"The loss of all love has to give,Save pardon for love wronged."—O. Meredith.
"HereI am, Theo. Honor says you want to see me."
Evelyn Desmond closed the door behind her; and at sight of her husband transformed into his very self—freed at last from all disfigurements—she ran to him with outstretched arms.
"Theo, are you really all right again? I can hardly believe it."
But Desmond had no answer to give her. He simply squared his right arm, warding off her hands.
Then she saw the hard lines of his mouth, the inexpressible pain in his eyes; and, clutching at his rigid forearm, tried to force it down. She might as well have tried to shift a bar of iron.
"What's the matter with you now?" she asked, half petulant, half fearful. "Has anything else gone wrong? Haven't we had enough misery and depression——?"
"There's no more call for acting, Evelyn," Desmond interposed with an ominous quietness more disconcerting than anger—"Doesn't your own conscience tell you what may have gone wrong?"
At that the colour left her face. "You mean—is it about—me?" she asked with shaking lips.
"Yes. About you." Her pitiful aspect softened him; he took her arm and set her gently down upon a chair;—the selfsame chair that Paul had occupied half an hour ago. "Don't be frightened," he said gently; "I won't hurt you more than I must. Ever since we married I have done my utmost to help you, spare you, shield you; but now—we've got to arrive at a clear understanding, once for all. First I want you to answer a question or two, straightly, without prevarication. You went out early, it seems. Where?"
"To Mrs Riley's——"
"And after?"
"I met Mr Kresney—quite by chance. He wanted me to come in to tea. He said Miss Kresney would soon be home—and I—I——"
"No need for polite fabrications;" he took her up quickly. "You went in. Miss Kresney didnotcome home. Is this the first time he has trapped you with a convenient lie? Tell me that."
Words and tone roused her to a passing flash of retaliation.
"If you're going to get so angry, Theo, I won't tell youanything, and Iwon'tbe questioned like a creature in a witness-box! Some one's been saying horrid things of me. Major Wyndham, I suppose. You wouldn't listen to any one else. It's very mean of him——"
Desmond took a hasty step forward. "How dare you speak so of the straightest man living!" he cried with imperious heat. "You, who have taken advantage of my blindness to deceive me deliberately a second time, on account of a cad who isn't fit to tie your shoe-strings. I've been blind in more than one way lately. But that is over now. I am not likely to repeat the mistake of trusting you implicitly—after this."
She cowered under the lash of his just wrath, hiding her face and crying heart-broken tears—the bitterest she had yet shed. In snatching at the shadow it seemed she had lost the substance past recall.
"Oh! You are cruel—horrible!" she wailed, with her disarming, pathetic air of a scolded child that made a rough word to her seem cowardly as a blow.
"No need to break your heart over it," he said more gently; "and as to cruelty, Evelyn, haven't you abused my faith in your loyalty and dragged my pride in the dust by letting your name be coupled with that man's, though I told you plainly I had good reasons for distrusting and disliking him. I suppose he made a dead set at you while I was away—cowardly brute! But what hits me hardest of all is not your indiscretion; it's your persistent crookedness that poisons everything. It was the same over your bills last year—as I told you then. It's the same now. It's a poor look-out if a man can't trust his own wife; but I suppose you must have lied to me—and to Honor, a dozen times this last week."
It had cost him an effort to speak so plainly and at such length; but his wife's uneven breathing was the only answer he received.
He came closer and laid an arm round her shoulder.
"Evelyn—Ladybird—have you nothing to say to me?"
"N—no," she answered in a choked voice, without uncovering her face; "it wouldn't be any use."
"Why not? Am I so utterly devoid of understanding?"
"No—no. But you brave, strong sort of people can't ever know how hard little things are for—for people like me. It has been so—dull lately. You had—all those men, and—I was lonely. It was nice to have some one—wanting me—some one not miles above my head. But I knew you would be cross if I told you—and—and—" tears choked her utterance—"oh, it's no good talking. You'd never understand."
