CHAPTER XIX
OUT OF THE FURNACE
Capper looked round with a certain keenness that was not untouched withcuriosity when Nap unexpectedly followed him to his room that night.
"Are you wanting anything?" he demanded, with his customary directness.
"Nothing much," Nap said. "You might give me a sleeping-draught if you'redisposed to be charitable. I seem to have lost the knack of going tosleep. What I really came to say was that Hudson will go with youto-morrow if you will be good enough to put up with him. He won't giveyou any trouble. I would let him go with me next week if his wits wouldstand the strain of travelling in my company, but I don't think theywill. I don't want to turn him into a gibbering maniac if I can help it."
"What have you been doing to him?" said Capper.
Nap smiled, faintly contemptous. "My dear doctor, I never do anything toanybody. If people choose to credit me with possessing unholy powers,you will allow that I am scarcely to be blamed if the temptation to tradenow and then upon their fertile imaginations proves too much for me."
"I allow nothing," Capper said, "that is not strictly normal andwholesome."
"Then that places me on the black list at once," remarked Nap."Good-night!"
"Stay a moment!" ordered Capper. "Let me look at you. If you willpromise to behave like an ordinary human being for once, I'll give youthat draught."
"I'll promise anything you like," said Nap, a shade of weariness in hisvoice. "I'm going up to town to-morrow, and I never sleep there so Ireckon this is my last chance for some time to come."
"Are you trying to kill yourself?" asked Capper abruptly.
But Nap only threw up his head and laughed. "If that were my object I'dtake a shorter cut than this. No, I guess I shan't die this way, Doctor.You seem to forget the fact that I'm as tough as leather, with thevitality of a serpent."
"The toughest of us won't go for ever," observed Capper. "You get to bed.I'll come to you directly."
When he joined him again, a few minutes later, Nap was lying on his backwith arms flung wide, staring inscrutably at the ceiling. His mind seemedto be far away, but Capper's hand upon his pulse brought it back. Heturned his head with the flicker of a smile.
"What's that for?"
"I happen to take an interest in you, my son," said Capper.
"Very good of you. But why?"
Capper was watching him keenly. "Because I have a notion that youare wanted."
Nap stirred restlessly, and was silent.
"How long are you going to be away?" Capper asked.
"I don't know."
"For long?"
Nap's hand jerked impatiently from the doctor's hold. "Possiblyfor ever."
Capper's long fingers began to crack. He looked speculative. "Say, Nap,"he said suddenly, "we may not be exactly sympathetic, you and I, but Iguess we've pulled together long enough to be fairly intimate. Anyway,I've conceived a sort of respect for you that I never expected to have.And if you'll take a word of advice from a friend who wishes you well,you won't regret it."
The thin lips began to smile. "Delighted to listen to your advice,Doctor. I suspect I'm not obliged to follow it."
"You will please yourself, no doubt," Capper rejoined drily. "But myadvice is, don't stay away too long. Your place is here."
"You think so?" said Nap.
"I am quite sure," Capper said, with emphasis.
"And you think I shall please myself by going?"
"Who else?" said Capper almost sternly.
Nap did not instantly reply. He was lying back with his face in shadow.When he spoke at length it was with extreme deliberation. Capper divinedthat it was an effort to him to speak at all.
"You're a family friend," he said. "I guess you've a right to know. Itisn't for my own sake I'm going at all. It's for--hers, and because of apromise I made to Luke. If I were to stop, I'd be a cur--and worse. She'dtake me without counting the cost. She is a woman who never thinks ofherself. I've got to think for her. I've sworn to play the straight game,and I'll play it. That's why I won't so much as look into her face againtill I know that I can be to her what Luke would have been--what Bertieis to Dot--what every man who is a man ought to be to the woman he hasmade his wife."
He flung his arms up above his head and remained tense for severalseconds. Then abruptly he relaxed.
"I'll be a friend to her," he said, "a friend that she cantrust--or nothing!"
There came a very kindly look into Capper's green eyes, but he made nocomment of any sort. He only turned aside to take up the glass he had setdown on entering. And as he did so, he smiled as a man well pleased.
