[27]God.
[27]God.
"It is poor work beating butterflies with a cart-rope."—Lucas Malet.
Onthe morning of that eventful 17th of March, Evelyn and Honor left the bungalow directly after breakfast, bent upon such shopping as Kohat could afford.
The nearest approach to shops, in the accepted sense of the word, were the open stalls in the native city. But there could be no question of exploring these; and the manifold needs of Western womanhood were inadequately met by the regimental go-downs attached to each corps in the cantonment. These consisted of spacious buildings, shelved from floor to ceiling, and stocked with a fine medley of human requirements, ranging from bone buttons to champagne, from quinine and chlorodyne to rolls of silk for evening gowns. A new consignment from "down-country" came up every month or so; and it was quite one of the events of life in Kohat to go the round of the go-downs as soon as possible after the arrival of these, so as to secure the pick of the market while the goods were fresh and the choice comparatively varied. Herein lay ample scope for those small spites and jealousies that are more than bread and meat to women of a certain type.
Evelyn had actually sent for gloves and shoes by this means, from a cheap Calcutta firm, instead of despatching an order to Simla regally regardless of cost. They by no means satisfied her fastidious taste; but she felt exalted to a superhuman pitch of virtue as she bore them home in her dandy.
"I don't believe Theo will like these shoes one bit!" she remarked with a satisfied laugh to Honor who rode beside her. "He will tell me to order the next ones from Simla straight away, and I shall be ever so dutiful and obey him without any fuss—shan't I, you grave, wise Honor?"
"I should be an inhuman monster if I could keep grave and wise in your company!" Honor answered, laughing back at her. "You will go on buying expensive shoes to the end of the chapter, if that's what you are driving at. Why have your spirits gone up with such a run this morning?"
"I don't know. It's nice enough that theyareup. I got a lovely letter from Theo—that's partly why, perhaps." Her eyes softened at the remembrance of that letter. "He'll be home again in less than a fortnight."
"Yes; in less than a fortnight," Honor repeated, and wondered where she should go when that time arrived. She had not yet found courage to face the idea in detail.
Evelyn kept up an unbroken ripple of hilarity till the verandah was reached, laughing as Honor had not heard her laugh since Theo had left.
"You're 'fey,' child," she said, as she helped her out of the dandy. "I shall have you in floods of tears before night."
"No, you won't; I don't feel as if anythingcouldhappen to make me cry to-day. Hullo! there's Major Wyndham's horse out there."
Honor started.
"What can he want over here so early? Come in quick and find out."
They hurried through the hall into the dining-room, Evelyn leading, a swift premonition of evil killing the laughter on their lips.
Paul stood by the piano looking at Desmond's photograph; his arms folded; his "February face" more eloquent than he knew.
"Good-morning, Mrs Desmond," he said; and his sympathetic hand-clasp sent her mercurial spirits down to zero.
"What is it?" she asked, blanching visibly. "You have brought bad news?"
Paul assented in silence.
"If it is very horrible—don't tell me—I won't hear it!" She held up both hands, as if warding off a blow. But Honor, coming quickly forward, put both arms round her.
"Hush, dear, hush!" she said soothingly. "That is nonsense. Wemustknow what has happened, at once."
"Let him tellyou, then; it won't hurt you like it hurts me." And disengaging herself, she went over to the verandah doorway, and stood there, looking out into the sunshine; her back to the room; her small hands clasped; every nerve strained to miss no word of what was passing behind her.
Honor turned promptly on Paul, an anguish of suspense in her eyes.
"Is it—the worst?"
"No—no—not that," he reassured her hastily.
"Tell me everything, please."
"I only know bare facts; the news came by helio. It seems there was a sharp hand-to-hand engagement. The Boy and some of his men were taken by surprise. Just as Theo reached them Denvil was—killed!"
A stifled sound broke from Evelyn.
"And—Theo?" Honor's low voice seemed to come from very far away.
"Theo has been badly cut about. Four wounds. The most serious is a bullet wound in his face—close to the right eye. They seem afraid that he may possibly—lose his sight."
"It is not true—oh, it isnottrue!" Evelyn's hands went up to her head with a desperate cry. Then she swayed, tottered backward, and fell prone among the sofa cushions.