"I understand this much, my dear," he said. "You are done up with the strain of nursing, and badly in need of a change. But we shall soon get away on leave now; and I will see to it that you shall never feel dull or out of it again. Only one thing I insist upon—your intimacy with—that man is at an end. No more riding with him; no more going to his bungalow. From to-day you treat him and his sister as mere acquaintances."
She faced him now with terror-stricken eyes. For while he spoke, she had perceived the full extent of her dilemma.
"But, Theo—there isn't any need for that," she urged, with a thrill of fear at her own boldness. "They would think it so odd. What excuses could I possibly make?"
"That's your affair," Desmond answered unmoved. "You are a better hand at it than I am. My only concern is that you shall put an end to this equivocal state of things for good."
At that she hid her face again, with a sob of despair. "I can't do it—Ican't. It's impossible!" she murmured vehemently more to herself than to him.
Her unexpected opposition fanned his smouldering wrath to a blaze. He took her by the shoulder—not roughly, but very decisively.
"Impossible!What am I to understand by that?"
It was the first time he had touched her untenderly; and she quivered in every nerve.
"I—I don't know. I can't explain. But—it's true."
For one instant he stood speechless;—then:
"Great Heavens, Evelyn!" he broke out, "don't you see that you are forcing upon me a suspicion that is an insult to us both?"
She looked up at him in blank bewilderment, then jerked herself free from his hand.
"I—I don't understand what you mean. But if youwillthink horrid things of me you may. I can't explain and—I won't!"
"You—won't," Desmond repeated slowly, frozen incredulity in his eyes; and she, fearing she had gone too far, caught at the hand she had shaken off.
"Oh, Theo, whatdoesit matter after all?" she urged between irritation and despair, "when you know quite well it's you—that I love?"
The appeal was too ill-timed to be convincing; and Desmond's smile had a tinge of bitterness in it.
"You have an uncommonly original way of showing it," he said coldly; "and the statement doesn't square with your refusal to explain yourself. You have broken up the foundations of—things to-day, Evelyn! You have killed my trust in you altogether. You may remember, perhaps,—what that involves." And withdrawing his hand he turned and left her.
But he had roused her at last by the infliction of a pain too intense for tears. She sprang up, knocking over the chair that fell with a thud on the carpet, and hurried after him, clinging to his unresponsive arm.
"Theo, Theo, take care what you say! Do you mean—truthfully that you don't—love me any more?"
"God knows," he answered wearily. "Let me alone now, for Heaven's sake, till I can see things clearer. But I'll not alter my decision about Kresney, whatever your mysterious impossibilities may be."
Freeing himself gently but deliberately, he went over to the verandah door and stood there, erect, motionless, his back towards her, looking out upon the featureless huts of the servants' quarters with eyes that saw nothing save a vision of his wife's face, as it had shone upon him, more than two years ago, in the Garden of Tombs.
And it was shining upon him now—had he but guessed it,—not with the simple tenderness of girlhood; but with the despairing half-worshipping love of a woman.
When he heard the door close softly behind her, he came back into the room, mechanically righted the chair, and sitting down upon it buried his face in his hands.
"How can Love lose, doing of its kind,Even to the utmost?"—Edwin Arnold.
WhenEvelyn Desmond stumbled out of her husband's presence, stunned, bewildered, blinded with tears, the one coherent thought left in her mind was—Honor. Amid all that was terrifying and heart-breaking, Honor's love stood sure; a rock in mid-ocean—the one certainty that would never fail her, though the world went to pieces under her feet.
But Honor was not in the drawing-room; and Evelyn knocked timidly at her door.
"Come in," the low voice sounded from the other side. The girl was standing before the looking-glass, pinning on her hat.
"I was going across to ask after Mr Bradley," she explained, completing the operation before looking round. But at sight of Evelyn's face she hurried forward, holding out her arms.
"Dearest, whathashappened to make you look like that?"
"Everything's happened! It's all finished between Theo and me. Broken up. He said so—and—I'm going away. There are—other people who care. I won't stay with a man who doesn't love me—or trust me——"
But Honor, holding her closer, looked searchingly into her face. "Evelyn, that isnot true!"
