The Lamp in the Desert

  CHAPTER X

  THE DESERT PLACE

  A single light shone across the verandah when Bernard Monck returnedlate in the night. It drew his steps though it did not come from any ofthe sitting-rooms. With the light tread often characteristic of heavymen, he approached it, realizing only at the last moment that it camefrom the window of his brother's room.

  Then for a second he hesitated. He was angry with Everard, more angrythan he could remember that he had ever been before. He questioned withhimself as to the wisdom of seeing him again that night. He doubted ifhe could be ordinarily civil to him at present, and a quarrel would helpno one.

  Still why was the fellow burning a light at that hour? An unacknowledgeduneasiness took possession of him and drove him forward. People seemedto do all manner of extravagant things in this fantastic country thatthey would never have dreamed of doing in homely old England. There mustbe something electric in the atmosphere that penetrated the veins. Evenhe had been aware of it now and then, a strange and potent influencethat drove a man to passionate deeds.

  He reached the window without sound just as Stella had reached it onthat night of rain long ago. With no consciousness of spying, driven byan urgent impulse he could not stop to question, he looked in.

  The window was ajar, as if it had been pushed to negligently by someoneentering, and in a flash Bernard had it wide. He went in as though hehad been propelled.

  A man--Everard--was standing half-dressed in the middle of the room. Hewas facing the window, and the light shone with ghastly distinctnessupon his face. But he did not look up. He was gazing fixedly into aglass of water he held in his hand, apparently watching some minutesubstance melting there.

  It was not the thing he held, but the look upon his face, that sentBernard forward with a spring. "Man!" he burst forth. "What are youdoing?"

  Everard gave utterance to a fierce oath that was more like the cry of asavage animal than the articulate speech of a man. He stepped backsharply, and put the glass to his lips. But no drop that it containeddid he swallow, for in the same instant Bernard flung it violentlyaside. The glass spun across the room, and they grappled together forthe mastery. For a few seconds the battle was hot; then very suddenlythe elder man threw up his hands.

  "All right," he said, between short gasps for breath. "You can hammerme--if you want someone to hammer. Perhaps--it'll do you good."

  He was free on the instant. Everard flung round and turned his back. Hedid not speak, but crossed the room and picked up the glass which layunbroken on the floor.

  Bernard followed him, still gasping for breath, "Give that to me!" hesaid.

  His soft voice was oddly stern. Everard looked at him. His hand, shakinga little, was extended. After a very definite pause, he placed the glasswithin it. There was a little white sediment left with a drain of waterat the bottom. With his blue eyes full upon his brother's face, Bernardlifted it to his own lips.

  But the next instant it was dashed away, and the glass shivered to atomsagainst the wall. "You--fool!" Everard said.

  A faint, faint smile that very strangely proclaimed a resemblancebetween them which was very seldom perceptible crossed Bernard's face."I--thought so," he said. "Now look here, boy! Let's stop beingmelodramatic for a bit! Take a dose of quinine instead! It seems to bethe panacea for all evils in this curious country."

  His voice was perfectly kind, even persusaive, but it carried a hint ofauthority as well, and Everard gave him a keen look as if aware of it.

  He was very pale but absolutely steady as he made reply. "I don't thinkquinine will meet the case on this occasion."

  "You prefer another kind of medicine," Bernard suggested. And then withsudden feeling he held out his hand. "Everard, old chap, never do thatwhile you've a single friend left in the world! Do you want to break myheart? I only ask to stand by you. I'll stand by you to the very gatesof hell. Don't you know that?"

  His voice trembled slightly. Everard turned and gripped the profferedhand hard in his own.

  "I suppose I--might have known," he said. "But it's a bit rash of youall the same."

  His own voice quivered though he forced a smile. He would have turnedaway, but Bernard restrained him.

  "I don't care a tinker's damn what you've done," he said forcibly."Remember that! We're brothers, and I'll stick to you. If there'sanything in life that I can do to help, I'll do it. If there isn't,well, I won't worry you, but you know you can count on me just the same.You'll never stand alone while I live."

  It was generously spoken. The words came straight from his soul. He puthis hand on his brother's shoulder as he uttered them. His eyes were astender as the eyes of a woman.

