"I care for most women," said Nap indifferently. "What of that? It's the way I'm made, and I must say they don't most of 'em seem to mind."

"But, Boney--Anne Carfax?"

Nap threw up his head with a brief laugh. "Oh, I'm cured of that--quite cured. The paths of perpetual virtue are not for me. I prefer more rapid travelling and a surer goal."

He stood up, his arms stretched up above his head. "I make you a present of Anne Carfax," he said lightly. "Not that she is mine to give. But I wouldn't keep her if she were. We belong to different spheres."

"And yet--" Lucas said.

"My dear fellow, that's an old story." Impulsively Nap cut in, almost fierily. "Do you think the woman is living who could hold me after all this time? I tell you that fire is burnt out. Why rake over the dead ashes?"

"I am looking for the Divine Spark," Lucas answered quietly.

"And if you found it?" Nap's words came through smiling lips, and yet they sounded savage.

"If I found it," very steadily came the answer, "I would blow it to a flame, Boney, for your sake--and hers."

"For hers?" Something fierce showed in Nap's eyes. It was as if a goaded animal suddenly looked out of them.

Lucas must have seen it, for on the instant his manner changed.

"We won't go any further," he said. "Only, dear fellow, I can't part with you yet. Let that be understood. I want you."

"So be it!" said Nap. "I will stay and see you married."

And with the words he stooped and grasped his brother's hand for a moment.

"Go on and prosper, Luke," he said. "It's high time that you came into your own."

CHAPTER X

THE QUEEN'S PARDON

As soon as Anne entered Baronmead that evening she was aware of a difference. Bertie, with a thunderous countenance, came forward to meet her. She had not seen him wear that look in all the months of Nap's absence.

"The prodigal has returned," he told her briefly. "P'r'aps you know."

She did not pretend to misunderstand him. She had schooled herself to face the situation without shrinking.

"Yes, I know," she said. "I met him at your house an hour ago."

"At my house!" For a single instant Bertie looked downright murderous, and then the sight of Anne's pale face made him restrain himself.

"He didn't stay," she said rather wearily. "What of Luke? Has he seen him?"

"Can't understand Luke," muttered Bertie. "He's actually pleased. Say, Lady Carfax, would it help any if I were to stop and dine?"

"No," Anne said, smiling a little. "Go back to Dot, won't you? She is expecting you."

She saw that he was glad to follow her suggestion, and she was undoubtedly glad to see him go. He was plainly in an explosive mood.

Mrs. Errol came to her room while she was dressing. But Mrs. Errol had had ample time to compose herself. She showed no agitation, and spoke of Nap's unexpected arrival as if she were quite indifferent to his comings and goings; but she hovered about Anne with a protecting motherliness that did not need to express itself in words. When they went downstairs she held Anne's arm very closely.

But the ordeal that both were mutely dreading did not take place that night. Nap did not present himself at the dinner-table, and they dined alone in unspoken relief.

Anne went to Lucas as usual when the meal was over, but she thought he seemed tired and she did not remain with him long.

He kept her hand for a moment when she stooped to bid him good-night.

"Anne," he said gently, "I just want you to know, dear, that Nap will be all right. Don't be anxious any. There is no need."

He desired to rea.s.sure her, she saw; and she bent and kissed him. And then for a moment a queer gust of pa.s.sion possessed her, shook her from head to foot.

"Oh, Luke," she whispered, "can't you send him away again?"

He looked up at her oddly, with eyes that seemed to see beyond her. And then, "Good-night, dear," he said, as if he had not heard.

She turned from him in silence. It was the first time she had ever appealed to Lucas Errol in vain.

She went to her room early that night. She told herself she must leave on the morrow. She was urged by a deep unrest. She could not remain under the same roof with this man who had once so cruelly tortured her. She could not. Lucas must understand this. He must never ask it of her, never--never!

She did not in the least understand the latter's att.i.tude. The more she thought of it, the more it troubled her. She felt as if he had suddenly ceased to be on her side, had, as it were, shut off his sympathy and left her groping and alone. It was not like him to treat her thus. It hurt her subtly, wounding her as she had never expected to be wounded, shaking her faith in what she had ever believed to be immutable. And then she remembered the physical weakness with which he had wrestled so long, and a great pity flooded her heart. She would not let herself be hurt any longer. Was he not reserving his strength for her sake? And could she not, for his, face bravely this sudden obstacle that had arisen in her path? Moreover, had he not told her that all would be well? And he had said it as one who knew. Why, then, was she harbouring this wild dismay?

Why? Why? She asked the question, but she did not seek the answer. She dared not.

And yet in the morning she went down with a calm aspect, resolute and unafraid. Once more she was compelling herself to do simply that which lay nearest to her hand.

Nap came out of a room near the foot of the stairs as she descended.

He scarcely looked at her, but quite obviously he had been awaiting her coming.

"May I have two words with you before you join the mater?" he asked.

With her whole soul she wanted to refuse. Yet without visible hesitation she yielded. She turned aside into the room he had just quitted.

He followed, and, closing the door, came forward to the table. It was littered with guns and cleaning apparatus. He had evidently been employing himself while he waited, and he at once took up an oily rag and resumed operations, his swarthy face bent over his task, his lips very firmly compressed.

Anne waited for a moment or two. His att.i.tude puzzled her. She had become so accustomed to the fierce directness of his stare that its absence disconcerted her.

"What is it you wish to say to me?" she asked at length.

At the first sound of her voice he ceased to work, but still he did not raise his eyes.

"On my own account--nothing," he said, speaking very deliberately. "But as my sojourn here may be an offence to you, I think it advisable to explain at the outset that I am not a free agent. My brother has decreed it, and as you know"--a hint of irony crept into his voice--"his will is my law."