[14]Washerman.
[14]Washerman.
[15]Has come on a horse.
[15]Has come on a horse.
[16]Well done.
[16]Well done.
[17]Has come.
[17]Has come.
[18]Lion Heart.
[18]Lion Heart.
"We know our motives least in their confused beginning."—Browning.
Honorsat alone in the drawing-room, a basket of socks and stockings at her elbow, her thoughts working as busily as her needle. This girl had reduced the prosaic necessity of darning to a fine art; and since Evelyn's efforts in that direction bore an odd resemblance to ill-constructed lattice windows, Honor had taken pity on the maltreated garments very early in the day.
Evelyn herself was at the tennis-courts, with the Kresneys and Harry Denvil, a state of things that had become increasingly frequent of late; and a ceaseless murmur of two deep voices came to Honor's ears through the open door of the study, where Desmond was talking and reading Persian with his friend Rajinder Singh.
Honor enjoyed working to the accompaniment of that sound. It had grown pleasantly familiar during the past week, in which Desmond had been cut off from outdoor activities. When the Persian lesson was over, he would come in to her for a talk. Then there would be music, and possibly a game of chess; for Desmond was an enthusiastic player. They had spent one or two afternoons in this fashion already, since the night of the fire; and their intimacy bid fair to ripen into a very satisfying friendship.
To the end of time, writers and thinkers will continue to insist upon the impossibility of such friendships; and to the end of time, men and women will persist in playing with this form of fire. For it is precisely the possibility of fire under the surface which lends its peculiar fascination to an experiment old as the Pyramids, yet eternally fresh as the first leaf-bud of spring.
In the past five years Honor had established two genuine friendships with men of widely different temperaments; and she saw herself now—not without a certain quickening of heart and pulse—in a fair way to establishing a third.
The hum of voices ceased; there were footsteps in the hall; a few hearty words of leave-taking from the Englishman, and two minutes later he stood before her, his left sleeve hanging limp and empty; the arm and shoulder strapped tightly into place beneath the flap of his coat.
"Not gone out yet?" he said, a ring of satisfaction in his tone. "Going to join Ladybird at the club later on?"
"No. As she had this engagement I stayed at home in case you might be glad to have some one to 'play with' after your long lesson was over."
"Just like you!" he declared, with a touch of brotherly frankness, which was peculiarly pleasing to this brother-loving girl. "I've been rather overdoing the Persian this week. You must give me some Beethoven presently. And if you really mean to 'play with' me you must also leave off looking so aggressively industrious."
His eyes rested, in speaking, on the rapid movement of her needle, and he became suddenly aware of the nature of her work.
"Look here, Honor," he exclaimed. "I draw the line at that! Ladybird ought not to allow it. We've no right to turn you into a domestic drudge."
"Ladybird—as you so delightfully call her—knows me far too well to try and stop me when she sees I mean to have my own way! Shall you mind if I go shares in your special name for her? It suits her even better than her own."
"Yes, it seems to express her, somehow—doesn't it?"
An unconscious tenderness invaded his tone, and his glance turned upon a panel photograph of his wife in her wedding-dress that stood near him on the mantelpiece. Watching it thus, he fell into a thoughtful silence, which Honor made no attempt to break. Speaking or silent his companionship was equally acceptable to her: and while she awaited his pleasure a great hole, made by the removal of one of Evelyn's "lattice windows," filled up apace.
Of a sudden he turned from the picture, and, drawing up a low chair, sat down before her, leaning a little forward, his elbow resting on his knee. The urgency and gravity of his bearing made her at once lay down her work.
"Honor," he began, "I'm bothered ... about Ladybird, ... that's the truth. I wonder if I can speak without fear of your misunderstanding me?"
"Try me! I am only too glad to help her in any way."
His intense look softened to a smile.
"You've made that clear enough already. I begin to wonder what she will do when John comes back to claim you again. You so thoroughly understand her, and thoroughly—love her."
"She is a creature born to be loved."
"Andto be kept happy," he added very quietly. "But the vital question is whether that is at all possible in Kohat, or in any other of our stations; for Kohat is by no means the worst. She hates the place, doesn't she? She's counting the days to get away to the Hills. You know you can't look me straight in the face and say she is happy here."
The unexpected attack struck Honor into momentary silence. Desmond was fatally quick to perceive the shadow of hesitation, transient as a breath upon glass; and when she would have spoken he silenced her with a peremptory hand.
"Don't perjure yourself, Honor. Your eyes have told me all I wanted to know."
Distress gave her a courage that surprised herself.
"Indeed they have done nothing of the kind! You ask a direct question, and you are bound in fairness to hear my answer. The life here is still very new to Evelyn, and she has not quite found her footing yet;—that is all. I have had it from her own lips that the place matters very little to her so long as she is—with you; and you go too far in saying that she is not happy here."
But her words did not carry conviction. He was still under the influence of his wife's curious aloofness since the night of the fire.
"You're trying to let me down gently, Honor," he said, with a rather cheerless smile. "And you may as well save yourself the trouble. Only—this is where you mustnotmisunderstand me, please,—no shadow of blame attaches to Ladybird if she isn't happy. I had no right to bring her up to this part of the world, knowing it as I did; and I've no right to keep her here. That's the position, in a nutshell."
"Do you mean you ought to—send her away?"
"No—takeher away."
Honor started visibly.
"But—surely—that's impossible?"
"I think not," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone that distressed her more keenly than any display of emotion. "It's merely a question of facing facts. If I had money enough, I could throw up the Army and take her home. But, as matters stand, I can only do the next best thing, and give up—the Frontier, by exchanging into a down-country regiment."
"The Frontier...!Theo! Do you realise what you are saying?"
