Captain Desmond, V.C.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.

  "We then that are strong ..." --ST PAUL.

  To say that Owen Kresney was annoyed would be to do him an injustice.He was furious at the unlooked-for interruption, which bade fair tocancel all that he had been at such pains to achieve. Pure spite somastered him, that even the news of Desmond's critical condition--whichstirred the whole station the morning after the funeral--awakened nospark of pity in that region of concentrated egotism which must needsbe called his heart.

  The "counter-check quarrelsome" would have been welcome enough. Butthis impersonal method of knocking the ground from under his feetgoaded him to exasperation. He had not even the satisfaction ofknowing that he had wrought jealousy or friction between husband andwife. Desmond had practically ignored his existence. There lay thesting that roused all the devil in Kresney; and the devil is a lightsleeper in some men's souls. But the Oriental strain in the man madehim an adept at a waiting game; and finding himself cavalierly thrustaside, he could do no otherwise than remain in the background for thepresent, alert, vigilant, cursing his luck.

  * * * * *

  In the blue bungalow a strained calmness prevailed. The work that mustbe done could only be carried through by living from hour to hour, asPaul had said; and Evelyn could now no longer be shielded from thepain of knowledge.

  On the morning after her first night of vigil, Honor came to her; and,keeping firm hold of both her hands, told her, simply and straightly,that the coming week would make the utmost demands upon her strengthand courage.

  Evelyn listened with wide eyes and blanching cheeks.

  "Did--did _I_ make him bad?" she asked in an awe-struck whisper, forshe had not been able to keep her own counsel in regard to her fatalinterview with Theo.

  "I think not--I hope not," Honor answered gravely. "But you did woundhim cruelly; and whatever happens, you _must_ not fail him now."

  Evelyn looked up with a distressed puckering of her forehead.

  "I don't want to--fail him, Honor. But you know I'm not a bit of usewith sick people; and I can't all of a sudden turn brave and strong,like you."

  Honor's smile expressed an infinite deal, but she did not answer atonce. She wanted to be very sure of saying the right word; and it isonly when we try to grapple with another's intimate need that we findourselves baffled by the elusive, intangible spirits of those withwhom we share sunlight and food and the bewildering gift of speech.Honor was wondering now whether, by a supreme concentration of will,she could possibly infuse some measure of the soldier spirit into TheoDesmond's wife; and the extravagant idea impelled her to a suddendecision.

  She drew Evelyn nearer.

  "Listen to me, darling," she said. "We have _got_ to pull Theo throughthis between us, you and I; and you always say I can help you to dodifficult things. Very well. I am quite determined that you _shall_ bea brave wife to him, for the next two weeks at least. And when I makeup my mind about a thing, it is as good as done, isn't it?"

  She spoke very low, and her eyes had a misty softness. But behind thesoftness lay an invincible assurance, which Evelyn felt without beingable to analyse or understand.

  "I don't know how you are going to manage it, Honor," she murmured."But I believe you could make _any_body do _any_thing--especially me!"

  Honor's eyes twinkled at the incoherent compliment. The visionarymoment had passed, and she was her practical self again, the richer bya fixed resolve.

  "At that rate we shall work wonders," she said cheerfully; "and Ipromise not to make you do anything alarming. You shall begin bytaking Theo's breakfast to him at once."

  * * * * *

  The ill news brought Frank Olliver round later in the morning. She didnot stay long; and the look in her eyes as she parted from Paul in theverandah touched him to the heart.

  "You'll send me word how he goes on, won't you?" she said. "I'll notbe coming round much meself. There's plenty of you to look after him,and you'll not be needing any help from me. 'Tis the first time Icould say so with truth," she added, smiling through moist lashes."An', no doubt, 'tis a wholesome set-down for me self-conceit!"

  "I don't believe you can say it with truth yet," Paul answeredpromptly. "I shall get a chance to talk things over with Honor thismorning, and you shall hear the result. May I invite myself to tea,please?"

  "Ah, God bless you, Major Wyndham!" she exclaimed, with something ofher natural heartiness. "It's a pity there's not more o' your sort inthe world."

  A compliment, even from Mrs Olliver, invariably struck Paul dumb; andbefore any answer occurred to him she had cantered away.

  The first time he could secure a few minutes alone with Honor he putin an urgent plea for Mrs Olliver's services, and had the satisfactionof going round to her bungalow at tea-time, armed with a specialrequest from the girl herself.

