The Lamp in the Desert

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE WRATH OF THE GODS

  It was nearly an hour later that Everard Monck and his brother left themess together and walked back through the dripping darkness to thebungalow on the hill overlooking the river. The rush of the swollenstream became audible as they drew near. The sound of it wasinexpressibly wild and desolate.

  "It's an interesting country," remarked Bernard, breaking a silence. "Idon't wonder she has got hold of you, my son. What does your wife thinkof it? Is she too caught in the toils?"

  Not by word or look had he made the smallest reference to the episode atthe mess-table. It was as if he alone of those present had wholly missedits significance.

  Everard answered him quietly, without much emphasis. "I believe my wifehates it from beginning to end. Perhaps it is not surprising. She hasbeen through a good deal since she came out. And I am afraid there is agood deal before her still."

  Bernard's big hand closed upon his arm. "Poor old chap!" lie said. "YouIndian fellows don't have any such time of it, or your women folkeither. How long is she a fixture at Bhulwana?"

  "The baby is expected in two months' time." Everard spoke withoutemotion, his voice sounded almost cold. "After that, I don't know whatwill happen. Nothing is settled. Tell me your plans now! No, wait! Let'sget in out of this damned rain first!"

  They entered the bungalow and sat down for another smoke in thedrawing-room.

  Down by the river a native instrument thrummed monotonously, like thewhirring of a giant mosquito in the darkness. Everard turned with aslight gesture of impatience and closed the window.

  He established his brother in a long chair with a drink at his elbow,and sat down himself without any pretence at taking his ease.

  "You don't look particularly comfortable," Bernard observed.

  "Don't mind me!" he made curt response. "I've got a touch of feverto-night. It's nothing. I shall be all right in the morning."

  "Sure?" Bernard's eyes suddenly ceased to be quizzical; they looked athim straight and hard.

  Everard met the look, faintly smiling. "I don't lie about--unimportantthings," he remarked cynically. "Light up, man, and fire away!"

  He struck a match for his brother's pipe and kindled his own cigarettethereat.

  There fell a brief silence. Bernard did not look wholly satisfied. Butafter a few seconds he seemed to dismiss the matter and began to talk ofhimself.

  "You want to know my plans, old chap. Well, as far as I know 'em myself,you are quite welcome. With your permission, I propose, for the present,to stay where I am."

  "I shouldn't if I were you." Everard spoke with brief decision. "You'dbe far better off at Bhulwana till the end of the rains."

  Bernard puffed forth a great cloud of smoke and stared at the ceiling."That is as may be, dear fellow," he said, after a moment. "But Ithink--if you'll put up with me--I'll stay here for the present all thesame."

  He spoke in that peculiarly gentle voice of his that yet heldconsiderable resolution. Everard made no attempt to combat the decision.Perhaps he realized the uselessness of such a proceeding.

  "Stay by all means!" he said, "but what's the idea?"

  Bernard took his pipe from his mouth. "I have a big fight before me,Everard boy," he said, "a fight against the sort of prejudice thatkicked me out of the Charthurst job. It's got to be fought with thepen--since I am no street corner ranter. I have the solid outlines ofthe campaign in my head, and I have come out here to get right awayfrom things and work it out."

  "Going to reform creation?" suggested Everard, with his grim smile.

  Bernard shook his head, smiling in answer as though the cynicism had notreached him. "No, that's not my job. I am only a man underauthority--like yourself. I don't see the result at all. I only see thework, and with God's help, that will be exactly what He intended itshould be when He gave it to me to do."

  "Lucky man!" said Everard briefly.

  "Ah! I didn't think myself lucky when I had to give up the Charthurstchaplaincy." Bernard spoke through a haze of smoke. "I'm afraid I kickeda bit at first--which was a short-sighted thing to do, I admit. But Ihad got to look on it as my life-work, and I loved it. It held suchopportunities." He broke off with a sharp sigh. "I shall be at it againif I go on. Can't you give me something pleasanter to think about?Haven't you got a photograph of your wife to show me?"

  Everard got up. "Yes, I have. But it doesn't do her justice." He took aletter-case from his pocket and opened it. A moment he stood bent overthe portrait he withdrew from it, then turned and handed it to hisbrother.

  Bernard studied it in silence. It was an unmounted amateur photograph ofStella standing on the creeper-grown verandah of the Green Bungalow. Shewas smiling, but her eyes were faintly sad, as though shadowed by thememory of some past pain.

  For many seconds Bernard gazed upon the pictured face. Finally he spoke.

  "Your wife must be a very beautiful woman."

  "Yes," said Everard quietly.

  He spoke gravely. His brother's eyes travelled upwards swiftly. "Thatwas not what you married her for, eh?"

  Everard stooped and took the portrait from him. "Well, no--notentirely," he said.

  Bernard smiled a little. "You haven't told me much about her, you know.How long have you been acquainted?"

  "Nearly two years. I think I mentioned in my letter that she was thewidow of a comrade?"

  "Yes, I remember. But you were rather vague about it. What happened tohim? Didn't he meet with a violent death?"

  There was a pause. Everard was still standing with his eyes fixed uponthe photograph. His face was stern.

  "What was it?" questioned Bernard. "Didn't he fall over a precipice?"

