CHAPTER I
THE JESTER'S RETURN
The gradual coming of spring that year was like a benediction after theprolonged rigour of the frost. The lengthening evenings were wrapped inpearly mystery, through which the soft rain fell in showers of blessingupon the waiting earth. To Anne, it was as though a great peace haddescended upon all things, quelling all tumult. She had resolutely takenup her new burden, which was so infinitely easier than the old, and shefound a strange happiness in the bearing of it. The management of herhusband's estate kept her very fully occupied, so that she had no timefor perplexing problems. She took each day as it came, and each day lefther stronger.
Once only had she been to Baronmead since the masquerade on the ice. Itwas in fulfilment of her promise to Nap, but she had not seen him; and asthe weeks slipped by she began to wonder at his prolonged silence. Forno word of any sort reached her from him. He seemed to have forgotten hervery existence. That he was well again she knew from Lucas, who oftencame over in the motor with his mother.
As his brother had predicted he had made a rapid recovery; but no soonerwas he well than he was gone with a suddenness that surprised no one butAnne. She concluded that his family knew where he was to be found, but nonews of his whereabouts reached her. Nap was the one subject upon whichneither Mrs. Errol nor her elder son ever expanded, and for some namelessreason Anne shrank from asking any questions regarding him. She wasconvinced that he would return sooner or later. She was convinced that,whatever appearances might be, he had not relinquished the bond offriendship that linked them. She did not understand him. She believed himto be headlong and fiercely passionate, but beneath all there seemed toher to be a certain stability, a tenacity of purpose, that nocircumstance, however tragic, could thwart. She knew, deep in the heartof her she knew, that he would come back.
She would not spend much thought upon him in those days. Somethingstood ever in the path of thought. Invariably she encountered it, andas invariably she turned aside, counting her new peace as too preciousto hazard.
Meanwhile she went her quiet way, sometimes aided by Lucas, but moreoften settling her affairs alone, neither attempting nor desiring tolook into the future.
The news of Sir Giles's illness spread rapidly through the neighbourhood,and people began to be very kind to her. She knew no one intimately. Herhusband's churlishness had deprived her of almost all social intercourse,but never before had she realised how completely he was held responsiblefor her aloofness.
Privately, she would have preferred to maintain her seclusion, but it wasnot in her to be ungracious. She felt bound to accept the ready sympathyextended to her. It touched her, even though, had the choice been hers,she would have done without it. Lucas also urged her in his kindlyfashion not to lead a hermit's existence. Mrs. Errol was insistent uponthe point.
"Don't you do it, dear," was her exhortation. "There may not be much goodto be got out of society, I'll admit. But it's one better than solitude.Don't you shut yourself up and fret. I reckon the Lord didn't herd ustogether for nothing, and it's His scheme of creation anyway."
And so Anne tried to be cordial; with the result that on a certainmorning in early May there reached her a short friendly note from Mrs.Damer, wife of the M.F.H., begging her to dine with them quite informallyon the following night.
"There will only be a few of us, all intimate friends," the note said."Do come. I have been longing to ask you for such an age."
Anne's brows drew together a little over the note. She had always likedMrs. Damer, but her taste for dinner-parties was a minus quantity. Yetshe knew that the invitation had been sent in sheer kindness. Mrs. Damerwas always kind to everyone, and it was not the fashion among her circleof friends to disappoint her.
Anne considered the matter, contemplated an excuse, finally rejected it,and wrote an acceptance.
She wore the dress of shimmering green in which she had appeared at theHunt Ball. Vividly the memory of that night swept across her. She had notworn it since, and scarcely knew what impulse moved her to don it now. Itwell became her stately figure. Dimsdale, awaiting her departure at thehall-door, looked at her with the admiring reverence he might havebestowed upon a queen.
Again, during her drive through the dark, the memory of that winter nightflashed back upon her. She recalled that smooth, noiseless journey inwhich she had seemed to be borne upon wings. She recalled her misery andher weariness, her dream and her awakening. Nap had been very good to herthat night. He had won her confidence, her gratitude, her friendship. Hisreputation notwithstanding, she had trusted him fully, and she had notfound him wanting. A faint sigh rose to her lips. She was beginning tomiss this friend of hers.
But the next moment she had drawn back sharply and swiftly, as if shehad encountered an angel with a flaming sword. This was the path downwhich she would not wander. Why should she wish to do so? There were somany other paths open to her now.
When she stepped at length from the carriage her face was serene andquiet as the soft spring night behind her.
