"We then that are strong ..."—St Paul.
Tosay that Owen Kresney was annoyed would be to do him an injustice. He was furious at the unlooked-for interruption, which bade fair to cancel all that he had been at such pains to achieve. Pure spite so mastered him, that even the news of Desmond's critical condition—which stirred the whole station the morning after the funeral—awakened no spark of pity in that region of concentrated egotism which must needs be called his heart.
The "counter-check quarrelsome" would have been welcome enough. But this impersonal method of knocking the ground from under his feet goaded him to exasperation. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing that he had wrought jealousy or friction between husband and wife. Desmond had practically ignored his existence. There lay the sting that roused all the devil in Kresney; and the devil is a light sleeper in some men's souls. But the Oriental strain in the man made him an adept at a waiting game; and finding himself cavalierly thrust aside, he could do no otherwise than remain in the background for the present, alert, vigilant, cursing his luck.
In the blue bungalow a strained calmness prevailed. The work that must be done could only be carried through by living from hour to hour, as Paul had said; and Evelyn could now no longer be shielded from the pain of knowledge.
On the morning after her first night of vigil, Honor came to her; and, keeping firm hold of both her hands, told her, simply and straightly, that the coming week would make the utmost demands upon her strength and courage.
Evelyn listened with wide eyes and blanching cheeks.
"Did—didImake him bad?" she asked in an awe-struck whisper, for she had not been able to keep her own counsel in regard to her fatal interview with Theo.
"I think not—I hope not," Honor answered gravely. "But you did wound him cruelly; and whatever happens, youmustnot fail him now."
Evelyn looked up with a distressed puckering of her forehead.
"I don't want to—fail him, Honor. But you know I'm not a bit of use with sick people; and I can't all of a sudden turn brave and strong, like you."
Honor's smile expressed an infinite deal, but she did not answer at once. She wanted to be very sure of saying the right word; and it is only when we try to grapple with another's intimate need that we find ourselves baffled by the elusive, intangible spirits of those with whom we share sunlight and food and the bewildering gift of speech. Honor was wondering now whether, by a supreme concentration of will, she could possibly infuse some measure of the soldier spirit into Theo Desmond's wife; and the extravagant idea impelled her to a sudden decision.
She drew Evelyn nearer.
"Listen to me, darling," she said. "We havegotto pull Theo through this between us, you and I; and you always say I can help you to do difficult things. Very well. I am quite determined that youshallbe a brave wife to him, for the next two weeks at least. And when I make up my mind about a thing, it is as good as done, isn't it?"
She spoke very low, and her eyes had a misty softness. But behind the softness lay an invincible assurance, which Evelyn felt without being able to analyse or understand.
"I don't know how you are going to manage it, Honor," she murmured. "But I believe you could makeanybody doanything—especially me!"
Honor's eyes twinkled at the incoherent compliment. The visionary moment had passed, and she was her practical self again, the richer by a fixed resolve.
"At that rate we shall work wonders," she said cheerfully; "and I promise not to make you do anything alarming. You shall begin by taking Theo's breakfast to him at once."
The ill news brought Frank Olliver round later in the morning. She did not stay long; and the look in her eyes as she parted from Paul in the verandah touched him to the heart.
"You'll send me word how he goes on, won't you?" she said. "I'll not be coming round much meself. There's plenty of you to look after him, and you'll not be needing any help from me. 'Tis the first time I could say so with truth," she added, smiling through moist lashes. "An', no doubt, 'tis a wholesome set-down for me self-conceit!"
"I don't believe you can say it with truth yet," Paul answered promptly. "I shall get a chance to talk things over with Honor this morning, and you shall hear the result. May I invite myself to tea, please?"
"Ah, God bless you, Major Wyndham!" she exclaimed, with something of her natural heartiness. "It's a pity there's not more o' your sort in the world."
A compliment, even from Mrs Olliver, invariably struck Paul dumb; and before any answer occurred to him she had cantered away.
The first time he could secure a few minutes alone with Honor he put in an urgent plea for Mrs Olliver's services, and had the satisfaction of going round to her bungalow at tea-time, armed with a special request from the girl herself.
Evelyn accepted, with a slight lift of her brows, Honor's announcement that Mrs Olliver would be only too glad to help in nursing Theo. These odd people, who seemed to enjoy long nights of watching, the uncanny mutterings of delirium, and the incessant doling out of food and medicine, puzzled her beyond measure. She had a hazy idea that she ought to enjoy it in the same way, and a very clear knowledge that she did no such thing. She regarded it as a sort of penance, imposed by Honor, not altogether unfairly. She had just conscience enough to recognise that. And as the hushed monotone of nights and days dragged by, with little relief from the dead weight of anxiety, it did indeed seem as if Honor had succeeded in willing a portion of her brave spirit into her friend. What had passed in secret between God and her own soul resulted in a breaking down of the bounds of self—an unconscious spiritual bestowal of the best that was in her, with that splendid lack of economy in giving which is the hall-mark of a great nature. And Evelyn took colour from the new atmosphere enveloping her with the curious readiness of her type.