"Well, he said so. Andhedoesn't tell lies!"
"Oh, you poor, poor child!" Honor murmured, kissing her with a strange fervour of sympathy. "But tell me—what's the reason of all this? If Theo did say such terrible things, he must have been cruelly hurt or very angry——"
"He was—very angry. I'm sure he won't forgive me this time; and I do believe it would be better all round if I went right away and left him in peace with his polo and his squadron and his precious Frontier Force——"
Honor's hand closed her lips. "My dear! Are youquitemad?"
"No. But I think I will be—very soon."
She spoke with such tragic certainty that the girl smiled in spite of herself. "Why? What have you done? Tell me—quick!"
"Oh! It's notmethat's done," Evelyn declared with her engaging air of injured innocence. "It's other people—Major Wyndham, I believe—making remarks to him about me and—Mr Kresney."
"You've beenthereagain. I was half afraid——"
"Why on earth shouldn't I? But now Theo's simply ordered me to drop them. It's quite impossible. I—I told him so."
"And you did not tell him why?"
"No. That would have been worse than all."
"But you will tellme. You must—if I am to help you."
Evelyn regarded her with a misty smile. "You're very wonderful, Honor. But evenyoucan't help now. You see—it's money——"
"Money? How? What?"
"Promise you won't stop loving me and be angry—like Theo was," Evelyn pleaded, the incurable child flashing out in the midst of her distress. "I've had enough for to-day."
"I promise, dear. Go on."
Then the small sordid tragedy came out in broken snatches, to the last particle. For once in her life Evelyn Desmond spoke the unvarnished truth, adorning nothing, extenuating nothing; and Honour listened in an enigmatical silence—a silence which held even after the last word had been spoken. Evelyn looked up at her nervously.
"Honour, youareangry inside. I can see you are."
"No,—I am not angry," Honor answered slowly. "Where would be the use? I am simply—astounded that you coulddareto run such risks with the love of a man who is one among a thousand."
She spoke the last words with unguarded enthusiasm; not perceiving, till they were out, the intent look on Evelyn's face.
"I knew you were friends with Theo, Honor," she said, "but I never thought you admired him as much—as allthat."
The girl caught the note of jealousy, and coloured to the roots of her hair.
"I am not alone in my opinion," she said with an uneasy laugh. "There are dozens of others who would say no less. It is only that I want you to realise your good fortune before it is too late."
"But itistoo late. If he's angry now he'll be furious when he knows. And unless I go away he willhaveto know."
"You shall not go away. And he must never know. He has suffered enough as it is——"
"Haven'tIsuffered just as much? You always think of him——"
"I am thinking of you both. How much is it that you still owe these Kresneys?"
"A hundred and fifty—no, two hundred. And I can't possibly pay it for months and months."
By this time Honor had crossed to the chest of drawers near her bed and had taken out a small japanned cash-box. Evelyn watched her movements with ecstatic enlightenment.
"Honor—whatareyou going to do?" she asked breathlessly.
But the girl neither answered nor turned her head. She took out a small sheaf of notes, locked the cash-box, and put it away. Then taking an envelope from her rack, she sealed and addressed it, while Evelyn leaned against the dressing-table, white and speechless from the shock of relief.
"The whole amount is in there," Honor said, handing her the envelope, and speaking in a repressed voice. "Luckily I had hardly touched my month's money. This makes you free to do as Theo wishes. I don't want a penny of it back—ever. And Theo is never to know anything about the whole transaction. Promise me that; and don'tdareto break your word."
"I promise faithfully. Oh, Honor, you are my good angel! Shall I take it now—at once?"
"No. Not you. I must go myself. It ought to be delivered to him in person, and I must have a stamped receipt."
"Honor, how horrid! Just as if he were a shop! Besides—nobody butmecan give it—or explain——"
"How can you explain? What will you say?"
"Just whatever comes into my head. Married women understand these sort of things. I shall know what to say—at the time."
"So will he. And then——"
"There you go!" Tears threatened again and her voice shook. "You talk about loving me and you don't trust me any more than Theo does. If I mayn't do this my own way I won't take the money at all."