"Perfectly."
"Oh, but it's folly—worse than folly! To give up what you have worked for all these years—the men who worship you—your friends, the regiment——"
"They would survive the loss. I don't flatter myself I'm indispensable. Besides, this isn't a question of me or my friends. I am thinking of Ladybird."
The coolness of his tone, and the set determination of his mouth, chilled her fervour like a draught of cold air.
"Oh, if only Major Wyndham were here!" she murmured desperately.
"Thank God he is not! And if he were, it would make no difference. I shouldn't dream of discussing such a matter with him or—any of them. When my mind is made up, I shall tell him; that is all."
He rose as though the matter were ended; but Honor had no mind to let him shut the door upon it—yet.
"It is strange that you can speak so," she said, "when you must know, better than any one, what your leaving the regiment would mean—to Major Wyndham."
"Yes—I know," he answered quietly, and the pain in his eyes made her half regret her own daring. "The only two big difficulties in the way are my father—and Paul."
"Isee a whole army of others almost as big."
"That is only because you are always in sympathy with the man's point of view."
"A matter like thisoughtto be looked at first and foremost from the man's point of view. The truth is, Theo, that you have simply appealed to me in the hope of having your own Quixotic notion confirmed. You want me to say, 'Yes, go; you will be doing quite right.' And—think what you will of me—I flatly refuse to say it!"
He regarded her for a few seconds in an admiring silence, the smile deepening in his eyes. Then:
"Don't you think you are a little hard on me?" he said at length. "It is not altogether easy to do—this sort of thing."
Honor made no immediate reply, though the strongest chords of her being vibrated in response to his words. Then she rose also, and stood before him; her head tilted a little upwards; her candid eyes resting deliberately upon his own. Standing thus, at her full height, she appeared commandingly beautiful, but in the stress of the moment the fact counted for nothing with either of them. All the hidden forces of her nature were set to remove the dogged line from his mouth; and he himself, looking on the fair outward show of her, saw only a mind clear as crystal, lit up by the white light of truth.
For an instant they fronted one another—spirits of equal strength. Then Honor spoke.
"If Idoseem hard on you, it is only because I want, above all things, to convince you that your idea is wrong from every point of view. You have paid me a very high compliment to-day. I want you to pay me a still higher one: to believe that I am speaking the simple truth, as I see it, from a woman's standpoint, not merely trying to save you from unhappiness. May I speak out straight?"
"As plainly as you please, Honor. Your opinion will not be despised, I promise you."
"Well, then—is it fair on Evelyn to make her upbringing responsible for such a serious turn of the wheel? Would you give her no voice in the matter—treat her as if she were a mere child?"
"She is very little more than a child."
"Indeed, Theo, she is a great deal more. She is a woman, ... and a wife. The woman's soul isn't fully awake in her yet; but it may come awake any day. And then—how would she feel if she ever found out——"
"She never would——"
"How can you tell? Women find out most things about the men they—care for. It's a risk not worth running. Would she even acquiesce if you put the matter before her now, child as she is?"
"Frankly, I don't know. Possibly not. She isn't able to see ahead much, or look all round a subject."
"Shall you be very angry if I say that you haven't yet looked thoroughly round this one? The idea probably came to you as an impulse—a very fine impulse, I admit; and, instead of fairly weighing pros and cons, you have simply been hunting up excuses that will justify you in carrying it out; because, for the moment, Evelyn seems a little discontented with things in general."
The hard lines about his mouth relaxed.
"Youarespeaking straight with a vengeance, Honor!"
"I know I am. It's necessary sometimes, when people are—obstinate!" And she smiled frankly into his troubled face. "Oh, believe me, it's fatal for the man to throw all his life out of gear on account of the woman. It's putting things the wrong way about altogether. In accepting her husband, a woman must be prepared to accept his life and work also."
"But, suppose she can't realise either till—too late?"
"That's a drawback. But if she really cares, it can still be done. I am jealous for Evelyn. I want her to have the chance of showing that she has good stuff in her. Give her the chance, Theo; and if she doesn't quite rise to it, don't feel that you are in any way to blame."
"I'd be bound to feel that."
"Then I can only say it would be very wrong-headed of you." Her eyes softened to a passing tenderness nevertheless. "Let the blame, if there is any, rest on my shoulders; and we'll hope that the need may never arise. Now, have I said enough? Will you—willyou leave things as they are, and put aside your impossible notion for good?"
The urgency of her request so touched him that he answered with a readiness which surprised himself.
"No question but you're a friend worth having! I promise you this much, Honor. I will think very thoroughly over it all, since you accuse me of not having done so yet! And we'll let the matter rest for the present, anyway. I'd like to get you both to the Hills as soon as possible. These Kresneys are becoming something of a nuisance. It's past my comprehension how she can find any pleasure in their company. But she has little enough amusement here, and I'm loth to spoil any of it. She'll enjoy going up to Murree, though, sooner than she expected; and as Mackay insists on my taking fifteen days before getting back to work, I can go with you, and settle you up there in about a week's time. You'll see after her, for me, won't you, Honor? She's a little heedless and inexperienced still; and you'll keep an eye on household matters more or less?"
"Of course I will, and make her see to them herself, too; though it seems rather like expecting a flower to learn the multiplication table! She is so obviously just made to be loved and protected."
"Andkept happy," he insisted, with an abrupt reversion to his original argument.
"Yes—within reasonable limits. Now, sit down, please, and light up. You've been all this time without a cigar!"
But the cigar was hardly lighted before they were startled by a confused sound of shouting from the compound;—a blur of shrill and deep voices, punctuated by the strained discordant bark of a dog;—a bark unmistakable to ears that have heard it once. Desmond sprang out of his chair.
