The Knave of Diamonds Part 7

"Are you wondering if I take one lump or two? I take neither, and no milk, please."

Against her will she faintly smiled.

"I thought that was it," said Nap. "Why didn't you ask me? Are these scones in the fender? May I offer you one?"

He dropped upon his knees to pick up the dish, and in that att.i.tude humbly proffered it to her.

She found it impossible to remain ungracious. She could only seat herself at the tea-table and abandon the attempt.

"Sit down and help yourself," she said.

He pulled a large ha.s.sock to him and sat facing her. "Now we can be sociable," he said. "Really, you know, you ought to hunt more often. I have never seen you in the field once. What on earth do you do with yourself?"

"Many things," said Anne.

"What things?" he persisted.

"I help my husband to the best of my ability with the estate and try to keep an eye on the poorest tenants. And then I practise the piano a good deal. I haven't time for much besides."

"I say, do you play?" said Nap, keenly interested. "I do myself, a little, not the piano--the violin. Lucas likes it, or I suppose I should have given it up long ago. But I generally have to manage without an accompaniment. There is no one can accompany at our place. It's a bit thin, you know, playing by yourself."

Anne's face reflected his interest. "Tell me more about it," she said.

"What sort of music do you care for?"

"Oh, anything, from Christmas carols to sonatas. I never play to please myself, and Lucas has very varied tastes."

"He is your elder brother?" questioned Anne.

"Yes, and one of the best." Nap spoke with unwonted feeling. "He is hopelessly crippled, poor chap, and suffers infernally. I often wonder why he puts up with it. I should have shot myself long ago, had I been in his place."

"Perhaps he is a good man," Anne said.

He shot her a keen glance. "What do you mean by a good man?"

"I mean a man who does his duty without shirking."

"Is that your ideal?" he said, "There are plenty of men that do that, and yet their lives are anything but blameless."

"Quite possibly," she agreed. "But if a man does his duty, he has not lived in vain. It can be no man's duty to destroy himself."

"And how would you define 'duty'?" said Nap.

She let her eyes meet his for a moment. "I can only define it for myself," she said.

"Will you do so for my benefit?" he asked.

A faint colour rose to her face. She looked past him into the fire. There was a deep sadness about her lips as she made reply.

"I have not been given much to do. I have to content myself with 'the work that's nearest.'"

Nap was watching her closely. "And if I did the same," he questioned in a drawl that was unmistakably supercilious, "should I be a good man?"

"I don't know what your capabilities are," she said.

"I have vast capabilities for evil," he told her, with a cynical twist of his thin-lipped mouth.

She met his look again. "I am sorry," she said.

"Are you really? But why? Doesn't the devil attract you? Honestly now!" He leaned forward, staring straight at her, challenging her. "I tell you frankly," he said, "I am not what you would call a good man.

But--the truth, mind!--would you like me any better if I were?"

She smiled a little. There was undoubted fascination in the upturned face with its fiery eyes and savage jaw. Perhaps the lips were cruel, but they were not coa.r.s.e. They were keenly sensitive.

She did not answer him immediately, and during the pause his eyes never flinched from hers. They were alive, glowing with insistence.

"Yes," she said at length. "Quite honestly, I do prefer good men."

"That wasn't exactly what I asked," said Nap, thrusting out his chin.

"I think you are capable of drawing your own conclusions," she answered gently.

His look fell away from her. He began to munch scone with a contemplative air.

Anne gave him some tea, and he set it on the hearthrug between his feet. The silence became lengthy. She was conscious of something in the atmosphere that made her vaguely uneasy. Was it a cat he resembled, crouching there in front of her? No, there was nothing domestic about him though she had a feeling that he could purr when he was pleased.

Yes, there was undoubtedly something feline about him, a supple grace, a noiselessness, a guile, that made her aware of the necessity for caution in her dealings with him. This was a man of many subtleties--she knew it instinctively--a man of tigerish temperament, harmless as a kitten in sunshine, merciless as a fiend in storm. Yes, he was certainly like a tiger, forcible even in repose. She had never before encountered so dominant a personality. It affected her strangely, half-attracting, half-repelling, arousing in her a sense of antagonism that yet was not aversion.

"I wish you would say all that out loud," said Nap. "You have such interesting thoughts, it is really selfish of you not to express them."

"Surely not," she said, "if you know what they are."

He gave her an odd look as he lifted his tea-cup.

"The Queen's jester is a privileged person," he said. "When the door of her pleasaunce is closed to him he climbs up and looks over the wall."

"Not always a discreet proceeding, I fear," Anne remarked.

"Discretion, Lady Carfax, is but another term for decrepitude. I have detected no symptoms of the disease at present." He drained his tea with an arrogant gesture and handed the cup for more. "Which is the exact reason why I have no intention of remaining on the top of the wall," he said. "I will have a stronger dose this time, please."

An unsteady hand began to fumble at the door, and Anne glanced up with a start. The blood rose to her face. "I think it is my husband," she said, in a low voice.

Nap did not turn his head or answer. He sat motionless, still staring at her, till the door began to open. Then, with a sudden, lithe movement, he rose and kicked the ha.s.sock to one side.

A big man in riding-dress tramped heavily into the room, and stopped in the centre, peering before him under scowling brows. Not the kindest of critics could have called Sir Giles Carfax handsome, though every feature in his face was well formed. The blotchy complexion of the man and his eyes of glaring malice marred him all too completely. He looked about fifty, to judge by his iron-grey hair and moustache, but he might have been less. He had immensely powerful shoulders that stooped a little.

He continued to stand in the middle of the room and glare at the visitor till Anne quietly bridged the gulf.

"This is Mr. Nap Errol, Giles. Mr. Errol--my husband."

She made the introduction without a tremor, but she kept her eyes downcast as if she did not wish to see them meet. Perhaps she divined that a gleam of supercilious humour flickered in Nap's eyes as he made easy response.