"Honor—come to me—I'm frightened!" she moaned, without lifting her head; and in an instant Honor was bending over her, murmuring brave words of encouragement, removing her hat, and mechanically smoothing her hair.
"Is—he still here?" Evelyn asked under her breath.
"Yes, dear. Do you want him?"
"No—no; send him away. I want you—only you!"
Wyndham was already nearing the door and Honor followed him out into the hall.
"You see she's a little off her balance, poor child."
"Yes, I see," he answered wearily. "And I thank God with all my heart thatyouare here. Will you tell Mrs Desmond that an escort is returning to-day with Theo and—the Boy. They will reach Kohat to-morrow evening."
Honor straightened herself suddenly.
"I will tell her. To-morrow evening. Does Frank know too?"
"Yes; she was in when I came. It upset her very much. Not a soul in the regiment—officers or men—will have a minute's peace of mind till the result of this wound is known for certain. In all the misery of it, one is proud to realise that."
Something of his own grief showed in his voice for the first time, and Honor's heart contracted with too keen a sympathy.
"Ah, Paul! you speak of it so calmly—as if you were just one with the rest. But I, at least, can guess what the pain and suspense must be for you."
His face softened at the tender inflection of her voice.
"No," he said, "even you cannot guess that. Now go back to his wife. If I can be of any use at all send for me. I shall not come round otherwise till I bring him here to-morrow evening. I mean to ride out with a small escort and meet them on the way."
Honor found Evelyn rigid and tearless among her cushions. The strange mingling of coldness and terror in her eyes startled the girl. She hurried to the sofa and knelt down at her side.
"Don't look like that, Evelyn," she said. "It's horrible! Only think, Theo will be here to-morrow evening. Paul told me so just now."
"To-morrow—to-morrow? He will be here, in this house—to-morrow?" She repeated the word with stunned iteration, and there was no feeling in her tone, only an uncanny fear, that chilled the blood in Honor's veins.
"I never thought—it would be so soon. How can we manage about getting away?"
"Getting away—where—in Heaven's name?" Honor rose abruptly. She began to feel as though she were moving in a nightmare.
"Oh, anywhere, away from here. I can't—I won't see him, when he is 'badly cut about' and—half blind. I thought—if you would take me to Murree—Mrs Olliver would be quite glad to look after him. And when he is better, he could come up too. But if—if he is really going to be—blind——"
She closed her eyes and shuddered. No flicker of pity stirred in Honor's heart. It needed all her force of will to control her temper, even for a few minutes longer. But a grim curiosity urged her to discover how far it was possible to travel along such incredible lines of thought and feeling.
"Well, what then?" she demanded coldly.
"Then—I know I could—never come back to him—never!" Theo's wife answered slowly, without raising her eyes, or the look in Honor's face would surely have frozen the words on her lips. "To feel that he was always in the dark would frighten me out of my life. And he would never be left alone, I know. There are so many—others."
But Honor could bear no more. Bending down, she caught hold of Evelyn's shoulders and fairly shook her, as though she would shake her back to life and human feeling. Her blue eyes blazed with indignation.
"Howdareyou talk like that!" she said in a low note of concentrated wrath. "How dare you think such despicable thoughts! Of course there are others who would give their lives to save him from a minute's pain; and you would let them take your place,—yours? And you can actually expect thatI—of all people—will back you up in your desertion of him? No indeed! If you go, you go alone; and I shall never have a word to say to you again. I may be speaking hotly, because I am furiously angry. But I mean every word I say; and my actions will prove it. What's more,I will not let you go. Youshallstand by him, however frightened you may be. You talk of—loving him, and you would treat him as I should be ashamed to treat a dog! Evelyn! Evelyn!"—her voice broke suddenly, and tears started to her eyes,—"tell me you did not mean what you said; or I don't know how I am to go on helping you at all!"
There was more of command than of entreaty in the last words, and Evelyn looked up at the transfigured beauty of her face with a slow shivering sigh.
"You are very wonderful, and very—terrible, Honor," she said. "I never imagined you could be as terrible as that." Then her lips quivered, and she caught at the girl's skirt, drawing her nearer. "Youmustgo on helping me, or everything will go to pieces."
"So long as you remain a loyal wife to—Theo, I cannot choose but do so, with all my heart."