Desmond himself, in moments of wakefulness, or passing freedom from delirium, was surprised and profoundly moved to find his wife constantly in attendance on him. At the time he was too ill to express his appreciation. But a vision of her dwelt continually in his mind; and the frequency of her name on his lips brought tears of real self-reproach to her eyes as she sat alone with him through the dread small hours, not daring to glance into the darkest corners or to stir unless necessity compelled her; overpowered by those vague terrors that evaporate like mist in the cold light of definition.
In this fashion an interminable week slipped past, bringing the patient to that critical "corner" with which too many of us are familiar. Neither Paul nor Mackay left the study for twenty-four hours; while the women sat with folded hands and waited—a more arduous task than it sounds.
With the coming of morning, and of the first hopeful word from the sick-room, an audible sigh of relief seemed to pass through the house and compound. It was as if they had all been holding their breath till the worst was over. It became possible at last to achieve smiles that were not mere dutiful distortions of the lips. James Mackay grew one degree less irritable; Wyndham one degree less monosyllabic; Amar Singh condescended to arise and resume his neglected duties; while Rob—becoming aware, in his own fashion, of a stir in the air—emerged from his basket, and shook himself with such energy and thoroughness that Mackay whisked him unceremoniously into the hall, where he sat nursing his injured dignity, quietly determined to slip back, on the first chance, into the room that was his by right, though temporarily in the hands of the enemy.
It was some five days later that Desmond, waking towards morning, found his wife standing beside him in expectant watchfulness.
The low camp-bed lent her a fictitious air of height, as did also the unbroken line of her blue dressing-gown, with its cloud of misty whiteness at the throat. A shaded lamp in a far corner clashed with the first glimmer of dawn; and in the dimness Evelyn's face showed pale and indistinct, save for two dusky semicircles where her lashes rested on her cheek. Desmond saw all this, because at night the shade was discarded, though the rakish bandage still eclipsed his right eye. He lay lapped in a pleasant sense of the unreality of outward things, and his wife—dimly seen and motionless—had the air of a dream-figure in a dream.
Suddenly she leaned down, and caressed his damp hair with a familiar lightness of touch.
"I heard you move, darling," she whispered. "I've been sitting such a long, long while alone; and I badly wanted you to wake up."
"Such a brave Ladybird!" he said, imprisoning her fingers. "You seem to be on duty all the time. They haven't been letting you do too much, have they?"
"Oh no; I'm not clever enough to do much," she answered, a little wistfully. "It is Honor who really does everything."
Desmond frowned. Mention of Honor effectually dispelled the dream. "I choose to believe that everythingisn'ther doing," he said with unnecessary emphasis.
But for once Evelyn was disposed to extol Honor at her own expense. She had been lifted, for the time being, higher than she knew.
"Itis, Theo—truly," she persisted, perching lightly on the edge of the bed, though she had been reminded half a dozen times that the "patient's" bed must not be treated as a chair. "I don't know anything about nursing people. Honor just told me that I was going to do it beautifully, that I wasn't really frightened or stupid at all; and somehow, she has made it all come true. She's been ever so kind and patient; and I'm not half so nervous now when I'm left alone all night. She writes out every little thing I have to do, and sits up herself in her own room. She's sitting there now, reading or writing, so I can go to her any minute if I really want help. She knows it comforts me to feel there's some one else awake; and she does her own nights of nursing just the same. I often wonder how she stands it all."
Desmond drew in his breath with a sharp sound. The infinitely much that he owed to this girl, at every turn, threatened to become a torment beyond endurance.
Evelyn caught the sound and misunderstood it.
"There now, I'm tiring you, talking too much. I'm sure you ought to be having something or another, even though you are better."
She consulted her paper; and returning with the medicine-glass half filled, held it to his lips, raising his head with one hand. But at the first sip he jerked it back abruptly.
"Tastes queer. Are you sure it's the right stuff?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Better look and see."
She took up the bottle, and examined it close to the light. There was an ominous silence.
"Well?" he asked in pure amusement.
"It—it was the—lotion for your eyes!"
The last words came out in a desperate rush, and there was tragedy in her tone. But Desmond laughed as he had not laughed since his parting with the Boy.
"Come on, then, and square the account by doctoring my eyes with the medicine."
"Oh, Theo, don't! It isn't a joke!"
"It is, if I choose to take it so, you dear, foolish little woman!"
She handed him the refilled glass; then, to his surprise, collapsed beside the bed and burst into tears.
"Ladybird, what nonsense!" he rebuked her gently, laying a hand on her head.
"It's not nonsense. It's horrible to be useless and—idiotic, however hard you try. It might easily have been—poison, and I might have—killed you!"