Upstairs she encountered the doctor's wife patting her hair before amirror. She turned at Anne's entrance.
"Why, Lady Carfax! This is indeed a pleasure. I am so glad to seeyou here."
There was genuine pleasure in her voice, and Anne remembered with a smilethat Mrs. Randal liked her.
They chatted as she removed her wraps, and finally descended together,Mrs. Randal turning at the head of the stairs to whisper: "There's thathorrid old gossip, Major Shirley. I know he will fall to my lot. Healways does. How shall I direct the conversation into safe channels?"
Anne could only shake her head. She knew that Mrs. Randal was notcelebrated for discretion.
Entering the drawing-room, they found Major Shirley with his wife anddaughter, Ralph and Dot Waring, and the doctor, assembled with their hostand hostess.
Mrs. Damer glanced at the clock after greeting them. "The Errolsare late."
Anne chanced to be speaking to Dot at the moment, and the girl's magicchange of countenance called her attention to the words. She wondered ifher own face changed, and became uneasily aware of a sudden quickening ofthe heart. Quietly she passed on to speak to the Shirleys. The majorlooked her up and down briefly and offensively as his manner was, and sheescaped from his vicinity as speedily as possible. His wife, a powdered,elderly lady, sought to detain her, but after a few moments Anne verygently detached herself, accepting the seat which young Ralph Waringeagerly offered her.
There followed a somewhat lengthy and by no means easy pause.Conversation was spasmodic. Everyone was listening for the arrival of thelast guests, and when after some minutes there came the rush of wheelsunder the window and the loud hoot of a motor everyone jumped. Mrs.Damer, who had talked hard through the silences, made no comment butlooked unutterably relieved.
Dot openly and eagerly watched the door, and Anne with a conscious effortsuppressed an inclination to do likewise.
When it opened she looked up quite naturally, and surely no one suspectedthe wild leaping of her heart.
Nap entered--sleek, trim, complacent; followed by Bertie, whose brownface looked unmistakably sullen.
"Sorry we are late," drawled Nap, "Bertie will make our excuses."
But Bertie said nothing, and it was left to Mrs. Damer to step intothe breach.
She did so quite gallantly, if somewhat clumsily. "I am very pleased tosee you, Nap; but, you know, it was your brother whom we expected. Ididn't so much as know that you were at home."
"Oh, quite so," smiled Nap. "Don't apologise--please!" He bent slightlyover her hand. "So good of you not to mind the exchange. I know I am apoor substitute. But my brother is entertaining an old friend who hasarrived unexpectedly, so I persuaded him to send me in his place. Hecharged me with all manner of excuses and apologies, which I have notdelivered since I know them to be unnecessary."
Mrs. Damer found it impossible not to smile at his calm effrontery, eventhough she knew Major Shirley to be frowning behind her back.
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"When did you return?" she asked. "Someone said you were in the States."
"I was," said Nap. "I returned half an hour ago; hence our late arrival,for which I humbly beg to apologise, and to entreat you not to blameBertie, who, as you perceive, is still speechless with suspense."
"Oh, you Americans!" laughed Mrs. Damer. "You are never at a loss. Do letus go in to dinner. No, Nap! The doctor will take me. Will you take MissWaring? But you won't be able to sit together. You have disarranged allmy plans, so I shall treat you as of no importance."
"Miss Waring won't quarrel with either you or me on that account,"commented Nap, as he offered his arm to the rector's daughter withironical courtesy. "Come along, Miss Waring! Shut your eyes and bolt me.It will soon be over."
Dot was young enough to make a face at him, but the hard stare with whichhe countered it reduced her almost instantly to confusion. Whereupon hetransferred his attention and looked at her no more.
But compensation was in store for her, for at the dinner-table she foundherself placed between Bertie and the doctor, a pleasing situation inwhich she speedily recovered her spirits, since the doctor talked to hishostess, and Bertie's partner, Mrs. Shirley, strenuously occupied theattention of her host, who was seated on her other side.
Major Shirley fell as usual to Mrs. Randal, over which circumstance Anne,catching a tragic glance from the latter, failed somewhat conspicuouslyto repress a smile.
"Yes, it's mighty funny, isn't it?" said Nap, and with a sharp start shediscovered that he was seated upon her right.
"I--didn't see you," she faltered.
"No?" he said coolly. "Well, it's all right. I was told to sithere--obviously decreed by the gods. You'll think me uncanny if I tellyou that it was just this that I came for."
