CHAPTER XXV.
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA.
"The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest, who hast made the Fire, Thou knowest, who hast made the Clay." --KIPLING.
When the bedroom door opened, Desmond lifted his head, in a distractedattempt to see more of his wife than the shade would permit, and heldout his hand.
"Come, Ladybird. I want you."
She came at his bidding, and put her hand in his. But, unwittingly,she stood no nearer than the action demanded; and in her bewilderedmisery she forgot that he would expect her to stoop and kiss him. Itwas a fatal omission--how fatal she did not realise till later.
He drew her closer with quiet decision; and she submitted, as shewould have submitted to anything he might have chosen to do just then.
"Am I so very dreadful that you can't bear to come near me?" he asked,with a brave attempt at lightness.
"Oh, Theo, don't say that," she pleaded. It came too painfully nearthe truth. "Only--I can't seem able to believe that--it is reallyyou."
"Well, I give you my word it _is_ really me--the very same Theo whowon the Punjab Cup, and danced with you at Lahore three months ago."Then he bit his lip sharply; for the thought smote him that he mightnever sit a pony or dance with her again.
The sob that had been clutching at her throat escaped, in spite ofherself. "Lahore!" she murmured. "It was all so beautiful at Lahore!"
"Don't cry about it, darling. It will be just as beautiful again, intime. Sit down on the floor--here, close to me. I can't get a sight ofyou any other way."
She sat down, but in such a position that he had only a scant view ofher tear-disfigured face. He pushed the damp ringlets back from herforehead. In his eyes it was her misfortune, rather than her fault,that she should be so inexorably chained to her own trouble.
Her spirit and her love revived under the magic of his touch. Shecaught his hand and pressed it against her burning cheek. It was cooland steady and sustaining--the hand of a brave man.
"Poor child," he said gently. "I'm an uncomfortable sort of husbandfor you. But little accidents of this kind will happen to soldiers.Don't say you wish you hadn't married this one!" And he smiled.
"No--no. But, Theo, did you get all these wounds and things trying tosave the Boy?"
"Yes; more or less."
"And it wasn't a scrap of use?"
"No. One had the satisfaction of killing the men who did for him. Thatwas all!"
"And you might just as well have come back strong and splendid, likeyou went away?"
"No use thinking of what might have been, darling. We've got to setour teeth and face what _is_."
"Oh, Theo--you are very brave."
"Needs must, Ladybird. If a man fails in that, he had better not havebeen born. And you are going to be brave too,--my wife."
"Yes,--I hope so. But--it's much more horrible than I ever imagined;and if it's going on for weeks and weeks----"
The prospect so unnerved her that she leaned her head against him,sobbing bitterly.
"Oh, I can't--I can't----!"
The low cry came straight from her heart; and Desmond understood itsbroken protest to the full. The effort to uphold her was to beuseless after all. He compressed his lips and gently released herhand.
"If it's as bad as that, my dear, and you really feel it will be toomuch for you," he said in a changed tone, "I might arrange for Honorto take you away in a day or two, till I am well enough to follow on.They all know here that you are not strong. One need not degrade youby telling--the whole truth."
"But, Theo, I couldn't leave you like that--just now, could I?"
His smile had a hint of scorn.
"Goodness knows! There is nothing to prevent you----"
"Yes--there is!" she spoke hurriedly, with downcast eyes. "Honor wouldnever take me. She thinks it's dreadful that I should go. I never sawher so angry before. She--she said--terrible things----"
"Good God! What do--you--mean?"
Desmond spoke slowly. Anger and amazement sounded in his deep voice;and his wife saw what she had done.
"Theo!--Theo!" she cried, clasping her hands, and wringing them indistraction at her own foolishness, "I never meant to say that.I--I----"
"No--but you meant to do it," he said, breathing hard and speakingwith an effort. "You actually thought of--going--before I came? Youwould have simply--bolted, and left me to come back to an empty house,if Honor had not prevented you? Great heavens! I can well believe shesaid terrible things."
His wife knelt upright now and caught at his hand. But he withdrew ithastily.
"Theo--will you listen to me and not be so angry? You are veryunkind!"
"Am I? Don't you think it is the other way about? I confess I'm in nohumour to listen to you just now. I've had about as much as I canstand to-night; and Mackay told me I must not upset myself aboutthings." He laughed harshly--a sound that chilled her blood. "But nomere man could anticipate _this_!"
"Well, I never _meant_ to say it, and I think you're horrid, you don'tunderstand----"
"No; thank God, I don't understand--cowardice and desertion. Get upnow and leave me alone, please. It's the greatest kindness you can dome; and yourself also, I imagine."
"Oh, don't say that. It's not true; and I'm not going to dream ofleaving you. Won't you let me explain?"
"To-morrow, Evelyn, to-morrow," he answered wearily. "I shall be ableto give you a fairer hearing by then; and I pray God I may havemisjudged you. Now--go."
She bent down and kissed his hand; then rose and slipped silently backinto her own room.
* * * * *
Theo Desmond lay motionless, like a man stunned. This third blow,dealt him in quick succession, left him broken in heart and spirit, ashe had never been broken in all his days.
It is written that a man must be defeated in order to succeed; and inthat moment Desmond bit the dust of the heart's most poignant tragedyand defeat--the shattering of faith in one who is very near to us. Norwas it the shattering of faith alone. The shock of his wife'sunwitting revelation, coming when he stood supremely in need of herloyalty and tenderness, struck a mortal blow at his love for her;though in his present state he was not capable of recognising thetruth. He only knew that, for the first time in his life, he feltunutterably alone--alone in a dimness which might deepen to permanentdarkness; and that the wholesome vigorous realities of life seemed tohave slipped for ever out of reach. He only knew that his wife wouldhave turned her back upon him in his hour of extremity--openlydisgracing herself and him--but for the intervention of HonorMeredith.