"Onlyit wasn't—andyou didn't!" he retorted, smiling. "You're upset, and worn out from want of sleep; that's all."
She made a determined effort to swallow down her sobs, and knelt upright with clasped hands.
"No, Theo, I'm not worn out; I'm simply stupid. And you're the kindest man that ever lived. But I mustn't cry any more, or you'll get ill again, and then Honor will be really angry!"
"Oh, shut up about Honor!" he broke out irritably; and set his teeth directly the words were spoken.
Evelyn started. "I won't shut up about Honor! I love her, and you're very ungrateful not to love her too, when she's been so good to you."
She spoke almost angrily, and he made haste to rectify his slip.
"No. I'm not ungrateful. I—love her right enough."
He thought the statement would have choked him. But Evelyn noticed nothing, and for a while neither spoke.
"Look here, Ladybird," he said suddenly, "I can't have you calling yourself names as you did just now. You only get these notions into your small head because I have condemned you to a life that makes demands on you beyond your strength. I ought to have seen from the start that it was a case of choosing between the Frontier and you. At all events, I see it clearly now; and—it's not too late. One can always exchange into a down-country regiment, you know. Or I have interest enough to get a Staff appointment somewhere—Simla, perhaps. How would that suit you?"
The suggestion took away her breath.
"You don'tmeanthat, Theo—seriously?" she gasped; and the repressed eagerness in her tone sounded the death-knell of his dearest ambitions.
"I was never more serious in my life," he answered steadily.
"You would leave the Frontier—the regiment—and never come back?"
"You have only to say the word, and as soon as I am on my feet again I'll see what can be done."
But the word was not forthcoming; and in her changed position he could see nothing of her face but its oval outline of cheek and chin. He waited; holding his breath. Then, at last, she spoke.
"No, Theo. It wouldn't be fair. You belong to the Frontier. Every one says so. And—I shall get used to it in time."
She spoke mechanically, without turning her head; and Desmond's arm went round her on the instant.
"But you haven't got to think of me," he urged. "I want to do what will make you happy. That's all."
"It—it wouldn't make me happy. And, please, don't talk about it any more."
At that he drew her down to him.
"God bless you, my darling!" he whispered. But even in speaking he knew that he could not accept her sacrifice; that her courage—barely equal to the verbal renunciation—would be crushed to powder in the crucible of days and years. For the moment, however, it seemed best to drop the subject, since nothing definite could be done without Honor's consent.
"Now I ought to be attending to my business!" she said, freeing herself with a little nervous laugh. "It's getting too light. I must put out the lamp and dress you up in your shade again, you poor, patient Theo. Then we'll havechota hazritogether."
She moved away from him quickly, and not quite steadily. She had let slip her one chance of escape, and she did not know why she had done it. The impulse to refuse had been unreasoning, overpowering; and now it was all over she only knew that she had done what Honor would approve, and what she herself would regret to the end of her life. How far the girl whose soul had been concentrated on Evelyn's uplifting was responsible for her flash of self-sacrifice, is a problem that must be left for psychologists to solve.
Desmond had only one thought in his brain that morning—"How in the world am I going to tackle Honor?" He foresaw a pitched battle, ending in possible defeat; and decided to defer it till he felt more physically fit for the strain. For he possessed the rapid recuperative power of his type; and, the fever once conquered, each day added a cubit to his returning vigour.
One night, towards the close of the second week of his illness, he awoke suddenly from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness, a sense of renewed health and power thrilling through his veins. He passed a hand across his forehead and eyes, for the pure pleasure of realising their freedom from the disfiguring bandage, and glanced toward the writing-table, whence the too familiar screened lamp flung ghostly lights and shadows up among the bare rafters twenty feet above.
It was Honor who sat beside it now, in a loose white wrapper, her head resting on her hand, an open book before her. The light fell full upon her profile, emphasising its nobility of outline—the short straight nose, the exquisite moulding of mouth and chin; while all about her shoulders fell the burnished mantle of her hair.
For many moments Desmond lay very still. This amazing girl, in the fulness of her beauty, and in her superb unconsciousness of its effect upon himself, had him at a disadvantage; and he knew it. The disadvantage was only increased by waiting and watching; and at last he spoke, scarcely above his breath.
"Honor—I am awake."
She started, and instinctively her hand went to her hair, gathering it deftly together. But he made haste to interpose.
"Please leave it alone!"
His tone had in it more of fervour than he knew, and she dropped the heavy mass hastily, thankful to screen her face from view. Then, because silence had in it an element of danger, she forced herself to break it.
"You were sleeping so soundly that I thought you were safe not to wake till morning; and it was a relief to let it down."
"Why apologise?" he asked, smiling. "What is it you are reading? Won't you share it with me? I feel hopelessly wide-awake."
"It would be delightful to read to you again," she said simply. "But you might prefer something lighter. I was reading—a sermon."
"I have no prejudice against sermons. We get few enough up here. What's your subject?"
