The Knave of Diamonds Part 37

"Yes," he said slowly at length. "I am afraid you have asked the impossible of me now. But, notwithstanding that, if I could see my way to it, I would place myself in your hands without reservation--and take my chance. There are times now and then--now and then--" his words quickened a little, "when a man would almost give the very soul out of his body to be at peace--to be at peace; times when it's downright agony to watch a fly buzzing up and down the pane and know he hasn't even the strength for that--when every muscle is in torture, and every movement means h.e.l.l--" He broke off; his lips usually so steady had begun to twitch. "I'm a fool, Capper," he murmured apologetically. "Make allowances for a sick man!"

"Look here!" said Capper. "This is a big decision for you to make off-hand. You can take three months anyway to think it over. You are getting stronger, you know. By then you'll be stronger still. You won't be well. Nothing but surgical measures can ever make you well. And you'll go on suffering that infernal pain. But three months one way or another won't make much difference. I am due in London in September for the Schultz Medical Conference. I'll run over then and see if you've made up your mind."

"Will you, doctor? That's real kind of you." Lucas's eyes brightened. He stretched out a hand which Capper grasped and laid gently down. "And if you undertake the job--"

"If you are fit to go through it," Capper broke in, "I'll do it right away before I leave. You'll spend the winter on your back. And in the spring I'll come again and finish the business. That second operation is a more delicate affair than the first, but I don't consider it more dangerous. By this time next year, or soon after, you'll be walking like an ordinary human being. I'll have you as lissom as an Indian."

He cracked his fingers one after the other in quick succession and rose.

A moment he stood looking down at the smooth face that had flushed unwontedly at his words; then bending, he lightly tapped his patient's chest. "Meanwhile, my friend," he said, "you keep a stiff upper lip, and _cherchez la femme--cherchez la femme toujours_! You'll be a sound man some day and she won't mind waiting if she's the right sort."

"Ah!" Lucas said. "You will have to forego that condition, doctor. I am no ladies' man. Shall I tell you what a woman said to me the other day?"

"Well?"

"That I was like a mother to her." Again without much mirth he smiled.

His lips were steady enough now.

"I should like to meet that woman," said Capper.

"Why?"

The doctor's hand sought his beard. "P'r'aps she'd tell me I was like a father. Who knows?"

Lucas looked at him curiously. "Are you fond of women?"

"I adore them," said Capper without enthusiasm. He never satisfied curiosity.

Lucas's eyes fell away baffled. "I'll take you to see her this afternoon if you can spare the time," he said.

"Oh, I can spend the afternoon philandering so long as I catch the night train to Liverpool," Capper answered promptly. "Meanwhile you must get a rest while I go and take a dose of air and suns.h.i.+ne in the yard."

His straight, gaunt figure pa.s.sed to the door, opened it, and disappeared with a directness wholly at variance with his lack of repose when seated.

As for Lucas, he lay quite still for a long while, steadily watching the motes that danced and swam giddily in the suns.h.i.+ne.

Nearly half an hour went by before he stirred at all. And then a heavy sigh burst suddenly from him, shaking his whole body, sending a flicker of pain across his drooping eyelids.

"_Cherchez la femme_!" he said to himself. And again with a quivering smile, "_Cherchez la femme_! G.o.d knows she isn't far to seek. But--my dear--my dear!"

CHAPTER III

THE FIRST ORDEAL

All the birds in the Manor garden were singing on that afternoon in May.

The fruit trees were in bloom. The air was full of the indescribable fragrance of bursting flowers. There was no single note of sadness in all the splendid day. But the woman who paced slowly to and fro under the opening lilacs because she could not rest knew nothing of its sweetness.

The precious peace of the past few weeks had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from her. She was face to face once more with the problem that had confronted her for a few horror-stricken minutes on that awful evening in March. Then she had thrust it from her. Since she had resolutely turned her back upon it. But to-day it was with her, and there was no escaping it. It glared at her whichever way she turned, a monster of destruction waiting to devour. And she was afraid, horribly, unspeakably afraid, with a fear that was neither physical nor cowardly, yet which set her very soul a-trembling.

Restlessly she wandered up and down, up and down. It was a day for dreams, but she was terribly and tragically awake.

When Nap Errol came to her at length with his quick, light tread that was wary and noiseless as a cat's, she knew of his coming long before he reached her, was vividly, painfully aware of him before she turned to look. Yesterday she had longed to look him in the face, but to-day she felt she dared not.

Slim and active he moved across the gra.s.s, and there came to her ears a slight jingle of spurs. He had ridden then. A sudden memory of the man's free insolence in the saddle swept over her, his domination, his imperial arrogance. Turning to meet him, she knew that she was quivering from head to foot.

He came straight up to her, halted before her. "Have you no welcome for me?" he said.

By sheer physical effort she compelled herself to face him, to meet the fierce, challenging scrutiny which she knew awaited her. She held out her hand to him. "I am always glad to see you, Nap," she said.

He took her hand in a sinewy, compelling grip. "Although you prefer good men," he said.

The ground on which she stood seemed to be shaking, yet she forced herself to smile, ignoring his words.

"Let us go and sit down," she said.

Close by was a seat under a great lilac tree in full purple bloom. She moved to it and sat down, but Nap remained upon his feet, watching her still.

The air was laden with perfume--the wonderful indescribable essences of spring. Away in the distance, faintly heard, arose the bleating of lambs.

Near at hand, throned among the purple flowers above their heads, a thrush was pouring out the rapture that thrilled his tiny life. The whole world pulsed to the one great melody--the universal, wordless song. Only the man and the woman were silent as intruders in a sacred place.

Anne moved at last. She looked up very steadily, and spoke. "It seems like holy ground," she said.

Her voice was hushed, yet it had in it a note of pleading. Her eyes besought him.

And in answer Nap leaned down with a sudden, tigerish movement and laid his hand on hers. "What have I to do with holiness?" he said. "Anne, come down from that high pedestal of yours! I'm tired of wors.h.i.+pping a G.o.ddess. I want a woman--a woman! I shall wors.h.i.+p you none the less because I hold you in my arms."

It was done. The spell was broken. Those quick, pa.s.sionate words had swept away her last hope of escape. She was forced to meet him face to face, to meet him and to do battle.

For a long second she sat quite still, almost as if stunned. Then sharply she turned her face aside, as one turns from the unbearable heat and radiance when the door of a blast-furnace is suddenly opened.

"Oh, Nap," she said, and there was a sound of heart-break in her words, "What a pity! What a pity!"

"Why?" he demanded fiercely. "I have the right to speak--to claim my own.

Are you going to deny it--you who always speak the truth?"

"You have no right," she answered, still with her face averted. "No man has ever the faintest right to say to another man's wife what you have just said to me."

"And you think I will give you up," he said, "for that?"

She did not at once reply. Only after a moment she freed her hands from his hold, and the action seemed to give her strength. She spoke, her voice very clear and resolute. "I am not going to say anything unkind to you. You have already borne too much for my sake. But--you must know that this is the end of everything. It is the dividing of the ways--where we must say good-bye."

"Is it?" he said. He looked down at her with his brief, thin-lipped smile. "Then--if that's so--look at me--look at me, Anne, and tell me that you don't love me!"

She made an almost convulsive gesture of protest and sat silent.