"By Jove! A mad pariah!"
Lifting Rob by the scruff of his neck, he flung that amazed and dignified person with scant ceremony into the study, and shut the door; then, judging by the direction of the sound, hurried out to the front verandah, snatching up a heavy stick as he passed through the hall. Honor, following not far behind, went quickly into her own room.
Desmond found his sun-diffused compound abandoned to a tumult of terror. Fourteen servants and their belongings had all turned out in force, with sticks, and staves, and valiant shakings of partially unwound turbans, against the unwelcome intruder—a mangy-coated pariah, with lolling tongue and foam-flecked lips, whose bones showed through hairless patches of skin; and whose bared fangs snapped incessantly at everything and nothing, in a manner gruesome to behold. A second crowd of outsiders, huddled close to the gates, was also very zealous in the matter of shouting, and of winnowing the empty air.
As Desmond set foot on the verandah, a four-year-old boy, bent on closer investigation of the enemy, escaped from the "home" battalion. His small mother pursued him, shrieking; but at the first snap the dog's teeth met in the child's fluttering shirt, and his shrieks soared, high and thin, above the deeper torrent of sound.
In an instant Desmond was beside him, the stick swung high over his head. But a low sun smote him straight in the eyes, and there was scant time for accurate aim. The stick merely grazed the dog's shoulder in passing; and Desmond almost lost his balance from the unresisted force of the blow.
The girl-mother caught wildly at her son; and prostrating herself at a safe distance, babbled incoherent and unheeded gratitude. The dog, mad with rage and pain, made a purposeful spring at his one definite assailant; and once again Desmond, half-blinded with sunlight, swung the heavy stick aloft. But before it fell a revolver shot rang out close behind him; and the dog dropped like a stone, with a bullet through his brain.
A shout of quite another new quality went up from the crowd; and Desmond, turning sharply on his heel, confronted Honor Meredith, white to the lips, the strong light making an aureole of her hair.
The hand that held the revolver quivered a little, and he caught it in so strong a grip that she winced under the pressure.
"It would be mere impertinence to say 'thank you,'" he murmured with low-toned vehemence. But his eyes, that sought her own, shamed the futility of speech. "The sun was blinding me; and if I'd missed the second time——"
"Oh, hush, hush!" she pleaded with a quick catch of her breath. "Look, there's Rajinder Singh coming back."
"He must have seen what happened; and by the look of him, I imaginehewill have no great difficulty in expressing his feelings."
Indeed, the tall Sikh, whose finely-cut face and cavernous eye-bones suggested a carving in old ivory, bowed himself almost to the ground before the girl who had saved his admired Captain Sahib from the possibility of a hideous death.
But in the midst of an impassioned flow of words, his deep voice faltered; and squaring his shoulders, he saluted Desmond with a gleam of fire in his eyes.
"There be more things in the heart of a man, Hazúr, than the tongue can be brought to utter. But, of a truth, the Miss Sahib hath done good service for the Border this day."
Desmond flung a smiling glance at Honor.
"There'sfame for you!" he said, with a lightness that was mere foam and spray from great deeps. "The whole Border-side is at your feet!—But what brought you back again, Rajinder Singh?"
"Merely a few words I omitted to say to your Honour at parting."
The words were soon spoken; and the crowd, breaking up into desultory groups, was beginning to disperse, when, to his surprise, Desmond saw his wife's jhampan appear between the gate-posts, and pause for a moment while she took leave of some one on the farther side. Instinctively he moved forward to greet her; but, on perceiving her companion, changed his mind, and stood awaiting her by the verandah steps.
The dead dog lay full in the middle of the path; and Honor, still holding her revolver, stood only a few yards away. At sight of these things the faint shadow of irritation upon Evelyn's face deepened to disgust, not unmixed with fear, and her voice had a touch of sharpness in it as she turned upon her husband.
"Who on earth put that horrible dog there, Theo? And why is Honor wandering about with a pistol? I met a whole lot of natives coming away. Has anything been happening?"
"The dog was mad, and Honor shot him," Desmond answered, with cool abruptness. Her manner of parting from Kresney had set the blood throbbing in his temples. "I only had a stick to tackle him with; and she very pluckily came to my rescue."
While he spoke, Honor turned and went into the house. She was convinced that Evelyn would strike a jarring note, and in her present mood felt ill able to endure it.
Evelyn frowned.
"Oh, Theo, how troublesome you are! If the dog had bitten a few natives, who'd have cared?"
"Their relations, I suppose. And there was a child in danger, Evelyn."
"Poor little thing! But you really can't go about trying to get killed for the benefit of any stray sort of people. I am thankful I wasn't here!"
"Yes—it was just as well," her husband answered drily, as he handed her out of the jhampan. "What brought you back so early?"
"The sun was too hot. I had a headache; and we were all playing abominably. I'm going in now, to lie down."
She paused beside him, and her eyes lingered upon his empty coat-sleeve. Lifting it distastefully between finger and thumb, she glanced up at him with a droop of her delicate lips.
"When is it going to be better? I hate to see you looking all one-sided like that."
"I'm sorry," he answered humbly. "But Nature won't be persuaded to hurry herself—even to please you." He scrutinised her face with a shade of anxiety.
"You do look white, Ladybird. How would it be if I took you to Murree in a week's time?"
"It would be simply lovely!Canyou do it—really? Would youletme go so soon?"
"Letyou go? Do you think I want to keep you here a moment later than you care to stay?"
"Theo!" Instant reproach clouded the April brightness of her face. "How horrid you are! I thought you liked to have me here as long as possible."
He laughed outright at that. He was apt to find her unreasonableness more charming than irritating.
