CHAPTER XXXIV.
C'ETAIT MA VIE.
"C'etait toute petite, ma vie: Mais c'etait ma vie." --ANATOLE FRANCE.
"Honor, come out! I want you."
Desmond's voice, followed by a peremptory rap on the door, startledthe 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 thetears upon her face, she lowered the bolt and confronted Evelyn'shusband.
"Ladybird isn't back yet," he said quickly. "It'll be dark in tenminutes. I _must_ know where she went to, and go after her myself."
Honor bit her lip. To tell him at such a moment would be madness; yethe was in an ill mood to oppose.
"Can't you send the orderly?" she asked, with something less than herwonted 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 lowereddandy, were distinctly audible in the stillness.
"There she is!" Desmond said eagerly; and a moment later the blood inhis veins was chilled by a long-drawn wail from the verandah."Hai--hai--_mere Memsahib murgya!_"[33]
[33] My mistress is dead.
Before the cry had spent itself he was through the "chick," down theverandah steps at a bound, and bending over his unconscious wife. Herhead had dropped down to one shoulder, and on the other ominous stainsshowed darkly in the half light.
"Great God--_murder!_" Desmond muttered between his teeth. "Whatdevil's work is this?" he added, turning upon the cowering jhampanis.
"Ghazi, Sahib; Ghazi," they told him in eager chorus, with a childishmingling of excitement and terror; and would fain have enlarged upontheir own valour in pursuing the Taker of Life, but that Desmond'scurt "_chupraho_"[34] checked them in mid-career.
[34] Be quiet.
"Stay where you are, Honor," he added to the girl, who had followedhim, 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 faintflutter of life rewarded him.
"Thank Heaven!" he murmured; and lifted her tenderly in his arms. Butat the foot of the steps he paused.
"Nassur Ali--the Doctor Sahib. Ride like the wind!" Then turning againto the jhampanis, big with harrowing detail, added: "The devil who didthis thing, hath he escaped?"
"_Nahin_, _nahin_,[35] Sahib. Would your Honour's servants permit? Thejackal spawn is even now in the hands of the police. May his soul burnin hell----"
[35] No, no.
"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 arock. Only the eyes were alive--and ruthless, as she had never yetseen them, and prayed that she never might see them again.
"They've got the man," he said between his teeth. "I wish to God Icould shoot him with my own hand."
Then he went forward to the sofa, and laid his wife upon it. His quickeye detected at once the nature of the wound. "Lung," he mutteredmechanically. "No hope."
With the same unnatural calmness, he drew the long pins out of herhat--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 toher lips.
"What is it?" she murmured. "Don't touch me."
The faint note of distaste struck on her husband's heart; for he didnot understand its meaning.
"Ladybird--look!" he entreated gently. "It is Theo." She opened hereyes, 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 graspthe full horror of it all, she shrank closer to him, clutching at hisarm, her eyes wide with terror.
"There's blood on me--look! It was--that man. Is it bad? Am Igoing--to die?"
"Not if human power can save you, my dear little woman. Mackay willsoon be here."
But pain and fear clouded her senses, and she scarcely heard hiswords.
"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 longingwas for the sound of his voice.
"_Don't_ let 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 letme slip--away."
Desmond had a sensation as if a hand had gripped his throat, chokinghim, so that he could neither speak nor breathe. But with a supremeeffort he mastered it; and leaning closer to her, spoke slowly,steadily, that she might lose no word of the small comfort he hadpower 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, youare safe--in God's hands."
A pitiful sob broke from her.
"But I don't understand about God! I only want--you. I want _your_hands--always. Where is the other one? Put it--underneath me--and holdme--ever so close."
He obeyed her, in silence, to the letter. She winced a little at themovement; then her head nestled into its resting-place on the woundedshoulder, with a sigh that had in it no shadow of pain; and bendingdown he kissed her, long and fervently.
"Theo--darling," she breathed ecstatically, when her lips were freefor speech, "now I _know_ it isn't true--what you said aboutnot--caring any more. And I am--ever so happy. God can't letme--die--now."
