raised, waiting for him to continue. But he felt her tremble

under his hand. He knew that inwardly she was not so calm as she would

have had him think.

He went on in his precise, emotionless fashion, as though he perceived

nothing. "He won't ask for it--anyway till he feels he can make a fair

return. He will never ask a sacrifice of you. He will break his heart

sooner. The point is, Are you capable of offering the sacrifice unasked?

For that is what it amounts to, now that the gods have cleared the way."

"Ah!" Anne said. "And--if--not?"

She spoke rather as if to gain time than because she desired an answer.

But he answered her nevertheless very quietly, without a shade of

emotion, as if he were discussing some technical matter of no personal

interest to him. Only as he answered he took his hand from her shoulder

and thrust it back into his pocket.

"In that case he will die, having nothing left to live for. He probably

won't suffer much, simply go out like a candle. He hasn't much vitality.

He may die either way. There is no responsibility attached--only

possibilities."

He turned with the words, and walked across the room with the air of a

man who has said his say.

She uttered no word to stop him, nor did she move to follow. She stood

alone with her face to the grey storm-clouds that drifted perpetually

overhead. Somehow she did not for a moment doubt the truth of what

Capper had just told her. She even felt sub-consciously that she had

known it for some time. Neither did she ask herself what she was going

to do. For deep in the heart of her she knew already. Deep in the heart

of her she knew that when Lucas Errol began to reach out for something

which she alone could give, it would not be in vain. He had given of his

best to her, and she was ready to give of her best in return. If she

could not give him passion, she could give him that which was

infinitely greater--a deep, abiding love, a devotion born of complete

sympathy. She could give him happiness, and in the giving she might find

it for herself.

Over in the west the clouds were breaking, and a shaft of pale sunshine

streamed upon the distant hills, turning the woods to living gold. Her

eyes brightened a little as they caught the radiance. It seemed as if the

door before which she had knelt so long in impotence were opening to her

at last, as if one more opportunity were to be given her even yet after

long and bitter failure of turning her corner of the desert into a garden

of flowers and singing birds.

CHAPTER IV

THE MESSAGE

It was nearly a month after Lucas Errol's operation that Bertie and his

bride came home from their honeymoon and began the congenial task of

setting their house in order.

Dot was thoroughly in her element. The minutest details were to her

matters of vital importance.

"We must make it comfy," she said to Bertie, and Bertie fully agreed.

He had relinquished his study of the law, and had resumed his secretarial

duties, well aware that Lucas could ill spare him. He was in fact Lucas's

right hand just then, and the burden that devolved upon him was no light

one. But he bore it with a cheerful spirit, for Lucas was making

progress. Despite his utter helplessness, despite the inevitable

confinement to one room, despite the weariness and the irksomeness which

day by day were his portion, Lucas was very gradually gaining ground.

Already he suffered less severely and slept more naturally.

His last words to Capper at parting had been, "Come again in the spring

and complete the cure. I shall be ready for you."

And Capper had smiled upon him with something approaching geniality and

had answered, "You'll do it, and so shall I. So long then!"

But the months that intervened were the chief stumbling-block, and Capper

knew it. He knew that his patient would have to face difficulties and

drawbacks that might well dismay the bravest. He knew of the reaction

that must surely come when the vitality was low, and progress became

imperceptible, and the long imprisonment almost unendurable. He knew of

the fever that would lurk in the quickening blood, of the torturing cramp

that would draw the unused muscles, of the depression that was its mental

counterpart, of the black despair that would hang like a paralysing

weight upon soul and body, of the _ennui_, of the weariness of life, of

the piteous weakness that nothing could alleviate.

He had to a certain extent warned Lucas what to expect; but the time for

these things had not yet arrived. He was hardly yet past the first stage,

and his courage was buoyed up by high hopes as yet undashed. He had faced

worse things without blenching, and he had not begun to feel the monotony

that Capper had dreaded as his worst enemy.

He took a keen interest in the doings of the young couple at the Dower

House, and Dot's breezy presence was ever welcome.

As for Anne, she went to and fro between Baronmead and the Manor, of

which her husband's will had left her sole mistress, no longer leading a

hermit's life, no longer clinging to her solitude, grave and quiet, but

not wholly unhappy. Those few words Capper had spoken on the day of

Lucas's operation had made a marvellous difference to her outlook. They

had made it possible for her to break down the prison-walls that

surrounded her. They had given her strength to leave the past behind her,

all vain regrets and cruel disillusionments, to put away despair and rise

above depression. They had given her courage to go on.

Of Nap no word was ever spoken in her presence. He might have been dead,

so completely had he dropped out of her life. In fact, he was scarcely

ever mentioned by anyone, a fact which aroused in Dot a curiously keen

indignation, but upon which a certain shyness kept her from commenting.

She kept him faithfully in mind, praying for him as regularly as she

prayed for old Squinny, who still lingered on with exasperating tenacity,

and continued to enjoy such help, spiritual or otherwise, as he could

extract from the parson's daughter.

That Bertie strongly disapproved of his brother she was aware, but she

held no very high opinion of Bertie's judgment, though even he could

scarcely have forbidden her to pray for the black sheep of the family.

She had not been brought up to rely upon anyone's judgment but her own,

and, deeply as she loved him, she could not help regarding her husband

as headlong and inclined to prejudice. He was young, she reflected, and

doubtless these small defects would disappear as he grew older. True, he

was nearly four years her senior; but Dot did not regard years as in any

degree a measure of age. It was all a question of development, she would

say, and some people--women especially--developed much more quickly than

others. She herself, for instance--At which stage of the argument Bertie

invariably said or did something rude, and the rest of her logic became

somewhat confused. He was a dear boy and she couldn't possibly be cross

with him, but somehow he never seemed to realise when she was in earnest.

Another of the deficiencies of youth!

Meanwhile she occupied herself in her new home with all the zest of the

young housewife, returned calls with commendable punctuality, and settled

down once more to the many parochial duties which had been her

ever-increasing responsibility for almost as long as she could remember.

"You are not going to slave like this always," Bertie said to her one

evening, when she came in late through a November drizzle to find him

waiting for her.

"I must do what I've got to do," said Dot practically, suffering him to

remove her wet coat.

"All very well," said Bertie, whose chin looked somewhat more square than

usual. "But I'm not going to have my wife wearing herself out over what

after all is not her business."

"My dear boy!" Dot laughed aloud, twining her arm in his. "I think you

forget, don't you, that I was the rector's daughter before I was your

wife? I must do these things. There is no one else to do them."

"Skittles!" said Bertie rudely.

"Yes, dear, but that's no argument. Let's go and have tea, and for

goodness' sake don't frown at me like that. It's positively appalling.

Put your chin in and be good."

She passed her hand over her husband's face and laughed up at him

merrily. But Bertie remained grave.

"You're wet through and as cold as ice. Come to the fire and let's get

off your boots."

She went with him into the drawing-room, where tea awaited them.

"I'm not wet through," she declared, "and I'm not going to let you take

off my boots. You may, if you are very anxious, give me some tea."

Bertie pulled up a chair to the fire and put her into it; then turned

aside and began to make the tea.

Dot lay back with her feet in the fender and watched him. She was looking

very tired, and now that the smile had faded from her face this was the

more apparent.

When he brought her her tea she reached up, caught his hand, and held it

for a moment against her cheek.

"One's own fireside is so much nicer than anyone else's," she said.

"We'll have a nice cosy talk presently. How is Luke to-day?"

"Not quite so flourishing. A brute of a dog howled in the night and woke

him up. He didn't get his proper sleep afterwards."

"Poor old Luke! What a shame!"

"Yes, it made a difference. He has been having neuralgia down his spine

nearly all day. I believe he's worrying too. I'm going back after dinner

to see if I can do anything. I manage to read him to sleep sometimes,

you know."

"Shall I come too?" said Dot.