"The Responsibility of Strength."
"Ah!—" There was pain in the low sound. "Youmust know a good deal about that form of responsibility,—you who are so superbly strong." And again she was grateful for her sheltering veil of hair. "The text is from Romans, I suppose?"
"Yes. 'We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak.'"
"It's a heavy penalty," he mused. "But one is bound to pay it to the uttermost farthing. Isn't that so?"
"Yes,—to the uttermost farthing."
She was thinking of herself, and his answer amazed her.
"Then, let me off that promise I gave you last April. It was a fatal mistake, and it's not fair on Ladybird."
She stifled an exclamation of dismay. It had been one thing to plead with him a year ago; but now it seemed impossible to speak a dozen words on the subject without risk of self-betrayal.
Her silence pricked Desmond to impatience.
"Well," he said, "what's the difficulty? You'll do what I ask, of course?"
"No, I can't. It is out of the question."
A suppressed sound of vexation reached her.
"I thought you cared more for Evelyn than that amounts to," he said reproachfully.
"Idocare for her. You know I do."
"Yet you intend to hold out against me?"
"Yes."
"In spite of all it may involve—for Ladybird?"
"Yes."
The brief finality of her answers was curiously discouraging, and for the moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.
He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distracting vision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standing close to him—a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hair reaching almost to her knees.
"Theo," she said softly, with an eloquent gesture of appeal, "you don't know how it hurts me to seem hard and unfeeling about Ladybird, when I understand so much too well the spirit that is prompting you to do this thing. I frankly confess you are right from your point of view. But there remains my point of view; and so long as I have the right to prevent it, you shall not spoil your life and hers."
Desmond would have been more, or less, than man if he could have heard her unmoved; and as he lay looking up at her he was tempted beyond measure to take possession of those appealing hands, to draw her down to him, and thank her from his heart for her brave words. But he merely shifted uneasily.
"I don't quite understand you, Honor," he said slowly. "It is strange that you should—care so much about what I do with my life."
The words startled her, yet she met them without flinching.
"Is it? I think it would be far more strange if I had lived with you for a year without learning—to care. That is why I can never say 'Yes' to your request."
"And I am determined that you shall say 'Yes' to it in the end."
The note of immobility in his low voice made her feel powerless to resist him; but she steeled herself against the sensation by main force of will.
"At least I can forbid any further mention of it till you are fitter to cope with such a disturbing subject. Are you aware that it's only two o'clock? And you need sleep more than anything else just now. I'll give you some beef-jelly, and sit in my own room for an hour, or I believe you will never go off again at all."
But when she returned at the end of an hour she found him still awake.
"Honor,"—he began; but she checked him with smiling decision. "Not another word to-night, Theo, or I must go altogether."
The threat was more compelling than she knew; and sitting down by the table, she took up her vigil as before.
"The light of every soul burns upward; but we are all candles in a wind; and due allowance must be made for atmospheric disturbances."—Geo. Meredith.
Certainsouls, like certain bodies, cannot breathe for long at a stretch the rarefied atmosphere of the heights; and towards the end of the second week Evelyn's zeal began to wear thin. Dr Mackay had at last spoken hopefully as to the fate of Desmond's eyes. Night-nursing was no longer a necessity; and with the relief from anxiety, from the effort to meet the demands upon her small stock of strength, came the inevitable drop to the comfortable commonplaces of everyday life.
Nor was she alone in her sensations. In varying degrees they affected every inmate of the blue bungalow during that last week of Desmond's imprisonment; and it is probable that Honor unconsciously relaxed her mental concentration upon Evelyn which had been responsible for more than either knew. Her midnight talk with Desmond, and the knowledge that a second contest lay before her, gave her food for much troubled reflection; while the comparative lightness of sick-room duties left her free to grapple with arrears of letters, work, and household accounts. Thus, being only human, and very much absorbed in matters practical, she made the fatal mistake of relaxing her vigilance at the very moment when Evelyn needed it most. But it is written that "no man may redeem his brother"; and, soon or late the relapse must have come. Honor could not hope to lay permanent hold upon the volatile spirit of her friend.
Desmond himself, whose patience under the burden of illness and of a nerve-shattering fear had amazed even those who knew him best, was approaching the irritable stage of convalescence,—the strong man's rebellion against Nature's unhurried methods; against enforced restriction and imprisonment, when renewed life is pulsing through every artery, renewed vigour stirring the reawakened brain.
Nor were matters enlivened by Mackay's decree that, if risk were to be avoided, the detested shade must be worn for three full weeks or a month. Thus to imprisonment was added the gall and wormwood of total dependence upon others; the unthinkable prospect of parting with Paul, with the Border itself—with everything that had hitherto made life worth living; and, worse than all, the undercurrent of striving to ignore that veiled danger, which he refused to name, even in his thoughts, and which lay like a millstone upon his heart.