  Evelyn accepted, with a slight lift of her brows, Honor's announcementthat Mrs Olliver would be only too glad to help in nursing Theo. Theseodd people, who seemed to enjoy long nights of watching, the uncannymutterings of delirium, and the incessant doling out of food andmedicine, puzzled her beyond measure. She had a hazy idea that sheought to enjoy it in the same way, and a very clear knowledge that shedid no such thing. She regarded it as a sort of penance, imposed byHonor, not altogether unfairly. She had just conscience enough torecognise that. And as the hushed monotone of nights and days draggedby, with little relief from the dead weight of anxiety, it did indeedseem as if Honor had succeeded in willing a portion of her bravespirit into her friend. What had passed in secret between God and herown soul resulted in a breaking down of the bounds of self--anunconscious spiritual bestowal of the best that was in her, with thatsplendid lack of economy in giving which is the hall-mark of a greatnature. And Evelyn took colour from the new atmosphere enveloping herwith the curious readiness of her type.

  Desmond himself, in moments of wakefulness, or passing freedom fromdelirium, was surprised and profoundly moved to find his wifeconstantly in attendance on him. At the time he was too ill to expresshis appreciation. But a vision of her dwelt continually in his mind;and the frequency of her name on his lips brought tears of realself-reproach to her eyes as she sat alone with him through the dreadsmall hours, not daring to glance into the darkest corners or to stirunless necessity compelled her; overpowered by those vague terrorsthat evaporate like mist in the cold light of definition.

  In this fashion an interminable week slipped past, bringing thepatient to that critical "corner" with which too many of us arefamiliar. Neither Paul nor Mackay left the study for twenty-fourhours; while the women sat with folded hands and waited--a morearduous task than it sounds.

  With the coming of morning, and of the first hopeful word from thesick-room, an audible sigh of relief seemed to pass through the houseand compound. It was as if they had all been holding their breath tillthe worst was over. It became possible at last to achieve smiles thatwere not mere dutiful distortions of the lips. James Mackay grew onedegree less irritable; Wyndham one degree less monosyllabic; AmarSingh condescended to arise and resume his neglected duties; whileRob--becoming aware, in his own fashion, of a stir in the air--emergedfrom his basket, and shook himself with such energy and thoroughnessthat Mackay whisked him unceremoniously into the hall, where he satnursing his injured dignity, quietly determined to slip back, on thefirst chance, into the room that was his by right, though temporarilyin the hands of the enemy.

  It was some five days later that Desmond, waking towards morning,found his wife standing beside him in expectant watchfulness.

  The low camp-bed lent her a fictitious air of height, as did also theunbroken line of her blue dressing-gown, with its cloud of mistywhiteness at the throat. A shaded lamp in a far corner clashed withthe first glimmer of dawn; and in the dimness Evelyn's face showedpale and indistinct, save for two dusky semicircles where her lashesrested on her cheek. Desmond saw all this, bec
ause at night the shadewas discarded, though the rakish bandage still eclipsed his right eye.He lay lapped in a pleasant sense of the unreality of outward things,and his wife--dimly seen and motionless--had the air of a dream-figurein a dream.

  Suddenly she leaned down, and caressed his damp hair with a familiarlightness of touch.

  "I heard you move, darling," she whispered. "I've been sitting such along, long while alone; and I badly wanted you to wake up."

  "Such a brave Ladybird!" he said, imprisoning her fingers. "You seemto be on duty all the time. They haven't been letting you do too much,have they?"

  "Oh no; I'm not clever enough to do much," she answered, a littlewistfully. "It is Honor who really does everything."

  Desmond frowned. Mention of Honor effectually dispelled the dream. "Ichoose to believe that everything _isn't_ her doing," he said withunnecessary emphasis.

  But for once Evelyn was disposed to extol Honor at her own expense.She had been lifted, for the time being, higher than she knew.

  "It _is_, Theo--truly," she persisted, perching lightly on the edge ofthe bed, though she had been reminded half a dozen times that the"patient's" bed must not be treated as a chair. "I don't know anythingabout nursing people. Honor just told me that I was going to do itbeautifully, that I wasn't really frightened or stupid at all; andsomehow, she has made it all come true. She's been ever so kind andpatient; and I'm not half so nervous now when I'm left alone allnight. She writes out every little thing I have to do, and sits upherself in her own room. She's sitting there now, reading or writing,so I can go to her any minute if I really want help. She knows itcomforts me to feel there's some one else awake; and she does her ownnights of nursing just the same. I often wonder how she stands itall."

  Desmond drew in his breath with a sharp sound. The infinitely muchthat he owed to this girl, at every turn, threatened to become atorment beyond endurance.

  Evelyn caught the sound and misunderstood it.

  "There now, I'm tiring you, talking too much. I'm sure you ought to behaving something or another, even though you are better."

