[30]Headman.
[30]Headman.
[31]Set down the jhampan.
[31]Set down the jhampan.
[32]Food.
[32]Food.
"C'était toute petite, ma vie:Mais c'était ma vie."—Anatole France.
"Honor, come out! I want you."
Desmond's voice, followed by a peremptory rap on the door, startled the girl back to a realisation of the flight of time. The sun had set, and a grey light filled the room. Without a passing thought of the tears upon her face, she lowered the bolt and confronted Evelyn's husband.
"Ladybird isn't back yet," he said quickly. "It'll be dark in ten minutes. Imustknow where she went to, and go after her myself."
Honor bit her lip. To tell him at such a moment would be madness; yet he was in an ill mood to oppose.
"Can't you send the orderly?" she asked, with something less than her wonted assurance.
"No. I am going myself. This is no time to fuss over trifles. Something may have gone wrong——"
"Hush,—listen! What's that?"
The shuffling and grunting of jhampanis, and the thud of the lowered dandy, were distinctly audible in the stillness.
"There she is!" Desmond said eagerly; and a moment later the blood in his veins was chilled by a long-drawn wail from the verandah. "Hai—hai—mere Memsahib murgya!"[33]
Before the cry had spent itself he was through the "chick," down the verandah steps at a bound, and bending over his unconscious wife. Her head had dropped down to one shoulder, and on the other ominous stains showed darkly in the half light.
"Great God—murder!" Desmond muttered between his teeth. "What devil's work is this?" he added, turning upon the cowering jhampanis.
"Ghazi, Sahib; Ghazi," they told him in eager chorus, with a childish mingling of excitement and terror; and would fain have enlarged upon their own valour in pursuing the Taker of Life, but that Desmond's curt "chupraho"[34]checked them in mid-career.
"Stay where you are, Honor," he added to the girl, who had followed him, and now stood at the head of the steps. "I am bringing her in."
"Is she—alive?"
"God knows. Look sharp and get some brandy."
He took up one limp hand and laid his fingers on her wrist. A faint flutter of life rewarded him.
"Thank Heaven!" he murmured; and lifted her tenderly in his arms. But at the foot of the steps he paused.
"Nassur Ali—the Doctor Sahib. Ride like the wind!" Then turning again to the jhampanis, big with harrowing detail, added: "The devil who did this thing, hath he escaped?"
"Nahin,nahin,[35]Sahib. Would your Honour's servants permit? The jackal spawn is even now in the hands of the police. May his soul burn in hell——"
"It is enough—go!" Desmond commanded in the peremptory vernacular; and mounted the steps with his burden.
Honor stood awaiting him in the drawing-room, white as her dress, tears glistening on her cheeks and lashes, yet very composed withal.
At sight of his face she started; it was grey-white and set like a rock. Only the eyes were alive—and ruthless, as she had never yet seen them, and prayed that she never might see them again.
"They've got the man," he said between his teeth. "I wish to God I could shoot him with my own hand."
Then he went forward to the sofa, and laid his wife upon it. His quick eye detected at once the nature of the wound. "Lung," he muttered mechanically. "No hope."
With the same unnatural calmness, he drew the long pins out of her hat—the poor, pretty hat which had so delighted her six hours ago; and as she moved, with a small sound of pain, he applied the spirit to her lips.
"What is it?" she murmured. "Don't touch me."
The faint note of distaste struck on her husband's heart; for he did not understand its meaning.
"Ladybird—look!" he entreated gently. "It is Theo." She opened her eyes, and gazed blankly up at him, where he leaned above her.
Then, as recognition dawned, he saw the shadow of fear darken them, and instantly dropped on one knee enclosing her with his arm.
"Ladybird, forgive me! You must never be frightened of me—never!"
The intensity of his low tone roused her half-awakened brain.
"But you were so angry, I was—afraid to come home."
"My God!" the man groaned under his breath. But before he could grasp the full horror of it all, she shrank closer to him, clutching at his arm, her eyes wide with terror.
"There's blood on me—look! It was—that man. Is it bad? Am I going—to die?"
"Not if human power can save you, my dear little woman. Mackay will soon be here."
But pain and fear clouded her senses, and she scarcely heard his words.
"Theo—I can't see you properly. Are you there?"
"Yes, yes. I am here."
The necessity for speech tortured him. But her one coherent longing was for the sound of his voice.
"Don'tlet me die, please—not yet. I won't make you angry any more, I promise. And—it frightens me so. Keep tight hold of me; don't let me slip—away."
Desmond had a sensation as if a hand had gripped his throat, choking him, so that he could neither speak nor breathe. But with a supreme effort he mastered it; and leaning closer to her, spoke slowly, steadily, that she might lose no word of the small comfort he had power to give.
"I am holding you, my darling; and I will hold you to the very end. Only try—try to be brave, and remember that—whatever happens, you are safe—in God's hands."
A pitiful sob broke from her.
"But I don't understand about God! I only want—you. I wantyourhands—always. Where is the other one? Put it—underneath me—and hold me—ever so close."
He obeyed her, in silence, to the letter. She winced a little at the movement; then her head nestled into its resting-place on the wounded shoulder, with a sigh that had in it no shadow of pain; and bending down he kissed her, long and fervently.
"Theo—darling," she breathed ecstatically, when her lips were free for speech, "now Iknowit isn't true—what you said about not—caring any more. And I am—ever so happy. God can't let me—die—now."
And on the word, a rush of blood from the damaged lung brought on the inevitable choking cough, that shattered the last remnant of her strength. Her fingers closed convulsively upon his; and at the utmost height of happiness—as it were, on the crest of a wave—her spirit slipped from its moorings;—and he was alone.