She knelt down again now; and Evelyn, flinging both arms round her neck, broke into a passion of weeping.
"I think I was half mad," she moaned through her tears, clinging to Honor as a drowning woman clings to a spar. "And I am dreadfully frightened still. But I will do whatever you tell me. I will try to be a loyal wife, even if——"
"We won't think of that at all," Honor interposed hastily. "It cannot—it shall not happen!"
But Evelyn's tears flowed on unchecked. The fire of Honor's just anger had melted the morsel of ice in her heart; and in a very short time she had cried herself to sleep.
Then Honor gently unlocked the clinging fingers, and went straight to Frank Olliver's room.
"So free we seem; so fettered fast we are."—Browning.
A lowsun was gilding the hill-tops when two doolies, borne by sturdykaharsand escorted by Wyndham and Mackay, passed between the gate-posts of Desmond's bungalow. Honor stood with Evelyn at the head of the verandah steps; but as thekaharshalted, and the officers prepared to dismount, she moved back a space, leaving her to welcome her husband alone.
The blood ebbed from Evelyn's face as she watched Theo mount the steps, slowly, uncertainly, supported on either side by Wyndham and the doctor—he who, in normal circumstances, would have cleared them at a bound and taken her in his arms. His appearance alone struck terror into her heart. Was this the splendid-looking husband who had ridden away full of life and energy,—this strange seeming man, whose face was disfigured and more than half-hidden by an unsightly bandage and a broad green shade; whose empty coat-sleeve, slashed and blood-stained, suggested too vividly the condition of the arm strapped into place beneath?
It was all she could do not to shrink back instinctively when the men moved aside, as Honor had done, to afford husband and wife some small measure of privacy, and Theo held out his hand.
"They've sent me back rather the worse for wear, Ladybird," he said, with a smile; "but Mackay will put the pieces together in good time."
"Oh, Theo—I hope so!—It's dreadful to see you—like that."
The hand she surrendered to him was cold as ice; and the attempt at welcome in her voice was checked by a paralysing fear and constraint. Thirty-six hours of severe pain in body and mind had failed to break his spirit; but the thing was achieved by a dozen words from his wife. He knew now what to expect from her; and for the moment he was stricken speechless.
"I am so—sorry," she murmured, "about——"
"Yes—yes, I know," he took her up quickly; and there was an awkward silence.
"Who—what—is in that other doolie?" she asked, in a hurried whisper.
"The Boy."
"But, Theo—you're not going to——"
"For God's sake shut up!"
He swayed a little in speaking, and promptly Paul was at his side. No one had heard what passed; and when Mackay, returning to his post by the wounded arm, gently urged Desmond forward, Paul signalled to Evelyn to take his place, while he went back to the doolie.
"Just a minute, Mrs Desmond," he said in a low tone.
Evelyn, startled by the request, stood irresolute; and since there was no time for hesitancy, Honor came forward and put her hand under Theo's elbow. She felt a jar go all through him at her touch, and knew that he had heard Wyndham's request.
"Ah, Honor," he said, by way of greeting, "I'm afraid I've come back a mere log on your hands."
An undernote of bitterness in his tone gave her courage to speak the thought in her mind. "We are only too thankful to have got you back safe—in any condition," she murmured.
He did not answer at once; and she moved away to make place for Paul, whose face was set in very rigid lines.
"Take me to theduftur," Desmond commanded curtly. "I'll not be put to bed."
"No, no, man; we'll settle you up in your long chair," Mackay answered soothingly. He perceived that by some means Mrs Desmond had jarred his patient, and was in high ill-humour with her accordingly.
At the study door, Amar Singh almost laid his head at Desmond's feet. Within the room they found Frank Olliver arranging pillows and a rug on the deck-chair, and on a table beside it a light meal awaited him.
The meal ended, they all left him with one accord, instinctively making way for his wife—who was crying her heart out in the next room.
Paul was the last to leave. He remained standing by Desmond, resting a hand on his sound shoulder. But there are silences more illuminating than speech; and Theo Desmond knew all that was in his friend's heart at that moment—all that could never be spoken between them, because they were Englishmen, born into a heritage of incurable reserve.
"You're going to pull through this," Paul said quietly.