  And suddenly, without warning, Everard's strength failed him. It waslike the snapping of a stretched wire. "Oh, man!" he said, and coveredhis face.

  Bernard's arm was round him in a moment, a staunch, upholding arm."Everard--dear old chap--can't you tell me what it is?" he said. "Godknows I'll die sooner than let you down."

  Everard did not answer. His breathing was hard, spasmodic, intenselypainful to hear. He had the look of a man stricken in his pride.

  For a space Bernard stood dumbly supporting him. Then at length veryquietly he moved and guided him to a chair.

  "Take your time!" he said gently. "Sit down!"

  Mutely Everard submitted. The agony of that night had stripped hismanhood of its reserve. He sat crouched, his head bowed upon hisclenched hands.

  "Wait while I fetch you a drink!" Bernard said.

  He was gone barely two minutes. Returning, he fastened the window anddrew the curtain across. Then he bent again over the huddled figure inthe chair.

  "Take a mouthful of this, old fellow! It'll pull you together."

  Everard groped outwards with a quivering hand. "Give me strength--toshoot myself," he muttered.

  The words were only just audible, but Bernard caught them. "No,--giveyou strength to play the game," he said, and held the glass he hadbrought to his brother's lips.

  Everard drank with closed eyes and sat forward again motionless. Hisface was bloodless. "I'm sorry, St. Bernard," he said, after a moment."Forgive me for manhandling you--and all the rest, if you can!" He drewa long, hard breath. "Thanks for everything! Good-night!"

  "But I'm not leaving you," said Bernard, gently. "Not like this."

  "Like what?" Everard opened his eyes with an abrupt effort. "Oh, I'm allright. Don't you bother about me!" he said.

  Their eyes met. For a second longer Bernard stood over him. Then he wentdown upon his knees by his side. "I swear I won't leave you," he said,"until you've told me this trouble of yours."

  Everard shook his head instantly, but his hand went out and closed uponthe arm that had upheld him. He was beginning to recover his habitualself-command. "It's no good, old chap. I can't," he said. And addedalmost involuntarily, "That's--the hell of it!"

  "But you can," Bernard said. He still looked him straight in the eyes."You can and you will. Call it a confession--I've heard a good many inmy time--and tell me everything!"

  "Confess to you!" A hint of surprise showed in Everard's heavy eyes."You'd better not tempt me to do that," he said. "You might be sorryafterwards."

  "I will risk it," Bernard said.

  "Risk being made an accessory to--what you may regard as a crime?"Everard said. "Forgive me--you're a parson, I know,--but are you sureyou can play the part?"

  Bernard smiled a little at the question. "Yes, I can," he said. "Aconfession is sacred--whatever it is. And I swear to you--by God inHeaven--to treat it as such."

  Everard was looking at him fixedly, but something of the strain went outof his look at the words. A gleam of relief crossed his face.

  "All right. I will--confess to you," he said. "But I warn youbeforehand, you'll be horribly shocked. And--you won't feel likeabsolving me afterwards."

  "That's not my job, dear fellow," Bernard answered gently. "Go ahead!You're sure of my sympathy anyway."

  "Am I? You're a good chap, St.
Bernard. Look here, don't kneel there!It's not suitable for a father confessor," Everard's faint smile showedfor a moment.

  Bernard's hand closed upon his. "Go ahead!" he said again, "I'm allright."

  Everard made an abrupt gesture that had in it something of surrender."It's soon told," he said, "though I don't know why I should burden youwith it. That fellow Ralph Dacre--I didn't murder him. I wish to HeavenI had. So far as I know--he is alive."

  "Ah!" Bernard said

  Jerkily, with obvious effort, Everard continued. "I'm a murderous bruteno doubt. But if I had the chance to kill him now, I'd take it. You seewhat it means, don't you? It means that Stella--that Stella--" He brokeoff with a convulsive movement, and dropped back into a torturedsilence.

  "Yes. I see what it means," Bernard said.

  After an interval Everard forced out a few more words. "About afortnight after their marriage I got your letter telling me he had awife living. I went straight after them in native disguise, and made himclear out. That's the whole story."

  "I see," Bernard said again.

  Again there fell a silence between them. Everard sat bowed, his head onhis hand. The awful pallor was passing, but the stricken look remained.

  Bernard spoke at last. "You have no idea what became of him?"