And on the word, a rush of blood from the damaged lung brought on theinevitable choking cough, that shattered the last remnant of herstrength. Her fingers closed convulsively upon his; and at the utmostheight of happiness--as it were, on the crest of a wave--her spiritslipped from its moorings;--and he was alone.
Still he knelt on, without movement, without thought, almost it seemedwithout breathing, like a man turned to stone; holding her, as he hadpromised, to the very end, and--beyond.
Honor, standing afar off, dazed and heart-broken, one hand claspingthe back of a chair for support, heard at last the rattle ofapproaching hoofs, and nerved herself for the ordeal of speech. Butwhen Mackay entered with Paul Wyndham, Desmond made no sign. Thelittle doctor's keen eye took in the situation at a glance; and at theunlooked-for relief of Paul's presence, Honor's strained composuredeserted her. She swayed a little, stretched out a hand blindlytowards him, and would have fallen, but that he quietly put his armround her, and with a strange mixture of feelings saw her head drop onto his shoulder. But it was only for a moment. Contact with theroughness of his coat roused her on the verge of unconsciousness. Shedrew herself up, a faint colour mantling in her cheeks, and tried tosmile.
"Come away," Paul whispered, leading her to the door. "We can give himno help--or comfort--yet."
AFTERMATH.
"Had he not turned them in his hand, and thrust Their high things low and laid them in the dust, They had not been this splendour."
I.
Some two weeks after that day of tragedy--a tragedy that had stirredand enraged the whole station--Theo Desmond and Paul Wyndham leftKohat on furlough, long over-due to both. Such a wander-year, spenttogether, had, from early days, been one of their cherished dreams;but, as too often happens, there proved little family likeness betweenthe dream and the reality. In the dream, Desmond was naturally to bethe leading spirit of their grand t
our. In the reality, all practicalplans and considerations had devolved on Paul, and Theo it was whoassented, unquestioning, uncaring, so long as he could put half theworld between himself and Kohat.
His long illness, the fear of losing his sight, the double shock ofself-revelation and loss had affected him mentally as blow on blowaffects a man physically. Since the night of his wife's death none hadseen him strongly moved, either by sorrow, pleasure, or anger. He hadsaid and done all that was required of him with a strained unnaturalprecision. Even to the few who had drawn nearest to him in formertimes of trouble, he seemed now like a house whose every door islocked and every shutter drawn.
Outwardly unmoved, he had endured the ordeal of Evelyn's funeral, thestorm of public surprise and indignation aroused by her murder. ThoughBritish officers, not a few, have been victims to fanaticism in India,no Englishwoman had ever been shot at before, and the strong feelingaroused by so dastardly a crime had been long in subsiding. The newshad been wired to Peshawur. The Commissioner had galloped acrossthirty miles of desert next morning; and before Evelyn's funeral, atsundown, her death had been openly avenged by the hanging of hermurderer and the burning of his body.
On that day Honor had gone over to Mrs Conolly's bungalow, there toremain till Meredith's arrival; and in the two weeks that followed,Desmond had seen little of her--or of any one save Paul. She hadhelped him in disposing of Evelyn's personal belongings; and at hisearnest request, had accepted one or two of her trinkets, theremainder being sent home to her mother. At his request also, Honorhad taken over charge of his piano while he was away; and if a touchof constraint marked their parting, neither was aware of it in theother.
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 simplereason that in her he recognised a love and a sorrow that matched hisown--a sorrow untainted by the lurking after thought, "Better so"; andthat tacit recognition had been for Honor the single ray of light inher dark hour. Once, before parting, she had spoken of it to Paul, whothenceforward knew his friend's aloofness for what it was--not themere reserve of the strong man in pain, but the old incurable loyaltyto his wife that had kept them all at arm's length in respect of herwhile she lived.
So they two went forth together on their sorrowful pilgrimage; and,once gone, there fell a curtain of silence between Desmond and thosehe had left behind. Week after week, month after month, that silenceremained unbroken, though Olliver and his wife wrote and John Meredithwrote also on his return; though they plied him with questions, withnews of the Regiment and Border politics, never a sight of hishandwriting came to cheer them. But for Paul's unfailing, ifdiscouraging bulletins, no word of him would have reached them at all.
