"It is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes."—R. L. S.
Wyndham,returning to the bungalow soon after ten o'clock, found it readjusted to its new conditions. Frank Olliver had returned to her empty home; and Desmond, at his own request, had had his camp-bed made up in the study, that he might in no way disturb his wife. She herself had retired early, without going in to him again. Honor noted and wondered at the omission; but since Evelyn had said nothing about her short interview with Theo, she forbore to question her or press her unduly at the start.
When Paul arrived Desmond was sound asleep, wearied out with pain of body and mind; while Honor moved noiselessly to and fro, setting in readiness all that might be wanted before morning. Paul came armed with Mackay's permission to remain on duty for the night, taking what little rest he required on the drawing-room sofa, and Honor could not withhold a smile at his satisfaction.
"I believe you're jealous!" she said. "You want to oust me, and have him all to yourself!"
"You are right," he answered frankly; and going over to the bed, stood looking upon his friend in an unspeakable content, that even anxiety was powerless to annul.
For all that, it was late before Honor managed to leave her patient, and slip away into the bare room where Harry Denvil lay awaiting the dawn.
Save for the long scar across his face, no suggestion of that last desperate fight was visible; and in the presence of the Great Silence, her own turmoil of heart and brain was stilled as at the touch of a reassuring hand. She knelt a long while beside the Boy. It pleased her to believe that he was in some way aware of her companionship; that perhaps he was even glad of it—glad that she should feel no lightest shrinking from the temple that had enshrined the brave jewel of his soul.
Arrived in her own room, she found Parbutti huddled on the ground, in a state of damp and voluble distress. She could not bring herself to dismiss the old woman at once; though her heart cried out for solitude, and weariness seemed suddenly to dissolve her very bones. She saw now that her love had deepened and strengthened during Desmond's absence, as great love is apt to do; and the shock of his return, coupled with the scant possibility of her own escape, had tried her fortitude more severely than she knew.
She submitted in silence to the exchanging of her tea-gown for a white wrapper, and to the loosening of her hair, Parbutti crooning over her ceaselessly the while.
"Now I will soothe your Honour's head till weariness be forgotten, O my Miss Sahib, daughter of my heart! Sleep without dreams, my life; and have no fear for the Captain Sahib, who is surely favoured of the gods by reason of his great courage."
While her tongue ran on, the wrinkled hands moved skilfully over the girl's head and neck, fingering each separate nerve, and stilling the throbbing pulses by that mystery of touch, which we of the West are just beginning to acquire, but which is a common heritage in the East.
"Go now, Parbutti," Honor commanded at length. "Thy fingers be miracle-workers. It is enough."
And as Parbutti departed, praising the gods, Honor leaned her chin upon her hands, and frankly confronted the decision that must be arrived at before morning.
To her inner consciousness it seemed wrong and impossible to fulfil her promise and remain; while to all outward appearance it seemed equally wrong and impossible to go. She could not see clearly. She could only feel intensely; and her paramount feeling at the moment was that God asked of her more than human nature could achieve.
The man's weakness and dependence awakened in her the strongest, the divinest element of a woman's love, and with it the longing to uphold and help him to the utmost limit of her power. It was this intensity of longing which convinced her that, at all costs, she must go. Yet at the first thought of Evelyn her invincible arguments fell back like a defeated battalion.
If she had sought the Frontier in the hope of coming into touch with life's stern realities, her hope had been terribly fulfilled.
"Dear God, whatoughtI to do?" she murmured on a note of passionate appeal. But no answer came out of the stillness; and sheer human need was too strong upon her for prayer.
Rising impulsively, she went over to the wide-flung door that led into the back verandah, and rolled up the "chick," flooding the room with light; for a full moon rode high in the heavens, eclipsing the fire of the stars. She stepped out into the verandah, and passed to the far end, that looked across a strip of rocky desolation to the hills.
The whole world slept in silver, its radiance intensified by patches of blue-black shadow; and with sudden distinctness her night journey of a year ago came back to her mind. What an immeasurable way she had travelled since then! And how far removed was the buoyant-hearted girl of that March morning from the woman who rebelled with all her soul against the cup of bitterness, even while she drank it to the dregs!
Deliberately she tried to gather into herself something of the night's colossal calm, to wrest from the starved scrub of the desert a portion of its patience, its astounding perseverance; to stifle her craving for clear unprejudiced human counsel.
By a natural impulse her thought turned to Mrs Conolly, who alone possessed both will and power to satisfy her need. To speak of her own trouble was a thing outside the pale of possibility. Death itself were preferable. But to consult her friend as to what would really be best for Evelyn was quite another matter. She would go and see Mrs Conolly before breakfast and be ruled by her unfailing wisdom.
Having arrived at one practical decision, her mind grew calmer. She went back to her room, lowered the "chick" and knelt for a long while beside her bed—a white, gracious figure, half-veiled by a dusky curtain of hair.