Still he knelt on, without movement, without thought, almost it seemed without breathing, like a man turned to stone; holding her, as he had promised, to the very end, and—beyond.
Honor, standing afar off, dazed and heart-broken, one hand clasping the back of a chair for support, heard at last the rattle of approaching hoofs, and nerved herself for the ordeal of speech. But when Mackay entered with Paul Wyndham, Desmond made no sign. The little doctor's keen eye took in the situation at a glance; and at the unlooked-for relief of Paul's presence, Honor's strained composure deserted her. She swayed a little, stretched out a hand blindly towards him, and would have fallen, but that he quietly put his arm round her, and with a strange mixture of feelings saw her head drop on to his shoulder. But it was only for a moment. Contact with the roughness of his coat roused her on the verge of unconsciousness. She drew herself up, a faint colour mantling in her cheeks, and tried to smile.
"Come away," Paul whispered, leading her to the door. "We can give him no help—or comfort—yet."
[33]My mistress is dead.
[33]My mistress is dead.
[34]Be quiet.
[34]Be quiet.
[35]No, no.
[35]No, no.
"Had he not turned them in his hand, and thrustTheir high things low and laid them in the dust,They had not been this splendour."
Some two weeks after that day of tragedy—a tragedy that had stirred and enraged the whole station—Theo Desmond and Paul Wyndham left Kohat on furlough, long over-due to both. Such a wander-year, spent together, had, from early days, been one of their cherished dreams; but, as too often happens, there proved little family likeness between the dream and the reality. In the dream, Desmond was naturally to be the leading spirit of their grand tour. In the reality, all practical plans and considerations had devolved on Paul, and Theo it was who assented, unquestioning, uncaring, so long as he could put half the world between himself and Kohat.
His long illness, the fear of losing his sight, the double shock of self-revelation and loss had affected him mentally as blow on blow affects a man physically. Since the night of his wife's death none had seen him strongly moved, either by sorrow, pleasure, or anger. He had said and done all that was required of him with a strained unnatural precision. Even to the few who had drawn nearest to him in former times of trouble, he seemed now like a house whose every door is locked and every shutter drawn.
Outwardly unmoved, he had endured the ordeal of Evelyn's funeral, the storm of public surprise and indignation aroused by her murder. Though British officers, not a few, have been victims to fanaticism in India, no Englishwoman had ever been shot at before, and the strong feeling aroused by so dastardly a crime had been long in subsiding. The news had been wired to Peshawur. The Commissioner had galloped across thirty miles of desert next morning; and before Evelyn's funeral, at sundown, her death had been openly avenged by the hanging of her murderer and the burning of his body.
On that day Honor had gone over to Mrs Conolly's bungalow, there to remain till Meredith's arrival; and in the two weeks that followed, Desmond had seen little of her—or of any one save Paul. She had helped him in disposing of Evelyn's personal belongings; and at his earnest request, had accepted one or two of her trinkets, the remainder being sent home to her mother. At his request also, Honor had taken over charge of his piano while he was away; and if a touch of constraint marked their parting, neither was aware of it in the other.
By one sole distinction he had set her apart from the rest. To her, and her only, he could and did speak of his wife; for the simple reason that in her he recognised a love and a sorrow that matched his own—a sorrow untainted by the lurking after thought, "Better so"; and that tacit recognition had been for Honor the single ray of light in her dark hour. Once, before parting, she had spoken of it to Paul, who thenceforward knew his friend's aloofness for what it was—not the mere reserve of the strong man in pain, but the old incurable loyalty to his wife that had kept them all at arm's length in respect of her while she lived.
So they two went forth together on their sorrowful pilgrimage; and, once gone, there fell a curtain of silence between Desmond and those he had left behind. Week after week, month after month, that silence remained unbroken, though Olliver and his wife wrote and John Meredith wrote also on his return; though they plied him with questions, with news of the Regiment and Border politics, never a sight of his handwriting came to cheer them. But for Paul's unfailing, if discouraging bulletins, no word of him would have reached them at all.
Honor herself wrote twice, without avail; and thereafter accepted the fiat of silence, gleaning what comfort she might from a steady correspondence with Paul. It was not in her to guess how those fortnightly letters, so frank in expression, so reserved in essence, had upheld him through the darkest and most difficult months of his life; months in which he could only stand aside and wait till the man he loved, as Jonathan loved David, should come forth out of the house of sorrow and take up the broken threads of life once more.
Meantime, with inexhaustible patience, he continued to try one place after another, one distraction after another, with small result. It was a costly prescription, and though Desmond imagined he contributed his share, the chief of it was paid by his friend. During those first months he read little, talked little, and rarely expressed a definite wish. He would go anywhere, do anything in reason, so long as no mental effort was required of him; but music—to Paul's utter mystification—he decisively refused to hear. For the time being the man's whole nature seemed awry, and there were moments when Paul's heart contracted with dread of the worst.
Christmas found them at Le Trayas, on the Esterelles coast, an isolated paradise unprofaned by sight or sound of the noisy, restless life of the French Riviera. Here Theo Desmond had spent whole hours at a stretch, basking in the temperate December sunshine, under feathery mimosa bushes, that glorify the foothills,—silent as ever, yet seemingly content.
Still he wrote no line to the Regiment, that for thirteen years had stood second only to his God, and very rarely asked for news of it or his friends. By now their letters betrayed hints and more than hints of increasing anxiety. The men wrote tentatively; but Frank Olliver, nothing if not direct, poured forth her loving, unreasoning Irish heart on closely-written sheets of foreign paper, to Wyndham's alternate distraction and delight.