Honor herself wrote twice, without avail; and thereafter accepted thefiat of silence, gleaning what comfort she might from a steadycorrespondence with Paul. It was not in her to guess how thosefortnightly letters, so frank in expression, so reserved in essence,had upheld him through the darkest and most difficult months of hislife; months in which he could only stand aside and wait till the manhe loved, as Jonathan loved David, should come forth out of the houseof sorrow and take up the broken threads of life once more.
Meantime, with inexhaustible patience, he continued to try one placeafter another, one distraction after another, with small result. Itwas a costly prescription, and though Desmond imagined he contributedhis share, the chief of it was paid by his friend. During those firstmonths he read little, talked little, and rarely expressed a definitewish. He would go anywhere, do anything in reason, so long as nomental effort was required of him; but music--to Paul's uttermystification--he decisively refused to hear. For the time being theman's whole nature seemed awry, and there were moments when Paul'sheart contracted with dread of the worst.
Christmas found them at Le Trayas, on the Esterelles coast, anisolated paradise unprofaned by sight or sound of the noisy, restlesslife of the French Riviera. Here Theo Desmond had spent whole hours ata stretch, basking in the temperate December sunshine, under featherymimosa bushes, that glorify the foothills,--silent as ever, yetseemingly content.
Still he wrote no line to the Regiment, that for thirteen years hadstood second only to his God, and very rarely asked for news of it orhis friends. By now their letters betrayed hints and more than hintsof increasing anxiety. The men wrote tentatively; but Frank Olliver,nothing if not direct, poured forth her loving, unreasoning Irishheart on closely-written sheets of foreign paper, to Wyndham'salternate distraction and delight.
"Is there no manner of wild tale you could invent now to rouse theblessed man?" she wrote about this time. "Sure it's past believingthat his pretty doll of a wife--who went near to ruin himliving--should stand between him and us that love him, worse than evernow she's dead. The fear of it haunts me like a bogey and makes me gored hot inside."
The selfsame fear made Paul Wyndham go cold in the small hours; buthe could not bring himself to write of it, even to Frank.
At last, in the second week of the New Year, there came news thatwrought a change in Desmond; news from John Meredith of his father'sbroken health and his sister's immediate departure for England. Shewould 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 seeher safe into the express. It would please Meredith--and her too."
For the fraction of a second, an answering eagerness glowed inDesmond's eyes; then vanished, leaving his face a politely interestedmask. But Paul had seen the flash and pressed his point accordingly.
"Of _course_ you'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 leveltone. "But--you can leave me out of the programme. One of us isenough--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 youmust take my word for it."
In spite of that smile Paul heard the note of finality in his friend'svoice and said no more.
On the appointed morning he set out alone to meet the ship, pain andelation contending in his heart. But when, at last, he set eyes onHonor 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 wasindrawn 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 ormove. The news of your father did seem to stir him and I am hoping hewill write."
She let out her breath unsteadily. "Oh, if he only would! Thisinterminable silence seems--so inhuman. In a way, I understand it; butthe others, out there, are getting terribly unhappy over it; John andFrank more than all. _You_ don't think--do you--that there is reallyany fear----?"
The look in her eyes recalled that terrible night of March when theytwo had watched over Theo in turn; and Paul knew that now--asthen--she craved no cheap consolation, but the truth.
"There have been bad moments," he admitted, "when one wasafraid----But now I honestly believe that he _will_ fight again andlive again with his old zest; and I want you to believe it too, withall your heart."
"I will believe it--with all my heart," she answered very low andsteadily. "Have you any plans--beyond Le Trayas?"
"Nothing definite. I just keep my eye on him and act accordingly. InApril, I think Bellagio would be a sound move. There, if anywhere, thecall of the spring should prove irresistible. At least it's aprescription worth trying."
She smiled; and, even in smiling, he noted the pathetic droop of hereyelids and the corners of her lips.
