Читать книгу The Knave of Diamonds - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 16

On one occasion, and one only, in the whole year were the gates of the Manor thrown open to all comers, opulent Americans and impecunious Britons alike. And this was when, in accordance with a custom that had been observed from time immemorial, the foxhounds met upon the Manor lawn.

It was then that Sir Giles, who cursed this obligatory hospitality for weeks beforehand, emerged with a smile as fixed as his scowl, shook hands with the select few whom he deigned to number among his acquaintances and pointedly ignored the many who did not enjoy this privilege.

With old Dimsdale the butler rather than with his master rested the honours of the house, and old Dimsdale did his part nobly; so nobly that Major Shirley was heard to remark more than once that it was a pity he and Sir Giles couldn't change places. It was the great day of Dimsdale's year, and his was the proud task to see that none of the guests were neglected.

Anne usually rode to hounds on this occasion. Tall and stately, clad in the conventional black riding-habit that only added grace to her severity of outline, she moved among her husband's guests. And even those of them who, like Major Shirley, resented that queenliness which was an inborn part of her very nature, were fain to admit that she filled her position as lady of the Manor with striking success. Though she had withdrawn herself more and more of late from the society of the neighbourhood, she acted the part of hostess with unfailing graciousness. On foot she moved among the throng, greeting everyone she knew.

Little Dot Waring, standing in the background with her brother on a certain misty morning in January marked her progress with looks of loving admiration. Lady Carfax's mount, a powerful grey with nervous ears and gleaming eyes, was being held in unwilling subjection close to them.

"Be ready to mount her when she comes this way, Ralph," Dot whispered, as the tall figure drew nearer.

But the honour of mounting Lady Carfax was not for Ralph. A man on a black mare—a slight man with high cheek-bones and an insolent bearing—was threading his way towards them through the crowd. The mare, like the grey, was restive, and her rider swore at her whimsies as he came.

Meeting Dot's frank regard, he checked himself and raised his hat with a courtesy half-instinctive.

Dot stared, coloured, and very slightly bowed.

Ralph sniggered. "Let yourself in for it that time, my child! Here comes

Bertie to effect a formal introduction."

"Bertie won't introduce him," she said quickly.

Bertie, looking very handsome and stalwart, was already close to them. He leaned down from the saddle to shake hands.

"Are you following on foot? I wish I was. Never thought of it till this moment."

"I would much rather follow on horseback," Dot declared, looking as if she did not believe him.

He laughed. "I'll take you in front of me if you'll come."

"No. I shouldn't like that," said Dot very decidedly.

"How can you possibly know till you try?"

Dot looked up at him with the sunshine in her clear eyes. "How do you know that you would prefer to follow the hounds on foot? I don't suppose you ever have."

"How do I know?" laughed Bertie. "Because I should be in your company, of course. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Idiot!" said Dot tersely.

"Minx!" said Bertie.

She flushed, looked angry for a moment, and then in spite of herself dimpled into a smile. "Bertie, you're a beast! Say that again if you dare!"

"I daren't," said Bertie.

"No, I thought not. Now apologise!"

"Oh, not now! Not in public!" he pleaded. "I'll drop in this evening and you can shrive me before I go to bed."

"I shan't be at home," said Dot, with her head in the air.

"Oh, yes, you will. Anyway, I'm bound to catch you if I wait long enough." Bertie spoke with cheery assurance. "Hullo! What do you want?"

His expression altered as his glance fell upon his brother, who had just come to his side. He looked inclined to scowl.

But Nap was not apparently desiring an introduction to the rector's daughter. "Hold the mare a minute, will you?" he said.

Bertie complied and he swung himself to the ground.

Lady Carfax was coming towards them and he went to meet her.

Her grey eyes smiled a friendly welcome. "I was just wondering if you were here."

He bowed low. "I am honoured indeed to be in your thoughts for a single instant."

"I hope I do not forget my friends so easily," she said. "Oh, here are some more of them! Excuse me for a moment."

She went straight to Dot, shook hands with her and her brother, and stood chatting for a few seconds.

Nap remained close behind her, and after a little she turned to

Include him in the group. "Have you ever met this Mr. Errol. Dot? Mr.

Errol—Miss Waring!"

Dot bowed again with a scarlet countenance, but the next instant a friendly inspiration delivered her from the moment's awkwardness.

"And you don't know Bertie Errol, do you, Lady Carfax?" she said eagerly.

"Let me introduce him. He studies with Dad, you know."

"When he isn't hunting, or paper-chasing, or—baking cakes," said Bertie. "He's such a nice boy, Lady Carfax. He can do almost anything. I'm sure you'll like him!"

Dot laughed and protested. "He isn't a bit nice, and he isn't clever either, though he thinks he is. I don't believe he learns anything with Dad. They study natural history most of the time."

"Harmless, anyway!" commented Nap, with a sneer.

"Yes, quite harmless," assented Bertie, looking straight at him.

"And very interesting, no doubt," said Lady Carfax, turning towards her mount.

Ralph moved to assist her, but Nap pushed before him. "My job, I think," he drawled, with that in his face which made the English youth draw sullenly back.

"Cad!" whispered Dot fiercely.

And Bertie from his perch above her laughed through clenched teeth.

In a few minutes more the hunt was off. The whole crowd streamed briskly away, hounds leading, horses, motors, carriages, and the usual swarm of pedestrians, following in promiscuous array.

The sun shone through a mist. The weather was perfect for hunting, but looked as if it might end in rain.

Sir Giles rode with the master. He seemed in better spirits than usual.

His customary scowl had lifted.

His wife rode nearer the end of the procession with Nap Errol next to her. His brother was immediately behind them, a very decided frown on his boyish face, a frown of which in some occult fashion Nap must have been aware, for as they reached a stretch of turf and the crowd widened out, he turned in the saddle.

"Get on ahead, Bertie! I can't stand you riding at my heels."

Bertie looked at him as if he had a retort ready, but he did not utter it. With tightened lips he rode past and shot ahead.

Nap smiled a little. "That young puppy is the best of the Errol bunch," he said. "But he hasn't been licked enough. It's not my fault. It's my brother's."

"He looks a nice boy," Anne said.

Nap's smile became supercilious. "He is a nice boy, Lady Carfax. But nice boys don't always make nice men, you know. They turn into prigs sometimes."

Anne diverted the subject with an instinctive feeling that it was one upon which they might not agree.

"There is a considerable difference between you?" she asked.

"Eight years," said Nap. "I am thirty, Lucas five years older. Most people take me for the eldest of the lot."

"I wonder why?" said Anne.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It is not really surprising, is it? Lucas has been on the shelf for the past ten years and I"—he glanced at her shrewdly—"have not!"

"Oh!" said Anne, and asked no more.

For the first time the definite question arose in her mind as to whether in admitting this man to her friendship she had made a mistake. He had a disquieting effect upon her, she was forced to acknowledge.

Yet as they drifted apart in the throng she knew with unalterable conviction that the matter did not rest with her. From the outset the choice had not been hers.

He had entered the gates of her lonely citadel on the night of the Hunt Ball, and though she was by no means sure that she liked him there, she fully realised that it was too late now to try to bar him out.