Thus there were inevitable moments when his spirit kicked against the pricks; when his return to life and health seemed a parody of a blessing, a husk emptied of the life-giving grain. In these moods Evelyn found herself powerless to cope with him; and was not a little aggrieved when she discovered that his unvarying need, on black days, was the companionship of Paul Wyndham, whose insight detected some hidden trouble, and who, as a matter of course, devoted every spare moment to his friend.
One thing Desmond missed beyond all else—the sound of music in the house. Since the terrible evening of his home-coming, the piano had not been opened; and his recent experience of the effect Honor's music could produce on him made him chary of asking her to play.
He saw very little of her in these days. Now and then she would come and read to him; but their former open-hearted intercourse seemed irrevocably a thing of the past. With the return of the troops, however, interests multiplied. Desmond's hold on the hearts of all who knew him had seldom been so practically proven; and the man was moved beyond measure at that which he could not fail to perceive. His small study was rarely empty, and often overcrowded with men—Sikhs, Gunners, Sappers, and, above all, his own brother officers, who filled the place with tobacco-smoke, the cheerful clink of ice against long tumblers, and frequent explosions of deep-chested laughter; while Desmond threw himself whole-heartedly into the good minute and enjoyed it to the full.
To Evelyn this new state of things was a little disconcerting. During Theo's illness she, as his wife, had enjoyed special attention and consideration; and since her incomprehensible refusal of his offer to throw up the Frontier, had even regarded herself as something of a heroine, if an unwilling one. Now, all of a sudden, she felt deserted, unimportant, and more or less "out of it all." The past fortnight seemed an uplifted dream, from which she had awakened to find herself sitting among the dust and stones of prose and hard facts. Yet she could not complain definitely of anything or any one. Honor and Theo were kind and tender, as always; but the one was temporarily busy, and the other very naturally enjoying a reversion to masculine society. Nobody seemed to want her. There seemed no particular use for her any more.
To make matters worse, the whole station wore a subdued air. The Club compound was practically deserted; and Evelyn's first outing in that direction left her with no desire to repeat the experiment for the present. The Sikhs had lost a popular captain; while a Gunner subaltern, who had returned seriously wounded, was being nursed by Mrs Conolly and the only woman in the battery.
This sort of thing was, as Theo had said, "part and parcel" of life on the Frontier; it was to this that she had condemned herself for the next twenty years at least; by which time she supposed she would be far too old to care for the frivolities of life at all! If only Theo would be generous and give her a second chance, she would not let it slip this time—she would not indeed!
Altogether the aspect of things in general was sufficiently depressing. Then one afternoon she met Owen Kresney; and all at once life seemed to take on a new complexion. Here, at least, was some one who wanted her, when every one else seemed only to want Theo; some one who was really glad to see her—rather too emphatically glad, perhaps; but the eagerness of his greeting flattered her, and she had overlooked the rest. She had been returning in her jhampan from her melancholy outing to the Club, when he had caught sight of her in the distance, and cantering up to her side, had dismounted, and shaken hands as though they had not met for a year.
"How awfully white and pulled down you look!" he had said with low-toned sympathy. "They must have been working you too hard. They forget that you are not a strapping woman like Miss Meredith."
"No one has worked me too hard," she answered, flushing at the veiled implication against her husband. "I wanted to do as much as the others."
"Of course you did. But you are too delicate to work like that, and it isn't fair to take advantage of your unselfishness. I hope you're going off to the Hills very soon, now that Desmond is better?"
"Yes, I hope so too."
Her voice had an unconscious weariness, and he bent a little closer, scanning her face with a concern that bordered on tenderness. "We have thought of you a great deal these two weeks, Mrs Desmond," he said. "We hardly cared to go out to tennis, or anything, while you were in such trouble. But now it has all come out right, you must be dreadfully in want of cheering up. Won't you come home with me and have a talk, like old times? Linda would be awfully pleased to see you again."
The temptation was irresistible. It emphasised her vague sense of loneliness, of being left out in the cold. The longing to be comforted and made much of was strong upon her.
"It is very nice of you to want me," she had said, as simply as a child. To which he had replied with prompt, if somewhat cheap, gallantry that no one could possibly help wanting her; and his reward had been a flush, as delicate in tint as the inner surface of a shell. This man had one strong point in his favour—he invariably talked to her about herself; a trick Desmond had never learnt, nor ever would.
She had spent more than an hour in Miss Kresney's stuffy, dusty drawing-room, and had left it with a pleasantly revived sense of her own importance; had left Kresney himself in a state of carefully repressed triumph; for she had promised him an early morning ride in two days' time.
It was all harmless enough so far as she was concerned—merely a case of flattered vanity and idle hands. But the strong nature, the large purpose, lies eternally at the mercy of life's little things.
She said nothing to Honor or Theo of her meeting with Kresney, or of the coming ride. A fortnight of submission to the former had evoked a passing gleam of independence. They would probably make a fuss; and since they neither of them needed her, she was surely at liberty to amuse herself as she pleased.