"Is there no manner of wild tale you could invent now to rouse the blessed man?" she wrote about this time. "Sure it's past believing that his pretty doll of a wife—who went near to ruin him living—should stand between him and us that love him, worse than ever now she's dead. The fear of it haunts me like a bogey and makes me go red hot inside."
The selfsame fear made Paul Wyndham go cold in the small hours; but he could not bring himself to write of it, even to Frank.
At last, in the second week of the New Year, there came news that wrought a change in Desmond; news from John Meredith of his father's broken health and his sister's immediate departure for England. She would sail in a week, he wrote, and would travel overland.
Paul, reading the letter to his friend, had a sudden inspiration.
"Theo, let's go and meet her at Marseilles!" he said eagerly, "and see her safe into the express. It would please Meredith—and her too."
For the fraction of a second, an answering eagerness glowed in Desmond's eyes; then vanished, leaving his face a politely interested mask. But Paul had seen the flash and pressed his point accordingly.
"Ofcourseyou'll come, Theo. A sight of her will do us both good. I'm glad I thought of it."
"So am I," Desmond agreed, without a particle of gladness in his level tone. "But—you can leave me out of the programme. One of us is enough—for all that is needed; and it's only right it should be you."
"I don't quite follow the logic of that."
Desmond's set face softened to a smile. "Don't you, old man? Then you must take my word for it."
In spite of that smile Paul heard the note of finality in his friend's voice and said no more.
On the appointed morning he set out alone to meet the ship, pain and elation contending in his heart. But when, at last, he set eyes on Honor Meredith, and saw her whole face lighten at sight of him, complexities were submerged in a flood-tide of simple, human joy.
But the exalted moment was short-lived. He could not fail to see how, instinctively, her glance travelled beyond him; how her lower lip was indrawn for the space of a heart-beat; and when their hands met, he, as instinctively, answered her thought.
"I couldn't persuade Theo to come. He is still difficult to rouse or move. The news of your father did seem to stir him and I am hoping he will write."
She let out her breath unsteadily. "Oh, if he only would! This interminable silence seems—so inhuman. In a way, I understand it; but the others, out there, are getting terribly unhappy over it; John and Frank more than all.Youdon't think—do you—that there is really any fear——?"
The look in her eyes recalled that terrible night of March when they two had watched over Theo in turn; and Paul knew that now—as then—she craved no cheap consolation, but the truth.
"There have been bad moments," he admitted, "when one was afraid——But now I honestly believe that hewillfight again and live again with his old zest; and I want you to believe it too, with all your heart."
"I will believe it—with all my heart," she answered very low and steadily. "Have you any plans—beyond Le Trayas?"
"Nothing definite. I just keep my eye on him and act accordingly. In April, I think Bellagio would be a sound move. There, if anywhere, the call of the spring should prove irresistible. At least it's a prescription worth trying."
She smiled; and, even in smiling, he noted the pathetic droop of her eyelids and the corners of her lips.
"How wise you are for him, Paul! And youwillcome home for a little before going back?"
"I hope so, devoutly, if Bellagio proves a success."
The crowd about them, surging chaotically to and fro, recalled them to prosaic considerations of luggage and a corner seat in the express, which Paul—unhurried yet singularly efficient—did not fail to secure. That done, Honor was confided to the care of an assiduous guard, and was supplied with fruit, chocolate, and more newspapers than she could possibly digest;—trifling services which the girl, in her great loneliness, rated at their true value.
By that time the platform had emptied its contents into the high, dingy-looking carriages of the Paris-Lyons Express. A gong clanged. Honor put out an ungloved hand and had some ado not to wince before it was released.
"Thank you—for everything," she murmured, sudden tears starting to her eyes. "I only wish Theo could have come too!"
"I'll tell him that. It may do him good!"
In spite of herself the blood flew to her cheeks. But before she could answer, the train jolted forward—and she was gone.
Paul Wyndham stood a long while motionless, looking into empty space; then, with a sensible jar, he came very completely back to earth.
It was near sunset when he reached their haven of refuge, a small hotel set in a rocky garden overlooking the sea. No sign of Theo within doors,—and Paul strolled down the narrow pathway that led to his friend's favourite seat. There, at the far end, leaning upon the balustrade, he sighted an unmistakable figure black against a blazing heaven rippled with light clouds that gave promise of greater glory to come.
Footsteps behind him roused Desmond. He started and turned about with a new eagerness that was balm to the heart of his friend.
"Ah—thereyou are! It's been a long day." His eyes scanned Wyndham's face. "You've seen her?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes—I have seen her."
"How did she look? Well?"
"She looked very beautiful," Paul answered simply, an odd thrill in his voice. "But not—not like her old self. One can see—she has suffered."
Desmond bit his lip and turned away again. A sudden mist blurred the sunset splendour, the bronze and purple iridescence of the sea. Paul went on speaking.
"She sent you a message, Theo—she wished you had come too."
"Did she? That was kind of her.—Sir John no worse?"
"Apparently not. She will write from Mavins."
"Good."
He leaned on the balustrade as before and tacitly dismissed the subject; but Wyndham, regarding him thoughtfully, and remembering Honor's tell-tale blush, fell to dreaming of a golden future for these two who were dearer to him than his own soul.
Suddenly Desmond spoke again in an altered tone.
"Paul—I've been thinking——"
"Have you, indeed! You do very little else these days. What's the outcome?"
"Nothing brilliant. Quite the reverse. I'm a coward at heart. That's all about it."
Paul smiled as a mother might smile at the vagaries of a beloved child.
"Can't say I've seen any symptoms of the disease myself."
"Well—you're going to, old man, plain as daylight. It's like this——" he squared his shoulders with a jerk and thrust both hands into his pockets. "I can't face—going back to Kohat. I've suspected it for some time. Now I know it. There's too much—that is to say—therearereasons. Pretty big ones. But they don't bear talking of. Think me a broken-backed cornstalk if you must. It'll hurt. But it can't be helped."