"How wise you are for him, Paul! And you _will_ come h
ome for a littlebefore going back?"
"I hope so, devoutly, if Bellagio proves a success."
The crowd about them, surging chaotically to and fro, recalled them toprosaic considerations of luggage and a corner seat in the express,which Paul--unhurried yet singularly efficient--did not fail tosecure. That done, Honor was confided to the care of an assiduousguard, and was supplied with fruit, chocolate, and more newspapersthan she could possibly digest;--trifling services which the girl, inher 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 itwas released.
"Thank you--for everything," she murmured, sudden tears starting toher 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 couldanswer, 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 smallhotel set in a rocky garden overlooking the sea. No sign of Theowithin doors,--and Paul strolled down the narrow pathway that led tohis friend's favourite seat. There, at the far end, leaning upon thebalustrade, he sighted an unmistakable figure black against a blazingheaven rippled with light clouds that gave promise of greater glory tocome.
Footsteps behind him roused Desmond. He started and turned about witha new eagerness that was balm to the heart of his friend.
"Ah--_there_ you are! It's been a long day." His eyes scannedWyndham'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 inhis voice. "But not--not like her old self. One can see--she hassuffered."
Desmond bit his lip and turned away again. A sudden mist blurred thesunset splendour, the bronze and purple iridescence of the sea. Paulwent 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 thesubject; but Wyndham, regarding him thoughtfully, and rememberingHonor's tell-tale blush, fell to dreaming of a golden future for thesetwo 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 theoutcome?"
"Nothing brilliant. Quite the reverse. I'm a coward at heart. That'sall about it."
Paul smiled as a mother might smile at the vagaries of a belovedchild.
"Can't say I've seen any symptoms of the disease myself."
"Well--you're going to, old man, plain as daylight. It's likethis----" he squared his shoulders with a jerk and thrust both handsinto his pockets. "I can't face--going back to Kohat. I've suspectedit for some time. Now I know it. There's too much--that is tosay--there _are_ reasons. Pretty big ones. But they don't bear talkingof. Think me a broken-backed cornstalk if you must. It'll hurt. But itcan't be helped."
For an instant Paul's heart stood still. Then: "Don't talk that brandof nonsense to me, old man," he said gently. "But if you really can'tgo 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 ahundred 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 refreshingto hear.
"Well, naturally--I was thinking of the Regiment----"
"Damn the Regiment!" Desmond flashed out, and turning on his heelstrode off toward a wooded headland, whose red rocks took an almostunearthly glow from the setting sun.
For several seconds Paul looked after him, scarcely able to believehis ears. If Theo had arrived at damning the Regiment, Frank's fearmight not prove to be chimerical after all; and yet the flash oftemper, the renewed energy of speech and movement were symptoms of thebest.
Paul sat down on the bench, folded his arms, and proceeded toconsider, in practical fashion, how they could secure the desiredextension of leave. Theo might dub himself coward if he would. Paulknew better. He had long ago guessed that stronger forces were at workin his friend than mere sorrow for the loss of a wife, howeverdear--and he had guessed right. It was Desmond's sensitive consciencethat had been his arch tormentor throughout those months of silenceand strangeness that had brought him near to madness and Paul near todespair.
Tragedy on tragedy--loss of the Boy, dread of blindness, the shock ofhis own discovery of Evelyn's defection, and the awful fashion of herdeath--had so unsteadied and overwrought his strong brain that, evennow, he could neither see nor think clearly in respect of those mostterrible weeks of his life. Obsessed by an exaggerated sense of hisown disloyalty to the wife who should never have been transplanted tosuch stony soil, he saw himself virtually her murderer, in the eyes ofthat God who was, for him, no vague abstraction but the mostcommanding reality of his consciousness.