"Am I? Ask Mackay."
"No need for that—I'm sure of it; and—in the mean while——" A tightening of his grasp supplied the rest.
"Thanks, old man. I know what you mean."
Then Paul went reluctantly out, and on into the drawing-room, where he found Mackay and Honor Meredith in close conference. The little doctor was laying down the law in respect of his patient with characteristic bluntness.
"Now, Miss Meredith," he had said, as he met her in the hall, and drew her aside into the empty room, "I'm a plain man, and you must put up with plain speaking for the next few minutes. It's no light matter to be responsible for a chap like Desmond. Not a morsel of use talking to his wife! She seems to have upset him already. The Lord alone knows how women do these things. Fools men are to care! But Desmond is what you call finely organised; and you can't handle a violin as you would a big drum. Frankly, now, his eyesight's in danger; and that wound in his cheek is an ugly one in any case. He wants careful nursing, and I refuse to put him into Mrs Desmond's hands. I'd deserve hanging for murder if I did! Remains Mrs Olliver, or yourself. 'Twould be awkward for Mrs Olliver to take his wife's place when there is a capable woman on the spot. So now, will you take charge of Desmond for me, and put yourself under my orders?—that's the realmutlub[28]of the whole matter. You're welcome to say I don't think Mrs Desmond strong enough, if you feel bound to tell a polite lie on the subject."
Honor had listened to the doctor's brusquely-delivered speech with a growing sense of helplessness, as of a mouse caught in a trap. His statement of the case was uncomfortably plain. He left her no loophole of escape; and by the time he fired his final question at her, she had decided on present capitulation.
"Yes, I will take charge of him," she said. "Only Mrs Desmond must have some share in the nursing—for his sake and her own."
"Oh, well—well, I suppose she must. The less the better for his sake; and you've got to consider Desmond before every one else at present. I insist on that."
Honor smiled faintly at the superfluous injunction; and it was at this point that Paul entered the room.
Mackay turned on him a face of open jubilation.
"Congratulate me, Wyndham! I've secured Miss Meredith's services for Desmond."
"Thank God," Paul answered fervently; and he thanked Honor also with his eyes.
"I shall move into the bungalow myself after the funeral, and give you what help I can. He will need a good deal of companionship to keep him from chafing at his helplessness. He wished the Boy to be brought here and buried from his house. I am making all arrangements; and we shall be round quite early in the morning. Can I see Desmond again to-night?"
Mackay pursed his lips.
"He'll do best with just the women-folk this evening. Look in after Mess, if you like—last thing."
"Was Evelyn with him when you left?" Honor asked suddenly, a flash of apprehension in her tone.
"No."
"I must go and see what has come to her," she said, visibly disturbed. "I shall see you both after Mess."
She hurried out, and listened intently at the study door. No sound broke the stillness; and with an aching dread at her heart she passed on to the next door.
The brief dusk of India was already almost spent; and finding Evelyn's room in semi-darkness, she paused on the threshold.
"Are you there, dear?" she called softly; and was answered by a stifled sound from the region of the bed, where Evelyn lay prone, her face buried in the pillows. At that Honor came forward, and laid a firm though a not unkindly hand upon her.
"Evelyn, this is childish selfishness. Get up and go to him at once."
The sole answer vouchsafed to her was a vehement shaking of the fair head; a fresh paroxysm of distress.
"My dear—my dear," she urged, bending down and speaking more softly, "youmustpull yourself together. This is no time to think of your own trouble. He is wounded, anxious, and terribly unhappy and—he wants you. Do you call this being a loyal wife? Remember, you promised——"
Thus appealed to, Evelyn lifted her head, supporting it on one elbow, and showed a grief-disfigured face.
"Yes, I know. But—couldn't you go to him, just for now, Honor? You're not upset, like I am;—and say I—I'll come when I'm better."
Honor went white to the lips.
"No, Evelyn," she said, her anger rising as she went on. "There are things that evenImust refuse to do for you. I have done all that is in my power; but Iwillnot take your place with—your husband."
Astonishment checked Evelyn's sobbing, and a spark of unreasoning jealousy shot through the mist of her tears.
"I don'twantyou to take my place with him. He'smine!"
"Then don't ask me to go to him now."