"Don't talk nonsense, child," Honor cried desperately, her own self-control almost at an end. "Youmusttake it. And if you insist on running risks with your eyes open, there's no more to be said except make haste and get the wretched thing done with. Go at once, in your jhampan—anddon'tleave it. Ask for Miss Kresney; and—shop or no shop—mind you get a proper receipt. Then come straight home and tell Theo you will do what he wishes. He will have had time to think things over and it will be all right. I know it will. Perhaps you would like me to speak of it to him, if I get the chance?"
"Yes—yes. Do, please! You dear, wonderful Honor! I don't know how to say thank you enough——"
But Honor disengaged herself something hurriedly. The ache of rebellion at her heart made Evelyn's effusiveness unendurable.
"Don't thank me at all," she said. "I don't want your thanks. I don't—deserve them. Take care of that envelope; it is worth more than two hundred rupees to you—and to me. Now go!"
And taking her by the shoulders, she put her gently outside the door. Then, drawing a deep breath of relief, stood alone with the realisation of all that had passed.
It seemed that she was not to be spared one drop of the cup of bitterness; that to her had been assigned the task of Sisyphus, the ceaseless rolling upward of a stone that as ceaselessly rolled down; the continual re-establishment of Evelyn in the shrine of her husband's heart. And there would be no end to it, even after John's return. So long as these two had need of her, heart and brain and hands would be at their service. She did not definitely think this, because true heroism is unaware of itself. "It feels, and never reasons; and therefore is always right."
Honor was aware of nothing just then, but the keen pang of self-reproach. "God forgive me!" she murmured, forming the words with her lips. "I did it forhim."
Then she started, and the blood flew to her face. For Desmond's voice, imperious, entreating, rang clear through the quiet of the house.
"Ladybird, whereareyou? Come back!"
And without a thought of what she intended to say, Honor went out to the completion of her day's work. That was her practical way of looking at the matter.
"It will be easy enough," she reflected as she went. The entreaty in Desmond's voice assured her of that.
But in the drawing-room doorway she stood still, extraordinarily still. For Desmond himself confronted her; and she had not anticipated the ordeal of a face-to-face encounter.
Involuntarily, inevitably, their eyes met, and lingered in each other's depths. It was their first real greeting since his return; and they felt it as such. It was the first time also that Desmond had seen her completely since his lightning-flash of self-knowledge; and in the same instant the same thought sprang to both their minds—that, in the past three weeks, the detested shade had served them better than they knew.
For a full minute it seemed as if these two, whose courage was above proof, did not dare risk movement or speech. But it was no more than a minute. Each was incapable of suspecting the other's hidden fear; and now, as always, Evelyn was the foremost thought in the minds of both.
Desmond broke the spell by one step forward.
"I want Ladybird," he said abruptly. "Where is she?"
"I'm sorry. She has just gone out; but she won't be long."
Honor knew what must come next; knew also that she could neither lie to him nor tell him the truth.
"What possessed her to go out again? Do you know where she went?"
"Yes, Theo, I do know," she answered, coming into the room, and speaking with a noble directness that was like a light thrown across tortuous ways. "It was unavoidable. I would rather not say any more. You can trust me, can't you?"
"As I trust God and my own soul," he replied with profound conviction. "Did she seem—much upset?"
"Yes,—terribly upset. Not without reason. She told me everything. May I speak of it, Theo? You won't think me—intrusive?"
He gave her a quick, reproachful glance.
"You?Say what you please. I was a brute to her; and I know it. But I swear I wasn't hard on her till she refused to break with Kresney. Did she give you any sort of reason for that?"
"Yes; and I have quite cleared up the difficulty; though I'm afraid you mustn't ask me how."
"You seem hedged about with mysteries this evening," he remarked, a trifle curtly. "I confess I like daylight, and straight roads."
"Not more than I do, Theo. But you have said you can trust me; and at least I can assure you that there was no question of personal reluctance. Whatever Evelyn's failings may be, I know thatyouare the one big thing in her life."