Habit woke her before seven; and she dressed briskly, heartened by a sense of something definite to be done. A sound of many feet and hushed voices told her that Wyndham and the Pioneer officers had arrived. Chaplains were rare on the Border in those days; and Wyndham was to read the service, as he did on most occasions, Sundays included.
When Honor came out into the hall she found the chick rolled up and the verandah a blaze of full-dress uniforms. No man plays out his last act with more of pomp and circumstance than a soldier; and there is a singular fitness in this emphasis on the dignity rather than the tragedy of death.
The girl remained standing afar off, watching the scene, whose brilliance was heightened by an untempered April sun.
A group of officers, moving aside, revealed two scarlet rows of Pioneers; and beyond them Paul's squadron, striking a deeper note of blue and gold. The band was drawn up ready to start. Slanting rays flashed cheerfully from the brass of trumpets, cornets, bassoons; from the silver fittings of flutes; from the gold on scarlet tunics. And in the midst of this ordered brilliance stood the gun-carriage, grey and austere, its human burden hidden under the folds of the English flag. Behind the gun-carriage the Boy's charger waited, with an air of uncomplaining weariness, the boots hanging reversed over the empty saddle.
With an aching lump in her throat Honor turned away. At that moment the shuddering vibrations of muffled drums ushered in the "Dead March" and each note fell on her heart like a blow.
In passing the study door she paused irresolute, battling with that refractory heart of hers, which refused to sit quiet in its chains. It argued now that, after all, she was his nurse; she had every right to go in and see that all was well with him. But conscience and the hammering of her pulses warned her that the greater right was—to refrain; and straightening herself briskly, she went out through the back verandah to Mrs Conolly's bungalow.
She had not been gone twenty minutes when Evelyn crept into the study, so softly that her husband was not aware of her presence till her fingers rested upon his hand.
He started, and took hold of them.
"That you?" he said gently. "Good-morning."
There was no life in his tone; and its apathy—so incredible a quality in him—gave her courage.
"Theo," she whispered, kneeling down by him, "is it any good trying to speak to you now? Will you believe that—I am ever so sorry? I have been miserable all night; and I am not frightened any more,—see!" In token of sincerity she caressed his empty coat-sleeve. "Will you please—forgive me? Will you?"
"With all my heart, Ladybird," he answered quietly. "But it's no use speaking. A thing like that can't be explained away. It is simply wiped off the slate—you understand?" And almost before the words were out she had kissed him.
Then she slid down into a sitting position, one arm flung lightly across the rug that covered him.
In that instant the thunder of three successive volleys shook the house; and heart-stirring trumpet-notes sounded the Last Post. With a small shudder Evelyn shrank closer to her husband, resting her head against his chair; and Desmond lay watching her in silent wonderment at the tangle of moods and graces which, for lack of a truer word, must needs be called her character. He wondered also how much might have been averted if she had come to him thus yesterday instead of to-day. Impossible to guess. He could only wrench his thoughts away from the forbidden subject; and try to beat down the strong new yearning that possessed him, by occasionally stroking his wife's hair.
It is when we most crave for bread that life has this ironical trick of presenting us with a stone.
Honor, in the meanwhile, had reached Mrs Conolly's bungalow. She found her in the drawing-room arranging flower-vases, and equipped for her morning ride.
"Honor? You? How delightful!" Then catching a clearer view of the girl's face: "My dear—what is it?"
Honor smiled.
"I am afraid you were going out," she said, evading the question.
"Certainly I was; but I am not going now. It is evident that you want me."
"Yes—I want you."
Mrs Jim called out an order to the waitingsais; and followed Honor, who had gone over to the mantelpiece, and buried her face in the cool fragrance of a cluster of Gloire de Dijons.
Mrs Conolly took her gently by the arm.
"I can't have you looking like that, my child," she said. "Your eyes are like saucers, with indigo shadows under them. Did you sleep a wink last night?"
"Not many winks; that's why I am here."
"I see. You must be cruelly anxious about Captain Desmond, as we all are; but Iwill notbelieve that the worst can happen."
"No—oh no!" Honor spoke as if she were beating off an enemy. "But the trouble that kept me awake was—Evelyn."
"Ah! Is the strain going to be too much for her? Come to the sofa, dear, and tell me the whole difficulty."
Honor hesitated. She had her own reasons for wishing to avoid Mrs Conolly's too sympathetic scrutiny.
"You sit down," she said. "I feel too restless. I would rather speak first." And with a hint of inward perplexity Mrs Conolly obeyed.
"It's like this," Honor began, resting an arm on the mantelpiece and not looking directly at her friend, "Dr Mackay has asked me to take entire charge of Theo for the present. He spoke rather strongly,—rather cruelly, about not leaving him in Evelyn's hands. I think he wanted to force my consent; and for the moment I could not refuse. But this is Evelyn's first big chance of rising above herself; and if I step in and do everything I take it right out of her hands. This seems to me so unfair that I have been seriously wondering whether I ought not to—go right away till the worst is over." And she reiterated the arguments she had already put before Theo, as much in the hope of convincing herself as her friend.
