The Knave of Diamonds Part 30

"You are--wonderful," he said.

And the words comforted her subtly though she did not know exactly what he meant by them.

Thereafter they scarcely spoke at all. By slow degrees he recovered his self-command, though she knew with only too keen a perception how intolerable was the pain that racked his whole body. With her a.s.sistance and with strenuous effort he managed at last to get upon his feet, but he was immediately a.s.sailed afresh by deadly faintness, and for minutes he could stand only by means of her arms upholding him.

Later, with his one available arm across her shoulders, he essayed to walk, but it was so ghastly an ordeal that he could accomplish only a few steps at a time.

Anne did not falter now. She was past that stage. All her nerves were strung to meet his pressing need. Again and again as he hung upon her, half-fainting, she stopped to support him more adequately till he had fought down his exhaustion and was ready to struggle on again. She remained steadfast and resolute throughout the long-drawn-out agony of that walk over the snow.

"Great Heaven!" he muttered once. "That you should do this--for me!"

And she answered him quickly and pa.s.sionately, as though indeed there were something within that spoke for her, "I would do anything for you, Nap."

It was drawing near to sunset when at last the end of the journey came in sight. Anne perceived the car waiting in the distance close to the spot where Nap had descended upon her that morning.

She breathed a sigh of thankfulness. "I scarcely thought he would have waited for you so long," she said.

"He daren't do otherwise," said Nap, and she caught a faint echo of arrogance in the words.

And then of his own free will he paused and faced her. "You are coming with me," he said.

She shook her head. "No, Nap."

His eyes blazed redly. His disfigured face was suddenly devilish. "You are mad if you go back," he said.

But she shook her head again. "No, I know what I am doing. And I am going back now. But I will come to Baronmead in the morning."

He looked at her. "Are you--tired of life?" he asked abruptly.

She smiled--a piteous smile. "Very, very tired!" she said. "But you needn't be afraid of that. He will not touch me. He will not even see me to-night." Then, as he still looked combative, "Oh, please, leave this matter to my judgment! I know exactly what I am doing. Believe me, I am in no danger."

He gave in, seeing that she was not to be moved from her purpose.

They went a few yards farther; then, "In Heaven's name--come early to Baronmead," he said jerkily. "I shall have no peace till you come."

"I will," she promised.

The chauffeur came to meet them with clumsy solicitude as they neared the car, but Nap kept him at a distance.

"Don't touch me! I've had a bad fall skiing. It's torn me to ribbons.

Just open the door. Lady Carfax will do the rest!" And as the man turned to obey, "Not a very likely story, but it will serve our turn."

"Thank you," she said very earnestly.

He did not look at her again. She had a feeling that he kept his eyes from her by a deliberate effort of the will.

Silently she helped him into the car, saw him sink back with her m.u.f.f still supporting his injured arm, whispered a low "Good-bye!" and turned to the waiting chauffeur.

"Drive him quickly home," she said. "And then go for a doctor."

Not till the car was out of sight did she realise that her knees were shaking and refusing to support her. She tottered to a gate by the roadside, and there, clinging weakly with her head bowed upon her arms, she remained for a very long time.

CHAPTER XX

THE VISION

It was growing dusk when Anne at length came to the Manor. She was utterly weary and faint from lack of food. The servant who admitted her looked at her strangely, as if half afraid.

"Please have tea taken to my sitting-room," she said quietly, as she pa.s.sed him.

And with that she went straight to her room. Standing before a mirror to remove her hat, she caught sight of something that seemed to stab her heart. The cream cloth coat she wore was all spattered with blood.

She stood rigid, not breathing, staring into the white face above it--the white face of a woman she hardly knew, with compressed lips and wild, tragic eyes. What was it those eyes held? Was it hatred? Was it madness? Was it--?

She broke away horror-stricken, and stripped the coat from her with hands like ice. Again through her mind, with feverish insistence, ran those words that had startled her earlier in the day. She found herself repeating them deliriously, under her breath: "I beheld Satan--as lightning--fall from heaven!"

Why did they haunt her so? What was it in the utterance that frightened her? What meaning did they hold for her? What hidden terror lay behind it? What had happened to her? What nightmare horror was this clawing at her heart, lacerating, devouring, destroying? It was something she had never felt before, something too terrible to face, too overwhelming to ignore.

Was she going mad, she asked herself? And like a dreadful answer to a riddle inscrutable her white lips whispered those haunting unforgettable words: "I beheld Satan--as lightning--fall from heaven."

Mechanically she bathed her face and hands and pa.s.sed into her sitting-room, where her tea awaited her. A bright fire crackled there, and her favourite chair was drawn up to it. The kettle hissed merrily on a spirit-lamp.

Entering, she found, somewhat to her surprise, old Dimsdale waiting to serve her.

"Thank you," she said. "I can help myself."

"If your ladyship will allow me," he said deferentially.

She sat down, conscious of a physical weakness she could not control. And the old butler, quiet and courteous and very grave, proceeded to make the tea and wait upon her in silence.

Anne lay back in her chair with her eyes upon the fire, and accepted his ministrations without further speech. There was a very thorough understanding between herself and Dimsdale, an understanding established and maintained without words.

The tea revived her, and after a little she turned her head and looked up at him.

"Well, Dimsdale?"

Dimsdale coughed. "It was about Sir Giles that I wanted to speak to your ladyship."

"Well?" she said again.

"Sir Giles, my lady, is not himself--not at all himself," Dimsdale told her cautiously. "I was wondering just before you came in if I didn't ought to send for the doctor."

"Why, Dimsdale?" Anne looked straight up into the old man's troubled face, but her eyes had a strangely aloof expression, as though the matter scarcely touched her.