"No." Bertie spoke with decision. "You had better go to bed yourself."

She made a face at him. "I shall do nothing of the sort. I shall sit up

and do the Clothing Club accounts."

Bertie frowned abruptly. "Not to-night, Dot."

"Yes, to-night. They have got to be done, and I can think better

at night."

"You are not to do them to-night," Bertie said, with determination. "I

will do them myself if they must be done."

"My dear boy, you! You would never understand my book-keeping. Just

imagine the muddle you would make! No, I must get through them myself,

and since I must spend the time somehow till you come home, why shouldn't

I do them to-night?"

"Because I forbid it," said Bertie unexpectedly.

He was standing on the rug, cup in hand. He looked straight down at her

with the words, meeting her surprised eyes with most unwonted sternness.

Dot raised her eyebrows as high as they would go, kept them so for

several seconds, then very deliberately lowered them and began to

stir her tea.

"You understand me, don't you?" he said.

She shook her head. "Not in the least. I don't think I have ever met you

before, have I?"

He set his cup upon the mantelpiece and went suddenly down on his knees

by her side. "I haven't been taking proper care of you," he said. "But

I'm going to begin right now. Do you know when you came in just now you

gave me an absolute shock?"

She laughed faintly, her eyes fixed upon her cup "I didn't know I was

looking such a fright."

"You can never look anything but sweet to me," he said. "But it's a fact

you're not looking well. I'm sure you are doing too much."

"I'm not doing any more than usual," said Dot, still intent upon the

drain of tea in her cup.

"Well, it's too much for you anyway, and I'm going to put a stop to it."

"Do you know how to read your fortune in tea leaves?" said Dot.

"No," said Bertie. With a very gentle hand he deprived her of this

engrossing pastime. "I want you to attend to me for a minute," he said.

Dot snuggled against him with a very winning gesture. "I don't want to,

Bertie, unless you can find something more interesting to talk about.

Really, there is nothing wrong with me. Tell me about Luke. Why is he

worrying?"

Bertie frowned. "He doesn't say so, but I believe he's bothered about

Nap. Heaven knows why he should be. He was supposed to go to Arizona, but

he didn't turn up there. As a matter of fact, if he never turned up again

anywhere it would be about the best thing that could possibly happen."

"Oh, don't, Bertie!" Dot spoke sharply, almost involuntarily. There was a

quick note of pain in her voice. "I don't like you to talk like that. It

isn't nice of you to be glad he's gone, and--it's downright horrid to

want him to stay away for ever."

"Good heavens!" said Bertie.

He was plainly amazed, and she resented his amazement, feeling that in

some fashion it placed her in a false position from which she was

powerless to extricate herself. The last thing she desired was to take up

the cudgels on Nap's behalf, nevertheless she prepared herself to do so

as in duty bound. For Nap was a friend, and Dot's loyalty to her friends

was very stanch.

"I mean it," she said, sitting up and facing him. "I don't think it's

right of you, and it certainly isn't kind. He doesn't deserve to be

treated as an outcast. He isn't such a bad sort after all. There is a

whole lot of good in him, whatever people may say. You at least ought

to know him better. Anyhow, he is a friend of mine, and I won't hear

him abused."

Bertie's face changed while she was speaking, grew stern, grew almost

implacable.

"Look here," he said plainly, "if you want to know what Nap is, he's a

damned blackguard, not fit for you to speak to. So, if you've no

objection, we'll shunt him for good and all!"

It was Dot's turn to look amazed. She opened her eyes to their widest

extent. "What has he done?"

"Never mind!" said Bertie.

"But I do mind!" Swiftly indignation swamped her surprise. "Why should I

shunt him, as you call it, for no reason at all? I tell you frankly,

Bertie, I simply won't!"

Her eyes were very bright as she ended. She sat bolt upright obviously

girded for battle.

Bertie also looked on the verge of an explosion, but with a grim effort

he restrained himself. "I have told you he is unworthy of your

friendship," he said. "Let that be enough."

"That's not enough," said Dot. "I think otherwise."

He bit his lip. "Well, if you must have it--so did Lady Carfax till she

found out her mistake."

"Lady Carfax!" Dot's face changed. "What about Lady Carfax?"

"She gave him her friendship," Bertie told her grimly, "and he rewarded

her with about as foul a trick as any man could conceive. You heard the

story of the motor breaking down that day in the summer when he took her

for a ride? It was nothing but an infernal trick. He wanted to get her

for himself, and it wasn't his fault that he failed. It was in

consequence of that that Lucas sent him away."

"Oh!" said Dot. "He was in love with her then!"

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

Dot's eyes expressed enlightenment. She seemed to have forgotten their

difference of opinion. "So that was why he was so cut up," she said. "Of

course--of course! I was a donkey not to think of it. What a mercy Sir

Giles is dead! Has anyone written to tell him?"

"No," said Bertie shortly.

"But why not? Surely he has a right to know? Lady Carfax herself

might wish it."

"Lady Carfax would be thankful to forget his very existence," said

Bertie, with conviction.

"My dear boy, how can you possibly tell? Are you one of those misguided

male creatures who profess to understand women?"

"I know that Lady Carfax loathes the very thought of him," Bertie

maintained. "She is not a woman to forgive and forget very easily.

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

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

"Yes, he belongs to the Phoenix Club, New York, if they haven't kicked

him out. But what of that? I'm not going to write to him. I don't want

him back, Heaven knows." There was a fighting note in Bertie's voice. He

spoke as if prepared to resist to the uttermost any sudden attack upon

his resolution.

But Dot attempted none; she abandoned the argument quite suddenly, and

nestled against his breast. "Darling, don't let's talk about it any

more! It's a subject upon which we can't agree. And I'm sorry I've been

so horrid to you. I know it isn't my fault that we haven't

quarrelled. Forgive me, dear, and keep on loving me. You do love me,

don't you, Bertie?"

"Sweetheart!" he whispered, holding her closely.

She uttered a little muffled laugh. "That's my own boy! And I'm going to

be so good, you'll hardly know me. I won't go out in the rain, and I

won't do the Clothing Club accounts, and I won't overwork. And--and--I

won't be cross, even if I do look and feel hideous. I'm going to be a

perfect saint, Bertie."

"Sweetheart!" he said again.

She turned her face up against his neck. "Shall I tell you why?" she

said, clinging to him with hands that trembled. "It's because if I let

myself get cross-grained and ugly now, p'r'aps someone else--some

day--will be cross-grained and ugly too. And I should never forgive

myself for that. I should always feel it was my fault. Fancy if it turned

out a shrew like me, Bertie! Wouldn't--wouldn't it be dreadful?"

She was half-laughing, half-crying, as she whispered the words. Bertie's

arms held her so closely that she almost gasped for breath.

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

wondered."

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

she was laughing.

"How bright of you, Bertie! You--you always get there sooner or later,

don't you? And you're not cross with me any more? You don't think me very

unreasonable about Nap?"

"Oh, damn Nap!" said Bertie, for the second time, with fervour.

"Poor Nap!" said Dot gently.

That evening, when Bertie was at Baronmead, she scribbled a single

sentence on a sheet of paper, thrust it into an envelope and directed it

to the Phoenix Club, New York.

This done, she despatched a servant to the postoffice with it and sat

down before the fire.

"I expect it was wrong of me," she said. "But somehow I can't help

feeling he ought to know. Anyway"--Dot's English was becoming lightly

powdered with Americanisms, which possessed a very decided charm on her

lips--"anyway, it's done, and I won't think any more about it. It's the

very last wrong thing I'll do for--ever so long." Her eyes grew soft as

she uttered this praiseworthy resolution. She gazed down into the fire

with a little smile, and gave herself up to dreams.

CHAPTER V

THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

"O God, give me rest!"