On her return a buzz of deep voices greeted her from the study, and it transpired that Honor had gone over to Mrs Conolly's. Thus she had leisure before dinner to argue the matter out in her mind to her own complete justification. If Mr Kresney chose to be polite to her, why should she rebuff him and hurt his feelings, just because Theo had some stupid prejudice against him? On the other hand, where was the use of vexing Theo, when every one was doing their best to shield him from needless irritation? As soon as his eyes were right they would go to the Hills together. She would have him all to herself; and Kresney sank into immediate insignificance at the thought.
Meanwhile the man's assiduity and thinly veiled admiration formed a welcome relief in a desert of dulness. Besides, one was bound to be pleasant to a man when one practically owed him two hundred rupees.
Unwittingly she shelved the fact that Kresney was beginning to exercise a disturbing fascination over her; that the insistence underlying his humility alternately pleased and frightened her; the lurking fear of what he might say next gave a distinct flavour of excitement to their every meeting.
The slippery path that lies between truth and direct falsehood had always been fatally easy for her to follow; and she followed it now more from natural instinct, and from the child's dread of making people "cross," than from any deliberate intent to deceive. It was so much easier to say nothing. Therefore she said nothing; and left the future to look after itself.
On returning from her first ride with Kresney, she found Honor in the verandah giving orders to a sais. The girl lifted her out of the saddle, and kissed her on both cheeks.
"Such a very early Ladybird!" she said, laughing. "You might have let me come too."
Accordingly they went out together the next morning, but on future occasions Evelyn returned more cautiously, and changed her habit before appearing at the breakfast-table. She went out once or twice in the afternoons also, and Honor's thoughts flew to the Kresneys as a matter of course; but remembering a certain incident at Murree, she held her peace. She was disheartened, and very far from satisfied, nevertheless.
In this fashion ten days slipped uneventfully past. Then, on a certain afternoon, Kresney again met Evelyn by chance,—and begged her to come back with him to tea before going home. Her consent was a foregone conclusion; and as they neared Kresney's whitewashed gate-posts, Captain Olliver trotted past. He had already met Miss Kresney jogging out to tea on a long-tailed pony of uncertain age; and glancing casually back over his shoulder, he saw Mrs Desmond's jhampan entering the gateway. Whereat he swore vigorously under his breath, and urged his pony to a brisker pace.
But of these facts Evelyn was blissfully unaware. Her uppermost thought was a happy consciousness of looking her best. From the forget-me-nots in her hat to the last frill of her India muslin gown all was blue—the fragile blue of the far horizon at dawn. And Kresney had an eye for such things.
She started slightly on discovering that the drawing-room was empty.
"Where's Miss Kresney?" she asked, stopping dead upon the threshold.
"Why, what a fool I am!" the man exclaimed with a creditable air of frankness. "I clean forgot she had gone out to tea. But you're not going to desert me on that account! You wouldn't be so unkind!"
Evelyn felt herself trapped. It would seem foolish and pointed to go; yet she had sense enough to know that it would be very unwise to stay. She compromised matters by saying sweetly that she would come in just for ten minutes, to have a cup of tea before going back in the sun.
Kresney looked his gratification—looked it so eloquently that she lowered her eyes, and went forwards hurriedly, as if fearing that something more definite might follow the look.
But the man, though inwardly exultant, was well on his guard. If he startled her this first time, he could not hope to repeat the experiment. He chose the most comfortable chair for her; insisted on an elaborate arrangement of cushions at her back; poured out her tea; and plied her assiduously with stale sponge-cake and mixed biscuits. Then drawing up his own chair very close, he settled himself to the congenial task of amusing and flattering her, with such success that her ten minutes had stretched to an hour before she even thought of rising to go.
Captain Olliver, meanwhile, had ridden on to the blue bungalow, which chanced to be his destination; and had spent half an hour in desultory talk with Desmond, Wyndham, and the Colonel, who had fallen into a habit of dropping in almost daily.
As he rose to take his leave, a glance at Wyndham brought the latter out into the hall with him.
"What is it?" he asked. "Want to speak to me about something?"
"Yes. Can we have a few words alone anywhere? It concerns Desmond, and I can't speak to him myself."
Paul frowned.
"Nothing serious, I hope. Come in here a minute." And he led the way into his own Spartan-looking room.
"Now let me hear it," he said quietly.
But Olliver balanced himself on the edge of the table, tapped his pipe against it, and loosened the contents scientifically with his penknife before complying with the request.
"The truth is," he began at length, "that it's about Mrs Desmond and that confounded cad Kresney."
"Ah!" The note of pain in Wyndham's voice made the other look at him questioningly.
"You've noticed it, then?"
"Well,—it was rather marked while Desmond was away. Nothing to trouble about, though, if it had been any other man than Kresney."