  "Yes," abruptly the younger man made answer. "It happened in Kashmirwhen they were on their honeymoon."

  "Ah! Poor girl! She must have suffered. What was his name? Was he a palof yours?"

  "More or less." Everard's voice rang hard. "His name was Dacre."

  "Oh, to be sure. The man I wrote to you about just before poor MadelinaBelleville died in prison. Her husband's name was Dacre. He was in theArmy too, and she thought he was in India. But it's not a very uncommonname." Bernard spoke thoughtfully. "You said he was no relation."

  "I said to the best of my belief he was not." Everard turned suddenlyand sat down. "People are not keen, you know, on owning to shadyrelations. He was no exception to the rule. But if the woman died, it'sof no great consequence now to any one. When did she die?"

  Bernard took a long pull at his pipe. His brows were slightly drawn."She died suddenly, poor soul. Did I never tell you? It must have beenimmediately after I wrote that letter to you. It was. I remember now. Itwas the very day after.... She died on the twenty-first of March--thefirst day of spring. Poor girl! She had so longed for the spring. Hertime would have been up in May."

  Something in the silence that followed his words made him turn his headto look at his brother. Everard was sitting perfectly rigid in his chairstaring at the ground between his feet as if he saw a serpent writhingthere. But before another word could be spoken, he got up abruptly, witha gesture as of shaking off the loathsome thing, and went to the window.He flung it wide, and stood in the opening, breathing hard as a manhalf-suffocated.

  "Anything wrong, old chap?" questioned Bernard.

  He answered him without turning. "No; it's only my infernal head. Ithink I'll turn in directly. It's a fiendish night."

  The rain was falling in torrents, and a long roll of thunder soundedfrom afar. The clatter of the great drops on the roof of the verandahfilled the room, making all further conversation impossible. It was likea tattoo of devils.

  "A damn' pleasant country this!" murmured the man in the chair.

  The man at the window said no word. He was gasping a little, his face tothe howling night.

  For a space Bernard lay and watched him. Then at last, somewhatponderously he arose.

  Everard could not have heard his approach, but he was aware of it beforehe reach
ed him. He turned swiftly round, pulling the window closedbehind him.

  They stood facing each other, and there was something tense in theatmosphere, something that was oddly suggestive of mental conflict. Thedevils' tattoo on the roof had sunk to a mere undersong, a fittingaccompaniment as it were to the electricity in the room.

  Bernard spoke at length, slowly, deliberately, but not unkindly. "Whyshould you take the trouble to--fence with me?" he said. "Is it worthit, do you think?"

  Everard's face was set and grey like a stone mask. He did not speak fora moment; then curtly, noncommittally, "What do you mean?" he said.

  "I mean," very steadily Bernard made reply, "that the scoundrel Dacre,who married Madelina Belleville and then deserted her, left her to go tothe dogs, and your brother-officer who was killed in the mountains onhis honeymoon, were one and the same man. And you knew it."

  "Well?" The words seemed to come from closed lips. There was somethingterrible in the utter quietness of its utterance.

  Bernard searched his face as a man might search the walls of anapparently impregnable fortress for some vulnerable spot. "Ah, I see,"he said, after a moment. "You must have believed Madelina to be stillalive when Dacre married. What was the date of his marriage?"

  "The twenty-fifth of March." Again the grim lips spoke without seemingto move.

  A gleam of relief crossed his brother's face. "In that case no one isany the worse. I'm sorry you've carried that bugbear about with you forso long. What an infernal hound the fellow was!"

  "Yes," assented Everard.

  He moved to the table and poured himself out a drink.

  His brother still watched him. "One might almost say his death wasprovidential," he observed. "Of course--your wife--never knew of this?"

  "No." Everard lifted the glass to his lips with a perfectly steady handand drank. "She never will know," he said, as he set it down.

  "Certainly not. You can trust me never to tell her." Bernard moved tohis side, and laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. "You know you cantrust me, old fellow?"

  Everard did not look at him. "Yes, I know," he said.

  His brother's hand pressed upon him a little. "Since they are bothgone," he said, "there is nothing more to be said on the subject. But,oh, man, stick to the truth, whatever else you let go of! You never liedto me before."

  His tone was very earnest. It held urgent entreaty. Everard turned andmet his eyes. His dark face was wholly emotionless. "I am sorry, St.Bernard," he said.

  Bernard's kindly smile wrinkled his eyes. He grasped and held theyounger man's hand. "All right, boy. I'm going to forget it," he said."Now what about turning in?"

  They parted for the night immediately after, the one to sleep asserenely as a child almost as soon as he lay down, the other to pace toand fro, to and fro, for hours, grappling--and grappling in vain--withthe sternest adversary he had ever had to encounter.

  For upon Everard Monck that night the wrath of the gods had descended,and against it, even his grim fortitude was powerless to make a stand.He was beaten before he could begin to defend himself, beaten and flungaside as contemptible. Only one thing remained to be fought for, andthat one thing he swore to guard with the last ounce of his strength,even at the cost of life itself.

  All through that night of bitter turmoil he came back again and again tothat, the only solid foothold left him in the shifting desert-sand. Solong as his heart should beat he would defend that one preciouspossession that yet remained,--the honour of the woman who loved him andwhom he loved as only the few know how to love.