For an instant Paul's heart stood still. Then: "Don't talk that brand of nonsense to me, old man," he said gently. "But if you really can't go back—what then?"
"I said—to Kohat. The reliefs will take us to Dera in the autumn. Well—I want to work another six months on urgent private affairs——" he tried to smile. "Do you think the Colonel will come within a hundred miles of understanding and be persuaded to back me up?"
"I think, just at present, he would be loth to refuse you anything, Theo. But still——"
"Well—what?"
His tone had a touch of defiance, almost of temper, purely refreshing to hear.
"Well, naturally—I was thinking of the Regiment——"
"Damn the Regiment!" Desmond flashed out, and turning on his heel strode off toward a wooded headland, whose red rocks took an almost unearthly glow from the setting sun.
For several seconds Paul looked after him, scarcely able to believe his ears. If Theo had arrived at damning the Regiment, Frank's fear might not prove to be chimerical after all; and yet the flash of temper, the renewed energy of speech and movement were symptoms of the best.
Paul sat down on the bench, folded his arms, and proceeded to consider, in practical fashion, how they could secure the desired extension of leave. Theo might dub himself coward if he would. Paul knew better. He had long ago guessed that stronger forces were at work in his friend than mere sorrow for the loss of a wife, however dear—and he had guessed right. It was Desmond's sensitive conscience that had been his arch tormentor throughout those months of silence and strangeness that had brought him near to madness and Paul near to despair.
Tragedy on tragedy—loss of the Boy, dread of blindness, the shock of his own discovery of Evelyn's defection, and the awful fashion of her death—had so unsteadied and overwrought his strong brain that, even now, he could neither see nor think clearly in respect of those most terrible weeks of his life. Obsessed by an exaggerated sense of his own disloyalty to the wife who should never have been transplanted to such stony soil, he saw himself virtually her murderer, in the eyes of that God who was, for him, no vague abstraction but the most commanding reality of his consciousness.
Day after day, week after week, he had lived over and over again the events of that fateful month, from the moment of his return, to the last bewildering, unforgettable scene with his wife. Always he discovered fresh excuses for her. Always he lashed himself unsparingly for his own failings;—the initial folly of bringing her to the Frontier, his promise to Honor that had delayed his determination to exchange, and more than all, that final straight speaking—wrung from him by pain and shame—that had made fear of him outweigh even her childish terror of the dark. In the hidden depth of his heart he had been untrue to her, and his passionate attempt at reparation had come too late. There had even been fevered moments when he told himself that he, Theo Desmond, not the crazy fanatic in quest of sainthood—should by rights have been hanged and burned on the day of her death.
The whole tragical tangle, blurred and distorted by incessant repetition, had come at last to seem almost a separate entity; a horror, outside his own control, that now shrank to a pin-point and now loomed gigantic, oppressive, till all true sense of proportion was lost. The silence that he could not force himself to break, infallibly made matters worse. And now came Honor, re-awakening the great love he had wrestled with and trampled on to very small purpose; a love beside which his chivalrous tenderness for Evelyn showed like the flame of a candle in the blaze of noon.
Her sudden return, the perturbing sense of her nearness, had for the first time wrenched him away from the obsession of the past. But even now he dared not frankly face the future; dared not let his mind dwell on the colourless emptiness of life without her. Neither could he, as yet, face the only alternative—to tell her, of all women, that he had loved her before his wife's death. Besides, there was Paul, who obviously cared, in his own repressed fashion, and who must not be baulked of his chance.
Yet to-night, as he tramped the whole round of that rocky headland—in the glow of a sky rippled by now with feathers of flame—his blood was in a fever for sheer desire of her, and he cursed the folly that had impelled him to refuse the morning's golden opportunity.
Returning later, in a more chastened mood, he found Wyndham sitting still as a statue, seemingly forgetful of his existence; and of a sudden his heart contracted at thought of his friend's inexhaustible patience, his unquestioning acceptance of moods to which he did not hold the key. Stepping lightly, Desmond came up behind him and laid both hands on his shoulders.
"Forgive me, old man. I didn't precisely mean all that——"
Wyndham scarcely started.
"I thought as much! Don't apologise!" he said, looking up with his slow smile. "It was a pure pleasure to hear you swear again!"
Desmond laughed abruptly. "You'll get more than enough of that kind of pleasure if they refuse me my six months!—But look here, I'm thinking I can't keepyouaway from them any longer——"
"My dear Theo," Paul interposed with gentle decision. "So long as you stay—I stay. That goes without saying. Meredith will fix it up for us—no fear. Come on now. It's time we went indoors."
They sauntered back up the gravel path together without further speech, yet with thoughts more closely linked than either guessed; thoughts that flew instinctively as homing doves to the one beloved woman—Honor Meredith.
A late April evening on Lake Como:—for the initiated there is magic in the very words; magic of light and warmth and colour; glory of roses and wistaria, that everywhere renew the youth of ancient ruins and walls and weave a spring garment even for the sombre cypress who has none of his own. Love-song of birds, laughter of men and women, the passionate blue above, the sun-warmed cobblestones underfoot—in these also there is magic, unseizable, irresistible as the happiness of a child. There is nothing great about Como, nothing in the measured beauty of her encircling hills to uplift or strike awe into the soul of a man. She is exquisite, finished; a garden enclosed, a garden of enchantment that speaks straight to the heart; and the banner over her is peace.