Mrs Conolly, watching her with an increasing thoughtfulness, divined some deeper complication beneath her unusual insistence on the wrong point of view; and awaited the sure revelation that would come when it would come.
"You see, don't you," Honor concluded, in a beseeching tone, "that it is not easy to make out what is really best, what is right to be done? And Evelyn's uncertainty makes things still more difficult. One moment I feel almost sure she would 'find herself' if I were not always at her elbow; and the next I feel as if it would be criminal to leave her unsupported for five minutes at a time like this."
"That last comes nearer the truth than anything you have said yet," was Mrs Jim's unhesitating verdict. "Frankly, Honor, I agree with Dr Mackay; and I must really plead with you to leave off splitting straws about your 'Evelyn,' and to think of Captain Desmond—and Captain Desmond only. Surely you care more for him, and for what comes to him, than your line of argument seems to imply?"
Honor drew herself up as if she had been struck. The appeal was so unlooked for, the implication so unendurable, that for an instant she lost her balance. A slow colour crept into her cheeks, a colour drawn from the deepest wells of feeling; and while she stood blankly wondering how she might best remedy her mistake, Mrs Conolly's voice again came to her ears.
"Indeed, my child, you spoke truth just now," she said slowly, a fresh significance in her tone. "It must beveryhard for you to make out what is right."
Honor threw up her head with a gesture of defiance.
"Why should you suddenly say that?" she demanded, almost angrily. But the instant her eyes met those of her friend the unnameable truth flashed between them clear as speech and with a stifled sound Honor hid her face in her hands.
Followed a tense silence; then Mrs Conolly came to her and put an arm round her. But the girl stiffened under the touch of sympathy implying mutual knowledge of that which belonged only to herself and God.
"How could I dream that you would guess?" she murmured, without uncovering her face—"that you would even imagine such a thing to be possible?"
"My dearest," the other answered gently, "I am old enough to know that, where the human heart is concerned, all things are possible."
"But I can't endure that you should know; that you should—think ill of me."
"You know me very little, Honor, if you can dream of that for a moment. Come and sit down. No need to hold aloof from me now."
Honor submitted to be led to the sofa, and drawn down close beside her friend. The whole thing seemed to have become an incredible nightmare.
"Listen to me, my child," Mrs Conolly began, the inexpressible note of mother-love sounding in her voice. "I want you to realise, once for all, how I regard this matter. I think you know how much I have loved and admired you, and I do so now—more than ever. An overwhelming trouble has come upon you, by no will of your own; and you are evidently going to meet it with a high-minded courage altogether worthy of your father's daughter."
Honor shivered.
"Don't speak of father," she entreated. "Only—now that you understand, tell me—tell me—whatmustI do?"
The passionate appeal coming from this girl—apt rather to err in the direction of independence—stirred Mrs Jim's big heart to its depths.
"You will abide by my decision?" she asked.
"Yes; I am ready to do anything for—either of them."
"Bravely spoken, my dear. In that case I can only say, 'Stand to your guns.' You have promised to take over charge of Captain Desmond, and a soldier's daughter should not dream of deserting her post. Mind you, I would not give such advice to ninety-nine girls out of a hundred in your position. The risk would be too serious; and I only dare give it to you because I amsureof you, Honor. I quite realise why you feel you ought to go. But your own feelings must simply be ignored. Your one hope lies in starving them to death, if possible. Give Evelyn her chance by all means, but I can't allow you to desert Captain Desmond on her account. You must be at hand to protect him, and uphold her, in case of failure. In plain English, you must consent to be a mere prop—putting yourself in the background and leaving her to reap the reward. It is the eternal sacrifice of the strong for the weak. You are one of the strong; and in your case there is no shirking the penalty without an imputation that could never be coupled with the name of Meredith."
Honor looked up at that with a characteristic tilt of her chin, and Mrs Conolly's face softened to a smile.
"Am I counselling cruelly hard things, dear?" she asked tenderly.
"No, indeed. If you were soft and sympathetic, I should go away at once. You have shown me quite clearly what is required of me. It will not be—easy. But one can do no less than go through with it—in silence."
Mrs Conolly sat looking at the girl for a few seconds. Then:
"My dear, I am very proud of you," she said with quiet sincerity. "I can see that you have drawn freely on a Strength beyond your own. Just take victory for granted; and do your simple human duty to a sick man who is in great need of you, and whose fortune or misfortune is a matter of real concern to many others besides those near and dear to him. I know I am not exaggerating when I say that if any serious harm came to Captain Desmond it would be a calamity felt not only by his regiment, but by more than half the Frontier Force. He has the 'genius to be loved,' that is perhaps the highest form of genius——"
"I know—I know. Don't talk about him, please."
"Ah! but that is part of your hard programme, Honor. You must learn to talk of him, and to let others talk of him. Only you must banish him altogetherout of your own thoughts. You see the difference?"
"Yes; I see the difference."
"The essence of danger lies there, and too few people recognise it. I believe that half the emotional catastrophes of life might be traced back to want of self-control in the region of thought. The world's real conquerors are those who 'hold in quietness their land of the spirit'; and you have the power to be one of them if you choose."