Olliver brought his fist down on the table.
"That's precisely what my wife says. You know what a lot she thinks of Desmond; and I believe she's capable of tackling the little woman herself, which I couldn't stand at any price. That's why I promised to speak to you to-day. Hope it doesn't seem infernal cheek on my part."
"Not at all. Go on."
Each instinctively avoided the other's eyes; while Olliver, in a few curt sentences, spoke his mind on the subject in hand.
The bond that links the inhabitants of small isolated Indian stations is a thing that only the Anglo-Indian can quite understand. Desmond's illness, and the possible tragedy overhanging him, had roused such strong feeling in Kohat, that his wife's conduct—which at another time would merely have supplied material for a little mild gossip—had awakened the general sense of indignation, more especially among the men. But men are not free of speech on these matters, and it was certain pungent remarks made by little Mrs Riley of the Sikhs which had set Frank Olliver's Irish temper in a blaze. The recollection of what she had seen during Desmond's absence still rankled in her mind; and her husband, with a masculine dread of an open quarrel between the only two ladies in the Regiment, had accepted the lesser evil of speaking to Wyndham himself.
"Mind, I give Mrs Desmond credit for being more passive than active in the whole affair," he concluded, since Paul seemed disinclined to volunteer a remark. "But the deuce of it is, that I feel sure Desmond knows less about the thing than any one else. Can you see him putting up with it under any circumstances?"
Wyndham shook his head; and for a while they smoked in silence thinking their own thoughts.
"You want me," Paul asked at length, "to pass all this on to Desmond? Is that it?"
"Yes; that's it. Unless you think he knows it already."
"No,—frankly, I don't. But is it our business to enlighten him?"
"That's a ticklish question. But I'm inclined to think it is. We can't be expected to stand a bounder like Kresney hanging round one of our ladies. Why, I met him as I came here, taking her into his bungalow; and I had only just passed the sister on that old patriarch she rides. I call that going a bit too far; and I fancy Desmond would agree with me."
Wyndham looked up decisively.
"I wouldn't repeatthatto him, if my life depended on it."
"No, no. Of course not. You can make things clear without saying too much. Beastly unpleasant job, and I'm sorry to be forcing it on you. But you must know that you're the only chap in the Regiment who could dream of speaking two words to Desmond on such a delicate subject."
Paul acknowledged the statement with a wry smile under his moustache.
"I doubt if he will stand it, even from me; and I'd a deal sooner wring Kresney's neck. But I'll do the best I can, and take my chance of the consequences to myself."
Thus reassured, Olliver departed, and Wyndham, watching him go, wondered what he intended to say.
There are few things more distasteful to a well-bred man than the necessity of speaking to a friend, however intimate, on the subject of his wife's conduct or character; because there are few things a man respects more intimately than his fellow-man's reserve. Wyndham knew, moreover, that the real sting of his communication would lie less in the facts themselves than in Mrs Desmond's probable concealment of them; and his natural kindliness prompted him to a passing pity for Evelyn, who, in all likelihood, had not yet penetrated beyond the outer shell of her husband's strongly marked character.
The only means of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb lay in speaking first to Honor; and on that idea Wyndham unconditionally turned his back. Mrs Desmond had brought this thing upon herself. She must face the consequences as best she might.
But on entering the study, the words he had come to say were checked upon his lips.
Desmond stood beside the writing-table, where the green shade lay discarded; and a noticeable scar on his right cheek was all that now remained of the wound which had threatened such serious results. His whole attention was centred upon Rob, who pranced at his feet with ungainly caperings, flinging dignity to the winds, and testifying, with heart and voice and eloquent tail, to the joy that was in him.
Paul's sensitive soul revolted from the necessity of imparting ill news at such a moment; and it was Desmond who spoke first.
"Mackay's been here this minute making a final examination of my eyes. Gave me leave, thank God, to discardthatabomination; and Rob hasn't left off congratulating me since I flung it on the table. The little beggar seems to understand what's happened just as well as I do." He turned on Wyndham with a short satisfied laugh. "By Jove, Paul, it's thundering good to lookyousquarely in the face again! But why,—what's the trouble, old man? Have you heard bad news?"
"Not very bad, but certainly—unpleasant."
"And you came to tell me?"
"Yes, I came to tell you."
Desmond motioned him to a chair; and, as he seated himself with unhurried deliberation, laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he asked. "The Regiment or yourself?"
"Neither."
"Well, then——?"
"It concernsyou, my dear Theo," Paul answered slowly. "And it is about—your wife."
Desmond frowned sharply, and Wyndham saw the defensive look spring into his eyes.
"Do you mean——? Has there been an accident?"
"No—no; nothing of that sort. I'm sorry to have been so clumsy."
"She is quite safe? Nothing wrong with her?"
"Nothing whatever."
Desmond's mouth took an expression Wyndham knew well. An enemy might have called it pig-headed.