Once during the night he looked in upon Nap and found him sleeping,wrapt in a deep and silent slumber, motionless as death. He stood awhilewatching the harsh face with its grim mouth and iron jaw, and slowly acertain pity dawned in his own. The man had suffered infernally before hehad found his manhood. He had passed through raging fires that had lefttheir mark upon him for the rest of his life.
"It's been an almighty big struggle, poor devil," said Capper, "but it'smade a man of you."
He left early on the following day, accompanied by Tawny Hudson, whosedocility was only out-matched by his very obvious desire to be gone.
True to her promise, Anne was down in time to take leave of Capper. Theystood together for a moment on the steps before parting. Her hand in his,he looked straight into her quiet eyes.
"You're not grieving any, Lady Carfax?"
"No," she said.
"I guess you're right," said Maurice Capper gravely. "We make our littlebids for happiness, but it helps one to remember that the issue lieswith God."
She gave him a smile of understanding. "'He knows about it all--Heknows--He knows,'" she quoted softly. And Capper went his way, takingwith him the memory of a woman who still ploughed her endless furrow, butwith a heart at peace.
CHAPTER XX
THE PROMOTION OF THE QUEEN'S JESTER
"My!" said Mrs. Errol. "Isn't he just dear?"
There was a cooing note in her deep voice. She sat in the Dower Housegarden with her grandson bolt upright upon her knees, and all the birdsof June singing around her.
"Isn't he dear, Anne?" she said.
Anne, who was dangling a bunch of charms for the baby's amusement,stooped and kissed the sunny curls.
"He's a lord of creation," she said. "And he knows it already. I neversaw such an upright morsel in my life."
"Lucas was like that," said Mrs. Errol softly. "He was just the loveliestbaby in the U.S.A. Everyone said so. Dot dearie, I'm sort of glad youcalled him Luke."
"So am I, mater dearest. And he's got Luke's eyes, hasn't he now? Bertiesaid so from the very beginning." Eagerly Dot leaned from her chair toturn her small son's head to meet his grandmother's scrutiny. "I'd ratherhe were like Luke than anyone else in the world," she said. "It isn'ttreason to Bertie to say so, for he wants it too. Where is Bertie, Iwonder? He had to go to town, but he promised to be back early for hisboy's first birthday-party. It's such an immense occasion, isn't it?"
Her round face dimpled in the way Bertie most loved. She rose and slippeda hand through Anne's arm.
"Let's go and look for him. I know he can't be long now. The son of thehouse likes having his granny to himself. He never cries with her."
They moved away together through the sunlit garden, Dot chattering gailyas her fashion was about nothing in particular while Anne walked besideher in sympathetic silence. Anne was never inattentive though there weresome who deemed her unresponsive.
But as they neared the gate Dot's volubility quite suddenly died down.She plucked a white rose, to fill in the pause and fastened it in herfriend's dress. Her fingers trembled unmistakably as she did it, and Annelooked at her inquiringly. "Is anything the matter?"
"No. Why?" said Dot, turning very red.
Anne smiled a little. "I feel as if a bird had left off singing," shesaid.
Dot laughed, still with hot cheeks. "What a pretty
way of putting it!Bertie isn't nearly so complimentary. He calls me the magpie, which isreally very unfair, for he talks much more than I do. Dear old Bertie!"
The dimples lingered, and Anne bent suddenly and kissed them. "Dearlittle Dot!" she said.
Instantly Dot's arms were very tightly round her. "Anne darling, I've gotsomething to tell you--something you very possibly won't quite like. Youwon't be vexed any, will you?"
"Not any," smiled Anne.
"No, but it isn't a small thing. It--it's rather immense. But Bertie saidI was to tell you, because you are not to be taken by surprise again. Hedoesn't think it fair, and of course he's right."
"What is it, dear?" said Anne. The smile had gone from her face, but hereyes were steadfast and very still--the eyes of a woman who had waitedall her life.