"I do choose," Honor answered in a low level voice, looking straight before her.
"Then the thing is as good as done." She rose on the words, and drew Honor to her feet. "There; I think I have said hard things enough for one day."
Honor looked very straightly into the elder woman's strong plain face.
"I know you don't expect me to thank you," she said; "we understand each other too well for that. And we will never speak of this again, please. It is dead and buried from to-day."
"Of course. That is why I have spoken rather fully this morning. But be sure you will be constantly in my thoughts, and—in my prayers."
Then she took possession of the girl, holding her closely for a long while; and when they moved apart tears stood in her eyes, though she was a woman little given to that luxury.
"This has been a great blow to me, dear," she said. "I had such high hopes for you. I had even thought of Major Wyndham."
Honor smiled wearily.
"It was perverse of me. I suppose it ought to have been—Paul."
"I wish it had been, with all my heart; and I confess I am puzzled about you two. How has he come to be 'Paul' within this last fortnight?"
"It is simply that we have made a compact. He knows now that he can never be anything more than—Paul—the truest friend a woman ever had."
"Poor fellow! So there are two of you wasted!"
"Is any real love ever wasted?" Honor asked so simply that Mrs Conolly kissed her again.
"My child, you put me to shame. It is clearly I who must learn from you. Now, go home; and God be with you as He very surely will."
Then with her head uplifted and her spirit braced to unflinching endurance, Honor Meredith went out into the blue and gold of the morning.
"Doubting things go wrong,Often hurts more than to be sure they do."—Shakespeare.
Honorfound Evelyn in a state of chastened happiness, buttering toast for Theo's breakfast, which stood ready on a tray at her side.
"Would you like to take this in yourself?" she said, as she completed her task. "I think he would be pleased. He was asking where you were."
The suggestion was so graciously proffered that Honor deposited a light kiss on the coiled floss silk of Evelyn's hair as she bent above the table. Then she took up the tray, and went on into the study.
She entered, and set it down without speaking; and Desmond, who was lying back with closed eyes, roused himself at the sound.
"Thank you, little woman," he said. Then, with a start, "Ah, Honor,—it's you. Very kind of you to trouble. Good-morning."
The contrast in his tone and manner was apparent, even in so few words; and Honor was puzzled.
"I hope you got some sleep last night," she said, "after that cruel thirty-six hours."
"More or less, thanks. But I had a good deal to say to Paul. You and he seem to have become very close friends while I have been away."
"We have; permanently, I am glad to say. I should have come in to you when I got up, but I was sure he would have done everything you could want before leaving."
"He did; and he'll be back the minute he's through with his work. He is an incomparable nurse; and with him at hand, I shall not need to—trespass on so much of your time, after all."
Honor bit her lip and tingled in every nerve, less at the actual words than at the manner of their utterance—a mingling of embarrassment and schooled politeness, which set her at arm's length, checked spontaneity, and brought her down from the heights with the speed of a dropped stone.
"It is not a question of trespassing on my time," she said, and in spite of herself a hint of constraint invaded her voice. "But I have no wish to deprive Paul of his privilege and right. You can settle it with Dr Mackay between you. Now, it's time you ate your breakfast. Can you manage by yourself? Shall I send Evelyn to help you?"
"No, thanks; I can manage all right."
He knew quite well he could do nothing of the sort; but his one need was to be alone.
"Very well. I shall be busy this morning with mail letters. Evelyn will sit with you till Paul comes; and Frank is sure to be round during the day. I pointed out to you yesterday that there were plenty of—others able and willing to see after you."
Before he could remonstrate she was gone. He drew in his breath sharply, between set teeth, and struck the arm of his chair with jarring force.
"I have hurt her—clumsy brute that I am. And I must do worse before the day's out. But the sooner it's over the better."
It was his invariable attitude towards a distasteful duty; and he decided not to let slip a second opportunity. Weak and unaided, he made what shift he could to deal with the intricacies of breakfast, choking back his irritability when he found himself grasping empty air in place of the teapot handle, sending the sugar-tongs clattering to the floor, and deluging his saucer by pouring the milk outside the cup. For the moment, to this man of independent spirit, these trivial indignities seemed more unendurable than the loss of his subaltern, the intrusive shadow threatening his self-respect, or the fear of blindness, that lay upon his heart cold and heavy as a corpse.
And on the other side of the door, Honor stood alone in the drawing-room, trying to regain some measure of calmness before returning to the breakfast-table.
Red-hot resentment fired her from head to foot. Resentment against what, against whom? she asked herself blankly, and in the same breath turned her back upon the answer. Chiefly against herself, no doubt, for her inglorious descent from the pinnacle of stoicism, to which she had climbed barely an hour ago. It seemed that Love, coming late to these two, had come as a refiner's fire, to "torment their hearts, till it should have unfolded the capacities of their spirits." For Love, like Wisdom, is justified of all her children.