Desmond compressed his lips, and looked down thoughtfully at the bearskin under his feet; while Honor allowed her eyes to dwell on the goodly lines of his face. Then he squared his shoulders and looked up at her.
"Honor—if that is true—and I think it is—you are bound to let me help her by the only means in my power. Give me back that promise of mine. I am strong enough now to tackle the subject; and I warn you fairly that I mean to have my own way. So don't waste time by beating about the bush."
The unexpected attack unbalanced her, and the blood left her face; but there was no hint of yielding in her eyes. They were equally matched these two—strength for strength; will for will. The ultimate victory might rest with either.
"Theo!" she protested, "you can ask that of me—to-day?"
"Yes, precisely—to-day. My mistake—my selfishness, has been very painfully brought home to me in the last hour; and I don't ask it of you—I demand it."
Honor drew herself up to her full height.
"You cannot command it, though," she said quietly. "And—I refuse."
The hot blood mounted to his temples, but he shut his teeth to keep back hasty speech. Then, as the silence grew and deepened between them, anger gave place to an unbounded admiration.
They were standing now face to face, beside the mantelpiece, exactly as they had stood on that eventful April afternoon a year ago. The memory came to them simultaneously; and each saw the light of it spring into the other's eyes. Honor's face softened.
"You remember," she urged. "I see that you remember; and the arguments you admitted then hold even more strongly now. Besides—you said I had earned the right——"
"So you have—ten times over since then. But to-day I see my duty to Ladybird so clearly, that no one—not even you—must stand in the way of it. You would realise better how I feel, if you had heard her pitiful excuses. She was 'dull.' She was 'lonely.' I had 'all those men,'—so I had. She was right, poor child! Truth is, my life is so richly filled with 'all those men,' that I sometimes wonder if I was justified in bringing a woman into it at all. But having done so, I'm bound to take her where she won't be tempted to entangle herself with cads like Kresney, just because she feels dull and lonely. That's the source of half the catastrophes one hears of in this country; and in nine cases out of ten I blame the husband more than the wife. You see, I happen to believe that when a man takes a woman's life into his hands, he makes himself responsible not only for her honour, but for her happiness and well-being. I'm not setting up a standard for other fellows, remember. I am simply stating my own by way of explanation."
Honor's eyes shone with a very tender light.
"I can only say that Evelyn is—a singularly fortunate woman. If most men held such views there would be ninety per cent fewer marriages in the world."
"Possibly. But that doesn't put me in the wrong. Now, I have set the picture before you as I see it——"
"Yes, with the core of it left out,—the loss to you and to the Regiment."
"Oh, hang it all!" Desmond protested with an embarrassed laugh. "One's bound to leave out something. That's the whole art of making a decent picture! But it strikes me we've had enough of argument. Whether I have convinced you or not, Honor, youmustlet me off that promise."
The girl held her breath, nerving herself for a last desperate stand.
"Forgive me, if you know how, Theo," she said; "but I cannot—I will not give up my right to save you from yourself."
Desmond simply raised his head and looked at her, as though he could not believe that he had heard aright; and when at last he spoke, his voice had the level note of authority which she had been dreading to hear.
"At the risk of seeming brutal, Honor, I warn you that I'll not give you one minute's peace till you unsay those words—for Ladybird's sake."
Then, to his unspeakable consternation, she took a step backward and sank into the chair behind her, pressing both hands over her eyes.
"Do whatever you think right," she murmured brokenly. "You are too strong for me altogether."
There are victories more bitter than defeat; and Desmond had no words in which to answer this girl, who cared so strangely, so intensely, much what became of him.
When a woman breaks down utterly in the presence of the man who loves her—whether he dare acknowledge it or no—words are not apt to meet the exigencies of the case; and Desmond had no other panacea at his command. He could only stand looking down upon her, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as if he feared that they might go out to her of their own accord; his eyes darkened with such intensity of pain that it was well for both that hers were shielded from sight of them.