Day after day, week after week, he had lived over and over again theevents of that fateful month, from the moment of his return, to thelast bewildering, unforgettable scene with his wife. Always hediscovered fresh excuses for her. Always he lashed himself unsparinglyfor his own failings;--the initial folly of bringing her to theFrontier, his promise to Honor that had delayed his determination toexchange, and more than all, that final straight speaking--wrung fromhim by pain and shame--that had made fear of him outweigh even herchildish terror of the dark. In the hidden depth of his heart he hadbeen untrue to her, and his passionate attempt at reparation had cometoo late. There had even been fevered moments when he told himselfthat he, Theo Desmond, not the crazy fanatic in quest ofsainthood--should by rights have been hanged and burned on the day ofher death.
The whole tragical tangle, blurred and distorted by incessantrepetition, had come at last to seem almost a separate entity; ahorror, outside his own control, that now shrank to a pin-point andnow loomed gigantic, oppressive, till all true sense of proportionwas lost. The silence that he could not force himself to break,infallibly made matters worse. And now came Honor, re-awakening thegreat love he had wrestled with and trampled on to very small purpose;a love beside which his chivalrous tenderness for Evelyn showed likethe flame of a candle in the blaze of noon.
Her sudden return, the perturbing sense of her nearness, had for thefirst time wrenched him away from the obsession of the past. But evennow he dared not frankly face the future; dared not let his mind dwellon the colourless emptiness of life without her. Neither could he, asyet, face the only alternative--to tell her, of all women, that he hadloved her before his wife's death. Besides, there was Paul, whoobviously cared, in his own repressed fashion, and who must not bebaulked of his chance.
Yet to-night, as he tramped the whole round of that rocky headland--inthe glow of a sky rippled by now with feathers of flame--his blood wasin a fever for sheer desire of her, and he cursed the folly that hadimpelled him to refuse the morning's golden opportunity.
Returning later, in a more chastened mood, he found Wyndham sittingstill as a statue, seemingly forgetful of his existence; and of asudden his heart contracted at thought of his friend's inexhaustiblepatience, his unquestioning acceptance of moods to which he did nothold the key. Stepping lightly, Desmond came up behind him and laidboth 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 hisslow smile. "It was a pure pleasure to hear you swear again!"
Desmond laughed abruptly. "You'll get more than enough of that kind ofpleasure if they refuse me my six months!--But look here, I'm thinkingI can't keep _you_ away from them any longer----"
"My dear Theo," Paul interposed with gentle decision. "So long as youstay--I stay. That goes without saying. Meredith will fix it up forus--no fear. Come on now. It's time we went indoors."
They sauntered back up the gravel path together without furtherspeech, yet with thoughts more closely linked than either guessed;thoughts that flew instinctively as homing doves to the one belovedwoman--Honor Meredith.
II.
A late April evening on Lake Como:--for the initiated there is magicin the very words; magic of light and warmth and colour; glory ofroses and wistaria, that everywhere renew the youth of ancient ruinsand walls and weave a spring garment even for the sombre cypress whohas none of his own. Love-song of birds, laughter of men and women,the passionate blue above, the sun-warmed cobblestones underfoot--inthese also there is magic, unseizable, irresistible as the happinessof a child. There is nothing great about Como, nothing in the measuredbeauty of her encircling hills to uplift or strike awe into the soulof a man. She is exquisite, finished; a garden enclosed, a garden ofenchantment that speaks straight to the heart; and the banner over heris peace.
Here Paul Wyndham--with the instinctive understanding that belongs toa great love--had chosen to round off the wander-year devoted to hisfriend. Throughout that year he had done all that one man may do foranother in his dark hour; and each week his conviction grew strongerthat Honor--and none but Honor--could do the rest. Let them only meetagain, in fresh surroundings, and Theo--already so very much herfriend--could not fail to come under her spell. His present seemingdisposition to avoid her Paul set down to her intimate associationwith his wife. Six months' extension of leave had been granted toboth, and Paul looked to a summer in England to establish what Italyhad already begun.
Since that night at Le Trayas, when Theo had damned the Regiment andconfessed his dread of returning to Kohat, Paul had begun to be awareof a change in his friend. Apathy had given place to restlessness, toa craving for distraction that neither Nature nor Art could satisfy.From place to place he had shifted like a man pursued. He fled as ananimal flies from a gadfly securely fastened into his flesh. Go wherehe would, the passionate voice of his own heart spoke louder thanbooks and pictures, mountains and the sea, urging him always in theone direction that his will was set to avoid.