Breakfast, followed by details of housekeeping, reinstated common-sense. After all, since she had resolved to remain in the background, Theo had simplified affairs by consigning her to her destined position. She could quite well keep her promise to Dr Mackay, and superintend all matters of moment, without spending much time in the sick-room. Evelyn had agreed to accept her share of the nursing; and, as she had said, there were others, whose right was beyond her own.
Shortly after tiffin, Wyndham arrived with Rajinder Singh; and finding them together in the drawing-room—after the short interview permitted by Paul—Honor took the opportunity of fulfilling a request made by Theo on the previous evening.
"I have to write to Mrs Denvil," she said to Paul. "Would the Sirdar mind giving me a few details about the fighting on the 17th?"
Paul glanced approvingly at the old Sikh, who stood beside him, a princely figure of a man, in the magnificent mufti affected by the native cavalry officer—a long coat of peach-coloured brocade, and a turban of the same tint.
"Mind? He needs very little encouragement to enlarge on Theo's share in the proceedings."
"I would like to hear all he can tell me about that," she answered on a low note of fervour.
"You could follow him, I suppose?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"You hear, Ressaldar Sahib." Paul turned to his companion. "The Miss Sahib desires full news of the attack and engagement on Tuesday morning, that she may write of it to England."
The man's eyes gleamed under his shaggy brows, and he launched into the story, nothing loth; his eloquence rising as he warmed to the congenial theme.
Paul Wyndham stepped back a few paces into a patch of shadow, the better to watch Honor Meredith at his ease. She had balanced herself lightly on the arm of a chair; and now leaned a little forward, her lips just parted in the eagerness of anticipation. A turquoise medallion on a fine gold chain made a single incident of colour on the habitual ivory tint of her gown; threads of burnished copper glinted among the coils of her hair; and the loyal loving soul of her shone like a light through the seriousness of her eyes.
And as he watched, hope—that dies harder than any quality of the heart—rose up in him and prevailed. A day must come when this execrable unknown would no longer stand between them; when she would come to him of her own accord, as she had promised;—and he could wait for years, without impatience, on the bare chance of such a consummation.
But at this point a growing change in her riveted his attention—a change such as only the eyes of a lover could detect and interpret aright. She sat almost facing him; and at the first had looked towards him, from time to time, certain of his sympathy with the interest that held her. But before five minutes were out he had been forgotten as though he were not; and by how all else about her was forgotten also. Not her spirit only, but her whole heart glowed in her eyes; and Paul Wyndham, standing watchful and silent in the shadow, became abruptly aware that the execrable unknown—whom he had been hating for the past fortnight with all the strength of a strong nature—was the man he loved better than anything else on earth.
The Ressaldar was nearing the crowning-point of his story now. Honor listened spellbound as he told her of the breathless rush up that rugged incline, and of the sight that greeted them after scaling the mighty staircase of rock.
"None save the fleetest among us could keep pace with the Captain Sahib, wounded as he was," the Sikh was saying, when Wyndham, with a hideous jar, came back to reality. "But God gave me strength, though I have fifty years well told, so that I came not far behind; and even as Denvil Sahib fell, with his face to the earth, at the Captain Sahib's feet, he turned upon the Afridi devils like a lion among wolves, and smote three of them to hell before a man could say, 'It lightens.' Yet came there one pig of a coward behind him, Miss Sahib. Only, by God's mercy, I also was there, to give him such greeting as he deserved with my Persian sword, that hath passed from father to son these hundred and fifty years, and hath never done better work than in averting the hand of death from my Captain Sahib Bahadur, whom God will make Jungi-Lat-Sahib[29]before the end of his days! For myself I am an old man, and of a truth I covet no higher honour than this that hath befallen me, in rendering twice, without merit, such good service to the Border. Nay, but who am I that I should speak thus? Hath not the Miss Sahib herself rendered a like service? May your honour live long, and be the mother of heroes!"
Rajinder Singh bowed low on the words, which brought the girl to her feet and crimsoned her clear skin from chin to brow. By a deft question she turned the tide of talk into a less embarrassing channel; and Paul Wyndham, pulling himself together with an effort, went noiselessly out of the room.
Passing through the hall, he sought the comparative privacy of the back verandah, which was apt to be deserted at this time of day. Here he confronted the discovery that tortured him—denied it; wrestled with it; and finally owned himself beaten by it. There was no evading the witness of his own eyes; and in that moment it seemed to him that he had reached the limit of endurance. Then a sudden question stabbed him. How far was Theo responsible for that which had come about? Was he, even remotely, to blame?
Had any living soul dared to breathe such questions in his hearing Wyndham would have knocked the words down his throat, and several teeth along with them, man of peace though he was. But the very depth of his feeling for Desmond made him the more clear-eyed and stern in judgment; and the intolerable doubt, uprising like a mist before his inner vision, held him motionless, forgetful of place and time; till footsteps roused him, and he turned to find Honor coming towards him.
"Why, Paul," she said, "what brings you here? I have been looking for you everywhere. I thought you had gone to him. Evelyn says he is alone, and he wants you."