Her mere name called up a vivid vision of her beauty, a remembrance ofthe infinite compassion in her voice when she had knelt beside him,soothing and strengthening him by some miracle of womanly intuition,urging him to make allowance for his wife's distress.
A sudden glow thrilled through him from head to foot. He stirredslightly; and tried, without success, to turn in his chair. It was asif the compelling spirit of her had dragged him back from the brinkof nothingness to renewed life, to the assurance that in his utmostloneliness he was not--nor ever would be--alone. And, in that momentof awakening, the voice of sympathy came to him--tender, uplifting,clear as speech.
Honor Meredith had begun to play.
By way of prelude she chose a piece of pure organ music--theexquisitely simple Largo of the Second Sonata. From that she passed onto the Pastoral itself, opening it, as of custom, with the fineAndante movement--the presage of coming storm.
None among all that wondrous thirty-two is so saturate with open-aircheerfulness and vigour as this Sonata, aptly christened the Pastoral.Here we are made accomplices of Nature's moods, and set in the midstof her voices. Here, in swift succession, are storm and sunshine;falling rain-drops; the plash and ripple of mountain streams; birdnotes of rare verisimilitude, from the anxious twitterings before thethunder-shower, to the chorus of thanksgi
ving after it has sweptvigorously past. And Theo Desmond, lying in semi-darkness, with painfor his sole comrade, knew that the hand of healing had been againoutstretched to him,--not all in vain.
The Sonata ended in a brisk ripple of sound; and for a while Honor satmotionless, her shapely hands resting on the keyboard as if awaitingfurther inspiration.
Desmond moved again uneasily. He wondered what her unfailing intuitionof his need would lead her to play next; and even as he wondered,expectancy was lulled into a great rest by the measured tranquillityof Beethoven's most stately and divine Adagio--the Moonlight Sonata.
There are some people who get deeper into a piano than others, whobreathe a living soul into the trembling wires. The magic of Honor'smusic lay in this capacity; and she exerted it now to the limit of herpower.
The Moonlight Sonata is cumulative from start to finish, passing fromthe exalted calm of the Adagio, through the graciousness of theAllegretto, to that inspired and inspiring torrent of harmony thePresto Agitato. Its incomparable effect of the rush and murmur of manywaters, through which the still small voice of melody rings clear asa song dropped straight from heaven, leaves little room in alistener's soul for the jangling discords of earth. Into that movementthe great deaf musician seems to have flung the essence of hisimpatient spirit;--that rare mingling of ruggedness and simplicity, ofpurity and passionate power, which went to make up the remarkablecharacter of the man, and which sets Beethoven's music apart from themusic of his compeers. Wagner, Chopin, Grieg,--these range the wholegamut of emotion for its own sake. But in the hands of the master itbecomes what it should be--the great uplifting lever of the world.
The listener in the darkened room drew a long breath, and clenched histeeth so forcibly that a spasm of pain passed, like a fused wire,through the wound in his cheek. But the keener stress of mind andheart dulled his senses to the pin-prick of the flesh. For in thebrief space of time since the music began, Theo Desmond--the soldierof proven courage and self-forgetfulness--had fought the mostmomentous battle of his life;--a battle in which was no flourish oftrumpets, no clash of arms, no medal or honour for the winning.
But the price of conquest had still to be paid. There were stillpractical issues to be faced, and he faced them with thestraightforward simplicity that was his. He saw as in alightning-flash, the hidden meaning of this girl's power to stimulateand satisfy him; saw the unnameable danger ahead; and in the samebreath decided that Honor must go. There must be no risk of disloyaltyto Evelyn, were it only in thought.
He could not as yet see how he was to retract his request for herpresence. His stunned brain refused to cope with such harassingdetails. The thing must be said; and no doubt he would find strengthto say it aright. For him that was enough; and he deliberately turnedhis back on the subject.
The Presto was drawing to a close now in a cascade of single notes, asstirring to the ear as the downrush of a waterfall to the eye; andduring the silence that followed upon the last crashing chords, thebitter thought came to him that Honor's departure would mean not onlythe loss of her comradeship, but of the music, which had again becomeone of the first necessities of his life.
With a sensation altogether strange to him, since it had in it anelement of fear, he heard her shut the piano and come towards the doorof his room. Closing his eyes, he lay very still, in the hope that shemight believe him to be asleep. Ordinary speech with her seemed animpossibility just then.
He felt her come in, and pause beside his chair. His stillness clearlydeceived her, for she said nothing; neither did she move away, as hehad devoutly hoped she would do.
Remembering that his eyes were hidden, he opened them; and wasrewarded by the sight of her cream-coloured skirt, and her handshanging loosely clasped upon it. An intolerable longing came upon himto push off the shade; to satisfy himself with one glimpse of her facebefore banishing it out of his life. But strength was given him toresist, and to realise his own cowardice in deceiving her thus.
Then, because he was incapable of doing anything by halves, he made aslight movement and put out his hand.
"Thank you," he said simply. "You have heartened me more than I cansay."
"I am so glad," she answered in a low tone, allowing her hand to restfor a mere instant in his. "Now I want you to shut all trouble out ofyour mind, and go to sleep for a long time. Will you?"
At that the corners of his mouth went down.
"Easier said than done, I'm afraid. But it's sound advice; and I'll domy best to act upon it."
"In that case--you are bound to succeed."
And, without waiting for his possible answer, she slipped quietly outof the room.