  "Not the faintest. He went. That was all that concerned me." Grimly,without lifting his head, he made answer. "You know the rest--or you canguess. Then you came, and told me that the woman--Dacre's wife--diedbefore his marriage to Stella. I've been in hell ever since."

  "I wish to Heaven I'd stopped away!" Bernard exclaimed with suddenvehemence.

  Everard shifted his position slightly to glance at him. "Don't wishthat!" he said. "After all, it would probably have come out somehow."

  "And--Stella?" Bernard spoke with hesitation, as if uncertain of hisground. "What does she think? How much does she know?"

  "She thinks like the rest. She thinks I murdered the hound. And I'drather she thought that," there was dogged suffering in Everard'svoice, "than suspected the truth."

  "You think--" Bernard still spoke with slight hesitation--"that willhurt her less?"

  "Yes." There was stubborn conviction in the reply. Everard slowlystraightened himself and faced his brother squarely. "There is--thechild," he said.

  Bernard shook his head slightly. "You're wrong, old fellow. You'remaking a mistake. You are choosing the hardest course for her as well asyourself."

  Everard's jaw hardened. "I shall find a way out for myself," he said."She shall be left in peace."

  "What do you mean?" Bernard said. Then as he made no reply, he took himfirmly by the shoulders. "No--no! You won't. You won't," he said."That's not you, my boy--not when you've sanely thought it out."

  Everard suffered his hold; but his face remained set in grim lines."There is no other way," he said. "Honestly, I see no other way."

  "There is another way." Very steadily, with the utmost confidence,Bernard made the assertion. "There always is. God sees to that. You'llfind it presently."

  Everard smiled very wearily at the words. "I've given up expecting anylight from that quarter," he said. "It seems to me that He hasn't muchuse for the wanderers once they get off the beaten track."

  "Oh, my dear chap!" Bernard's hands pressed upon him suddenly. "Do youreally believe He has no care for that which is lost? Have you blunderedalong all this time and never yet seen the lamp in the desert? You willsee it--like every other wanderer--sooner or later, if you only have thepluck to keep on."

  "You seem mighty sure of that." Everard looked at him with a species ofdull curiosity. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course I am sure." Bernard spoke vigorously. "And so are you in yourheart. You know very well that if you only push on you won't be left todie in the wilderness. Have you never thought to yourself after aparticularly dark spell that there has always been a speck of lightsomewhere--never total darkness for any length of time? That's the lampin the desert, old chap. And--whether you realize it or not--God put itthere."

  He ceased to speak, and rose quietly to his feet; then, as Everardstretched a hand to him, gave him a steady pull upwards. They stood faceto face.

  "And that," Bernard added, after a few moments, "is all I've got to say.You turn in now and get a rest! If you want me, well, you know where tofind me--just any time."

  "Thanks!" Everard said. His hand held his brother's hard. "But--beforeyou go--there's one thing I want to say--no, two." A shadowy smiletouched his grim lips and vanished. His eyes were still and whollyremote, sheltering his soul.

  "Go ahead!" said Bernard gently.

  Everard paused for a second. "You have asked no promise of me," he saidthen; "but--I'll make you one. And I want one from you in return."

  Again he paused, as if he had some difficulty in finding words.

  "You can rely on me," Bernard said.

  "Yes, old fellow." For an instant his eyes smiled also. "I know it. It'sby that fact alone that you've gained your point. And so I'll hang onsomehow for the present--find another way--anyhow hang on, just becauseyou are what you are--and because--" his voice sank a little--"youcare."

  "Don't you know I love you before any one else in the world?" Bernardsaid, giving him a mighty grip.

  "Yes," Everard looked him straight in the face, "I do. And it means moreto me than perhaps you think. In fact--it's everything to me just now.That's why I want you to promise me--whatever happens--whatever I decideto do--that you will stay within reach of--that you will take careof--my--my--of Stella." He ended abruptly, with a quick gesture thatheld entreaty.

  And Bernard's reply came instantly, almost before he had ceased tospeak. "Before God, old chap, I will."

  "Thanks," Everard said again. He stood for a few moments as if debatingsomething further, but in the end he freed himself and turned away. "Shewill be all right, with you," he said. "You're--safe anyhow."

  "Quite safe," said Bernard steadily.