"My dear," said Dot, holding her closely, "it's only that Bertie didn'tgo up to town on business. It was to meet someone, and--and that someonewill be with him when he comes back. I promised Bertie to tell you, butyou were so late getting here I was afraid I shouldn't have time. Oh,Anne dear, I do hope you don't mind."
Dot's face, a guilty scarlet, was hidden in Anne's shoulder. Anne's hand,very quiet and steady, came up and began to stroke the fluffy hair thatblew against her neck. But she said nothing.
It was Dot who remorsefully broke the silence. "I feel such a beast,Anne, but really I had no hand in it this time. He wrote to Bertieyesterday from town. He hasn't been in England for over a year, and hewanted to know if he could come to us. Bertie went up this morning to seehim and bring him back. I thought of coming round to you, but Bertieseemed to think I had better wait and tell you when you came. I hoped youwould have come earlier, so that I would have had more time to tell youabout it. Dear, do tell me it's all right."
"It is all right," Anne said, and with the words she smiled again thoughher face was pale. "It is quite all right, Dot dear. Don't be anxious."
Dot looked up with a start. "That's the motor coming now. Oh, Anne, I'veonly told you just in time!"
She was quivering with excitement. It seemed as if she were far the moreagitated of the two. For Anne was calm to all outward appearance, quietand stately and unafraid. Only the hand that grasped Dot's was cold--coldas ice. The motor was rapidly approaching. They stood by the gate andheard the buzzing of the engine, the rush of the wheels, and then thequick, gay blasts of the horn by which Bertie always announced his comingto his wife. A moment more and the car whizzed into the drive. There camea yell of welcome from Bertie at the wheel and the instant checking ofthe motor.
And the man beside Bertie leaned swiftly forward, bareheaded, and lookedstraight into Anne's white face.
She did not know how she met his look. It seemed to pierce her. Butshe was nerved for the ordeal, and she moved towards him withoutstretched hand.
His fingers closed upon it as he stepped from the car, gripped andclosely held it. But he spoke not a word to her; only to Dot, whom hekissed immediately afterwards, to her confusion and Bertie's amusement.
"I seem to have stumbled into a family gathering," he said later, whenthey gave him the place of honour between Mrs. Errol and his hostess.
"Being one of the family, I guess it's a happy accident," saidMrs. Errol.
He bowed to her elaborately. "Many thanks, alma mater! Considering theshort time you have had for preparing a pretty speech of welcome it doesyou undoubted credit."
"Oh, my, Nap!" she said. "I'm past making pretty speeches at my age. Ijust say what I mean."
A gleam of surprise crossed his dark face. "That so, alma mater?" hesaid. "Then--considering all things--again thanks!" He turned from her tothe baby sprawling on the rug at his feet, and lifted the youngster tohis knee. "So this is the pride of the Errols now," he said.
The baby stared up at him with serious eyes, and very deliberately andintently Nap stared back.
"What is his name, Dot?" he asked at length.
"Lucas Napoleon," she said.
"Good heavens!" he ejaculated. "What an unholy combination! What inthunder possessed you to call him that?"
"Oh, it wasn't my doing," Dot hastened to explain, with her usualhonesty, "though of course I was delighted with the idea. Bertie and Icalled him Lucas almost before he was born."
"Then who in wonder chose my name for him?" demanded Nap.
"See the Church Catechism!" suggested Bertie.
"Ah! Quite so." Nap turned upon him keenly. "Who were his god-parents?"
"My dear Nap, what does it matter?" broke in Dot. "Be quiet, Bertie! Forgoodness' sake make him put the child down and have some tea."
"Let me take him," Anne said.
She stooped to lift the boy, who held out his arms to her with a crow ofpleasure. Nap looked up at her, and for an instant only their eyes met;but in that instant understanding dawned upon Nap's face, and with it astrangely tender smile that made it almost gentle.
Dot declared afterwards that the birthday-party had been all she couldhave desired. Everyone had been nice to everyone, and the baby hadn'tbeen rude to his uncle, a calamity she had greatly feared. Also Nap wasimproved, hugely improved. Didn't Bertie think so? He seemed to have gotso much more human. She couldn't realise there had ever been a time whenshe had actually disliked him.
