_ PART III 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 House garden with her grandson bolt upright upon her knees, and all the birds of 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 never saw such an upright morsel in my life."
"Lucas was like that," said Mrs. Errol softly. "He was just the loveliest baby in the U.S.A. Everyone said so. Dot dearie, I'm sort of glad you called him Luke."
"So am I, mater dearest. And he's got Luke's eyes, hasn't he now? Bertie said so from the very beginning." Eagerly Dot leaned from her chair to turn her small son's head to meet his grandmother's scrutiny. "I'd rather he were like Luke than anyone else in the world," she said. "It isn't treason to Bertie to say so, for he wants it too. Where is Bertie, I wonder? He had to go to town, but he promised to be back early for his boy'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 slipped a hand through Anne's arm.
"Let's go and look for him. I know he can't be long now. The son of the house likes having his granny to himself. He never cries with her."
They moved away together through the sunlit garden, Dot chattering gaily as her fashion was about nothing in particular while Anne walked beside her in sympathetic silence. Anne was never inattentive though there were some 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 her friend's dress. Her fingers trembled unmistakably as she did it, and Anne looked 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," she said.
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 is really very unfair, for he talks much more than I do. Dear old Bertie!"
The dimples lingered, and Anne bent suddenly and kissed them. "Dear little Dot!" she said.
Instantly Dot's arms were very tightly round her. "Anne darling, I've got something to tell you--something you very possibly won't quite like. You won'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 said I was to tell you, because you are not to be taken by surprise again. He doesn't think it fair, and of course he's right."
"What is it, dear?" said Anne. The smile had gone from her face, but her eyes were steadfast and very still--the eyes of a woman who had waited all her life.
"My dear," said Dot, holding her closely, "it's only that Bertie didn't go up to town on business. It was to meet someone, and--and that someone will be with him when he comes back. I promised Bertie to tell you, but you 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 that blew 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 Bertie yesterday from town. He hasn't been in England for over a year, and he wanted to know if he could come to us. Bertie went up this morning to see him and bring him back. I thought of coming round to you, but Bertie seemed to think I had better wait and tell you when you came. I hoped you would have come earlier, so that I would have had more time to tell you about it. Dear, do tell me it's all right."
"It is all right," Anne said, and with the words she smiled again though her 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've only told you just in time!"
She was quivering with excitement. It seemed as if she were far the more agitated of the two. For Anne was calm to all outward appearance, quiet and stately and unafraid. Only the hand that grasped Dot's was cold--cold as ice. The motor was rapidly approaching. They stood by the gate and heard the buzzing of the engine, the rush of the wheels, and then the quick, gay blasts of the horn by which Bertie always announced his coming to his wife. A moment more and the car whizzed into the drive. There came a yell of welcome from Bertie at the wheel and the instant checking of the motor.
And the man beside Bertie leaned swiftly forward, bareheaded, and looked straight into Anne's white face.
She did not know how she met his look. It seemed to pierce her. But she was nerved for the ordeal, and she moved towards him with outstretched hand.
His fingers closed upon it as he stepped from the car, gripped and closely held it. But he spoke not a word to her; only to Dot, whom he kissed immediately afterwards, to her confusion and Bertie's amusement.
"I seem to have stumbled into a family gathering," he said later, when they gave him the place of honour between Mrs. Errol and his hostess.
"Being one of the family, I guess it's a happy accident," said Mrs. Errol.
He bowed to her elaborately. "Many thanks, alma mater! Considering the short time you have had for preparing a pretty speech of welcome it does you undoubted credit."
"Oh, my, Nap!" she said. "I'm past making pretty speeches at my age. I just say what I mean."
A gleam of surprise crossed his dark face. "That so, alma mater?" he said. "Then--considering all things--again thanks!" He turned from her to the baby sprawling on the rug at his feet, and lifted the youngster to his knee. "So this is the pride of the Errols now," he said.
The baby stared up at him with serious eyes, and very deliberately and intently 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 in thunder possessed you to call him that?"
"Oh, it wasn't my doing," Dot hastened to explain, with her usual honesty, "though of course I was delighted with the idea. Bertie and I called 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! For goodness' 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 of pleasure. 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 a strangely tender smile that made it almost gentle.
Dot declared afterwards that the birthday-party had been all she could have desired. Everyone had been nice to everyone, and the baby hadn't been rude to his uncle, a calamity she had greatly feared. Also Nap was improved, hugely improved. Didn't Bertie think so? He seemed to have got so much more human. She couldn't realise there had ever been a time when she had actually disliked him.
"P'r'aps we're more human ourselves," suggested Bertie; a notion which hadn'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 Anne thought so too.
Anne's thoughts upon that subject, however, were known to none, perhaps not even to herself. All she knew was an overwhelming desire for solitude, but when this was hers at last it was not in the consideration of this question that she spent it.
It was in kneeling by her open window with her face to the sky, and in her heart a rapture of gladness that all the birds of June could not utter.
She scarcely slept at all that night, yet when she rose some of the bloom of youth had come back to her, some of its summer splendour was shining in her eyes. Anne Carfax was more nearly a beautiful woman that day than she had ever been before.