Here Paul Wyndham—with the instinctive understanding that belongs to a great love—had chosen to round off the wander-year devoted to his friend. Throughout that year he had done all that one man may do for another in his dark hour; and each week his conviction grew stronger that Honor—and none but Honor—could do the rest. Let them only meet again, in fresh surroundings, and Theo—already so very much her friend—could not fail to come under her spell. His present seeming disposition to avoid her Paul set down to her intimate association with his wife. Six months' extension of leave had been granted to both, and Paul looked to a summer in England to establish what Italy had already begun.
Since that night at Le Trayas, when Theo had damned the Regiment and confessed his dread of returning to Kohat, Paul had begun to be aware of a change in his friend. Apathy had given place to restlessness, to a craving for distraction that neither Nature nor Art could satisfy. From place to place he had shifted like a man pursued. He fled as an animal flies from a gadfly securely fastened into his flesh. Go where he would, the passionate voice of his own heart spoke louder than books and pictures, mountains and the sea, urging him always in the one direction that his will was set to avoid.
Wyndham—aware of some inner struggle, while far from suspecting its nature—reckoned it all to the good, since it implied that the real man was astir at last. His suggestion of the Hotel Serbelloni at Bellagio—diplomatically broached—had been hailed almost with enthusiasm; and a month of Italy's April at its radiant best had proven, past question, the wisdom of the move.
In those four weeks they had explored the length and breadth of the lake with the restless energy of their race; had tramped the stony roads of North Italy and climbed every height within reach.
Better than all, it was now Theo who planned their expeditions, studied guide books and discussed local legends with his very good friend the Head Waiter. Flashes of temper had become more frequent. He could even be lured into argument again and grow hot over a game of chess. Trivial details—but for Wyndham each was a jewel beyond price. And Desmond was writing again now; fitfully but spontaneously, as of old. He had written to Sir John, and to the Colonel; and there had been two thick envelopes addressed to Frank; but never a one to Honor Meredith.
It had needed only this to fill Paul's cup of content; but Desmond—though he talked more openly of other matters—seldom mentioned the girl.
As on his return from the Samana, so now, he had fought his hidden fight and come off conqueror. All things conspired to convince him that Paul was the man—the infinitely worthier man—of her choice; and their steady correspondence seemed proof conclusive. At that rate there was nothing for it but to stand aside, leaving Paul to go in and win; only—he could not bring himself to be present at the process.
So these two friends, united by one of the closest ties on earth, lived and thought at cross purposes, for the simple reason that even of so fine a quality as reserve it is possible to have too much of a good thing.
And now an end of peaceful isolation. To-morrow they would cross to Menaggio homeward bound; and on this their last evening they climbed the cobblestoned, corkscrew of a path that winds to the ruins of Torre di Vezio above Varenna. The fine outlook from the summit was Desmond's favourite view of the lake. He himself had planned the outing, and now strode briskly ahead of his friend, with more of the old vigour and elasticity in his bearing than Paul had yet seen. To-day, too, for the first time, he had discarded the crepe band from the sleeve of his grey flannel suit; a silent admission that the spirit of resurrection had not called to him in vain.
Paul, noting these significant trifles, decided that he could have chosen no time more propitious for the thing he had to say. That morning's post had brought a letter from Sir John Meredith begging them both to come straight to his country house in Surrey for a week. Paul saw that invitation as Theo's God-given chance to discover the treasure that was his for the asking; and all day he had patiently awaited the given moment for speech. Now he recognised it, and did not intend to let it slip through his fingers.
The grey stone walls and towers of the Torre di Vezio stood four-square and rugged in the last of the sun; their battlements jewelled with fine mosaic work of lichens, their feet in the young grass of April starred with cowslips and late primroses. Near the old wooden door two cypresses stood sentinel, and the gnarled olives in the foreground loomed ancient and unresponsive as the walls themselves. The light wind of the morning had dropped with the sun; and the lake, far below them, showed delicately blurred mirages of townlets, hills, and sky. Southward, toward Como and Lecco, all was saturated in the magical blue atmosphere, the aura of Italy. Northward, toward Gravedona, the lesser Alps gloomed grey-violet under a mass of indigo cloud that blotted out the snows.
Theo Desmond, standing very erect, with the sun in his eyes, felt the peace and beauty of it all flow through his veins like wine.
"It's good to be up here. Very good. Sit down, old man."
Paul obeyed. They settled themselves on a green ledge near a bold outcrop of rock. Desmond, leaning forward, sunk his chin on his hand and fell into one of his brooding silences that had grown rarer of late.
So long it lasted that Paul began to fear he might lose the given moment after all. Yet every line of his friend's face and figure spelled peace; and he was loth to break the silence. Taking the letter from his pocket he opened it with ostentatious cracklings. He read it through twice, very leisurely; and still Desmond sat motionless, absorbed in the changing lights on the water and the hills. Then Paul gave it up and spoke.
"Theo—I've had a letter from Sir John. They're delighted to hear we're coming home."
Desmond started and frowned without changing his position. Only his stillness took on a more rigid quality. It had been natural; now it was forced.
"The old man going on well?" he asked, feeling that some remark was expected of him.
"Yes. He's almost himself again. He and Lady Meredith want us to go straight to Mavins for a week. What do you think?"
This time an answer was imperative; but it stuck in Desmond's throat.
"Very good of them. All the same—I think not," he said slowly; then made a clumsy attempt to modify the blank refusal. "You see, though I've taken this extra leave, I don't mean to spend it in loafing. We've had our fill of that. As soon as I get to town, I shall start reading in earnest for my promotion."
Paul, puzzled and dismayed as he was, could not lightly relinquish his castle in the air.
"I'm glad you feel up to work again, Theo," he said. "But a week in the country wouldn't seriously delay matters; and, in the circumstances, it seems ungracious to refuse. It would cheer the old man up. And it goes without saying that Honor would be glad to see us again."