He longed, beyond all things on earth, to kneel down and comfort her. He knew that three words from him would put an end to her distress, and cancel his own quixotic plan of action. But the words were not uttered; and he remained standing on the hearth-rug with his hands in his pockets. There was no sign in the quiet room that anything noteworthy had taken place. Yet on those two prosaic details the future of three lives depended—a man silent when he might have spoken; planted squarely on his feet when he might have been on his knees.
Rob got up and stretched himself elaborately, vented his boredom in a long musical yawn, then settled down to sleep again in a more expansive attitude; and Evelyn's French clock struck six with cheerful unconcern.
The silence, which seemed interminable, might possibly have lasted three minutes, when Honor let fall her hands, and looked up at the man who had mastered her. He looked what he was—unconquerable; and if she had not loved him already, she must infallibly have loved him then.
"Please understand," she said, and her voice was not quite steady, "that I have notgivenmy consent to this. You have simply wrenched it from me by the sheer force of—your personality. You have not altered my conviction by a hair's-breadth. What you have set your heart on is a piece of unjustifiable quixotism; and I have only one thing to beg of you now. Do nothing decisive till you have spoken to Paul."
Desmond sighed.
"Very well. I will tackle him to-morrow."
"What a hurry you are in!" And she smiled faintly.
"I believe in striking while the iron's hot."
"And I believe in giving it time to cool. May I—first, say one word to Paul?"
"No, certainly not." The refusal came out short and sharp. "If you two combined forces against me I should be done for! Leave me to manage Paul alone."
With a sigh she rose to her feet.
Then, quite suddenly, her calmness fell away from her.
"Theo—Theo," she protested, "if you really persist in this, and carry it through, I don't think I shall ever forgive you."
The pain in her voice was more than he could bear.
"For God's sake spare me that!" he pleaded. "I am losing enough as it is."
And now his hands went out to her irresistibly, in the old impulsive fashion, that seemed an echo from a former life.
With superlative courage she turned and surrendered both her own. She wanted to prove herself, at all points, simply his friend; and he gave her no cause to repent of her courage, or to suspect the strong restraint he put upon himself during that brief contact, which, at a moment so charged with emotion, might well have proved fatal to them both.
"Thank you, Honor," he said quietly.
But for her, speech was impossible. She bowed her head, and left him standing alone, with the dregs of victory.
On reaching the blessed shelter of her own room she bolted the door; and for once in her life grief had its way with her unhindered.
She could not guess, while railing against Desmond's tenacity of purpose, that the same passionate self-reproach which had urged her to go all lengths for Evelyn, was urging him now to a supreme act of self-devotion to his wife's happiness.
"The sky that noticed all makes no disclosure;And earth keeps up her terrible composure."—Browning.
Hiswife herself was, in the meanwhile, journeying hopefully back to the Kresneys' bungalow, on the shoulders of four long-suffering jhampanis, who murmured a little among themselves, without rancour or vexation, concerning the perplexing ways of Memsahibs in general. For the native of India the supreme riddle of creation is the English "Mem."
They had but just cast aside their liveries and, squatting on their heels in a patch of shadow, had embarked on leisurely preparations for the evening hookah and the evening meal. The scent of curry was in their nostrils; the regular "flip-flap" of the deftly turned chupattie was in their ears; when a flying order had come from the house—"The Memsahib goes forth in haste!" With resigned mutterings and head-shakings they had responded to the call of duty, and themate,[30]who was a philosopher, had a word of comfort for them as they went. "Worse might have befallen, brothers, seeing that it hath pleased God to make our Memsahib light as a bird. Had it been the Miss Sahib, now——" A unanimous murmur testified that the Miss Sahib would have been a far weightier affair!
And on this occasion they must have found their mistress even lighter than a bird; for instead of lying back among her cushions, she sat upright, in strained anticipation, pressing between her hands the miraculous envelope which was to buy back for her all that she had so lightly flung away.
Honor had spoken truth when she said that Desmond was the one big thing in Evelyn's life. Everything else about her was small as her person, and little more effectual. But this impetuous, large-hearted husband of hers—whose love she had been so proud to win, and had taken such small pains to keep—could by no means be chiselled into proportions with the rest of the picture. He took his stand, simply and naturally, on the heights; and if it was an effort to keep up with him, it was a real calamity to be left behind. Understand him she could not, and never would; but it sufficed that she saw him fearless, chivalrous, admired on all sides, and singularly good to look at. This last should perhaps have been set down first; for there is no denying that her remorse, her suffering, had been less overwhelming without that unexpected vision of his face.