  She consulted her paper; and returning with the medicine-glass halffilled, held it to his lips, raising his head with one hand. But atthe first sip he jerked it back abruptly.

  "Tastes queer. Are you sure it's the right stuff?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "Better look and see."

  She took up the bottle, and examined it close to the light. There wasan ominous silence.

  "Well?" he asked in pure amusement.

  "It--it was the--lotion for your eyes!"

  The last words came out in a desperate rush, and there was tragedy inher tone. But Desmond laughed as he had not laughed since his partingwith the Boy.

  "Come on, then, and square the account by doctoring my eyes with themedicine."

  "Oh, Theo, don't! It isn't a joke!"

  "It is, if I choose to take it so, you dear, foolish little woman!"

  She handed him the refilled glass; then, to his surprise, collapsedbeside the bed and burst into tears.

  "Ladybird, what nonsense!" he rebuked her gently, laying a hand on herhead.

  "It's not nonsense. It's horrible to be useless and--idiotic, howeverhard you try. It might easily have been--poison, and I mighthave--killed you!"

  "_Only_ it wasn't--_and_ you didn't!" he retorted, smiling. "You'reupset, and worn out from want of sleep; that's all."

  She made a determined effort to swallow down her sobs, and kneltupright with clasped hands.

  "No, Theo, I'm not worn out; I'm simply stupid. And you're the kindestman that ever lived. But I mustn't cry any more, or you'll get illagain, and then Honor will be really angry!"

  "Oh, shut up about Honor!" he broke out irritably; and set his teethdirectly the words were spoken.

  Evelyn started. "I won't shut up about Honor! I love her, and you'revery ungrateful not to love her too, when she's been so good to you."

  She spoke almost angrily, and he made haste to rectify his slip.

  "No. I'm not ungrateful. I--love her right enough."

  He thought the statement would have choked him. But Evelyn noticednothing, and for a while neither spoke.

  "Look here, Ladybird," he said suddenly, "I can't have you callingyourself names as you did just now. You only get these notions intoyour small head because I have condemned you to a life that makesdemands on you beyond your strength. I ought to have seen from thestart that it was a case of choosing between the Frontier and you. Atall events, I see it clearly now; and--it's not too late. One canalways exchange into a down-country regiment, you know. Or I haveinterest enough to get a Staff appointment somewhere--Simla, perhaps.How would that suit you?"

  The suggestion took away her breath.

  "You don't _mean_ that, Theo--seriously?" she gasped; and therepressed eagerness in her tone sounded the death-knell of his dearestambitions.

  "I was never more serious in my life," he answered steadily.

  "You would leave the Frontier--the regiment--and never come back?"

  "You have only to say the word, and as soon as I am on my feet againI'll see what can be done."

  But the word was not forthcoming; and in her changed position he couldsee nothing of her face but its oval outline of cheek and chin. Hewaited; holding his breath. Then, at last, she spoke.

  "No, Theo. It wouldn't be fair. You belong to the Frontier. Every onesays so. And--I shall get used to it in time."

  She spoke mechanically, without turning her head; and Desmond's armwent round her on the instant.

  "But you haven't got to think of me," he urged. "I want to do whatwill make you happy. That's all."

  "It--it wouldn't make me happy. And, please, don't talk about it anymore."

  At that he drew her down to him.

  "God bless you, my darling!" he whispered. But even in speaking heknew that he could not accept her sacrifice; that her courage--barelyequal to the verbal renunciation--would be crushed to powder in thecrucible of days and years. For the moment, however, it seemed best todrop the subject, since nothing definite could be done without Honor'sconsent.

  "Now I ought to be attending to my business!" she said, freeingherself with a little nervous laugh. "It's getting too light. I mustput out the lamp and dress you up in your shade again, you poor,patient Theo. Then we'll have _chota hazri_ together."

  She moved away from him quickly, and not quite steadily. She had letslip her one chance of escape, and she did not know why she had doneit. The impulse to refuse had been unreasoning, overpowering; and nowit was all over she only knew that she had done what Honor wouldapprove, and what she herself would regret to the end of her life. Howfar the girl whose soul had been concentrated on Evelyn's upliftingwas responsible for her flash of self-sacrifice, is a problem thatmust be left for psychologists to solve.

  Desmond had only one thought in his brain that morning--"How in theworld am I going to tackle Honor?" He foresaw a pitched battle, endingin possible defeat; and decided to defer it till he felt morephysically fit for the strain. For he possessed the rapid recuperativepower of his type; and, the fever once conquered, each day added acubit to his returning vigour.