Painfully the words came through quivering lips, the first they had

uttered for hours. Lucas Errol lay, as he had lain for nearly three

months, with his face to the ceiling, his body stretched straight and

rigid, ever in the same position, utterly helpless and weary unto death.

Day after day he lay there, never stirring save when they made him bend

his knees, an exercise upon which the doctor daily insisted, but which

was agony to him. Night after night, sleepless, he waited the coming of

the day. His general health varied but little, but his weakness was

telling upon him. His endurance still held, but it was wearing thin. His

old cheeriness was gone, though he summoned it back now and again with

piteous, spasmodic effort. Hope and despair were fighting together in his

soul, and at that time despair was uppermost. He had set out with a brave

heart, but the goal was still far off, and he was beginning to falter. He

had ceased to make any progress, and the sheer monotony of existence was

wearing him out. The keen, shrewd eyes were dull and listless. At the

opening of the door he did not even turn his head.

And yet it was Anne who entered, Anne with the flush of exercise on her

sweet face, her hands full of Russian violets.

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

weren't asleep?"

"I never sleep," he answered, and he did not look at her or the violets;

he kept his eyes upon the ceiling.

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

"Don't you want to smell them?"

He moved his lips without replying, and she leaned down, her eyes full of

the utmost compassionate tenderness and held the violets to him. He

raised a hand with evident effort and fumblingly took her wrist. He

pressed the wet flowers against his face.

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

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

She smiled a little. "Should I have gathered all this quantity for

myself? It has taken me nearly an hour."

"You should have told the gardener," he said. "You mustn't go tiring

yourself out over me. I'm not worth it." He added, with that kindly

courtesy of which adversity had never deprived him, "But I'm real

grateful all the same. You mustn't think me unappreciative."

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

"Ah, yes," he said. "Put them near me. I shall smell them if I can't see

them. Do you mind closing the window? I can't get warm to-day."

She moved to comply, passing across his line of vision. A moment she

stood with the keen sweet air blowing in upon her, a tall, gracious

figure in the full flower of comely womanhood, not beautiful, but

possessing in every line of her that queenly, indescribable charm which

is greater than beauty.

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

Softly she closed the window and turned. She came back to her chair

by his side, drew forward a little table, and began deftly to arrange

her flowers.

Several seconds passed before Lucas broke the silence. "It does me good

to watch you," he said. "You're always so serene."

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

higher virtues?"

"I do," he said simply. "It's such a restful contrast to the

strenuousness of life. You make me feel just by looking at you that

everything's all right. You bring a peaceful atmosphere in with you,

and"--his voice sank a little--"you take it away again when you go."

The smile went out of her grey eyes at his last words, but the

steadfastness remained. "Then," she said gently, "I must come more often

and stay longer."

But he instantly negatived that. "No--it wouldn't be good for you. It

wouldn't be good for me either to get to lean on you too much. I should

grow exacting."

She saw a gleam of his old smile as he spoke, but it was gone at once,

lost among the countless lines that pain and weariness had drawn of late

upon his face.

"I don't think that is very likely," Anne said. "I can't imagine it."

"Not yet perhaps. I haven't quite reached that stage. Maybe I shall be

down and out before it comes. God grant it!"

The words were too deliberate to cause her any shock. They were,

moreover, not wholly unexpected. There followed a short silence while she

finished arranging her violets. Then very quietly she spoke:

"You say that because you are tired."

"I am more than tired," he answered. "I'm done. I'm beaten. I'm whipped

off the field."

"You think you are not gaining ground?" she questioned.

"My dear Lady Carfax," he said quietly, "it's no use closing one's eyes

to the obvious. I'm losing ground every day--every night."

"But you are not fighting," she said.

"No." He looked at her half-wistfully from under his heavy eyelids. "Do

you think me quite despicable? I've done my best."

She was silent. Perhaps she was not fully prepared to cope with this open

admission of failure.

"I've done my best," he said again. "But it's outlasted my strength. I'm

like a man hanging on to the edge of a precipice. I know every instant

that my grip is slackening, and I can't help it. I've got to drop."

"You haven't done your best yet," Anne said, her voice very low. "You've

got to hold on to the very end. It may be help is nearer than you think."

"But if I don't want help?" he said. "If it would be more merciful to

let me go?"

Again she was silent.

"You know," he said, "life hasn't many inducements. I've put up a fight

for it because I gave my promise to Nap before he went. But it isn't good

enough to keep on. I can't win through. The odds are too great."

"Do you think Nap would let you stop fighting?" she said.

He smiled again faintly. "I suppose--if he were here--I should subsist on

his vitality for a little while. But the end would be the same. Even he

can't work miracles."

"Don't you believe in miracles?" Anne said.

He looked at her interrogatively.

"Mr. Errol," she said, "I am going to remind you of something that I

think you have forgotten. It was Dr. Capper who told me. It was when you

were recovering consciousness after the operation. You sent me a message.

'Tell Anne,' you said, 'I am going to get well.'" She paused a moment,

looking at him very steadily. "I don't know why exactly you sent that

special message to me, but I have carried it in my heart ever since."

She had moved him at last. She saw a faint glow spread slowly over the

tired face. The heavy eyes opened wide to meet her look.

"Did I say that?" he said. "Yes, I had forgotten."

He was silent for a little, gazing full at her with the eyes of one

suddenly awakened.

She lowered her own, and bent her face to the violets. Though she had

spoken so quietly it had not been without effort. She had not found

it easy. Nor did she find his silence easy, implicitly though she

trusted him.

Perhaps he understood, for when he spoke at length there was in his

voice so reassuring a gentleness that on the instant her

embarrassment passed.

"Anne," he said, "do you really want me to get well? Would such a miracle

make much difference to you?"

"It would make all the difference in the world," she answered earnestly.

"I want it more than anything else in life."

With the words she raised her eyes, found his fixed upon her with an

expression so new, so tender, that her heart stirred within her as a

flower that expands in sudden sunshine, and the next moment his hand lay

between her own, and all doubt, all hesitation had fled.

"But, my dear," he said, "I always thought it was Nap. Surely it was

Nap!"

She felt as if something had stabbed her. "No, never!" she said

passionately. "Never! It might have been--once--before I knew him. But

never since, never since!"

"That so?" said Lucas Errol, and was silent for a little. Then,

"Anne"--and the soft drawl had in it a tremor that was almost a break--"I

guess I do believe in miracles after all, dear. Anyway," he began to

smile, "there are some things in life too mighty for explanation."

His face was turned towards her. There was something in the look it wore

that seemed to her in some fashion superb. He was different from other

men. That quiet kingliness of his was so natural to him, so sublimely

free from arrogance. He was immeasurably greater than his fellows by

reason of the very smallness of his self-esteem.

"Guess I must take up my burden again and step out," he said. "You won't

catch me slacking any after this. And--if I don't win out, dear, you'll

know that it just wasn't possible because God didn't will it so."

"Oh, but you will!" she said, clasping his hand more closely. "You will!

God knows how badly I want you."

"His Will be done!" said Lucas Errol. "But I want you too, dearest. I

want you too."

His fingers stirred in her hold. It was the merest movement, but she

knew his meaning. She slipped to her knees by his side, leaned down and

kissed him.

CHAPTER VI

A VOICE THAT CALLED

Christmas came and went--the most peaceful Christmas that Anne had ever

known. A wonderful peace had indeed begun to possess her. It was as if

after long tossing she had come at last into quiet waters, and a

contentment such as she had never known before was hers. Her health had

improved in this calm, untroubled atmosphere. She slept without dreaming.

She had put all regrets and fears out of her life.

Lucas filled all her thoughts. Had he allowed it, she would have devoted

herself exclusively to him, but this he would not have. Very slowly, very

painfully, he had struggled out of his Slough of Despond, and what that

struggle had meant to him none but himself would ever know. And now that

he had made it, and in a measure succeeded, he suffered scarcely less

than before. His strength was undoubtedly greater, his spirits were more

even; but these were the only visible signs of improvement. The long,

sleepless nights with spells of racking pain continued. Perhaps they

became less frequent as time went on, but they did not cease.