"Surely, little woman, that goes without saying. But if the heat is troubling you, and headaches, I like better to have you where you can be rid of both; and as the notion seems to please you, we'll consider the matter settled."
Between nine and ten that evening, when the three were sitting together in the drawing-room, the outer stillness was broken by a sound of many footsteps and voices rapidly nearing the house. No native crowd this time. The steps and voices were unmistakably English; and Desmond rose hastily.
"This must be Rajinder Singh's doing! It looks as if they meant to overwhelm us in force."
Evelyn had risen also, with a slight frown between her brows.
"Can't I go to bed before they come, Theo? I'm very tired, and they're sure to make a dreadful noise."
"I'm afraid that won't do at all," he said decisively, a rare note of reproof in his tone. "They probably won't stop long, and you must please stay up till they go."
As he spoke, Harry Denvil in white Mess uniform, scarlet kummerband, and jingling spurs, plunged into the room.
"I'm only the advance guard! The whole regiment's coming on behind—even the Colonel—to drink Miss Meredith's health!" He turned upon the girl and shook hands with her at great length. "All the same, you know," he protested laughing, "it's not fair play foryouto go doing that sort of thing. Wish I'd had the chance of it myself!"
Such speeches are impossible to answer; and Honor was thankful that the main body of troops arrived in time to save her from the futile attempt.
But she was only at the beginning of her ordeal.
By the time that Mrs Olliver and six men had wrung her hand with varying degrees of vigour, each adding a characteristic tribute of thanks and praise, her cheeks were on fire; and a mist, which she tried vainly to dispel, blurred her vision.
Through that mist, she was aware of Frank vigorously shaking hands with Desmond, scolding and blessing him in one breath. "Ah, Theo, man, you're a shocking bad lot!" was her sisterly greeting. "Never clear out o' one frying-pan till you're into the next! Thank the Powers Miss Meredith was handy." And swinging round on her heel she accosted the girl herself. "No mistaking the stockyoucome of, Honor, me dear!"
Submerged in blushes, Honor could scarce command her voice. "But really—I only——"
"You only hit the bull's eye like a man, Miss Meredith," Captain Olliver took her up promptly. "The Major never told us he was adding a crack shot to the regiment!" And he swept her a bow that reduced her to silence.
More overwhelming than all were the few direct words from Colonel Buchanan himself; a tall, hard-featured Scot, so entirely absorbed in his profession that he never, save of dire necessity, set foot in a lady's drawing-room.
Paul Wyndham introduced him, and moved aside, leaving them together. For an instant he treated the girl to the quiet scrutiny of clear blue eyes, unpleasantly penetrating. He had scarcely looked at her till now. Still unreconciled to Desmond's marriage, he had resented the introduction of a third woman into the regiment; and he found himself momentarily bewildered by her beauty.
"I ought to be better acquainted with you, Miss Meredith," he said a little stiffly, sincerity struggling through natural reticence, like a light through a fog. "I'm no lady's man, as you probably know, but I had to come and thank you to-night. Desmond's quite my finest officer—no disrespect to your brother; he knows it as well as I do——"
"Here you are, Colonel!" Geoff Olliver thrust a long tumbler into his senior's hand. "We're going to let off steam by drinking Miss Meredith's health before we go back."
Honor looked round hastily, in hopes of effecting an escape, and was confronted by Desmond's eyes looking straight into her own. He lifted his glass with a smile of the frankest friendliness; and the rest followed his example.
"Miss Meredith, your very good health."
The words went round the room in a deep disjointed murmur; and Frank Olliver, stepping impulsively forward, held out her glass to the girl.
"Here's to your health and good luck, with all my heart, Honor, ... the Honor o' the regiment!" she added, with a flash of her white teeth.
Uproarious shouts greeted the spontaneous sally.
"Hear, hear! Well played, indeed, Mrs Olliver! Pity Meredith couldn't have heard that."
Olliver laid a heavy hand on Desmond's shoulder.
"Tell you what, old chap," he said. "You must come back with us; and, by Jove, we'll make a night of it. Finest possible thing for you after a week's moping on the sick list; and we'll just keep Mackay hanging round in case you get knocked out of shape. I'll slip into uniform myself and follow on. That suit you, Colonel?"
"Down to the ground; if Mackay has no objection."
But Mackay knew his men too well to have anything of the sort; and Desmond's eyes gleamed.
"How about uniform for me, sir?" he asked. "I could manage it after a fashion."
Colonel Buchanan smiled.
"No doubt you could! But I'll overlook it to-night. The fellows want you. Won't do to keep them waiting!"
Followed a babel of talk and laughter, in the midst of which Honor, who had moved a little apart, became aware that Desmond was at her side.
"Never mind them, Honor," he said in a low voice. "They mean it very well, and they don't realise that it's a little overwhelming for us both. I won't pile it on by saying any more on my own account.Waittill I get a chance to repay you in kind—that's all!"
His words spurred her to a sudden resolve.
"You have the chance now, if it doesn't seem like taking a mean advantage of—things."
"Mean advantages are not in your line. You've only to say the word."
"Thenstick to the Frontier!" she answered, an imperative ring in her low voice. "Doesn't to-night convince you that you've no right to leave them all?"
His face grew suddenly grave.
"The only right is to stand by Ladybird—at all costs."
"Yes, yes—I know. But remember what I said about her side of it. Give her the chance to find herself, Theo; and givemeyour word now to think no more about leaving the Border. Will you?"
He did not answer at once, nor did he remove his eyes from her face.
"Do you care so much what I do with the rest of my life?" he said at last very quietly.
"Yes—I do; for Ladybird's sake."