  One night, towards the close of the second week of his illness, heawoke suddenly from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness, a sense ofrenewed health and power thrilling through his veins. He passed a handacross his forehead and eyes, for the pure pleasure of realising theirfreedom from the disfiguring bandage, and glanced toward thewriting-table, whence the too familiar screened lamp flung ghostlylights and shadows up among the bare rafters twenty feet above.

  It was Honor who sat beside it now, in a loose white wrapper, her headresting on her hand, an open book before her. The light fell full uponher profile, emphasising its nobility of outline--the short straightnose, the exquisite moulding of mouth and chin; while all about hershoulders fell the burnished mantle of her hair.

  For many moments Desmond lay very still. This amazing girl, in thefulness of her beauty
, and in her superb unconsciousness of its effectupon himself, had him at a disadvantage; and he knew it. Thedisadvantage was only increased by waiting and watching; and at lasthe spoke, scarcely above his breath.

  "Honor--I am awake."

  She started, and instinctively her hand went to her hair, gathering itdeftly together. But he made haste to interpose.

  "Please leave it alone!"

  His tone had in it more of fervour than he knew, and she dropped theheavy mass hastily, thankful to screen her face from view. Then,because silence had in it an element of danger, she forced herself tobreak it.

  "You were sleeping so soundly that I thought you were safe not to waketill morning; and it was a relief to let it down."

  "Why apologise?" he asked, smiling. "What is it you are reading? Won'tyou share it with me? I feel hopelessly wide-awake."

  "It would be delightful to read to you again," she said simply. "Butyou might prefer something lighter. I was reading--a sermon."

  "I have no prejudice against sermons. We get few enough up here.What's your subject?"

  "The Responsibility of Strength."

  "Ah!--" There was pain in the low sound. "_You_ must know a good dealabout that form of responsibility,--you who are so superbly strong."And again she was grateful for her sheltering veil of hair. "The textis from Romans, I suppose?"

  "Yes. 'We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of theweak.'"

  "It's a heavy penalty," he mused. "But one is bound to pay it to theuttermost farthing. Isn't that so?"

  "Yes,--to the uttermost farthing."

  She was thinking of herself, and his answer amazed her.

  "Then, let me off that promise I gave you last April. It was a fatalmistake, and it's not fair on Ladybird."

  She stifled an exclamation of dismay. It had been one thing to pleadwith him a year ago; but now it seemed impossible to speak a dozenwords on the subject without risk of self-betrayal.

  Her silence pricked Desmond to impatience.

  "Well," he said, "what's the difficulty? You'll do what I ask, ofcourse?"

  "No, I can't. It is out of the question."

  A suppressed sound of vexation reached her.

  "I thought you cared more for Evelyn than that amounts to," he saidreproachfully.

  "I _do_ care for her. You know I do."

  "Yet you intend to hold out against me?"

  "Yes."

  "In spite of all it may involve--for Ladybird?"

  "Yes."

  The brief finality of her answers was curiously discouraging, and forthe moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.

  He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distractingvision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standingclose to him--a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hairreaching almost to her knees.

  "Theo," she said softly, with an eloquent gesture of appeal, "youdon't know how it hurts me to seem hard and unfeeling about Ladybird,when I understand so much too well the spirit that is prompting you todo this thing. I frankly confess you are right from your point ofview. But there remains my point of view; and so long as I have theright to prevent it, you shall not spoil your life and hers."

  Desmond would have been more, or less, than man if he could have heardher unmoved; and as he lay looking up at her he was tempted beyondmeasure to take possession of those appealing hands, to draw her downto him, and thank her from his heart for her brave words. But hemerely shifted uneasily.

  "I don't quite understand you, Honor," he said slowly. "It is strangethat you should--care so much about what I do with my life."

  The words startled her, yet she met them without flinching.

  "Is it? I think it would be far more strange if I had lived with youfor a year without learning--to care. That is why I can never say'Yes' to your request."

  "And I am determined that you shall say 'Yes' to it in the end."

  The note of immobility in his low voice made her feel powerless toresist him; but she steeled herself against the sensation by mainforce of will.

  "At least I can forbid any further mention of it till you are fitterto cope with such a disturbing subject. Are you aware that it's onlytwo o'clock? And you need sleep more than anything else just now. I'llgive you some beef-jelly, and sit in my own room for an hour, or Ibelieve you will never go off again at all."

  But when she returned at the end of an hour she found him still awake.

  "Honor,"--he began; but she checked him with smiling decision. "Notanother word to-night, Theo, or I must go altogether."

  The threat was more compelling than she knew; and sitting down by thetable, she took up her vigil as before.