Anne always knew, though the same brave smile greeted her every day,

when he had been through one of these ordeals. He was always so ready

to tell her when the news was good, but when it was otherwise his lips

were sealed upon the subject. He never uttered a desponding word in

her presence.

But still, gradual, often halting though it was, he did make progress. He

went forward more than he slipped back. And ever he carried in his eyes

the light of a great hope. She knew that he did not despair, even in his

own hidden soul.

And day by day her love and admiration for the man grew and spread,

filling her life, renewing her youth, transforming her very existence.

Day by day she sounded greater depths of a nature that made her feel

infinitely small in comparison. Day by day she marvelled afresh at the

greatness and the simplicity that went to the making of this man's soul.

No one, save Mrs. Errol, knew of what had passed between them. They

scarcely referred to it even in private. There was no need, for the

understanding between them was complete. By mutual consent they awaited

the coming of Capper and the final miracle.

Slowly the dark, bitter days of January dragged away. The Hunt Ball had

been postponed till the following month when the Town Hall, which had

been building all the winter, should be complete. Anne, to her dismay,

had been unanimously elected to perform the opening ceremony. Her

position as Lady of the Manor made her prominent, and, no substitute

being forthcoming, she had been obliged reluctantly to consent. Her deep

mourning enabled her to avoid any succeeding social function, but, since

she had broken her seclusion, she found it impossible to escape the

ceremony itself.

She had never enjoyed social prominence, and she was thankful that at the

Hunt Ball at least her presence could not be expected. She never thought

of the last that she had attended without a shiver. It had been her

birthday, and this fact brought it to mind the more persistently. This

year she spent the day in the peaceful atmosphere of Baronmead, driving

home at length, through the frosty starlight, in the Errols' car.

She strove as she went to put away from her the memory of that other ride

of a year ago, when she had been borne swiftly through the darkness as

though upon wings, when she had lain back exhausted in her corner and

dreamed a strange, vivid dream, while Nap had sat upright beside her,

alert, silent, inscrutable, plucking the gloves to tatters between his

restless hands.

The vision would not be excluded, strive though she might. She leaned

amongst the cushions and closed her eyes, trying to trick herself to

drowsiness, but on the instant he was there beside her again, a

ruthless, indomitable presence, which would not be ignored. She was glad

when she came to her journey's end.

Entering the hall, she gathered up a few letters that lay there, and went

straight to her room. With a feeling of unwonted fatigue she dropped into

an easy-chair and sat for awhile inert. On her right hand she wore a ring

that Lucas had given her only that day.

He had half-apologised for his offering. "If you think it premature,

don't wear it!" he had said.

And she had slipped it on to her right hand and worn it ever since.

She recalled the kindling of his tired eyes at her action, and smiled

sadly to herself. How little she had to give him after all! And yet he

was content!

Sitting there, she raised her hand and looked closely at the gift. It was

a complete circle of diamonds. She had never seen such a ring before. It

must have cost a fortune. She wondered if she ought to wear it. Again

memory began to crowd upon her, strive though she would.

"Do you like diamonds?" asked a casual voice.

Her hand fell into her lap. She sat as one watching a scene upon a stage,

rapt and listening. She wanted to rise and move away, to break the magic

spell that bound her, to flee--to flee--but she was powerless.

"No," said the voice. "You haven't a passion for anything at present.

You will have soon."

There fell a silence in her soul, a brief darkness, then again words, no

longer casual, but quick, burning, passionate.

"I am mad--I am mad for you, Anne! Goddess--queen--woman--you are

mine--you are mine--you are mine!" And then, less fiery, less vehement,

but infinitely more compelling: "Where is your love for me? I will swear

that you loved me once!"

The voice ceased, was lost in the wild throbbing of her heart, and Anne's

hands clenched unconsciously. In that moment there came to her the

conviction, inexplicable but extraordinarily vivid, that across the world

Nap Errol had called to her--and had called in vain.

Minutes passed. She sat as one in a trance. Her eyes were wide and fixed.

Her face was grey.

She rose at last and stood looking down into the red depths of the

fire. The coals sank together under her eyes, and a sudden flame flared

fiercely for a moment and died. It was like the opening and the

shutting of a furnace door. A long, long shiver went through her. She

turned away....

Anne Carfax did not look in her glass again that day. For the third time

in her life she was afraid to meet her own eyes.

And all night long her brain thrummed like a vibrating wire to a voice

that sometimes pleaded but more often gibed. "Has the Queen no further

use for her jester?"

CHAPTER VII

THE UNINVITED GUEST

Spring came early that year, and the day fixed for the opening of the

Baronford Town Hall was brilliantly fine and warm. Anne was staying at

Baronmead for the event. The end of February was approaching. Lucas was

decidedly better. His sleep was becoming less broken. He suffered

considerably less; and he took a keen interest in all that passed.

On the morning before the ceremony he greeted Anne with an eagerness

that almost amounted to impatience. "Come in! Come in! I've something to

show you."

He was alone. She went to his side and kissed him.

His hands caught hers, and she marvelled at the strength of his grip.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I've had a letter from Capper."

She felt the blood ebb suddenly from her face. She stood a moment in

silence, then sat down and pressed his hand close against her heart.

"What does he say?" she asked.

He looked at her oddly for a few seconds. Then: "It's good news, dear,"

he said. "You mustn't let it scare you."

She began to smile, though her lips were trembling. "No, of course not.

Tell me what he says."

He gave her the letter and she read. Capper wrote that he had received an

excellent report from Dr. Randal of his patient's progress, that he

expected to be in England in about a fortnight and would come down

himself to ascertain if the time for the second operation had arrived. He

wrote in a cheery strain, and at the end of the letter was a postscript:

"Have you taken my advice yet with regard to _la femme_?"

"An ancient joke," explained Lucas with a smile. "He told me long ago

that I should need a woman's help to pull me through. And"--his voice

dropped--"I guess he was right."

The colour came back to her face. She pressed his hand without speaking.

"I shouldn't be here now but for you, Anne," he said, his blue eyes

watching her. "I sometimes think it must have been a mortal strain upon

you. Have you felt it so very badly, I wonder?"

She met his look with eyes grown misty. "Luke--my dearest--you have done

far greater things for me. You have kept me from starvation. You have no

idea what you are to me."

The words came brokenly. She checked a sudden sob and, rising, moved to

the window.

Lucas lay silent, but his eyes watched her with a great tenderness.

When she came back to him she was smiling. "Have you ever begun to think

of what you will do when you are well?" she said.

"I am thinking of it always," he answered. "I make wonderful pictures for

myself sometimes. You are the central figure of them all."

She clasped his hand again in hers. "Lucas," she said, "will you

take me away?"

"Yes, dear," he said.

"Far away from anywhere I have ever been before?" Her voice shook a

little. "I want to begin life over again where everything is new."

A certain shrewdness gleamed in the steady eyes that watched her, but it

was mingled with the utmost kindness.

"I guess I'd better show you my best picture right now," he said. "It's

got a steam yacht in it, and a state cabin fit for a queen. And it goes

rocking around the world, looking for the Happy Islands. I guess we shall

find them some day, sweetheart--maybe sooner than we think."

"Ah, yes," she said. "We won't stop looking till we do. How soon shall we

start, Luke?"

He answered her with a smile, but there was a thrill of deep feeling in

his words. "Just as soon as I can stand on my feet like any other man,

Anne, and hold the woman I love in my arms."

She bent her face suddenly, pressing her cheek to the hand she held. "I

am ready for you when ever you will," she murmured.

"I know it," he said. "And God bless you for telling me so!"