But things were going to be all right soon. She would never hide anything from him again—never. And the resolve may be counted unto her for righteousness, even if there could be small hope of its fulfilment.
Such absorbing considerations crowded out all thought of Honor's generosity. It was just Honor. No one else would ever give you two hundred rupees, at a moment's notice, as if it were sixpence. But you might expect anything from Honor—that was how she was made. And the one important point was—Theo. Nothing else really mattered at all.
As Kresney's bungalow came in sight she found herself fervently hoping that he might have gone out; that she might have to encounter nothing more formidable than Miss Kresney, or, better still, the bearer.
But before the gate was reached, she caught sight of him in the verandah, taking his ease very completely in one of those ungainly chairs, with arms extending to long wooden leg-rests, which seem to belong to India and no other country in the world. He had exchanged his coat for a Japanese smoking jacket, whose collar and cuffs could ill afford to brave daylight; and his boots for slippers of Linda's making, whose conflicting colours might have set an oyster's teeth on edge! His own teeth were clenched upon a rank cigar; and he was reading a paper-bound novel that she would not have touched with a pair of tongs.
He had never appeared to worse advantage; and Evelyn, fresh from her husband's air of unobtrusive neatness and distinction, was conscious of a sudden recoil—a purely physical revulsion; to which was added the galling thought that she owed her recent suffering and humiliation to her intimacy with a man who could look like that!
As she turned in at the gate, he sprang up and ran down the steps. Her return astounded him. He was prepared for anything at that moment, except the thing that happened—a common human experience.
"Back again, Mrs Desmond!" he cried cheerfully. "This is a most unexpected pleasure.Rukho jhampan."[31]
But Evelyn countermanded the order so promptly that Kresney's eyebrows went up. She handed him her note, clutching the wooden pole nervously with the other hand.
"I had to come out again—on business," she said, with that ready mingling of the false and true which had been her undoing. "And I thought I could leave this for Miss Kresney as I passed. Will you please give it to her. I am sorry she is not in."
He took the envelope, and watched her while she spoke with narrowed eyes.
"You are in trouble?" The intimate note in his voice jarred for the first time. "Something has upset you since you left? You are quite knocked up with all this. You ought to have been in Murree two weeks ago."
And, presumably by accident, his hand came down upon her own. She drew it away with an involuntary shudder; and Kresney's sallow face darkened.
"You have no business to say that," she rebuked him with desperate courage; "I prefer to be with my husband till he is well enough to go too. You won't forget my note, will you? Good-night."
"Good-night, Mrs Desmond," he answered formally, without proffering his hand.
As he stood watching her depart, all that was worst in him rose to the surface and centred in his close-set eyes. "By God, you shall be sorry for that!" he muttered.
But in mounting the steps his curiosity was awakened by the bulkiness of Linda's letter. He turned it over once or twice; pressed it between his fingers and detected the crackle of new bank-notes.
"So that's it, is it? Well, I can forgive her. No doubt she had a jolly hot quarter of an hour; and I hope that fellow is enjoying himself now—like hell!" Then, without a glimmer of hesitation, he opened his sister's letter.
And, out in the road, Evelyn's jhampanis were experiencing fresh proof of the indubitable madness of Memsahibs.
No sooner were their faces set cheerfully homeward, than they were brought up short by an order to turn and carry her in the opposite direction. No destination was specified; and the road indicated led out towards the hills. Hookahs and chupatties tugging at their heart-strings, roused them to mild rebellion. The mate, as established spokesman, murmured ofkhana[32]and the lateness of the hour; adding that the road behind them led away from the Sahibs' bungalows to the boundary of the station.
But Evelyn, whose Hindustani was still a negligible quantity, made no attempt to follow the man's remarks. She reiterated her wish, adding irritably, "Make no foolish talk. It is an order!"