The unconscious use of the pronoun did not escape Paul's notice, and he winced at it, as also at the undernote of reproof in her tone.
"Sorry to have kept him waiting," he said quietly, and for the first time his eyes avoided her face. "I will go to him at once."
But on opening the study door he hesitated, dreading the necessity for speech; glad—actually glad—that his face was hidden from his friend. For all the depth of their reserve, the shadow of restraint was a thing unknown between them. But the world had been turned upside down for Wyndham since he left the familiar room half an hour ago. A spark that came very near to anger burned in his heart.
Desmond turned in his chair. Two hours of undiluted Evelyn had left him craving for mental companionship.
"Paul, old man," he said on a questioning note, "can't you speak to a fellow? Jove! what wouldn't I give for a good square look at you! It's poor work consorting with folk who only exist from the waist downward. You've not got to be running off anywhere else, have you?"
"No; I am quite free."
"Come on then, for Heaven's sake, dear chap! I have been wanting you all the morning."
The direct appeal, the pathos of his shattered vigour, and the irresistible friendliness of words and tone dispelled all possibility of doubt, or of sitting in judgment. Whatever appearances might suggest, Paul stood ready to swear, through thick and thin, to the integrity of his friend.
He came forward at once; and Desmond, cavalierly ousting Rob, made room for him on the lower end of his chair.
[29]Commander-in-Chief.
[29]Commander-in-Chief.
"I have very sore shame if like a coward I shrink away from battle. Moreover, my own soul forbiddeth me."—Homer.
Quitea little party of a quiet kind assembled in the drawing-room for tea—Frank Olliver, Mrs Conolly, Wyndham, and his subaltern George Rivers, a promising probationer of a year's standing. The funeral of the morning, and anxiety as to the fate of Desmond's eyes, gave a subdued tone to the attempt at cheerfulness that prevailed. But Evelyn was grateful even for so mild a reversion to a more normal condition of things.
Each in turn had paid a short visit to the wounded hero in the study; but now they were grouped round the tea-table, leaving him temporarily alone. Evelyn had just filled his cup; and being in no mood to interrupt her exchange of light-hearted nothings with George Rivers, she glanced across at Wyndham, who promptly understood the situation and the mute request.
Honor, standing apart from the rest, noted the characteristic bit of by-play, and with a pang of envy watched Paul receive the cup and plate destined for Theo's room. It seemed a century since she had left him in the morning, with words wrung from her bitterness of heart and regretted as soon as they were uttered; and because of the longing, that would not be stifled, she refrained from the offer that came instinctively to her lips.
But, as if drawn by the magnetism of her thoughts, Paul came straight up to her.
"Won't you take these yourself?" he said in a low tone. "He has seen plenty of me this afternoon; and when I spoke of you just now he said you had not been near him since breakfast. Is that your notion of taking charge of a patient? It isn't mine, I can tell you!"
He spoke lightly, easily; for if life were to be tolerable, the discovery he had made must be ignored, without and within.
"It is not mine either," she answered, flushing at the unmerited reproof. "But I am by way of handing over my charge to you. Doesn't the arrangement suit you?"
"By all means. But Mackay rightly chose you. Besides, I am not so selfish that I should want to deprive Theo of the pleasure of your ministrations."
"Deprive him? You are judging him by yourself! It is hardly a question of deprivation, surely."
Wyndham glanced at her keenly.
"Hullo!" he said, "one doesn't expect that sort of tone from you where Theo is concerned. What do you mean me to understand by it?"
"Nothing—nothing at all! Only—he happens to preferyourministrations. He almost told me so. You or he can settle it with Dr Mackay to-night. But I will take these in to him—if you wish."
"Purely as a favour to me?"
Her face lit up with a gleam of irrepressible humour.
"Purely as a favour to you!"
She took the cup and plate from him, still smiling, and passed on into the study.
As she bent above the table, Desmond lifted his head in a vain effort to get a glimpse of her face.
"Thank you—thank you—how good of you!" he said, his constraint softened by a repressed eagerness, which gave her courage to speak her thought.
"Why am I suddenly to be discomfited by such elaborate thanks, such scathing politeness?" she asked in a tone of valiant good-humour.
"I didn't mean it to be scathing."
"Well, it is. Overmuch thanks for small services is a poor compliment to friendship. I thought you and I agreed on that point."
He answered nothing. He was nerving himself to the effort of decisive speech, which should set danger at arm's length and end their distracting situation once for all.
She set the small table closer to his side.
"I will look in again, in case you should want some more," she said softly, "if you will promise me not to say 'thank you!'"
"I promise," he answered with a half smile; and she turned to go. But before she had reached the door his voice arrested her.
"Honor,—one minute, please. I have something particular to say."
The note of constraint was so marked that the girl stood speechless, scarcely breathing, wondering what would come next—whether his words would break down the barrier that held them apart.
"Well?" she said at length, as he remained silent.
"I have been thinking," he began awkwardly, "over what you said yesterday—about Evelyn. You remember?"
"Yes."