He was full of kindness to her that day, and she thought him cheerier

than he had been all the winter. When she bade him good-bye that

afternoon he seemed in excellent spirits. Yet after she was gone he lay

for a long while staring at the specks of dust that danced in a shaft of

sunlight, with the air of a man seeking the solution of a problem that

baffled him. And once very suddenly he sighed.

Anne went through the ordeal of publicity with less embarrassment than

she had anticipated. Mrs. Errol was with her, and she was surrounded by

friends. Even Major Shirley deigned to look upon her with a favourable

eye. Bertie was hunting, but Dot was present to view the final

achievement of her favourite scheme.

She seized the first opportunity to slip her arm through Anne's. "Do--do

come home with me to tea," she whispered very urgently. "I want to show

you some things I have been making. And make the dear mater come too, if

someone else doesn't snap her up first."

But the dear mater was already snapped up, and Anne had some difficulty

in avoiding a like fate.

Eventually, however, she succeeded in making her escape, and she and Dot

drove back to the Dower House, congratulating themselves.

"I am lucky to get you all to myself," Dot said. "And do you know, dear

Lady Carfax, you are looking simply lovely to-day?"

Anne smiled a little. She had discarded her widow's veil for the first

time, and she felt like a woman emerging from a long imprisonment. People

would call it premature, she knew. Doubtless they were already discussing

her not too charitably. But after all, why should she consider them? The

winter was past and over, and the gold of the coming spring was already

dawning. Why should she mourn? Were not all regrets put away for ever?

"I wish you would call me Anne, Dot," she said.

"To be sure I will," said Dot, with shining eyes. "I never liked the name

before I knew you. And now I love it."

There was something wonderfully genuine and childlike about Dot, a

youthfulness that would probably cling to her all her life. Anne drew her

on to speak of herself and her coming happiness, which she did with that

cheery simplicity of hers that had first drawn Bertie to her.

"He makes a tremendous fuss," she said, displaying Bertie's favourite

dimple at the thought. "I don't, you know. I somehow feel it's going to

be all right. But it's rather nice being petted for months together. I

haven't had a tantrum for ages. I'm afraid I'm getting spoilt."

At which piece of logic Anne could not repress a smile.

"He won't be home to tea," said Dot, when they finally turned in at the

Dower House. "He stables his hunters at Baronmead, and he is sure to go

in and see Luke. So we shall have it all to ourselves. I'm so glad, for I

have been wanting your advice for days. I wonder if anyone has been.

Hullo! Bertie's back after all!"

A glow of firelight met them from the little square hall as they

entered, and a smell of cigarette smoke mingled with the scent from the

burning logs.

Dot stood back for her guest to precede her, but Anne stood

suddenly still.

"Hullo!" said Dot again.

A slim, straight figure was standing outlined against the firelight. Dot

stared as she stepped forward.

"Why--Nap!" she said incredulously.

He made a swift, elastic movement to meet her, caught her hands, laughed,

and kissed her.

"Why--Dot!" he said.

Dot continued to stare. "Good gracious!" she said.

And in the doorway Anne stood like a statue, the soft spring dusk

behind her.

"My sister seems surprised," said Nap. "I hope I haven't come at an

unlucky moment."

He did not even glance towards the silent figure in the doorway. It was

as if he had not observed it.

"I am surprised," said Dot. "Hugely surprised. But I'm very glad to see

you," she added. "When did you come?"

"I have been here about half an hour," he told her coolly. "I went to the

Rectory first, where I learned for the first time of your marriage. You

forgot to mention that detail when you wrote. Hence my brotherly salute,

which you must have missed on your wedding-day!"

At this point Dot remembered her other guest, and turned with flushed

cheeks. "Lady Carfax--Anne--you--you know my brother-in-law Nap?"

The pleading in her voice was unmistakable. She was evidently agitated,

wholly at a loss how to manage a most difficult situation.

But Nap hastened to relieve her of the responsibility. He had dealt

with difficult situations before. He went straight to Anne and stood

before her.

"Are you going to know me, Lady Carfax?" he asked.

There was no arrogance in voice or bearing as he uttered the question. He

looked as if he expected to be dismissed, as if he were ready at a word

to turn and go. His eyes were lowered. His foot was already on the

threshold.

But Anne stood speechless and rigid. For those few seconds she was as one

stricken with paralysis. She knew that if she moved or tried to speak she

would faint.

She wondered desperately how long it would be before he looked up, if

perhaps he would go without looking at her, or if--ah, he was speaking

again! His words reached her as from an immense distance. At the same

instant his hands came to her out of a surging darkness that hid all

things, grasping, sustaining, compelling. She yielded to them, scarcely

knowing what she did.

"Lady Carfax has been overtiring herself," she heard him say. "Have you

any brandy at hand?"

"Oh, dear Lady Carfax!" cried Dot in distress. "Make her sit down, Nap.

Here is a cushion. Yes, I'll go and get some."

Guided by those steady hands, Anne sank into a chair, and there

the constriction that bound her began to pass. She shivered from

head to foot.

Nap stooped over her and chafed her icy hands. He did not look at her or

speak. When Dot came back, he took the glass from her and held it very

quietly to the quivering lips.

She drank, responsive to his unspoken insistence, and as she did so, for

a single instant she met his eyes. They were darkly inscrutable and gave

her no message of any sort. She might have been accepting help from a

total stranger.

"No more, please!" she whispered, and he took the glass away.

The front door was still open. He drew it wider, and the evening air blew

in across her face. Somewhere away in the darkness a thrush was warbling

softly. Nap stood against the door and waited. Dot knelt beside her,

holding her hand very tightly.

"I am better," Anne said at last. "Forgive me, dear child. I suppose it

has been--too much for me."

"My dear, dear Anne!" said Dot impulsively. "Would you like to come into

the drawing-room? There is tea there. But of course we will have it here

if you prefer it."

"No," Anne said. "No. We will go to the drawing-room."

She prepared to rise, and instantly Nap stepped forward. But he did not

offer to touch her. He only stood ready.

When he saw that she had so far recovered herself as to be able to move

with Dot's assistance, he dropped back.

"I am going, Dot," he said. "You will do better without me. I will look

in again later."

And before Dot could agree or protest he had stepped out into the

deepening twilight and was gone.

CHAPTER VIII

THE HEART OF A SAVAGE

It had certainly been a successful afternoon. Mrs. Errol smiled to

herself as she drove back to Baronmead. Everything had gone well. Dear

Anne had looked lovely, and she for one was thankful that she had

discarded her widow's weeds. Had not her husband been virtually dead to

her for nearly a year? Besides--here Mrs. Errol's thoughts merged into a

smile again--dear Anne was young, not much more than a girl in years.

Doubtless she would marry again ere long.

At this point Mrs. Errol floated happily away upon a voyage of day-dreams

that lasted till the car stopped. So engrossed was she that she did not

move for a moment even then. Not until the door was opened from outside

did she bestir herself. Then, still smiling, she prepared to descend.

But the next instant she checked herself with a violent start that nearly

threw her backwards. The man at the step who stood waiting to assist her

was no servant.

"My!" she gasped. "Is it you, Nap, or your ghost?"

"It's me," said Nap.

Very coolly he reached out a hand and helped her to descend. "We have

arrived at the same moment," he said. "I've just walked across the park.

How are you, alma mater?"

She did not answer him or make response of any sort to his greeting. She

walked up the steps and into the house with leaden feet. The smile had

died utterly from her face. She looked suddenly old.

He followed her with the utmost composure, and when she stopped proceeded

to divest her of her furs with the deftness of movement habitual to him.

Abruptly she spoke, in her voice a ring of something that was almost

ferocity. "What have you come back for anyway?"

He raised his eyebrows slightly without replying.