The last appeal roused Desmond effectually. He jerked himself upright and faced his friend; faced also the ordeal of open speech after months of evasion.
"Yes—yes. You're always right, old man," he said, eyes and voice superbly under control. "I'm a selfish brute to monopolise you and—er—stand in your light. A sight of you will do them all good; andyou'llbe glad to see—Honor again. I used to wonder—long ago—what hindered you from fixing things up—you two."
It was Paul's turn now to start and change colour.
"You wondered?" he echoed blankly; then his voice dropped a tone. "Well, Theo, since you've touched on the subject, I'd as soon you knew the truth. I—spoke to Honor last March, while you were away; and—she refused."
"Refused—you?"
In that flash of amazement and sympathy with his friend's pain, Desmond escaped, if only for a moment, from the tyranny of his own tormented soul. His gaze travelled back to the hills.
"I'd have given her credit for more perception," he said quietly; and Paul, regarding him with a whimsical tenderness: "Has love anything to do with that sort of thing?"
"No—no. I'm a blatant fool. But still—a man like you——!" He broke off short, and there was a moment of strained silence. But the real Desmond was awake at last, and he forced himself to add: "Women change sometimes—once they know. Have you never been tempted to try again?"
"No; and never shall be, for a very good reason. There's some one in the way—some other man——"
Desmond drew in his breath sharply.
"Good Lord!" he muttered in a low dazed voice, as if thinking aloud. "But where the deuceishe? Why hasn't he come forward? He must be a rotten sort of chap——"
Paul caressed his moustache to hide a smile. "Not necessarily Theo. I gather, from what she said that—there were difficulties——"
"Difficulties—?" Again he broke off, stunned by the coincidence, yet incapable of suspecting the truth. Then, pulling himself together, his spoke in his natural voice: "Well, anyway, Paul,you'dbetter accept Sir John's invitation, since you can still manage to be friends with her in spite of that infernal chap in the background."
This time Paul smiled outright; but Desmond saw nothing. His chin sunk in his hand, he sat still as a rock, raging inwardly—as he had not raged for a full year—at thought of that same "infernal chap" whose difficulties might not be permanent; who might even now——
Suddenly he became aware that Paul was answering his last remark.
"Yes, Theo, I can just manage it," he was saying in a voice of grave tenderness. "It has not been easy; but the truth is that—when it came to the wrench—I hadn't the courage to let her go quite out of my life."
"You had not thecourage!" Desmond flashed round on him, a gleam of the old fire in his eyes. "It's like you to put it that way, Paul. The real truth is that you had the courage to put mere passion under your feet.Ishould feel rather, in such a case, that shemustgo quite out of my life. There's the root difference between us. I should not have the courage to accept friendship when I wanted—the other thing. But we're not discussing my affairs—" He dismissed himself with a gesture. "The point is, you'll go to Mavins and make my excuses to Sir John."
"Yes, if you really wish it, I'll go alone, a little later on. Only—you must furnish me with something valid in the way of excuse. You know, as well as I do, thatyouare first favourite with the old man. But I take it for granted you have some good reason at the back of your mind——"
"You're right there. I have—the strongest reason on earth." He paused and set his teeth, bracing himself to the final effort of confession. "What's more—I unintentionally stated it a minute ago, in plain terms." He faced Wyndham squarely now and a dull flush mounted to his temples. "Since the ice is broken at last, there can be nothing less than absolute truth between us," he said simply; and there was no more need for the clumsy machinery of speech.
Paul's eyes, that neither judged nor questioned, rested on his friend like a benediction. In that moment he had his reward for months of silent service, of patience strained almost to breaking point, of anxiety that bordered on despair.
Minute after minute they sat silent, while the splendour in the west blazed and spread till it challenged the oncoming shadow in the north; and the near hills grown magically ethereal, stood in a shimmer of gold, like hills of dream.
Then Desmond spoke again very quietly, without looking round.
"Now perhaps you better understand—this last year?"
"Yes, Theo, I do understand," Paul answered in the same tone, and Desmond let out a great breath.
"God! The relief it is to feel square with you again!"
In a third-floor sitting-room, facing east, breakfast was laid for two. Every item of the meal bespoke furnished apartments; and even the May sunshine, flooding the place, failed to beautify the shabby carpet and furniture, the inevitable oleographs and the family groups that shared the mantelpiece with pipes, pouches, and a tin of tobacco. A hanging bookcase held some military books, a couple of novels, and a volume of Browning—the property of Paul. After Bellagio—Piccadilly; and their year abroad constrained them to economy at home.
Theo Desmond sauntering in, scanned every detail with fastidious distaste. To-day, for the first time, a great longing possessed him for the airy ramshackle bungalows of the Frontier he loved, for the trumpet-call to "stables," for a sight of his squadron and the feel of a saddle between his knees.
His wandering gaze lighted on a letter near Paul's place. The address was in Honor's handwriting. He stood a moment regarding it, then turned sharply away and went over to the window. There he remained, seemingly absorbed in the varied traffic of Piccadilly, actually consumed by such jealousy as he had never suffered while he imagined that her heart was given to his friend.
For Paul's sake he could and would endure all things; but this detestable unknown who had won her and could not claim her was quite another affair. There could be no thought of standing aside on his account. It was simply a question of Honor herself. She was not the woman lightly to withdraw her love, once given. And yet—in a year—who could tell? Love, like the spirit, bloweth where it listeth; and Paul's failure did not of necessity predicate his own. For all her sudden bewildering reserves, she had drawn very near to him in those last terrible weeks at Kohat; and now—now—if he could believe there was the veriest ghost of a chance—!