Those magic words,Hukm hai, are the insignia of authority through the length and breadth of India; and consoling one another with the reflection that if the Memsahib had small understanding, the Sahib was great, they jogged obediently along the lonely road toward the hills.
Evelyn's order had been given on the impulse of a moment. The idea of confronting her husband again in less than ten minutes had overpowered her suddenly and completely. She had only one thought—to gain-time; to screw up her courage for the ordeal; and to realise a little what she intended to say. It is only the strong who dare to trust that the right words will be given them.
Her interview with Kresney had unnerved her; and a lurking doubt quenched the spark of hope at her heart. Would Theo accept her tardy obedience without asking unanswerable questions. Or would he simply put her aside, with his inexorable quietness, that was far more terrible than any spoken word?
In all the pain and bewilderment of their short interview, nothing had so smitten her as his recoil—first and last—from the touch of her hands. The bare possibility that he might treat her so again made return seem out of the question. And her unhappiness struck deeper than the fear of the moment. For the first time she realised her own instability of feeling and purpose; and with the realisation came a new paralysing fear of the future—of herself.
For the first time it dawned upon her that she was unworthy of the love and faith that had been given her in such generous measure;—which was proof conclusive, though she did not guess it, that Honor Meredith had not laboured in vain. To know oneself unworthy is to have achieved the first step upward. A year ago she would have been incapable of such knowledge; and now that it had come to her she was afraid.
Sudden cessation of movement roused her; and the mate, turning his head, spoke with respectful urgency.
"Protector of the Poor, it is not well to go farther. Behold the swift going of the sun. Before your servants can reach the bungalow there will be no more light, and it is against orders——The Sahib will make angry talk."
Evelyn did not follow the whole of this appeal; but the man's anxiety was evident. She caught the words "Sahib" and "angry" with an inward shudder; she had endured enough of the Sahib's anger for one day, and her own common-sense told her that she had behaved foolishly.
Even outlying bungalows were no longer in sight. A boundary pillar gleamed ghostlike a few hundred yards ahead. The last rim of the sun had already slipped behind the hills. Their harsh peaks black against a sky of faint amber, had a threatening look; and darkness was racing up out of the east. The mate was right. It would be upon them almost before they could reach the bungalow; and to be out after sunset was strictly against the rules of the station.
Sudden terror clutched her; a nameless dread of the country—of the natives—which she had never been able to shake off; a paralysing sense that she was alone in their midst—alone on the verge of night.
Fear unsteadied her voice as she answered the man. "Turn, turn at once, and go quickly,—run; the Sahib will givejacksheesh—run!"
But before they could obey, a white figure sprang up from behind a cluster of rocks. Quick as thought followed a flash, a report, a heart-piercing scream; and the men, with a cry of "Ghazi! Ghazi!" unceremoniously set down their mistress and fled.
The fanatic fled also, certain of a passport into Paradise; and as Evelyn Desmond fell back among her cushions, a shadow, that had not been there before, crept slowly across the shoulder of her muslin dress. The oncoming darkness mattered nothing to her now; and she herself, a mere atom of life, blown out like a candle, mattered less than nothing to the desert and the imperturbable hills.
But justice does not invariably tarry. The arm of the Lord is not shortened, though in these days of omniscience man has a larger faith in his own; and the Ghazi, heading post-haste through the dusk plunged unwittingly into a group of villagers and cattle returning home.
A short scuffle ensued, shouts and the tramping of feet—sounds which brought the flying jhampanis back in a twinkling, surcharged with voluble valour and explanations. Resistance was useless. Moreover, to the fanatic, death is the one great gift. With stoical indifference the man found himself overpowered and disarmed. Zealous villagers, unrolling turbans and kummerbunds, made fast his arms, bound him securely about the waist and neck, and in this ignominious fashion led him back to where Evelyn Desmond lay untroubled and alone.
The jhampanis shouldered their burden once more; and fell to discussing, in lively detail, the hanging and subsequent burning that awaited the Taker of Life, who walked unconcernedly in their midst.