But Mrs. Errol was not to be so silenced. Her hands fastened with

determination upon the front of his coat. "You face me, Napoleon Errol,"

she said. "And answer me honestly. What have you come back for? Weren't

there enough women on the other side to keep you amused?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Women in plenty--amusement none. Moreover, I

didn't go to be amused. Where is Lucas?"

"Don't you go to Lucas till I've done with you," said Mrs. Errol. "You

come right along to my room first."

"What for?" He stood motionless, suffering her restraining hands, the

beginning of a smile about his lips.

"There's something I've got to tell you," she said.

"Lead the way then, alma mater!" he said. "I am very much at your

service."

Mrs. Errol turned without further words, and he, with her sables

flung across his shoulder, prepared to follow. She moved up the

stairs as if she were very weary. The man behind her walked with the

elasticity of a cat.

But there was no lack of resolution about her when in her own room she

turned and faced him. There was rather something suggestive of a mother

animal at bay.

"Nap," she said, and her deep voice quivered, "if there's any right

feeling in you, if you are capable of a single spark of affection, of

gratitude, you'll turn around right now and go back to the place you

came from."

Nap deposited his burden on the back of a chair. His dark face was devoid

of the faintest shadow of expression. "That so?" he drawled. "I thought

you seemed mighty pleased to see me."

"Lock that door!" said Mrs. Errol. "Now come and sit here where you can

see my face and know whether I am telling the truth."

He smiled at that. "I don't require ocular evidence, alma mater. I have

always been able to read you with my eyes shut."

"I believe you have, Nap," she said, with a touch of wistfulness.

"It isn't your fault," he said, "that you weren't made subtle enough.

You've done your best."

He came and sat down facing her as she desired. The strong electric light

beat upon his face also, but it revealed nothing to her anxious

eyes--nothing save that faint, cynical smile that masked so much.

She shook her head. She was clasping and unclasping her hands restlessly.

"A very poor best, Nap," she said. "I know only too well how badly I've

failed. It never seemed to matter till lately, and now I would give the

eyes out of my head to have a little influence with you."

"That so?" he said again.

She made a desperate gesture. "Yes, you sit there and smile. It doesn't

matter to you who suffers so long as you can grab what you want."

"How do you know what I want?" he said.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Errol. "I only surmise."

"And you think that wise? You are not afraid of tripping up in the dark?"

She stretched out her hands to him in sudden earnest entreaty. "Nap, tell

me that it isn't Anne Carfax, and I'll bless you with my dying breath!"

But he looked at her without emotion. He took her hands after a moment,

but it was the merest act of courtesy. He did not hold them.

"And if it were?" he said slowly, his hard eyes fixed on hers.

She choked back her agitation with the tears running down her face. "Then

God help Lucas--and me too--for it will be his death-blow!"

"Lucas?" said Nap.

He did not speak as if vitally interested, yet she answered as if

compelled.

"He loves her. He can't do without her. She has been his mainstay all

through the winter. He would have died without her."

Nap passed over the information as though it were of no importance. "He

is no better then?" he asked.

"Yes, he is better. But he has been real sick. No one knows what he has

come through, and there is that other operation still to be faced. I'm

scared to think of it. He hasn't the strength of a mouse. It's only the

thought of Anne that makes him able to hold on. I can see it in his eyes

day after day--the thought of winning out and making her his wife."

Again he passed the matter over. "When does Capper come again?"

"Very soon now. In two or three weeks. There was a letter from him

to-day, Lucas was quite excited about it, but I fancy it upset dear Anne

some. You see--she loves him too."

There fell a silence. Mrs. Errol wiped her eyes and strove to compose

herself. Somehow he had made her aware of the futility of tears. She

wondered what was passing in his mind as he sat there sphinx-like,

staring straight before him. Had she managed to reach his heart, she

wondered? Or was there perchance no heart behind that inscrutable mask to

reach? Yet she had always believed that after his own savage fashion he

had loved Lucas.

Suddenly he rose. "If you have quite done with me, alma mater, I'll go."

She looked up at him apprehensively. "What are you going to do?"

He smiled abruptly. "I am going to get a drink."

"And what then?" she asked feverishly. "Nap, oh, Nap, she is staying in

the house. Won't you go without seeing her?"

"I have seen her already," drawled Nap.

"You have seen her?"

His smile became contemptuous. "What of it? Do you seriously suppose she

is the only woman in the world I care to look at?"

"I don't know what to think," cried Mrs. Errol. "I only know that you

hold Luke's fate between your hands."

He was already at the door. He turned and briefly bowed. "You flatter me,

alma mater!" he said.

And with the smile still upon his lips he left her.

CHAPTER IX

THE DIVINE SPARK

"Boney, old chap, you're the very man I want!" Such was Lucas Errol's

greeting to the man who had shot like a thunderbolt into the peaceful

atmosphere that surrounded him, to the general disturbance of all others

who dwelt therein.

"I guess you must have known it," he said, the sinewy hand fast gripped

in his. "You've come like an answer to prayer. Where have you been all

this time? And why didn't you write? It's worried me some not hearing."

"Great Lucifer!" said Nap.

He sat down, leaving his hand in his brother's grasp. The cynicism had

gone utterly from his face, but he did not answer either question.

"So you are winning out?" he said. "It's been a long trail, I'll wager."

"Oh, damnably long, Boney." Lucas uttered a weary sigh. "I was nearly

down and out in the winter. But I'm better, you know. I'm better." He

met the open criticism of Nap's eyes with a smile. "What's the

verdict?" he asked.

"I'll tell you presently. You're not looking overfed anyway." Nap's

fingers began to feel along his wrist. "Did Capper say he wanted a

skeleton to work on?"

"Shucks, dear fellow! There's more than enough of me. Tell me about

yourself. What have you been doing? I want to know."

"I?" Nap jerked back his head. "I've nothing to tell," he declared.

"You know what I went to do. Well, I've done it, and that's all there

is to it."

"I'm not quite clear as to what you went to do," Lucas answered. "You

didn't turn up in Arizona. I was puzzled what to think."

"You never expected me to go to Arizona," said Nap with conviction. "You

were shrewd enough for that."

"Thanks, Boney! P'r'aps I was. But I've been hoping all this while,

nevertheless, that you might have the grit to keep the devil at

arm's length."

Nap laughed, stretched his arms above his head, and made a vehement

gesture as if flinging something from him--something that writhed

and clung.

"Will it interest you to know that the devil has ceased to provide me

with distractions?" he asked suddenly.

A certain eagerness came into the blue eyes. "That so, Boney?"

Nap leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "It's no virtue of mine," he

said. "I found I wanted solitude, so I went to the Rockies and stayed

there till I was tired. That's all."

Again the skeleton hand of the man on the bed sought and pressed his.

"Old chap, I'm real glad," the tired voice drawled. "You've found

yourself at last. I always felt you would--sooner or later."

Nap's lips twitched a little. "Don't be too sure of that. Anyway it

doesn't follow that I shall sit at home and practise the domestic

virtues. I've got to wander a bit first and find my own level."

"Not yet, dear fellow. I'm wanting you myself."

"You!" The thin lips began to smile. "That's real magnanimous of you.

But--thanks all the same--I'm not taking any. You have the mater and

Bertie and Anne Carfax to bolster you up. I guess I'm not essential."

"And I guess you can do more for me than any one of them," Lucas made

quiet reply. "P'r'aps you'll think me a selfish brute to say so, but I

need you badly. You're like a stimulating drug to me. You pick me up when

I'm down. There is no one can help me in the same way."

"You wouldn't get Capper to say 'Amen' to that," remarked Nap.

"Capper is no oracle out of his own sphere. Besides," there was almost a

note of pleading in Lucas's voice, "I know what I want better than he

can tell me."

"True, very true!" Nap was smiling somewhat grimly. "And doubtless your

wish is law. But it doesn't follow that you always desire what is best

for yourself. Hadn't you better consult the queen before you admit the

wasp to the hive?"