"And I have been wanting to tell you that I believe you were right. You generally are. I believe we ought to give her the chance you spoke of. Besides—I asked too much of you. This may be a slow business; and really we have no right to trade on your unselfishness to the extent I proposed. You understand me?"
For the life of him he could not ask her to go outright; his excuse appeared to him lame enough to be an insult itself. A fierce temptation assailed him to push up the detested shade and discover whether he had hurt this girl, who had done so infinitely much for him. But he grasped the side of his chair, keeping his arm rigid as steel; and awaited her answer, which seemed an eternity in coming.
Indeed, if he had struck her, Honor could scarcely have been more stunned, more indignant, than she was at that moment. But when she found her voice it was at least steady, if not devoid of emotion.
"No, Theo," she said. "For the first time in my life Idon'tunderstand you. But I see clearly—what you wish; and if you feel absolutely certain that you are making the right decision for Evelyn, I have no more to say. For myself, you are asking a far harder thing to-day than you did yesterday. But that is no matter, if it is really best for you both—I don't quite know what Dr Mackay will say. I will see him about it this evening; and you will please tell Evelyn—yourself."
He knew now that he had hurt her cruelly; and with knowledge came the revelation that he was playing a coward's part in rewarding her thus for all she had done; in depriving Evelyn of her one support and shield, merely because he distrusted his own self-mastery at a time of severe mental stress and bodily weakness.
His imperative need for a sight of her face conquered him at last. Quick as thought his hand went up to the rim of the shade. But Honor was quicker still. The instinct to shield him from harm swept everything else aside. In a second she had reached him and secured his hand.
"Youshall notdo that!" she said—anger, fear, determination vibrating in her low tone.
Then, to her astonishment, she found her own hand crushed in his, with a force that brought tears into her eyes. But he remained silent; and she neither spoke nor stirred. Emotion dominated her; and her whole mind was concentrated on the effort to hold it in leash.
For one brief instant they stood thus upon the brink of a precipice—the precipice of mutual knowledge. But both were safeguarded by the strength that belongs to an upright spirit; and before three words could have been uttered Desmond had dropped her hand, almost throwing it from him, with a decisiveness that might have puzzled her, but that she had passed beyond the region of surprise.
Still neither spoke. Desmond was breathing with the short gasps of a man who has ran a great way, or fought a hard fight; and Honor remained beside him, her eyes blinded, her throat aching with tears that must not be allowed to fall.
At last she mastered them sufficiently to risk speech.
"WhathaveI done that you should treat me—like this?"
There was more of bewilderment than of reproach in the words, and Desmond, turning his head, saw the white marks made by his own fingers upon the hand that hung at her side.
"Done?" he echoed, all constraint and coldness gone from his voice. "You have simply proved yourself, for the hundredth time—the staunchest, most long-suffering woman on God's earth. Will you forgive me, Honor? Will you wipe out what I said—and did just now? I am not quite—myself to-day; if one dare proffer an excuse. Mackay is right, we can't do without you—Evelyn least of any. Will you believe that, and stay with us, in spite of all?"
He proffered his hand now, and she gave him the one that still tingled from his pressure. He held it quietly, closely, as the hand of a friend, and was rewarded by her frank return of his grasp.
"Of course I will stay," she said simply. "But don't let there be any talk of forgiveness between you and me, Theo. To understand is to forgive. I confess Ihavebeen puzzled since—yesterday evening, but now I think we do understand one another again. Isn't that so?"
"Yes; we understand one another, Honor," he answered without a shadow of hesitation; but in his heart he thanked God that she did not understand—nor ever would, to her life's end.
Relief reawakened the practical element, which had been submerged in the emotional. She was watching him now with the eyes of a nurse rather than the eyes of a woman.
When he had spoken, his arm fell limply; and he leaned back upon the pillows with a sigh of such utter weariness that her anxiety was aroused. She remembered that his hand had seemed unnaturally hot, and deliberately taking possession of it again, laid her fingers on his wrist. The rapidity of his pulse startled her; since she could have no suspicion of all that he had fought against and held in check.
"Howisone to keep such a piece of quicksilver as you in a state of placid stodge!" she murmured. "I suppose I ought to have forbidden you to talk. But how could I dream that—all this would come of it? You must lie absolutely quiet and see no one for the rest of the evening. I will send at once for Dr Mackay; and, look, your tea is all cold. You shall have some fresh—very weak—it will do you good. But not another word, please, to me or any one till I give you leave."
"Very well; I'll do my best to remain in a state of placid stodge, if that will ease your mind," he answered so humbly that the tears started to her eyes afresh. "Won't you let me smoke, though? Just one cigarette. It would calm me down finely before Mackay comes."
Without answering she took one from his case and gave it to him. Then, striking a match, held it for him, till the wisp of paper and tobacco was well alight; while he lay back, drawing in the fragrant smoke, with a sigh in which contentment and despair were strangely mingled.
It is to be hoped that, to the end of time, woman's higher development will never eradicate her delight in ministering to the minor comforts of the man she loves.