"At that rate, there can be no more to say about her."
And he went leisurely over to the mantelpiece, where he remained, leaning on one elbow, his back towards his companion. Paul saw plainly that he was ill at ease, and cursed the contingency which compelled him to further speech.
"Forgive me if I seem intrusive, Theo," he began, "but I am afraid there is more to be said. This afternoon Olliver spoke to me——"
Desmond swung round again, with blazing eyes.
"What the hell has Olliver got to do withmy wife? I have never interfered with his."
Paul Wyndham looked very steadily into the disturbed face of his friend. Then he brought his hand down on the green baize of the table before him.
"Theo—my dear fellow," he said, "it is hard enough for me, in any case, to say what I must. Is it quite generous of you to make it harder?"
The fire died slowly out of Desmond's eyes, giving place to a look of stubborn resignation.
"Forgive me, Paul. Sorry I lost my temper. Let me have the bare facts, please. Though I probably know them already."
And he returned to his former attitude, the fingers of his left hand caressing mechanically the stem of a tall vase.
His last remark made Paul watch him anxiously. He was wondering whether Theo's determination to shield his wife would possibly goad him into a direct lie; and he devoutly hoped not.
"Well," he began at length, "Olliver spoke to me because there seems to be rather a strong feeling in the Regiment about Mrs Desmond and—Kresney being so constantly together again just now——"
The vase Desmond was handling fell with a crash on the concrete hearth, and the blood spurted from a surface cut on his finger. But beyond thrusting the scarred hand into his coat pocket, he made no movement.
"Go on," he said doggedly; and Paul obediently went on, addressing his unresponsive back and shoulders.
"You see, it was rather—noticeable while you were away. Perhaps the fact that we all dislike Kresney made it more so; and it naturally strikes one as very bad taste on his part to be forcing himself on your wife at a time like this. It seems there was some slight talk at the Club too—not worth noticing, of course. But you know Mrs Olliver takes fire easily, where any of us are concerned; and Olliver seemed afraid she might speak to Mrs Desmond, unless I came to you. He met them again this afternoon; and he felt you ought at least to know exactly how matters stand——"
"He might have taken it for granted that I should do that withouthisinterference."
Desmond's temper was flaring up again; and his words brought the anxious look back to Paul's eyes. Theo was sailing very near the wind.
"We all know you too well to believe that you would—tolerate such a state of things—ifyou were aware of them," he answered slowly, choosing his words with care. "Please understand, Theo, that it is Kresney who is criticised; and that Olliver put the whole thing before me as nicely as possible. I feel I have been clumsy enough myself. But it goes against the grain to say anything at all, you understand?"
Desmond's sole answer was a decisive nod of the head. Then silence fell—a strained silence, difficult to break. Yet it was he himself who broke it.
"I can do no less than thank you," he said stiffly. "It was a hateful thing to have thrust upon you; but Frank's intrusion would have been unendurable. The truth is—" he paused, for the words were hard to bring out—"I have known—all along that my wife was more friendly with—these Kresneys than I quite cared about. One could make no valid objections without seeming uncharitable, and she is still too new here to understand our point of view. But I must see to it now that sheshallunderstand, once and for all. It is intolerable to have one's brother officers—making remarks, even with the best intentions. Will you ask Honor to tell my wife, when she comes in, that I want to see her?"
Silence again; and Paul rose to his feet. It hurt him to leave his friend without a word. But the attitude Desmond had adopted precluded the lightest touch of sympathy, and Wyndham could not choose but admire him the more.
"By the way"—Desmond turned upon him as he went with startling abruptness—"Honorisn't in any way mixed up with all this, is she?"
Something in his look and tone made Wyndham glance at him intently before replying. "Of course she saw how things were while you were away. But she has been out very little lately; and as far as I can judge, she knows nothing about the talk that is going on now."
"Thank Heaven!" Desmond muttered into his moustache; but Paul's ear failed to catch the words.
"Won't you have a 'peg' or a cup of tea, Theo?" he asked gently.
"No, thanks."
"I think you ought to have one or the other."
"Very well, whichever you please. Only, bring it yourself, there's a good chap."
Paul's eyes rested thoughtfully upon his friend, who, absorbed in his own reflections, seemed to have forgotten his presence. Then he went slowly away, revolving the matter in his mind.
While avoiding the least shadow of false statement, Desmond had succeeded in shielding his wife from the one serious implication suggested by her conduct, or at least would have so succeeded, but for the tell-tale crash of glass upon the hearth-stone. Yet the most vivid impression left on Paul by their short interview was the look in Theo's eyes when he had asked that one abrupt question about Honor Meredith.
Was it possible——? Was it even remotely possible——?
Wyndham reined in the involuntary thought, as a man reins in his horse on the brink of a precipice. Common loyalty to the friend he loved, with the unspoken love of half a lifetime, forbade him to look that shrouded possibility frankly in the face.