Wyndham--aware of some inner struggle, while far from suspecting itsnature--reckoned it all to the good, since it implied that the realman was astir at last. His suggestion of the Hotel Serbelloni atBellagio--diplomatically broached--had been hailed almost withenthusiasm; and a month of Italy's April at its radiant best hadproven, past question, the wisdom of the move.
In those four weeks they had explored the length and breadth of thelake with the restless energy of their race; had tramped the stonyroads 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 goodfriend the Head Waiter. Flashes of temper had become more frequent. Hecould even be lured into argument again and grow hot over a game ofchess. Trivial details--but for Wyndham each was a jewel beyond price.And Desmond was writing again now; fitfully but spontaneously, as ofold. He had written to Sir John, and to the Colonel; and there hadbeen two thick envelopes addressed to Frank; but never a one to HonorMeredith.
It had needed only this to fill Paul's cup of content; butDesmond--though he talked more openly of other matters--seldommentioned the girl.
As on his return from the Samana, so now, he had fought his hiddenfight and come off conqueror. All things conspired to convince himthat Paul was the man--the infinitely worthier man--of her choice; andtheir steady correspondence seemed proof conclusive. At that ratethere was nothing for it but to stand aside, leaving Paul to go inand win; only--he could not bring himself to be present at theprocess.
So these two friends, united by one of the closest ties on earth,lived and thought at cross purposes, for the simple reason that evenof so fine a quality as reserve it is possible to have too much of agood thing.
And now an end of peaceful isolation. To-morrow they would cross toMenaggio homeward bound; and on this their last evening they climbedthe cobblestoned, corkscrew of a path that winds to the ruins of Torredi Vezio above Varenna. The fine outlook from the summit was Desmond'sfavourite view of the lake. He himself had planned the outing, and nowstrode briskly ahead of his friend, with more of the old vigour andelasticity in his bearing than Paul had yet seen. To-day, too, for thefirst time, he had discarded the crepe band from the sleeve of hisgrey flannel suit; a silent admission that the spirit of resurrectionhad not called to him in vain.
Paul, noting these significant trifles, decided that he could havechosen no time more propitious for the thing he had to say. Thatmorning's post had brought a letter from Sir John Meredith beggingthem 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 thetreasure that was his for the asking; and all day he had patientlyawaited the given moment for speech. Now he recognised it, and did notintend to let it slip through his fingers.
* * * * *
The grey stone walls and towers of the Torre di Vezio stoodfour-square and rugged in the last of the sun; their battlementsjewelled with fine mosaic work of lichens, their feet in the younggrass of April starred with cowslips and late primroses. Near the oldwooden door two cypresses stood sentinel, and the gnarled olives inthe foreground loomed ancient and unresponsive as the wallsthemselves. The light wind of the morning had dropped with the sun;and the lake, far below them, showed delicately blurred mirages oftownlets, hills, and sky. Southward, toward Como and Lecco, all wassaturated in the magical blue atmosphere, the aura of Italy.Northward, toward Gravedona, the lesser Alps gloomed grey-violetunder a mass of indigo cloud that blotted out the snows.
Theo Desmond, standing very erect, with the sun in his eyes, felt thepeace 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 boldoutcrop of rock. Desmond, leaning forward, sunk his chin on his handand fell into one of his brooding silences that had grown rarer oflate.
So long it lasted that Paul began to fear he might lose the givenmoment after all. Yet every line of his friend's face and figurespelled peace; and he was loth to break the silence. Taking the letterfrom his pocket he opened it with ostentatious cracklings. He read itthrough twice, very leisurely; and still Desmond sat motionless,absorbed in the changing lights on the water and the hills. Then Paulgave it up and spoke.
"Theo--I've had a letter from Sir John. They're delighted to hearwe're coming home."
Desmond started and frowned without changing his position. Only hisstillness took on a more rigid quality. It had been natural; now itwas forced.