"P'r'aps we're more human ourselves," suggested Bertie; a notion whichhadn't occurred to Dot but which she admitted might have something in it.
Anyway, she was sure Nap had improved, and she longed to know if Annethought so too.
Anne's thoughts upon that subject, however, were known to none, perhapsnot even to herself. All she knew was an overwhelming desire forsolitude, but when this was hers at last it was not in the considerationof this question that she spent it.
It was in kneeling by her open window with her face to the sky, andin her heart a rapture of gladness that all the birds of June couldnot utter.
She scarcely slept at all that night, yet when she rose some of the bloomof youth had come back to her, some of its summer splendour was shiningin her eyes. Anne Carfax was more nearly a beautiful woman that day thanshe had ever been before.
Dimsdale looked at her benignly. Would her ladyship breakfastout-of-doors? She smiled and gave her assent, and while he was preparingshe plucked a spray of rose acacia and pinned it at her throat.
"Dimsdale," she said, and her cheeks flushed to the soft tint of theblossom as she spoke, "Mr. Errol is coming over this morning. I expecthim to luncheon."
"Mr. Errol, my lady?"
"Mr. Nap Errol," said Anne, still intent upon the acacia. "Show him intothe garden when he comes. He is sure to find me somewhere."
Dimsdale's eyes opened very wide, but he managed his customary "Verygood, my lady," as he continued his preparations. And so Anne breakfastedamid the tumult of rejoicing June, all the world laughing around her, allthe world offering abundant thanksgiving because of the sunshine thatflooded it.
When breakfast was over she sat with closed eyes, seeming to hear thevery heart of creation throbbing in every sound, yet listening, listeningintently for something more. For a long time she sat thus, absorbed inthe great orchestra, waiting as it were to take her part in the mightysymphony that swept its perfect harmonies around her.
It was a very little thing at last that told her her turn had come, sosmall a thing, and yet it sent the blood tingling through every vein,racing and pulsing with headlong impetus like a locked stream suddenlyset free. It was no more than the flight of a startled bird from the treeabove her.
She opened her eyes, quivering from head to foot. Yesterday she hadcommanded herself. She had gone to him with outstretched hand andwelcoming smile. To-day she sat quite still. She could not move.
He came to her, stooped over her, then knelt beside her; but he did notoffer to touch her. The sunlight streamed down upon his upturned face.His eyes were deep and still and passionless.
"You expected me," he said.
She looked down at him. "I have been expecting you for a very longtime," she said.
A flicker that was scarcely a smile crossed his face. "And yet I've cometoo soon," he said.
"Why do you say that?" She asked the question almost in spite of herself.But she had begun to grow calmer. His quietness reassured her.
"Because, my Queen," he said, "the _role_ of jester at court isobsolete, at least so far as I am concerned, and I haven't managed toqualify for another."
"Do you want another?" she said.
He turned his eyes away from her. "I want--many things," he said.
She motioned him to the seat beside her. "Tell me what you have beendoing all this time."
"I can't," he said.
But he rose and sat beside her as she desired.
"What under heaven have I been doing?" he said. "I don't know, I guessI've been something like Nebuchadnezzar when they turned him out tograss. I've been just--ruminating,"
"Is that all?" There was a curious note of relief in Anne's voice.
His old magnetic smile flashed across his face as he caught it. "That'sall, Queen Anne. It's been monstrous dull. Do you know, I don't thinkHeaven intended me for a hermit."
Involuntarily almost she smiled in answer. Her heart was beating quitesteadily again. She was no longer afraid.
"Nebuchadnezzar came to his own again," she observed.
"He did," said Nap.
"And you?"
He leaned back with his face to the sky. "Not yet," he said.
Anne was silent. He turned after a moment and looked at her. "And whathave you been doing, 0 Queen?" he said.
Her hands were clasped in her lap. They suddenly gripped each othervery fast.
"Won't you tell me?" said Nap.
He spoke very softly, but he made no movement towards her. He sat aloofand still. Yet he plainly desired an answer.