The counter-stroke was unanswerable. Evelyn made a genuine attempt to still the uncontrolled quivering of her body, and actually got upon her feet. But abandonment to misery had so shaken her that, even as Honor put out a steadying hand, she fell back among her pillows with a choking sob.
"It's no use," she moaned. "Go, Honor—gonow; and say I—I'm coming."
The girl set her teeth hard. A strange light gleamed in the blue of her eyes. She moved across to the washing-stand and poured out a stiff dose of sal volatile.
"Here, Evelyn," she said, all the tenderness gone from her voice, "drink this at once. Then get up as soon as you can, and make yourself presentable. I shall not be gone many minutes, and youmustbe ready to go to him the instant I come back."
Evelyn choked and spluttered over the burning mixture.
"Oh, thank you, Honor, thank you. Only—don't look so angry about it, please."
"Iamangry—I am bitterly angry," Honor answered with sudden vehemence, and went quickly from the room.
Once outside, she paused; her whole soul uplifted in a wordless prayer for strength and self-control. It seemed to her that Evelyn's reception of Theo went far to make her own departure a matter of imperative necessity, cruelly hard though it was to risk being misjudged at such a crisis.
With heart and spirit braced for her ordeal, she entered the room.
But at sight of him, who was the incarnation of life, cheerfulness, and vigour, lying stricken in heart and body, her courage deserted her, and she could neither speak nor move. On the lower end of the long chair Rob nestled in an attitude of perplexed watchfulness; satisfaction and bewilderment contending for the mastery over his faithful soul; and Desmond's right arm supported his stunned and aching head.
As Honor paused on the threshold, he stirred uneasily. "That you, Ladybird?" he asked; and his tone, if listless, was unmistakably tender.
"No, Theo. It is I—Honor," the girl answered in a low voice without moving forward.
"Where's Evelyn, then?"
"She's coming soon—very soon."
"What's gone wrong with her? Has she fainted? You might come a little closer to a fellow, Honor. I feel cut off from everything and every one, with this damnable green wall in front of my eyes."
At that cry from the man's tormented heart all thought of her own pain, all doubt as to her own strength, was submerged by a flood-tide of pure human compassion; and she came to him straightway, kneeling close beside his chair, and laying one hand lightly on the rug that covered him.
"There, Theo—there. Can you see me a little now?" she asked tenderly. "You mustn't think hard things of—Ladybird—please. She let herself go so completely after seeing you in the verandah, and it was impossible for her to come to you while she was in such a state of collapse. I have given her a strong dose of sal volatile, and she begged me to explain things to you; so—I came. I can't tell you how sorry I was that it should be—only me."
He raised his head at that.
"You've the grit of all the Merediths in you, Honor," he said, and his changed tone assured her that she had, in some measure, fulfilled her purpose. "I can't have you talking about 'only me' in that deprecating fashion. Goodness knows what Ladybird would have done without you. No doubt she'll pull herself together when she has got more used to the hideousness of it all—myself included——"
"She will—I am sure she will," the girl declared with pardonable insincerity; "and I really believe that if—ifIwere not here, Evelyn might make more of an effort to stand on her own feet than she does now. Please don't misunderstand me, Theo,"—her brave voice faltered on the words—"please believe that I myself would far rather be here at a time like this. I would not dream of deserting my post if I were not quite sure that there are many others ready to look after you as carefully and willingly as I would do myself. Indeed, I am honestly suggesting what I think would be best for us all round—Evelyn especially. Won't you let me go, Theo, and at least try how it works?"
Desmond shook his head with cautious deliberation, since hasty movements had proved to be dangerous.
"My dear Honor," he objected, "you, who know Ladybird even better than I do, must surely know by now that nothing will force her to stand upon her own feet. To-day gives final proof of it. What's more, Paul will probably establish himself here. I can't have him criticising her, even in his own mind; and who but you can I rely on to prevent it, by keeping her up to the mark? You see, I am taking you at your word, and not misunderstanding you, and I ask you frankly to stand by us till this trouble is over, when you shall both go straight to the Hills."
"Very well, Theo; I will stay."
But her voice had an odd vibration in it. There was no refusing a request so worded; but she knew her decision was only deferred to a more seasonable moment.