"I see. Well, there's no denying your privilege—now to have some voice in the matter. I give you my word, and if it turns out a mistake, the blame be on my own head. The fellows are making a move now. I must go. Good-night."
The men departed accordingly with much clatter of footsteps and jingling of spurs; and only Mrs Olliver remained behind.
Evelyn Desmond had succeeded in slipping away unnoticed a few minutes earlier. She alone, among them all, had spoken no word of gratitude to her friend.
"Les petites choses ont leur importance; c'est par elles toujours qu'on se perde."—Dostoievsky.
"Sothe picnic was a success?"
"Yes, quite. Mrs Rivers was so clever. She paired us off beautifully. My pair was Captain Winthrop of the Ghurkas; an awfully nice man. He talked to me the whole time. He knows Theo. Says he's the finest fellow in Asia! Rather nice to be married to the 'finest fellow in Asia,' isn't it?"
"Decidedly. But I don't think we neededhimto tell us that sort of thing." A touch of the girl's incurable pride flashed in her eyes.
"Well, I was pleased all the same. He said he was never so surprised in his life as when he heard Theo had married; but now he had seen me, he didn't feel surprised any more."
"That was impertinence."
"Not a bit! I thought it was rather nice."
A trifling difference of opinion; but, in point of character, it served to set the two women miles apart.
Evelyn's remark scarcely needed a reply; and Honor fell into a thoughtful silence.
She had allowed herself the rare indulgence of a day "off duty." Instead of accompanying Evelyn to the picnic, she had enjoyed a scrambling excursion with Mrs Conolly—whose friendship was fast becoming a real possession—and her two big babies; exploring hillsides and ravines; hunting up the rarer wild flowers and ferns; and lunching off sandwiches on a granite boulder overhanging infinity. This was her idea of enjoying life in the Himalayas; but the June sun proved a little exhausting; and she was aware of an unusual weariness as she lay back in her canvas chair in the verandah of "The Deodars,"—a woodland cottage, owing its pretentious name to the magnificent cedars that stood sentinel on either side of it.
Her eyes turned for comfort and refreshment to the stainless wonder of the snows, that were already beginning to don their evening jewels—coral and amethyst, opal and pearl. The railed verandah, and its sweeping sprays of honeysuckle, were delicately etched upon a sky of warm amber, shading through gradations of nameless colour into blue, where cloud-films lay like fairy islands in an enchanted sea. Faint whiffs of rose and honeysuckle hovered in the still air, like spirits of the coming twilight, entangling sense and soul in a sweetness that entices rather than uplifts.
Evelyn Desmond, perched lightly on the railings, showed ethereal as a large white butterfly, in the daintiness of her summer finery against a background of glowing sky. She swung a lace parasol aimlessly to and fro, and her gaze was concentrated on the buckle of an irreproachable shoe.
Honor, withdrawing her eyes reluctantly from the brooding peace of mountain and sky, wondered a little at her pensiveness; wondered also where her thoughts—if mere flittings of the mind are entitled to be so called—had carried her.
As a matter of fact, she was thinking of unpaid bills; since human lilies of the field, though they neither toil nor spin, must pay for irreproachable shoes and unlimited summer raiment.
The girl's own thoughts, as they were apt to do in leisure moments, had wandered to Kohat: to the men who were working with cheerful, matter-of-fact courage in the glare of the little desert-station; and to the one brave woman, who remained in their midst to hearten them by her own indomitable gladness of soul.
The beauty of the evening bred a longing—natural in one so sympathetic—that they also could be up on this green hill-top, under the shade of the deodars, enjoying the exquisite repose of it all.
"Have you heard from Theo this week, Ladybird?" she asked suddenly. It was the first time she had used the name, for habit is strong; and Evelyn looked up quickly, the colour deepening in her cheeks.
"Don't call me Ladybird!" she commanded, with unusual decision. "It belongs to Theo."
Honor noted her rising colour with a smile of approval.
"I'm sorry, dear," she said gently. "I quite understand. But—have you heard lately?"
Evelyn's face cleared as readily as a child's.
"Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you. I had quite a long letter this morning. Perhaps you would like to read it."
And drawing an envelope from her pocket she tossed it into Honor's lap.
The girl glanced down at it quickly; but allowed it to lie there untouched. She knew that Desmond wrote good letters, and she would have dearly liked to read this one. But a certain manly strain in her forbade her to trespass on the privacy of a letter written to his wife.
"Thank you," she said; "I think I won't read it, though. I don't suppose Theo would care about his letters being passed on to me. I only want to know if things are going on all right."
"Oh, yes; in the usual sort of way. They've had trouble with those wretched Waziris. Two sentries murdered last week; and some horses stolen. Oh! and Mrs Olliver has had a bad touch of fever; and there's cholera in the city, but they don't think it'll spread. What a gruesome place it is! And what a mercy we're not there now. By the way," she added, working her parasol into a crack between two boards, "I met the Kresneys as I was coming home."
"The Kresneys! Here?"
Honor sat suddenly upright, all trace of weariness gone from her face.
"Yes. They're up for six weeks, and they seemed so pleased to see me that—I asked them in to dinner to-night."
"Evelyn!"
"Well—why not?" A spark of defiance glinted through the dark curves of her lashes.
"You know Theo would hate it."
"I daresay. But he isn't here; so it can't matter to him. And he need not know anything about it."
"My dear! That would be worse than all!"
Evelyn frowned.
"Really, Honor, for a clever person, you're rather stupid. It would be simply idiotic to tell him what is sure to annoy him, when the thing's done and he can't prevent it."
The girl leaned back with an impatient sigh.
"If you feel so sure it will annoy him, why on earth do you do it? He is so good to you in every possible way."