It came at last, spoken almost in a whisper. "I have been--waiting."
"Waiting--" he said.
She parted her hands suddenly, with a gesture that was passionate, androse. "Yes, waiting," she said, "waiting, Nap, waiting! And oh, I'm sotired of it. I'm not like you. I have never wanted--many things; onlyone--only one!" Her voice broke. She turned sharply from him.
Nap had sprung to his feet. He stood close to her. But he held himselfin check. He kept all emotion out of his face and voice.
"Do you think I don't know?" he said. "My dear Anne, I have always known.That's the damnable part of it. You've wanted truth instead oftreachery, honour instead of shame, love instead of--"
She put out a quick hand. "Don't say it, Nap!"
He took her hand, drew it to his heart, and held it there. "And you sayyou don't want many things," he went on, in a tone half sad, halfwhimsical. "My dear, if I could give you one tenth of what you want--andought to have--you'd be a lucky woman and I a thrice lucky man.But--we've got to face it--I can't. I thought I could train myself,fashion myself, into something worthy of your acceptance. I can't. Ithought I could win back your trust, your friendship, last of all yourlove. But I can't even begin. You can send me away from you if you will,and I'll go for good and all. On the other hand, you can keep me, you canmarry me--" He paused; and she fancied she felt his heart quicken. "Youcan marry me," he said again, "but you can't tame me. You'll find me aninfernal trial to live with. I'm not a devil any longer. No, and I'm nota brute. But I am still a savage at heart, and there are some parts of methat won't tame. My love for you is a seething furnace, an intolerablecraving. I can't contemplate you sanely. I want you unspeakably."
His hold had tightened. She could feel his heart throbbing now like afierce thing caged. His eyes had begun to glow. The furnace door wasopening. She could feel the heat rushing out, enveloping her. Soon itwould begin to scorch her. And yet she knew no shrinking. Rather she drewnearer, as a shivering creature starved and frozen draws near to thehunter's fire.
He went on speaking rapidly, with rising passion. "My love for you is theone part of me that I haven't got under control, and it's such a mightybig part that the rest is hardly worthy of mention. It's great enough tomake everything else contemptible. I've no use for lesser things. I wantjust you--only you--only you--for the rest of my life!"
He stopped suddenly, seemed on the verge of something further, thenpulled himself together with a sharp gesture. The next moment, quitequietly, he relinquished her hand.
"I'm afraid that's all there is to me," he said. "Lucas would have givenyou understanding, friendship, chivalry, all that a good woman wants. Ican only offer you--bondage."
He half turned with the words, standing as if it needed but a sign todismiss him. But Anne made no sign. Over their heads a thrush hadsuddenly begun to pour out his soul to the June sunshine, and she stoodspell-bound, listening.
At the end of several breathless moments she spoke and in her voice wasa deep note that thrilled like music.
"There is a bondage," she said, "that is sweeter than any freedom. And,Nap, it is the one thing in this world that I want--that I need--that Ipray for night and day."
"Anne!" he said. He turned back to her. He took the hands she gave him."Anne," he said again, speaking rapidly, in a voice that shook, "I havetried to play a straight game with you. I have warned you. I am not theright sort. You know what I am. You know."
"Yes," Anne said, "I know." She raised her head and looked him straightin the eyes. "You are all the world to me, Nap," she said. "You are theman I love."
His arms caught her, crushed her fiercely to him, held her fast.
"Say it again!" he said, his fiery eyes flaming. "Say it! Say it!"
But Anne said nought. Only for a long, long second she gazed into hisface; then in utter silence she turned her lips to his.
* * * * *
They spent the whole of the long June day together in the garden. Neitherknew how the time went till evening came upon them all unawares--a goldenevening of many fragrances.
They came at last along the green path under the lilac trees, and hereby the rustic seat Nap stopped.
"I'll leave you here," he said.
She looked at him in surprise. "Won't you dine with me?"
"No," he said restlessly. "I won't come in. I should stifle under a roofto-night."
"But we will dine outside," she said.