"As soon as I have seen Paul, and sent for Dr Mackay," Honor said, "I will come back and stay with you altogether for the present."
"Thank you." He smiled directly the word was out. "I forgot! That's against regulations! But I swear it came straight from my heart."
"In that case you are forgiven!" she answered, with a low laugh.
It was such pure pleasure to have recaptured the old spontaneous Theo, with whom one could say or do anything, in the certainty of being understood, that even anxiety could not quell the new joy at her heart.
Re-entering the drawing-room, she beckoned Wyndham with her eyes and passed on into the hall. So surprisingly swift are a woman's changes of mood, that by the time he joined her anxiety had taken hold of her again, to the exclusion of all else.
"What is it?" he asked quickly.
"Oh, Paul, you did well to reprove me! We must send the orderly for Dr Mackay at once. He has fever now—rather high, I am afraid. Did you notice nothing earlier?"
"No; he seemed quiet enough when I was with him."
"I think he has been worrying over something, apart from his eyes and the Boy; but I can't get at the bottom of it. No need to make the others anxious yet; only—I won't leave him again. I intend to stick to my charge after all," she added, with a sudden smile. "There was some sort of—misunderstanding, it seems. I don't quite know what, but there's an end of it now."
"Thank God!" The words were no mere formula on Paul Wyndham's lips. "Misunderstandings are more poisonous than snakes! Go straight back to him, and I'll send the orderly flying in two minutes."
There was little sleep for either Wyndham or Honor that night.
The girl persuaded Evelyn to go early to bed, merely telling her that as Theo was restless she would have to sit up with him for a while; and Evelyn, secretly relieved at not being asked to do the sitting up herself, deposited a light kiss on her husband's hair and departed with a pretty air of meekness that brought a smile to Honor's lips.
She had felt mildly happy and oppressively good all day. The tea-party had helped to lighten the hushed atmosphere of the house; and her last waking thought was of George Rivers' deep-toned voice and frankly admiring eyes. She decided that he might "do" in place of Harry Denvil, who must naturally be forgotten as soon as possible; because it was so uncomfortable to think of people who were dead.
Desmond's temperature rose rapidly; and the two, who could not bear to leave his side, divided the night watches between them. Amar Singh, his chin between his knees, crouched dog-like on the mat outside the door, presenting himself, from time to time, with such dumb yearning in his eyes that Honor devised small services for him in pure tenderness of heart.
Paul took a couple of hours' rest at midnight, on the condition that Honor should do the same towards morning; and since she was obviously reluctant when the unwelcome hour arrived, he smilingly conducted her in person to the threshold of her room.
"Good-night to you,—Miss Meredith! Or should it be good-morning?" he said lightly, in the hope of chasing the strained look from her face.
"Good-morning, for preference," she retorted, with an attempt at a laugh. "You can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink! I shan't sleep even for five minutes."
"You think so; but Nature will probably have her way with you all the same."
He moved as if to go, but she came suddenly nearer; and the hidden fear leaped to her lips.
"Paul—is there any real danger because of this fever? One is so afraid of erysipelas with a wound of that kind; and it would be—fatal. Has Dr Mackay said anything definite? Tell me—please. I must know the truth."
In the urgency of the moment she laid a light hand upon him; and Wyndham, bracing the muscles of his arm, tried not to be aware of her finger-tips through his coat-sleeve.
"You evidently know too much for your own peace of mind," he said. "But Mackay is as inscrutable as the Sphinx. One could see he was anxious, because he was ready to snap one's head off on the least provocation; but beyond that I know no more than you do. We can only do our poor utmost for him every hour, you and I, and leave the outcome—to God."
"Yes, yes,—you are right. Oh, Paul, what a rock you are at a bad time like this!"
Unconsciously her fingers tightened upon his arm, and a thrill like a current of electricity passed through him. Lifting her hand from its resting-place, he put it aside, gently but decisively.
"I may be a rock," he remarked with his slow smile, "but I also happen to be—a man. Don't make our compact harder for me than you can help. Good-night again; and sleep soundly—for Theo's sake!"
Before she could find words in which to plead forgiveness, he had almost reached the study door; and she stood motionless, watching him go, her face aflame with anger at her own unwitting thoughtlessness, and humiliation at the exquisite gentleness of his rebuke.
Surely there were few men on earth comparable to this man, whose heart and soul were hers for the taking. A cold fear came upon her lest in the end she should be driven to retract her decision; to forego all, and endure all, rather than withhold from him a happiness he so abundantly deserved.
"Whyis it such a heart-breaking tangle?" she murmured, locking her hands together till the points of her sapphire ring cut into the flesh. But she only pressed the harder. She understood now how it was that monks and fanatics strove to ease the soul through torments of the flesh. A pang of physical pain would have been a positive relief just then. But there was none for her to bear. She was young, vigorous, radiantly alive. She had not so much as a headache after her anxious vigil. The high gods had willed that she should feel and suffer to the full. There is no other pathway to the ultimate heights.
The soft closing of the study door sounded loud in the stillness; and she went reluctantly into her own room.