A great longing came upon her to disclose all that he had been ready to relinquish five weeks ago.
"Iknow that without your telling me," Evelyn retorted sharply. "But I think I might do as I like just while I'm up here. And I mean to—whatever you say. The Kresneys came here, instead of going to Mussoorie, chiefly to see me. I can't ignore them; and I won't."
"Well, for goodness' sake, don't ask them to the house again, that's all." Then, because she could scarcely trust herself to say more on the subject, and because she had no wish to risk a quarrel, she added quickly: "A parcel came while we were out. Perhaps you'd like to open it before dinner."
Evelyn was on her feet at once—the Kresneys forgotten as though they were not.
"It must be my new dress for the General's garden-party. How lovely!"
"Another dress? Your almirah's choked with them already."
"Those are only what I got at Simla last year."
"You seem to have gone in rather extensively for dresses last year," Honor remarked, a trifle critically. Since their arrival in Murree she had become better acquainted with the details of Evelyn's wardrobe; and the knowledge had troubled her not a little. "How about your trousseau?"
"Mother gave me hardlyanydresses. She said I wouldn't need them on the Frontier. But Imusthave decent clothes, even in the wilderness."
"Yes, I suppose so. Still you will find continual dresses from Simla a terrible drain on a limited allowance."
A delicate flush crept into Evelyn's cheeks, and her eyes had an odd glitter that came to them when she felt herself hard-pressed, yet did not intend to give in.
"What doyouknow about my allowance?"
"I happen to know the amount of it," Honor answered quietly. "I also know the cost of clothes such as you have been getting in Simla, and—I am puzzled to see how the two can be made to fit. You dopayfor your things, I suppose?" she added, with a flash of apprehension. She herself had never been allowed to indulge in bills.
Evelyn's colour ebbed at the direct question; and she took instant refuge in anger and matrimonial dignity, as being safer than truth.
"Really, Honor, you're getting rather a nuisance just lately. Scolding and preaching never does me a scrap of good—and you know it. What I do with my allowance isn't anybody's business but my own, and I won't be treated as if I were a child. After all"—with a fine mingling of dignity and scorn—"I'mthe married woman. You're only a girl—staying with me; and I think I might be allowed to manage my own affairs, withoutyoualways criticising and interfering."
By this time Honor had risen also; a line of sternness hardening her beautiful mouth. Beneath her sustained cheerfulness lay a passionate temper; and Evelyn's unexpected attack stung it fiercely into life. Several seconds passed before she could trust herself to speak.
"Very well, Evelyn," she said, at length, "from to-day there shall be an end of my criticism and interference. You seem to forget that you asked for my help. But as you don't need it any longer I will hand over the account books to you to-morrow morning; and you had better give Nazar Khan some orders about dinner. There isn't very much in the house."
Only once before had Evelyn seen her friend roused to real indignation; and she was fairly frightened at the effect of her own hasty words.
"Oh, Honor, don't be so angry as that!" she pleaded brokenly. "You know I simply can't——"
But with a decisive gesture Honor set her aside, and walking straight past her, mounted the steep staircase to her own room.
Arrived there, she stood still as one dazed, her hands pressed against her temples. There were times when this girl felt a little afraid of her own vehemence; which, but for the heritage of a strong will, and her unfailing reliance on a Higher Judgment, might indeed have proved disastrous for herself and others.
With controlled deliberation of movement, she drew a chair to the hired dressing-table, which served as davenport, and began to write.
She set down date and address and the words, "My dear Theo,"—no more. What was it she meant to say to him? That from to-day Evelyn must be left to manage her affairs alone; that she could no longer be responsible for her friend's doings, social or domestic; but that she was willing to remain with her for the season, if he wished it? How were such things to be worded? Was it even possible to say them at all?
Her eye fell upon the envelope containing his last letter. Mechanically she drew it out and read it through again very slowly. It was a long letter, full of their mutual interests; of the music and the Persian,—which she was now studying under his tuition;—of Wyndham, Denvil, Mrs Olliver, and his men; very little about himself. But it was written as simply and directly as he spoke,—the only form of letter that annihilates space; and it was signed, "Always your friend, Theo Desmond."
Before she reached the signature the fire had faded from her eyes. She returned it to the envelope, took up the sheet on which three lines were written, and tearing it across and across, dropped it into the cane basket at her side.
"I can't do it," she murmured. "What right have I to let him call himself my friend, if I fail him the first time things take an unpleasant turn?"
She decided, nevertheless, that Evelyn might well be allowed to realise her own helplessness a little before the reins were again taken out of her hands. Then she went downstairs and out into the golden evening, to cool her cheeks and quiet her pulses by half an hour of communing with the imperturbable peace of the hills.
Evelyn, standing alone in the drawing-room, bewildered and helpless as a starfish stranded by the tide, heard Honor's footsteps pass the door and die away in the distance. An unreasoning fear seized her that she might be going over to Mrs Conolly to stay there for good; and at the thought a sob rose in her throat. Flinging aside her parasol, which fell rattling to the floor, she sank into the nearest chair and buried her face in the cushion.
She knew right well that her words had been ungrateful and unjust; yet in her heart she was more vexed with Honor for having pushed her into a corner than with herself for her defensive flash of resentment. More than all was she overwhelmed by a sense of utter helplessness, of not knowing where to turn or what to do next.