"Thank you with all my heart," he said. "You'll not regret it, I feel certain."
During the pause that followed, the wounded man made a futile attempt to change his position. In an instant her hands were at his pillows, shifting them quickly and dexterously, supporting his shoulders with her arm the while.
"There, that's better, isn't it?" she asked; and the mother-note sounded in her voice.
"It's just beautiful, thank you. Now—I want Ladybird."
Honor's colour ebbed at the words, and she may be forgiven if a pang of rebellion stabbed her. All the hard tasks, it seemed, were to be hers; while for Evelyn was reserved the full measure of a love and tenderness which she seemed little able to rate to their true value. But there was no trace of emotion in her voice as she replied, "You shall have her at once; only she mustn't stay long. You have already talked more than is good for you."
"Talked?" he echoed, with a sudden outburst of impatience. "What else is there for me to do? I can neither read, nor write, nor move. Am I to lie here like a log, with my own black thoughts for company? I'm not ill, in spite of all."
"No, Theo, you are not ill now," the girl reasoned with him in all gentleness, "but with a wound like that so near your temple you soon will be ill, if you refuse to be moderately careful. Evelyn shall stay for a quarter of an hour. After that youmust pleaseobey me and lie quiet, so as to get a little sleep, if possible, after your cruel journey. Amar Singh shall sit here, and I will leave the drawing-room door open and play to you;—something invigorating—the Pastoral, to start with. Will that do?"
His prompt penitence caught at her heart.
"Forgive me, Honor," he said. "I was an ungrateful brute, and you're a long way too good to me. I'll obey orders in future, without kicking against the pricks. The music will be no end of a comfort. Just like you to think of it!"
[28]Gist.
[28]Gist.
"The depth and dream of my desire,The bitter paths wherein I stray,Thou knowest, who hast made the Fire,Thou knowest, who hast made the Clay."—Kipling.
Whenthe bedroom door opened, Desmond lifted his head, in a distracted attempt to see more of his wife than the shade would permit, and held out his hand.
"Come, Ladybird. I want you."
She came at his bidding, and put her hand in his. But, unwittingly, she stood no nearer than the action demanded; and in her bewildered misery she forgot that he would expect her to stoop and kiss him. It was a fatal omission—how fatal she did not realise till later.
He drew her closer with quiet decision; and she submitted, as she would have submitted to anything he might have chosen to do just then.
"Am I so very dreadful that you can't bear to come near me?" he asked, with a brave attempt at lightness.
"Oh, Theo, don't say that," she pleaded. It came too painfully near the truth. "Only—I can't seem able to believe that—it is really you."
"Well, I give you my word itisreally me—the very same Theo who won the Punjab Cup, and danced with you at Lahore three months ago." Then he bit his lip sharply; for the thought smote him that he might never sit a pony or dance with her again.
The sob that had been clutching at her throat escaped, in spite of herself. "Lahore!" she murmured. "It was all so beautiful at Lahore!"
"Don't cry about it, darling. It will be just as beautiful again, in time. Sit down on the floor—here, close to me. I can't get a sight of you any other way."
She sat down, but in such a position that he had only a scant view of her tear-disfigured face. He pushed the damp ringlets back from her forehead. In his eyes it was her misfortune, rather than her fault, that she should be so inexorably chained to her own trouble.
Her spirit and her love revived under the magic of his touch. She caught his hand and pressed it against her burning cheek. It was cool and steady and sustaining—the hand of a brave man.
"Poor child," he said gently. "I'm an uncomfortable sort of husband for you. But little accidents of this kind will happen to soldiers. Don't say you wish you hadn't married this one!" And he smiled.
"No—no. But, Theo, did you get all these wounds and things trying to save the Boy?"
"Yes; more or less."
"And it wasn't a scrap of use?"
"No. One had the satisfaction of killing the men who did for him. That was all!"
"And you might just as well have come back strong and splendid, like you went away?"
"No use thinking of what might have been, darling. We've got to set our teeth and face whatis."
"Oh, Theo—you are very brave."
"Needs must, Ladybird. If a man fails in that, he had better not have been born. And you are going to be brave too,—my wife."
"Yes,—I hope so. But—it's much more horrible than I ever imagined; and if it's going on for weeks and weeks——"
The prospect so unnerved her that she leaned her head against him, sobbing bitterly.