The mere possibility set heart and blood in a tumult; a tumult checked ruthlessly by the thought that if Honor Meredith was not the woman to change lightly, still less was she the woman to approach with that confession which, at all hazards, he was bound to make. Speaking of it to Paul had cost him such an effort as he ached to remember. Speaking of it to her seemed a thing inconceivable. And yet—in that case—what hope of escape from this unholy tangle, from this fury of jealousy that had stabbed his manhood broad awake at last?
In Italy he fondly believed that he had fought his fight and conquered. Yet now, behold, it was all to do over again!
"Theo, my dear chap, thereissuch a thing as breakfast!" Paul's voice brought him back to earth with a thud. "Will you have a congealed rasher or a tepid egg—or both?"
"Neither, confound you!" Desmond answered, swinging round with an abrupt laugh and strolling back to the table.
Inevitably he glanced at the perturbing envelope, open now and propped against the milk-jug, and as inevitably Paul answered his look.
"Honor is in town for a few days," he said, putting the letter near Theo's plate, "staying with Lady Meredith's sister. She hopes I can go in and see her this morning. She seems under the impression that you are too busy, just now, to be included in any invitation."
Desmond buttered a leathery triangle of toast with elaborate precision. "You may as well encourage that notion, old chap. It simplifies things. You're going yourself, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Lucky devil!"
He scowled at the envelope by his plate and tacitly dismissed the subject by an excursion into theMorning Post.
They talked politics and theatres till the unappetising meal was ended and Paul pocketed his treasure with a sigh. It was the first time Theo had ignored one of her letters; and the simple-hearted fellow—quite unaware that his mention of the other man had been a master-stroke of policy—felt almost at his wits' end. Standing by the mantelpiece mechanically filling his pipe, he watched Desmond set out his books and papers on the table near the window, intent on a morning of abnormal industry; and the pathos of it all caught at his heart. For the first time in his controlled and ordered life he felt impelled to carry a situation by storm—the result possibly of playing Providence to Theo for the space of a year.
But Theo plus a woman, loving and beloved, whom he obstinately refused to meet, was a problem demanding far more of diplomacy, of intimate human experience than Paul Wyndham had been blest withal. The one obvious service required of him was easier to recognise than to achieve. By some means these two must be brought together in spite of themselves; but for all his forty years he was pathetically at a loss to know how the deuce one contrived that sort of thing. It was a woman's job. Mrs Olliver, now, could have fixed it all up in a twinkling; while he—poor clumsy fool!—could only sit there smoking and racking his brain, while his eyes perfunctorily scanned the columns of theMorning Post.
The doings of the world and the misdoings of those in power, earthquakes, shipwrecks, and rumours of wars—all these were as nothing to him compared with the insignificant tangle of one man and one woman among the whole seething, suffering throng. But concern brought him no nearer to the unravelling of their tangle; and when the time came to go he could think of nothing better than a direct appeal to his friend.
Desmond still sat at the table, head in hand, absorbed in the intricacies of military tactics.
Paul rose and went over to him. "I'm going now, old chap." The matter of fact statement was made with indescribable gentleness. "I'll be back in an hour or so. Wish to goodness you were coming too."
"Damned if you can wish it more than I do," Desmond answered without looking up.
"Well then—come. Is it really—so impossible as you think?"
Desmond nodded decisively. "Can't you see it for yourself, man? Even if shewasquit of that other confounded fellow, how could I face telling her—the truth?"
For a moment Paul was silenced; not because he found the question unanswerable, but because of that hidden knowledge which he might not disclose, even to save his friend.
"My dear Theo," he said at last, "I know—and you know—that, sooner than lose her, you could go through any kind of fire. Besides, I have an idea she would understand——"
"So have I," Desmond answered gruffly, "that's the deuce of it all. But it doesn't make a man less unworthy——"
"If it comes to that," urged the diplomatist, "are any of us worthy?"
Desmond flung up his head with an odd laugh.
"Possibly not! But there happen to be degrees of unfitness—yours and mine for instance, you blind old bat! Go along now, and enjoy the good you deserve. As for me—I have sinned and must take the consequences without whining."
"There is a radical difference, Theo," Paul remarked quietly, "between temptation and sin."
"Casuist!" was all the answer vouchsafed to him; and baffled—but not yet defeated—he went out into the May sunlight, quite determined, for once in his life, to take by storm the citadel that seemed proof against capitulation.
Before reaching his destination he had devised a plan so simple and obvious that it might have occurred to a child; and like a child he gloried in his unaided achievement. The fact that it involved leading them both blindfold to the verge of mutual discovery troubled him not a whit. Heart and conscience alike asserted that in this case the end justified the means; and it needed but the veiled light in Honor's eyes at mention of Theo's name to set the seal on his decision.
For near an hour they talked, with that effortless ease and intimacy which is the hail-mark of a genuine friendship; and at the end of it Honor realised that, without any conscious intention on her part, Theo—and little else but Theo—had been their topic as a matter of course. Never dreaming of design on the part of Paul, she merely blessed him for a devotion that almost equalled her own, and accepted, with unfeigned alacrity, his suggestion that they should meet next morning at the Diploma Gallery.
"I've not been there for a hundred years!" she declared with more of her old lightness than he had yet seen in her: "It will take me back to bread-and-butter days! And I believe they have added some really good pictures since then."
Paul exulted as an angler exults when he feels his first salmon tug at the line; but his tone was casual and composed. "Come early," he said. "Then we shall pretty well have the place to ourselves. Eleven? Half-past?"
"Somewhere between the two."
"Good."
And Paul Wyndham—the devout lover, who had trampled passion underfoot to some purpose—walked back to Piccadilly like a man reprieved. Honor was secure. Remained the capture of Theo—a more difficult feat; but, in his present mood, he refused to contemplate the possibility of failure.