"Oh, if only Theo were here!" she lamented. "He would never be unkind to me, I know." Yet the ground of her woe reminded her sharply that if her husband had knowledge of the bills lying at that moment in her davenport, he might possibly be so unkind to her—as she phrased it—that she did not dare tell him the truth. He had spoken to her once on the subject of debt in no uncertain terms; and she had resolved thenceforth to deal with her inevitable muddles in her own way,—the simple fatal way of letting things slide, and hoping that they would somehow come right in the end. But there seemed no present prospect of such a consummation; and for a while she gave herself up to a luxury of self-pity. Tides in her mind ebbed and flowed aimlessly as seaweed. Everything was hopeless and miserable. It was useless trying to be good; and she supposed Honor would never help her again.
Then her thoughts stumbled on the Kresneys. It must be nearly half-past six, and dinner was at a quarter past eight. But, as things now stood, their coming was impossible. She must send them a note to say Honor was not well; for who could tell how this new, angry Honor might choose to behave if they arrived in spite of all?
The need for action roused her, and she went over to her davenport. But on lifting the lid her eyes fell upon the little sheaf of bills—and again the Kresneys faded into insignificance. She took up the detested slips of paper; laid them out one by one on the table; and, sitting down before them, contemplated them with knitted brows and a hopeless droop of her lips.
No need to look into them in detail. She knew their contents, and the sum of them by heart. She knew that they amounted in all to more than six hundred rupees; and that another four hundred, possibly more, was still owing in different directions.
Where in all the world was such a sum to be found without Theo's help? An appeal to Honor would be worse than useless. Honor was so stupid about such things. Her one idea would be immediate confession. A hazy notion haunted Evelyn that people who were in straits borrowed money from somewhere, or some one. But her knowledge of this mysterious transaction went no further; and even she was able to perceive that from so nebulous a starting-point no definite advance could be made. She had also heard of women selling their jewels, and wondered vaguely who were the convenient people who bought them; though this alternative did not commend itself to her in any case.
Yet by some means the money must be found. Her earliest creditors were beginning to assert themselves; to thank her in advance for sums which she saw no hope of sending them; and, worse than all, she lived in daily dread lest any of them should be inspired to apply to Theo himself. Look where she would a blank wall confronted her; and in the midst of the blankness she sat, a dainty, dejected figure, with her pitiless pile of bills.
"Krizney, Miss Sahib,argya."[19]
The kitmutgar's voice jerked her back to the necessities of the moment.
Well, mercifully, Honor was out. It would be a comfort to see any one, and get away from her own thoughts. Also she could explain about the dinner; and, hastily gathering up her papers, she sent out the customary "salaam."
"Oh, Mrs Desmond, Idohope I am not disturbing you." Miss Kresney came forward with a rather too effusive warmth of manner. "But you forgot to mention if you dine at a quarter to eight or a quarter past; and I was not certain if you meant us to dress or not."
Miss Kresney would probably have been amazed could she have seen these two Englishwomen dining together.
"Why, yes," Evelyn answered simply, "we always dress in the evening, Honor and I. But—please don't think me very rude—I'm afraid I must ask you and your brother to put off coming till—some other night. I was just going to send you a note; because Honor is—not at all well. She has been out in the sun all day, and her head is bad. She must keep quiet to-night. You see, don't you, that I can't help it? It isn't my fault."
Linda Kresney's face had fallen very blank; but she pulled herself together, and called up a cold little smile.
"Of course not, Mrs Desmond. How could I think it isyourfault, when you have always been so veree kind to us? We often say it is a pity every one is not so kind as you are. I am sorry Miss Meredith is not well." An acid note invaded her voice. She had her own suspicions of Honor, as being too obviously Captain Desmond's friend. "My brother will be terribly disappointed. No doubt we can come some day veree soon instead."
But Evelyn was too self-absorbed to detect the obvious hint.
"Yes—I hope so," she agreed, without enthusiasm; then, seeing puzzled dissatisfaction in Linda Kresney's eyes, made haste to add: "Perhaps you'll stay a little now, as you are not coming to-night. It's quite early still, and I'm all alone."
Miss Kresney sat down with unconcealed alacrity, and Evelyn followed her example, laying her hand on the tell-tale papers. The trouble of her mind showed so clearly in her eyes and lips, that the girl, who had begun to grow really fond of her, was emboldened to risk a vague proffer of sympathy. She had never as yet found the opportunity her brother so desired of making herself useful; and she was quick-witted enough to perceive that Fate might be favouring her at last.
"I am afraid you have been worried about something, Mrs Desmond," she began warily. "Perhaps after all I had better not stay here, bothering you to make talk. Unless perhaps—I can help you in any way. I should be very glad to, if you will not think me officious to say so. I cannot bear to see you look so unhappee. It is not bad news from Kohat, I hope?"
Evelyn's smile was a very misty affair.
"Oh, no—it's not that," she said, and broke off short.
Miss Kresney waited for more—her face and figure one fervent note of interrogation. She had tact enough to realise that she could not press verbal inquiry further.
But her air of interested expectation was not lost on Evelyn Desmond. A pressing need was urging her to unburden her mind through the comforting channels of speech. Cut off, by her own act, from the two strong natures on whom she leaned for sympathy and help, there remained only this girl, who would certainly give her the one, and might possibly give her the other, in the form of practical information. It was this last thought that turned the scale in Miss Kresney's favour; and Evelyn spoke.
"I think it's very nice of you to mind that I am unhappy, and to want to help me. But I don't know whether you can; because it's—it's about money."
The merest shadow of astonishment flittered across Miss Kresney's face. But she said no word, and Evelyn went on—her nervousness giving way rapidly before the relief of speech.