"You are uncanny," she said.
He made her a brief bow. It seemed to her that a mocking spirit gleamedin his eyes. She had never felt less confident of him, less at her easewith him, than at that moment. She felt as if in some subtle fashion,wholly beyond her comprehension, he were playing some deep-laid game, asif he were weaving some intricate web too secret and too intangible to beunderstood or grappled with. Upon one point only was she quite clear. Hewould suffer no reference to their last meeting. Whatever the effect ofthat terrible punishment upon him, he did not choose that she should seeit. She had seen him in the utmost extremity of his humiliation, but sheshould never see the scars that were left.
This much of his attitude she could understand, and understanding couldpardon that part which baffled her. But she could not feel at her ease.
"And so you are afraid," said Nap. "That's a new thing for you."
She glanced round the table. In the general hubbub of talk they were asisolated as though they were actually alone together.
"No," she said. "Why should I be afraid? But--I feel as if I am talkingto--a stranger."
"Perhaps you are," said Nap.
He uttered a laugh she could not fathom, and then with a certainrecklessness: "Permit me to present to your majesty," he said, "the Knaveof Diamonds!"
There was that in his tone that hurt her vaguely, little as sheunderstood it. She smiled with a hint of wistfulness.
"Surely I have met him before!" she said.
"Without knowing him," said Nap.
"No," she maintained. "I have known him for a long while now. I believehim to be my very good friend."
"What?" he said.
She glanced at him, half startled by the brief query; but instantly shelooked away again with a curious, tingling sense of shock. For it was toher as though she had looked into the heart of a consuming fire.
"Aren't you rather behind the times?" he drawled. "That was--as yousay--a long while ago."
The shock passed, leaving her strangely giddy, as one on the edge ofinconceivable depth. She could say no word in answer. She was utterly andhopelessly at a loss.
With scarcely a pause Nap turned to Violet Shirley, who was seated on hisright, and plunged without preliminary into a gay flirtation to which allthe world was at liberty to listen if it could not approve. Ralph Waring,thus deprived of his rightful partner, solaced himself with Mrs. Randal,who was always easy to please; and the major on her other side relapsedinto bearish gloom.
It was with unspeakable relief that Anne rose at length from thatdinner-table. She had a deep longing to escape altogether, to go back tothe quiet Manor, where at least all was peace. He had hurt her moresubtly than she could have deemed possible. Had his friendship reallymeant so much to her? Or was it only her pride that suffered to think hevalued hers so lightly? It seemed that he was fickle then, fickle aseveryone declared him to be. And yet in her heart she did not for amoment believe it. That single glimpse she had had, past the gibing devilin his eyes, deep into the man himself, had told her something different.
He hated her then, he hated her as the cause of his downfall. This seemedthe more likely. And yet--and yet--did she really believe this either?
"Dear Lady Carfax, do play to us!" urged her hostess. "It will be such atreat to hear you."
She rose half-mechanically and went to the piano, struck a few chords andbegan to play, still so deep in her maze of conjecture that she hardlyknew what she had chosen.
Mrs. Randal came to sit near her. Mrs. Shirley edged close to Mrs. Damerand began to whisper. The two girls went softly into the conservatory.
Anne's fingers played on. Now and then Mrs. Randal spoke to her, thankedher or begged her to continue. But presently she moved away and Anne didnot miss her. She was far too deeply engrossed in her own thoughts.
"Lady Carfax!"
She started, every nerve suddenly on the alert.
"Don't stop playing!" he said, and as it were involuntarily shecontinued to play.
"I am coming to see you to-morrow," he went on. "What time would you likeme to call?"
She was silent. But the blood had risen in a great wave to her face andneck. She could feel it racing in every vein.
"Won't you answer me?" he said. "Won't you fix a time?"
There was that in his voice that made her long earnestly to see his face,but she could not. With a great effort she answered:
"I am generally at home in the afternoon."
"Then will you be out to the rest of the world?" he said.
She stilled the wild tumult of her heart with desperate resolution. "Ithink you must take your chance of that."
"I am not taking any chances," he said. "I will come at the fashionablehour if you prefer it. But--"
He left the sentence unfinished with a significance that was moreimperious than a definite command.
Anne's fingers were trembling over the keys. Sudden uncertainty seizedher. She forgot what she was playing, forgot all in the overwhelmingdesire to see his face. She muffled her confusion in a few soft chordsand turned round.
He was gone.
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