Dimsdale looked at her benignly. Would her ladyship breakfast out-of-doors? She smiled and gave her assent, and while he was preparing she plucked a spray of rose acacia and pinned it at her throat.
"Dimsdale," she said, and her cheeks flushed to the soft tint of the blossom as she spoke, "Mr. Errol is coming over this morning. I expect him to luncheon."
"Mr. Errol, my lady?"
"Mr. Nap Errol," said Anne, still intent upon the acacia. "Show him into the garden when he comes. He is sure to find me somewhere."
Dimsdale's eyes opened very wide, but he managed his customary "Very good, my lady," as he continued his preparations. And so Anne breakfasted amid the tumult of rejoicing June, all the world laughing around her, all the world offering abundant thanksgiving because of the sunshine that flooded it.
When breakfast was over she sat with closed eyes, seeming to hear the very heart of creation throbbing in every sound, yet listening, listening intently for something more. For a long time she sat thus, absorbed in the great orchestra, waiting as it were to take her part in the mighty symphony that swept its perfect harmonies around her.
It was a very little thing at last that told her her turn had come, so small a thing, and yet it sent the blood tingling through every vein, racing and pulsing with headlong impetus like a locked stream suddenly set free. It was no more than the flight of a startled bird from the tree above her.
She opened her eyes, quivering from head to foot. Yesterday she had commanded herself. She had gone to him with outstretched hand and welcoming 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 not offer 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 long time," she said.
A flicker that was scarcely a smile crossed his face. "And yet I've come too 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 is obsolete, at least so far as I am concerned, and I haven't managed to qualify 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 been doing 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 guess I've been something like Nebuchadnezzar when they turned him out to grass. 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's all, Queen Anne. It's been monstrous dull. Do you know, I don't think Heaven intended me for a hermit."
Involuntarily almost she smiled in answer. Her heart was beating quite steadily 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 what have you been doing, 0 Queen?" he said.
Her hands were clasped in her lap. They suddenly gripped each other very fast.
"Won't you tell me?" said Nap.
He spoke very softly, but he made no movement towards her. He sat aloof and 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, and rose. "Yes, waiting," she said, "waiting, Nap, waiting! And oh, I'm so tired of it. I'm not like you. I have never wanted--many things; only one--only one!" Her voice broke. She turned sharply from him.
Nap had sprung to his feet. He stood close to her. But he held himself in 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 of treachery, 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 say you don't want many things," he went on, in a tone half sad, half whimsical. "My dear, if I could give you one tenth of what you want--and ought 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. I thought I could win back your trust, your friendship, last of all your love. 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 can marry me--" He paused; and she fancied she felt his heart quicken. "You can marry me," he said again, "but you can't tame me. You'll find me an infernal trial to live with. I'm not a devil any longer. No, and I'm not a brute. But I am still a savage at heart, and there are some parts of me that won't tame. My love for you is a seething furnace, an intolerable craving. I can't contemplate you sanely. I want you unspeakably."
His hold had tightened. She could feel his heart throbbing now like a fierce thing caged. His eyes had begun to glow. The furnace door was opening. She could feel the heat rushing out, enveloping her. Soon it would begin to scorch her. And yet she knew no shrinking. Rather she drew nearer, as a shivering creature starved and frozen draws near to the hunter's fire.
He went on speaking rapidly, with rising passion. "My love for you is the one part of me that I haven't got under control, and it's such a mighty big part that the rest is hardly worthy of mention. It's great enough to make everything else contemptible. I've no use for lesser things. I want just you--only you--only you--for the rest of my life!"
He stopped suddenly, seemed on the verge of something further, then pulled himself together with a sharp gesture. The next moment, quite quietly, he relinquished her hand.
"I'm afraid that's all there is to me," he said. "Lucas would have given you understanding, friendship, chivalry, all that a good woman wants. I can only offer you--bondage."
He half turned with the words, standing as if it needed but a sign to dismiss him. But Anne made no sign. Over their heads a thrush had suddenly begun to pour out his soul to the June sunshine, and she stood spell-bound, listening.
At the end of several breathless moments she spoke and in her voice was a 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 I pray 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 have tried to play a straight game with you. I have warned you. I am not the right sort. You know what I am. You know."
"Yes," Anne said, "I know." She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes. "You are all the world to me, Nap," she said. "You are the man 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 his face; then in utter silence she turned her lips to his.
* * * * *
They spent the whole of the long June day together in the garden. Neither knew how the time went till evening came upon them all unawares--a golden evening of many fragrances.
They came at last along the green path under the lilac trees, and here by 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 roof to-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 it too?" 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, "as early in the morning as possible. I shall go straight to the padre and arrange 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 with Mrs. 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 her forehead--"will you come with me to Bramhurst?"
"Bramhurst!" She started a little. The name to her was no more than a bitter 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 the lips, held her awhile as if he could not bear to let her go, then tore himself almost violently from her, and went away, swift and noiseless as a shadow over the grass. _