"I have a whole heap of bills here, for dresses and things, that I simply can't pay for out of my allowance. It's not because my husband doesn't give me enough," she added, with a pathetic flash of loyalty. "He gives me all he can possibly spare. But I'm stupid and unpractical. I just order clothes when I want them, and never think about the price till the bill comes in, and then it's too late! My mother did it all before I married. I wish to goodness she had taught me to manage for myself; but it's no use thinking of that now. The question is—where can I get money to pay these bills without troubling my husband about them. I must find some way to do it, only—I don't the least know how. Aren't there natives out here who buy people's jewels, or—or lend them money when they want it in a hurry? I thought—perhaps—you might know whether I could manage to do it—up here?"
The surprise in Miss Kresney's face deepened to alarm.
"Oh, but indeed, Mrs Desmond, you cannot do anything like that. The native money-lenders are veree bad people to deal with; and they ask such big interest, that if you once start with them it is almost impossible to get free again. You say you are inexperienced about money, and that would make it far worse. You cannot do anything of that kind—reallee."
Evelyn rose in an access of helpless impatience.
"But if I can't do that, whatcanI do?" she cried. "I've got to dosomething—somehow, don't you see? Some of them are beginning to bother me already, and—it frightens me."
A long silence followed upon her simple, impassioned statement of the case. Miss Kresney was meditating a startling possibility.
"There is only one thing that I can suggest," she ventured at length, "and that is I could lend you some money myself. I haven't a great deal. But if three hundred rupees would help you to settle some of the bills, I would feel only too proud if you would take it. There will be no interest to pay; and you could let me have it back in small sums just whenever you could manage it."
With a gasp of incredulity Evelyn sank back into her chair.
"D'youmeanthat?"
"Of course I do."
"Oh, Miss Kresney, I don't know why you should be so kind to me! How can I take such a lot of money—from you?"
"Why not, if I am glad to give it?"
Indeed the sum seemed to her an inconsiderable trifle beside the certainty of Owen's praise, of Owen's entire satisfaction.
For a clear three minutes Evelyn Desmond sat silent, irresolute; her mind a formless whirl of eagerness and uncertainty, hope and fear. The novelty of the transaction rather than any glimmering of the complications it might engender held her trembling on the brink; and Miss Kresney awaited her decision with downcast eyes, her fingers mechanically plaiting and unplaiting the silken fringe of the table-cloth.
Sounds crept in from without and peopled the waiting stillness. Evelyn Desmond had no faintest forewarning of the grave issues that hung upon her answer, yet she was unaccountably afraid. Her driven heart cried out for the support of her husband's presence; and her voice, when words came at last, was pitifully unsteady.
"It is so difficult not to say Yes."
"Why will you not say it, then? And it would all be comfortably settled."
"Would it? I don't seem able to believe that. Only if Idosay Yes, you must promise not to tell—your brother."
"I am afraid that would not be possible. How could I arrange such a thing without letting my brother know about it?"
"Then I can't take the money."
Evelyn's voice was desperate but determined. Some spark of intuition enabled her to see that any intrusion of Kresney set the matter beyond the pale of possible things; and nothing remained for Linda but compromise or retreat.
She unhesitatingly chose the former. A few reassuring words would cost little to utter; and if circumstances should demand a convenient forgetfulness, none but herself need ever be aware of the fact. She leaned across the table, and her tone was a triumph of open-hearted sympathy.
"Mrs Desmond, you know quite well that I cannot leave you unhappy like this. If you are so determined that my brother must not know, I think I could manage without his help. Come to the Hotel to-morrow at half-past ten, and we will send off three hundred rupees to those who are troubling you most for payment."
Miss Kresney was as good as her word. She drew three hundred rupees in notes from her own small bank account, and herself went with Evelyn to the post-office whence they were safely despatched to Simla.
Some three evenings later, Owen Kresney bade his sister good-night with a quite phenomenal display of affection.
"You're a regular little trump, Linda!" he declared. "I never gave you credit for so much good sense. By Jove! I'd give a month's pay for a sight of Desmond's face if he ever findsthisout! I expect he stints that poor little woman and splashes all the money on polo ponies. Glad you were able to help her; and whatever you do, don't let her pay you back too soon. If you're short of cash, you've only to ask me."
For the space of a week Honor held inflexibly aloof; and the effort it cost her seemed out of all proportion to the mildness of the punishment inflicted. It is an old story—the inevitable price paid by love that is strong enough to chastise. But this great paradox, the corner-stone of man's salvation, is a stumbling-block to lesser natures. In Evelyn's eyes Honor was merely cruel, and her own week of independence a nightmare of helpless irritation. She made one effort at remonstrance; and its futility crushed her to earth.
During the evening of their talk the matter had been tacitly avoided between them; but when, on the following morning, Honor laid books and bills upon the davenport where Evelyn sat writing, she caught desperately at the girl's hand.
"Honor, it isn't fair. Howcanyou be so unkind?"
Honor drew her hand decisively away.
"Please let the subject alone," she said coolly. "If you persist in talking of it, you will drive me to go and sit in my own room—that's all."
A week later, however, when she returned from a ride to find Evelyn again at the detested davenport, her head bowed upon her arms, like a flower broken with the wind, all the inherent motherhood in her rose up and overflowed. Hastily crossing the room she knelt down beside the small tragic figure and kissed a pearl-white fragment of forehead; the only spot available at the moment. "Poor darling!" she whispered. "Is it really as bad as all that?"
Caresses from Honor were so rare that for an instant Evelyn was taken aback; then she laid her head on the girl's shoulder with a sigh of pure content.
"Oh, Honor! the world seems all broken to pieces whenyouare unkind to me!"
Honor kissed her again.
"I won't be unkind to you any more; and we'll just forget from this minute that it ever happened at all."
But to forget is not to undo; and during their brief estrangement Evelyn Desmond had added a link to the chain of Fate, whose strongest coils are most often wrought by our own unskilful fingers.