"You're too fond of talking in parables, my son," protested Lucas,

frowning slightly. "My intelligence won't stretch to it."

"We'll try another," said Nap imperturbably. "Do you think Anne Carfax

would thank you for asking me to pull in the same boat? Do you think she

would second that request? Because, if so, I beg to differ."

He looked his brother full in the face as he said it, without the flicker

of an eyelid. Lucas's frown deepened. He lay in silence.

After a moment Nap went on. "She may be ready to put up with it for your

sake. There's nothing some women won't do for a man they care for, and I

take it she has your welfare next her heart. But it's rather much to ask

of her. You wouldn't want to run the risk of frightening her away."

Lucas was watching him gravely, his brows still drawn. "Boney," he said

slowly at length, "I'd give a good deal to see into your soul."

Nap smiled with a faint return of cynicism. "Who's talking in parables

now? Afraid I can't show you what I haven't got."

Lucas passed the rejoinder by. "What makes you conclude that I am more

to her than--any other man?"

"Circumstances," said Nap.

"What circumstances?"

"Finding her installed here as one of the family for one. Finding you

pulling off the biggest deal of your life for another. And other

signs--crowds of them--that I can't explain but that I can't fail to

notice when I've got my nose to the trail. You needn't be shy about it.

I'm just as pleased as you are."

But Lucas's face did not clear. There followed a very decided pause.

Then, with an effort, very earnestly, he spoke.

"Nap, I don't believe you'll lie to me when I tell you that I'd rather

die than be deceived. I know you cared for her once."

"I care for most women," said Nap indifferently. "What of that? It's the

way I'm made, and I must say they don't most of 'em seem to mind."

"But, Boney--Anne Carfax?"

Nap threw up his head with a brief laugh. "Oh, I'm cured of that--quite

cured. The paths of perpetual virtue are not for me. I prefer more rapid

travelling and a surer goal."

He stood up, his arms stretched up above his head. "I make you a present

of Anne Carfax," he said lightly. "Not that she is mine to give. But I

wouldn't keep her if she were. We belong to different spheres."

"And yet--" Lucas said.

"My dear fellow, that's an old story." Impulsively Nap cut in, almost

fierily. "Do you think the woman is living who could hold me after

all this time? I tell you that fire is burnt out. Why rake over the

dead ashes?"

"I am looking for the Divine Spark," Lucas answered quietly.

"And if you found it?" Nap's words came through smiling lips, and yet

they sounded savage.

"If I found it," very steadily came the answer, "I would blow it to a

flame, Boney, for your sake--and hers."

"For hers?" Something fierce showed in Nap's eyes. It was as if a goaded

animal suddenly looked out of them.

Lucas must have seen it, for on the instant his manner changed.

"We won't go any further," he said. "Only, dear fellow, I can't part with

you yet. Let that be understood. I want you."

"So be it!" said Nap. "I will stay and see you married."

And with the words he stooped and grasped his brother's hand for a

moment.

"Go on and prosper, Luke," he said. "It's high time that you came into

your own."

CHAPTER X

THE QUEEN'S PARDON

As soon as Anne entered Baronmead that evening she was aware of a

difference. Bertie, with a thunderous countenance, came forward to

meet her. She had not seen him wear that look in all the months of

Nap's absence.

"The prodigal has returned," he told her briefly. "P'r'aps you know."

She did not pretend to misunderstand him. She had schooled herself to

face the situation without shrinking.

"Yes, I know," she said. "I met him at your house an hour ago."

"At my house!" For a single instant Bertie looked downright murderous,

and then the sight of Anne's pale face made him restrain himself.

"He didn't stay," she said rather wearily. "What of Luke? Has he

seen him?"

"Can't understand Luke," muttered Bertie. "He's actually pleased. Say,

Lady Carfax, would it help any if I were to stop and dine?"

"No," Anne said, smiling a little. "Go back to Dot, won't you? She is

expecting you."

She saw that he was glad to follow her suggestion, and she was

undoubtedly glad to see him go. He was plainly in an explosive mood.

Mrs. Errol came to her room while she was dressing. But Mrs. Errol had

had ample time to compose herself. She showed no agitation, and spoke of

Nap's unexpected arrival as if she were quite indifferent to his comings

and goings; but she hovered about Anne with a protecting motherliness

that did not need to express itself in words. When they went downstairs

she held Anne's arm very closely.

But the ordeal that both were mutely dreading did not take place that

night. Nap did not present himself at the dinner-table, and they dined

alone in unspoken relief.

Anne went to Lucas as usual when the meal was over, but she thought he

seemed tired and she did not remain with him long.

He kept her hand for a moment when she stooped to bid him good-night.

"Anne," he said gently, "I just want you to know, dear, that Nap will be

all right. Don't be anxious any. There is no need."

He desired to reassure her, she saw; and she bent and kissed him. And

then for a moment a queer gust of passion possessed her, shook her from

head to foot.

"Oh, Luke," she whispered, "can't you send him away again?"

He looked up at her oddly, with eyes that seemed to see beyond her. And

then, "Good-night, dear," he said, as if he had not heard.

She turned from him in silence. It was the first time she had ever

appealed to Lucas Errol in vain.

She went to her room early that night. She told herself she must leave on

the morrow. She was urged by a deep unrest. She could not remain under

the same roof with this man who had once so cruelly tortured her. She

could not. Lucas must understand this. He must never ask it of her,

never--never!

She did not in the least understand the latter's attitude. The more she

thought of it, the more it troubled her. She felt as if he had suddenly

ceased to be on her side, had, as it were, shut off his sympathy and left

her groping and alone. It was not like him to treat her thus. It hurt her

subtly, wounding her as she had never expected to be wounded, shaking her

faith in what she had ever believed to be immutable. And then she

remembered the physical weakness with which he had wrestled so long, and

a great pity flooded her heart. She would not let herself be hurt any

longer. Was he not reserving his strength for her sake? And could she

not, for his, face bravely this sudden obstacle that had arisen in her

path? Moreover, had he not told her that all would be well? And he had

said it as one who knew. Why, then, was she harbouring this wild dismay?

Why? Why? She asked the question, but she did not seek the answer. She

dared not.

And yet in the morning she went down with a calm aspect, resolute and

unafraid. Once more she was compelling herself to do simply that which

lay nearest to her hand.

Nap came out of a room near the foot of the stairs as she descended.

He scarcely looked at her, but quite obviously he had been awaiting

her coming.

"May I have two words with you before you join the mater?" he asked.

With her whole soul she wanted to refuse. Yet without visible hesitation

she yielded. She turned aside into the room he had just quitted.

He followed, and, closing the door, came forward to the table. It was

littered with guns and cleaning apparatus. He had evidently been

employing himself while he waited, and he at once took up an oily rag and

resumed operations, his swarthy face bent over his task, his lips very

firmly compressed.

Anne waited for a moment or two. His attitude puzzled her. She had become

so accustomed to the fierce directness of his stare that its absence

disconcerted her.

"What is it you wish to say to me?" she asked at length.

At the first sound of her voice he ceased to work, but still he did not

raise his eyes.

"On my own account--nothing," he said, speaking very deliberately. "But

as my sojourn here may be an offence to you, I think it advisable to

explain at the outset that I am not a free agent. My brother has

decreed it, and as you know"--a hint of irony crept into his voice--"his

will is my law."

"I understand," said Anne gravely, but even as she spoke she was asking

herself what possible motive had prompted this explanation.

He jerked up his head and she caught the glint of his fiery eyes for an

instant. "You--care for Lucas, Lady Carfax?" he said.

Her heart gave a sudden throb that hurt her intolerably. For a moment she

could not speak.

Then, "Yes," she said. "I love him."

Nap was pulling mechanically at the rag he held. It began to tear between

his hands. She watched him ripping it to shreds.

Suddenly he seemed to realise what he was doing, and tossed it from him.