He shook his head. "No, I'm going. Anne," he caught her hand to his lips,"I hate leaving you. How long must I be condemned to it?"
She touched his shoulder with her cheek. "Don't you know that I hate ittoo?" she said.
"Then--" He put his arm round her.
"Next week, Nap," she said.
"You mean it?"
"Yes. I mean it."
"You will marry me next week. What day?"
"Any day," she said, with her face against his shoulder.
"Any day, Anne? You mean that? You mean me to choose?"
She laughed softly. "I shall leave everything to you."
"Then I choose Sunday," Nap said, without an instant's consideration, "asearly in the morning as possible. I shall go straight to the padre andarrange it right now."
"Very well," she said. "I'll try to be ready."
He threw up his head with the old arrogant gesture. "You must be ready,"he said imperiously. "I shall come and fetch you myself."
She laughed again at that. "Indeed you will not. I shall go withMrs. Errol."
He conceded this point, albeit grudgingly. "And afterwards?" he said.
"The afterwards shall be yours, dear," she answered.
"You mean that?"
"Of course I mean it."
"Then, Anne"--he bent his face suddenly, his lips moved against herforehead--"will you come with me to Bramhurst?"
"Bramhurst!" She started a little. The name to her was no more than abitter memory among the many other bitter memories of her life.
"Will you?" he said.
"If you wish it," she answered gently.
"I do wish it."
"Then--so be it," she said.
He bent his head a little lower,
kissed her twice passionately upon thelips, held her awhile as if he could not bear to let her go, then torehimself almost violently from her, and went away, swift and noiseless asa shadow over the grass.
CHAPTER XXI
THE POWER THAT CASTS OUT DEVILS
It was late on the evening of her wedding-day that Anne entered oncemore the drawing-room of the little inn at Bramhurst and stopped by theopen window.
There was a scent of musk in the room behind her, and an odour infinitelymore alluring of roses and honeysuckle in the garden in front. Beyond thegarden the common lay in the rosy dusk of the afterglow under a deep bluesky. The clang of a distant cow-bell came dreamily through the silence.
She stood leaning against the door-post with her face to the night. Itwas a night of wonder, of marvellous, soul-stilling peace. Yet her browswere slightly drawn as she waited there. She seemed to be puzzling oversomething.
"Say it out loud," said Nap.
She did not start at the words though he had come up behind her withoutsound. She stretched out her hand without turning and drew his armthrough hers.
"Why did we choose this place?" she said.
"You didn't choose it," said Nap.
"Then you?"
"I chose it chiefly because I knew you hated it," he said, a queervibration of recklessness in his voice.
"My dear Nap, am I to believe that?"
He looked at her through the falling dusk, and his hand closed tense andvital upon her arm. "It's the truth anyway," he said. "I knew you hatedthe place, that you only came to it for my sake. And I--I made you comebecause I wanted you to love it."
"For your sake, Nap?" she said softly.
"Yes, and for another reason." He paused a moment; speech seemed suddenlyan effort to him. Then: "Anne," he said, "you forgave me, I know, longago; but I want you here--on this spot--to tell me that what happenedhere is to you as if it had never been. I want it blotted out of yourmind for ever. I want your trust--your trust!"
It was like a hunger-cry rising from the man's very soul. At sound of itshe turned impulsively.
"Nap, never speak of this again! My dearest, we need not have come herefor that. Yet I am glad now that we came. It will be holy ground to me aslong as I live. As long as I live," she repeated very earnestly, "I shallremember that it was here that the door of paradise was opened to us atlast, and that God meant us to enter in."
She lifted her eyes to his with a look half-shy, half-confident. "Youbelieve in God," she said.
He did not answer at once. He was looking out beyond her for the firsttime, and the restless fire had gone out of his eyes. They were still anddeep as a mountain pool.
"Nap," she said in a whisper.
Instantly his look came back to her. He took her face between his handswith a tenderness so new that it moved her inexplicably to tears.
"I believe in the Power that casts out devils," he said very gravely."Luke taught me that much. I guess my wife will teach me the rest."
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