"Oh, I can't—I can't——!"
The low cry came straight from her heart; and Desmond understood its broken protest to the full. The effort to uphold her was to be useless after all. He compressed his lips and gently released her hand.
"If it's as bad as that, my dear, and you really feel it will be too much for you," he said in a changed tone, "I might arrange for Honor to take you away in a day or two, till I am well enough to follow on. They all know here that you are not strong. One need not degrade you by telling—the whole truth."
"But, Theo, I couldn't leave you like that—just now, could I?"
His smile had a hint of scorn.
"Goodness knows! There is nothing to prevent you——"
"Yes—there is!" she spoke hurriedly, with downcast eyes. "Honor would never take me. She thinks it's dreadful that I should go. I never saw her so angry before. She—she said—terrible things——"
"Good God! What do—you—mean?"
Desmond spoke slowly. Anger and amazement sounded in his deep voice; and his wife saw what she had done.
"Theo!—Theo!" she cried, clasping her hands, and wringing them in distraction at her own foolishness, "I never meant to say that. I—I——"
"No—but you meant to do it," he said, breathing hard and speaking with an effort. "You actually thought of—going—before I came? You would have simply—bolted, and left me to come back to an empty house, if Honor had not prevented you? Great heavens! I can well believe she said terrible things."
His wife knelt upright now and caught at his hand. But he withdrew it hastily.
"Theo—will you listen to me and not be so angry? You are very unkind!"
"Am I? Don't you think it is the other way about? I confess I'm in no humour to listen to you just now. I've had about as much as I can stand to-night; and Mackay told me I must not upset myself about things." He laughed harshly—a sound that chilled her blood. "But no mere man could anticipatethis!"
"Well, I nevermeantto say it, and I think you're horrid, you don't understand——"
"No; thank God, I don't understand—cowardice and desertion. Get up now and leave me alone, please. It's the greatest kindness you can do me; and yourself also, I imagine."
"Oh, don't say that. It's not true; and I'm not going to dream of leaving you. Won't you let me explain?"
"To-morrow, Evelyn, to-morrow," he answered wearily. "I shall be able to give you a fairer hearing by then; and I pray God I may have misjudged you. Now—go."
She bent down and kissed his hand; then rose and slipped silently back into her own room.
Theo Desmond lay motionless, like a man stunned. This third blow, dealt him in quick succession, left him broken in heart and spirit, as he had never been broken in all his days.
It is written that a man must be defeated in order to succeed; and in that moment Desmond bit the dust of the heart's most poignant tragedy and defeat—the shattering of faith in one who is very near to us. Nor was it the shattering of faith alone. The shock of his wife's unwitting revelation, coming when he stood supremely in need of her loyalty and tenderness, struck a mortal blow at his love for her; though in his present state he was not capable of recognising the truth. He only knew that, for the first time in his life, he felt unutterably alone—alone in a dimness which might deepen to permanent darkness; and that the wholesome vigorous realities of life seemed to have slipped for ever out of reach. He only knew that his wife would have turned her back upon him in his hour of extremity—openly disgracing herself and him—but for the intervention of Honor Meredith.
Her mere name called up a vivid vision of her beauty, a remembrance of the infinite compassion in her voice when she had knelt beside him, soothing and strengthening him by some miracle of womanly intuition, urging him to make allowance for his wife's distress.
A sudden glow thrilled through him from head to foot. He stirred slightly; and tried, without success, to turn in his chair. It was as if the compelling spirit of her had dragged him back from the brink of nothingness to renewed life, to the assurance that in his utmost loneliness he was not—nor ever would be—alone. And, in that moment of awakening, the voice of sympathy came to him—tender, uplifting, clear as speech.
Honor Meredith had begun to play.
By way of prelude she chose a piece of pure organ music—the exquisitely simple Largo of the Second Sonata. From that she passed on to the Pastoral itself, opening it, as of custom, with the fine Andante movement—the presage of coming storm.