He looked her straight in the eyes.

"Have you fixed the date for your coronation?" he asked.

Her eyes fell instantly. "Will you tell me what you mean?" she said.

"Is my meaning obscure?"

She compelled herself to answer him steadily. "If you mean our marriage,

it will not take place for some time, possibly not this year."

"Why not?" said Nap. "Are you a slave to etiquette?"

The thing sounded preposterous on his lips. She faintly smiled. "The

decision does not lie with me."

"Ah!" he said shrewdly. "The privilege of kings! You will still be a

queen before you are thirty. And your first act will be to expel the

court jester--if he waits to be expelled."

She saw his grim smile for an instant, and knew that he was playing his

old fencing game with her, but at the same time she knew that there was

no antagonism behind his point. How the knowledge came to her she could

not have said, but she realised afterwards that it was at that moment

that she began to perceive that the devil had gone out of Nap Errol. The

conviction was slow in growing, but it was then that it first took root;

it was then that her fear of the man began to die away.

She raised her eyes. "Why should I do that, Nap?"

He made her a deep bow. "Because I have been unfortunate enough to incur

your displeasure."

There was a moment of silence, then, in obedience to that instinct to

which in rare moments she yielded herself and which never played her

false, Anne held out her hand to him. "I forgive you," she said.

He started. He evidently had not expected that from her. Perhaps he had

not wanted it. Later she wondered. But he showed no awkwardness of

indecision. Only once had she ever seen him at a loss, and of that once

she would never voluntarily think again.

He took her hand upon his sleeve and bent over it. She thought he was

going to kiss it, and a sharp dread went through her. But he only touched

it for a single instant with his forehead.

"For Luke's sake?" he said, not looking at her.

"For your own," she made answer, almost as if she could not help herself.

"Because?" he questioned.

"Because I know you love him," she said. "Because I know that you will be

loyal to him."

"Though I may be false to you?" he said.

She bent her head. "I am only a woman. I am afraid your experience of

women has not taught you to respect them."

He picked up the gun again and fell to work upon it. "My experience of

one woman at least," he said, "has taught me--something different,

something I am not likely to forget."

It was the end of the interview. In silence Anne turned to go. He wheeled

round and opened the door for her, but he did not look at her again, nor

she at him. When the door closed between them she felt as if a great

silence had fallen in her life.

CHAPTER XI

SOMETHING GREAT

On the day succeeding Nap's return Dot went to tea at Baronmead. She was

a very constant visitor there. Lucas always enjoyed her bright presence

and welcomed her with warmth. But Dot was not feeling very bright that

day. She looked preoccupied, almost worried.

She found that Mrs. Errol and Anne had gone out, and, as her custom was

when she found the house deserted, she went straight to her

brother-in-law's room.

Tawny Hudson answered her knock at the outer door, and she was struck by

the lowering look the great half-breed wore. His expression was

positively villainous, and sharp as a pin-prick there darted through her

the memory of her first visit to Baronmead, and the hatred of Nap Errol

she had that day seen revealed in the man's eyes. She had never given the

matter a thought since. To-day it awoke to life, stirring within her a

vague apprehension.

"How is your master, Tawny?" she asked.

"He is not so well, madam," said Tawny Hudson, but he opened the door

wide notwithstanding, inviting her to enter.

She went in. The room adjoined that in which Lucas lay, and Hudson was

always there when not actually in attendance upon his master, except in

his off hours, which were as few as Lucas would permit.

"May I see him?" said Dot. "Or would he rather not be disturbed?"

Hudson stepped to the closed door and listened, his great red head bent

almost to the keyhole.

After a few moments he stood up and softly turned the handle. He made a

brief sign to her and passed noiselessly into the room.

Dot remained where she was. She heard Lucas accost him at once, and

caught the murmur of the man's low-spoken reply. And then in a moment

Hudson came back to her.

"Will you go in, madam?" he said, in his careful English that always made

her think of an animal that had been taught to speak.

She went in, treading lightly, relieved to leave the man's heavy scowling

visage behind her.

"Come right in," said Lucas hospitably. "It's real good of you to come

and see me like this."

She took his outstretched hand, looking at him anxiously. She saw that he

had not slept for many hours. Though he smiled at her, there was a grey

look about his lips that made her wonder if he were in pain.

"Sit down," he said gently. "It's nothing. Only another bad night. I

can't expect to sleep soundly always."

"How disappointing!" Dot murmured.

"Not surprising though. I had an exciting day yesterday. You heard of

Nap's return?"

"Yes." There was a very decided cloud upon Dot's face. "I saw him."

"Well?" said Lucas.

She turned to him impulsively. "Isn't it horrid when the thing you've

been planning for and wanting ever so long happens and everyone else

is cross?"

The blue eyes looked quizzical. "Very, I should say," said Lucas. "Would

it be presumptuous to ask what has been happening and who is cross?"

Dot's answering smile held more of pathos than mirth. Her lips took a

quivering, downward droop. "It's Nap," she said.

He raised his brows a little. "Nap seems the general pivot on which all

grievances turn," he remarked.

Dot leaned her chin on her hand. "I do so hate making mistakes," she

said.

"We all do it," said Lucas.

"Oh, you don't!" She turned and gravely regarded him. "You are always

wise," she said, "never headlong."

"Which only demonstrates your ignorance and the kindness of your heart,"

said Lucas. "But go on, won't you? What has Nap been doing?"

"Oh, nothing. Nap is all right. It isn't Nap I mind." Again that doleful

droop of the lips became apparent, together with a little quiver of the

voice undeniably piteous. "It--it's Bertie," whispered Dot. "I--I--it's

very ridiculous, isn't it? I'm a wee bit afraid of Bertie, do you know?"

"St. Christopher!" said Lucas, in astonishment.

"Yes. But you won't ever tell him, will you?" she pleaded anxiously.

"If--if he knew or guessed--all my prestige would be gone. I shouldn't

be able to manage him at all. He--he is rather difficult to manage

sometimes, don't you think?"

Lucas was frowning slightly. "I guess I can manage him," he said.

"No doubt you could. I expect you always have. He respects you," said

Dot, with unwitting wistfulness.

Lucas turned his head and looked at her very steadily. "Will you tell me

something, Dot?" he said.

She nodded.

"Why are you afraid of Bertie?"

She hesitated.

"Come!" he said. "Surely you're not afraid of me too!"

The banter in his voice was touched with a tenderness that went straight

to Dot's young heart. She leaned down impetuously and held his hand.

"No," she said tremulously. "I'm not such a little idiot as that, Luke.

I'm afraid of Bertie because I've done something he wouldn't like. It's

a very little thing, Luke. It is, really. But--but it's bothered me off

and on all the winter. And now that Nap is home, I feel much worse--as

if--as if it had been really wrong. And--and"--she broke down

suddenly--"I know I ought to tell him. But--I can't."

"Tell me," said Lucas gently.

"And you will tell him for me?"

"If you wish me to do so."

"I don't like it," sobbed Dot. "It's so despicable of me. I've wanted to

tell him for ever so long. But he has been so good to me all this time,

and--and somehow I couldn't face it. We haven't even squabbled for months

now. It--it seemed such a pity to spoil everything when it really didn't

make any difference to anyone if he knew or not."

"Don't cry," interposed Lucas. "It would hurt Bertie if he knew."

"Dear Bertie!" whispered Dot. "Isn't it horrid of me to be such a coward?

I haven't done anything really wrong either. In fact at the time it

seemed almost right."

"Almost!" said Lucas, faintly smiling.

She smiled also through her tears. "Why don't you call me a humbug? Well,

listen! It was like this. One night in the beginning of the winter Bertie

and I had a disagreement about Nap. It wasn't at all important. But I had

to stick up for him, because I had chanced to see him just before he

left in the summer--you remember--when he was very, very miserable?"