A morning of unclouded brilliance found Desmond frankly bored with tactics and topography; the more so, perhaps, because Paul with simple craft took his industry for granted.
Soon after eleven, he put aside the inevitable pipe and newspaper and took up his hat. "Well, Theo," said he, "you won't be needing me till after lunch I suppose?—I'm off."
"Where to, old man?" Desmond yawned extensively as he spoke, and pushed aside his little pile of red books with a promising gesture of distaste. "What's your dissipated programme?"
"An hour in the Diploma Gallery, and a stroll in the Park," Paul replied with admirable unconcern. "D'you feel like coming?"
"I feel like chucking all these into the waste-paper basket! When England takes it into her capricious head to do this sort of thing in May, how the devil can a human man keep his nose to the grindstone? Come on!"
Paul's heart beat fast as they stepped into the street; faster still as he glanced at Theo striding briskly beside him, head in air all unconscious that he was faring toward a tryst far more in tune with the season and the new life astir in his blood than his late abnormal zeal in pursuit of promotion.
To Paul it seemed that the heavens themselves were in league with him. Overhead, scattered ranks of chimneypots were bitten out of a sky scarcely less blue and ardent than Italy's own. In every open space young leaves flashed, golden-green, on soot-blackened branches of chestnut, plane, and lime. And there were flowers everywhere—in squares and window-boxes and parks; in florists' and milliners' windows; in the baskets of flower-sellers and in women's hats. The paper-boy—blackbird of the London streets—whistled a livelier stave. Girls hurried past smiling at nothing in particular. They were glad to be alive—that was all.
And Theo?
He too was glad to be alive, to be free, at last, from the conquering shadow of memory and self-reproach. If penance were required of him, surely that black year must suffice. Now the living claimed him; and that claim could no longer be ignored. With a heart too full for speech he walked beside his friend; and halting at last, on the steps of Burlington House, he bared his head to the sunlight and drew a deep breath of content.
"I vote we don't waste much of this divine morning on pictures, Paul," he said suddenly. "Why bother about them at all?"
Wyndham started visibly; but in less than a minute he was master of himself and the situation.
"Well, as we're here, we may as well look in," he answered casually; and without waiting further objection, turned to enter the building.
Desmond, following, laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Anything to please you, old man," said he smiling.
"God knows you've danced attendance onmywhims long enough!"
No sign of Honor in the cloistered coolness of the first room; only a small group of people in earnest talk before one of the pictures, and an artist, with stool and easel, making a conscientious copy of another.
Desmond made a cursory tour of the walls and passed on into the second room. Paul, increasingly anxious every moment, lagged behind and consulted his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. Would she never come?
The second room was empty, and there Desmond's aimless wandering had been checked by a battle picture; a vigorous and tragic presentment of Sir John Moore's retreat from Corunna.
"Here you are, Paul. Here's something worth looking at," said he as Wyndham joined him; and, soldier-like, they soon fell to discussing the event rather than the picture. Desmond—his head full of tactics and military history—held forth fluently quite in his old vein; while Paul—who heard scarce one word in six—nodded sagely at appropriate intervals.
Hope died hard in him. A clock outside, chiming the half-hour, rang its knell with derisive strokes that seemed to beat upon his heart. It was just his luck. She would never turn up. A hundred contingencies might arise to prevent her—a street accident, a headache, bad news of her father——
Sudden silence from Theo cut short the dismal list; and one glance at him told Paul that his hour was come indeed. For Desmond stood rigid, a dull flush burning through his tan; and his eyes looked over Paul's shoulder towards the entrance into Room Number One.
"My God!" he muttered hoarsely, "Here's Honor!"
Without a word Paul turned on his heel and saw how she, too, stood spellbound, there by the doorway, her cheeks aflame, her eyes more eloquent than she knew. Taken completely unawares, each had surprised the other's secret, even as Paul had foreseen. In that lightning flash of mutual recognition, the end he had wrought for, and agonised for, was achieved. Obviously they had no further need of his services—and, unnoticed by either, he passed quietly out of the room.
For one measureless minute they remained confronting each other; scarcely daring to breathe lest they break the spell of that passionate unspoken avowal. Then Honor came forward slowly, like one walking in her sleep—and the spell was gone. In two strides Desmond had reached her and grasped her outstretched hand.
No attempt at conventional futilities marred their supreme moment. Words seemed an impertinence in view of the overwhelming fact that he stood before her thus—his face transfigured and illumined by love unutterable, by a discovery scarcely realised even now.
There was so much to tell, and again, so little after all, that there seemed no need to tell it. Yet Honor could not choose but long for the sound of his voice; and to that end she tried very gently to withdraw her hand.
Desmond—suddenly aware that they were alone—tightened his grasp. "No—no," he protested under his breath, "unless—you wish it.Doyou—Honor?"
"I don't wish it," she answered very low, and her eyes, resting on his, had a subdued radiance as of sunlight seen through mist.
Haloed in that radiance Desmond beheld the "infernal chap" he had been cursing for weeks; realised instantaneously all that the recognition implied; and, capturing both her hands, crushed them between his own.
"Honor—my splendid Honor!"
He still spoke under his breath; and still his eyes held hers in a gaze so compelling that it seemed as though he were drawing her very soul into his own with a force that she had neither will nor power to resist.
In that long look she knew that, for all her passionate intensity of heart and spirit, this man, whom she had won, surpassed her in both; that in all things he rose above her—and would always rise. And because she was very woman at the core, such knowledge gladdened her beyond telling; crowned her devotion as wedded love is rarely crowned in a world honeycombed with half-heartedness in purpose and faith and love.