None among all that wondrous thirty-two is so saturate with open-air cheerfulness and vigour as this Sonata, aptly christened the Pastoral. Here we are made accomplices of Nature's moods, and set in the midst of her voices. Here, in swift succession, are storm and sunshine; falling rain-drops; the plash and ripple of mountain streams; bird notes of rare verisimilitude, from the anxious twitterings before the thunder-shower, to the chorus of thanksgiving after it has swept vigorously past. And Theo Desmond, lying in semi-darkness, with pain for his sole comrade, knew that the hand of healing had been again outstretched to him,—not all in vain.
The Sonata ended in a brisk ripple of sound; and for a while Honor sat motionless, her shapely hands resting on the keyboard as if awaiting further inspiration.
Desmond moved again uneasily. He wondered what her unfailing intuition of his need would lead her to play next; and even as he wondered, expectancy was lulled into a great rest by the measured tranquillity of Beethoven's most stately and divine Adagio—the Moonlight Sonata.
There are some people who get deeper into a piano than others, who breathe a living soul into the trembling wires. The magic of Honor's music lay in this capacity; and she exerted it now to the limit of her power.
The Moonlight Sonata is cumulative from start to finish, passing from the exalted calm of the Adagio, through the graciousness of the Allegretto, to that inspired and inspiring torrent of harmony the Presto Agitato. Its incomparable effect of the rush and murmur of many waters, through which the still small voice of melody rings clear as a song dropped straight from heaven, leaves little room in a listener's soul for the jangling discords of earth. Into that movement the great deaf musician seems to have flung the essence of his impatient spirit;—that rare mingling of ruggedness and simplicity, of purity and passionate power, which went to make up the remarkable character of the man, and which sets Beethoven's music apart from the music of his compeers. Wagner, Chopin, Grieg,—these range the whole gamut of emotion for its own sake. But in the hands of the master it becomes what it should be—the great uplifting lever of the world.
The listener in the darkened room drew a long breath, and clenched his teeth so forcibly that a spasm of pain passed, like a fused wire, through the wound in his cheek. But the keener stress of mind and heart dulled his senses to the pin-prick of the flesh. For in the brief space of time since the music began, Theo Desmond—the soldier of proven courage and self-forgetfulness—had fought the most momentous battle of his life;—a battle in which was no flourish of trumpets, no clash of arms, no medal or honour for the winning.
But the price of conquest had still to be paid. There were still practical issues to be faced, and he faced them with the straightforward simplicity that was his. He saw as in a lightning-flash, the hidden meaning of this girl's power to stimulate and satisfy him; saw the unnameable danger ahead; and in the same breath decided that Honor must go. There must be no risk of disloyalty to Evelyn, were it only in thought.
He could not as yet see how he was to retract his request for her presence. His stunned brain refused to cope with such harassing details. The thing must be said; and no doubt he would find strength to say it aright. For him that was enough; and he deliberately turned his back on the subject.
The Presto was drawing to a close now in a cascade of single notes, as stirring to the ear as the downrush of a waterfall to the eye; and during the silence that followed upon the last crashing chords, the bitter thought came to him that Honor's departure would mean not only the loss of her comradeship, but of the music, which had again become one of the first necessities of his life.
With a sensation altogether strange to him, since it had in it an element of fear, he heard her shut the piano and come towards the door of his room. Closing his eyes, he lay very still, in the hope that she might believe him to be asleep. Ordinary speech with her seemed an impossibility just then.
He felt her come in, and pause beside his chair. His stillness clearly deceived her, for she said nothing; neither did she move away, as he had devoutly hoped she would do.
Remembering that his eyes were hidden, he opened them; and was rewarded by the sight of her cream-coloured skirt, and her hands hanging loosely clasped upon it. An intolerable longing came upon him to push off the shade; to satisfy himself with one glimpse of her face before banishing it out of his life. But strength was given him to resist, and to realise his own cowardice in deceiving her thus.
Then, because he was incapable of doing anything by halves, he made a slight movement and put out his hand.
"Thank you," he said simply. "You have heartened me more than I can say."
"I am so glad," she answered in a low tone, allowing her hand to rest for a mere instant in his. "Now I want you to shut all trouble out of your mind, and go to sleep for a long time. Will you?"
At that the corners of his mouth went down.
"Easier said than done, I'm afraid. But it's sound advice; and I'll do my best to act upon it."
"In that case—you are bound to succeed."
And, without waiting for his possible answer, she slipped quietly out of the room.