"The old man going on well?" he asked, feeling that some remark wasexpected of him.
"Yes. He's almost himself again. He and Lady Meredith want us to gostraight 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; thenmade a clumsy attempt to modify the blank refusal. "You see, thoughI'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 startreading in earnest for my promotion."
Paul, puzzled and dismayed as he was, could not lightly relinquish hiscastle in the air.
&
nbsp; "I'm glad you feel up to work again, Theo," he said. "But a week inthe country wouldn't seriously delay matters; and, in thecircumstances, it seems ungracious to refuse. It would cheer the oldman up. And it goes without saying that Honor would be glad to see usagain."
The last appeal roused Desmond effectually. He jerked himself uprightand faced his friend; faced also the ordeal of open speech aftermonths of evasion.
"Yes--yes. You're always right, old man," he said, eyes and voicesuperbly under control. "I'm a selfish brute to monopolise youand--er--stand in your light. A sight of you will do them all good;and _you'll_ be glad to see--Honor again. I used to wonder--longago--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 knewthe truth. I--spoke to Honor last March, while you were away; and--sherefused."
"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 owntormented soul. His gaze travelled back to the hills.
"I'd have given her credit for more perception," he said quietly; andPaul, regarding him with a whimsical tenderness: "Has love anything todo with that sort of thing?"
"No--no. I'm a blatant fool. But still--a man like you----!" He brokeoff short, and there was a moment of strained silence. But the realDesmond was awake at last, and he forced himself to add: "Women changesometimes--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 inthe 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 deuce _is_ he? Why hasn't he come forward? He must be arotten sort of chap----"
Paul caressed his moustache to hide a smile. "Not necessarily Theo. Igather, from what she said that--there were difficulties----"
"Difficulties--?" Again he broke off, stunned by the coincidence, yetincapable of suspecting the truth. Then, pulling himself together, hisspoke in his natural voice: "Well, anyway, Paul, _you'd_ better acceptSir John's invitation, since you can still manage to be friends withher in spite of that infernal chap in the background."
This time Paul smiled outright; but Desmond saw nothing. His chin sunkin his hand, he sat still as a rock, raging inwardly--as he had notraged for a full year--at thought of that same "infernal chap" whosedifficulties 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 gravetenderness. "It has not been easy; but the truth is that--when it cameto the wrench--I hadn't the courage to let her go quite out of mylife."
"You had not the _courage_!" Desmond flashed round on him, a gleam ofthe old fire in his eyes. "It's like you to put it that way, Paul. Thereal truth is that you had the courage to put mere passion under yourfeet. _I_ should feel rather, in such a case, that she _must_ go quiteout of my life. There's the root difference between us. I should nothave the courage to accept friendship when I wanted--the other thing.But we're not discussing my affairs--" He dismissed himself with agesture. "The point is, you'll go to Mavins and make my excuses to SirJohn."
"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, that _you_ are first favourite with the oldman. But I take it for granted you have some good reason at the backof your mind----"
"You're right there. I have--the strongest reason on earth." He pausedand set his teeth, bracing himself to the final effort of confession."What's more--I unintentionally stated it a minute ago, in plainterms." He faced Wyndham squarely now and a dull flush mounted to histemples. "Since the ice is broken at last, there can be nothing lessthan absolute truth between us," he said simply; and there was no moreneed for the clumsy machinery of speech.
Paul's eyes, that neither judged nor questioned, rested on his friendlike a benediction. In that moment he had his reward for months ofsilent service, of patience strained almost to breaking point, ofanxiety that bordered on despair.
Minute after minute they sat silent, while the splendour in the westblazed and spread till it challenged the oncoming shadow in the north;and the near hills grown magically ethereal, stood in a shimmer ofgold, 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, andDesmond let out a great breath.
"God! The relief it is to feel square with you again!"
III.
In a third-floor sitting-room, facing east, breakfast was laid fortwo. Every item of the meal bespoke furnished apartments; and even theMay sunshine, flooding the place, failed to beautify the shabby carpetand furniture, the inevitable oleographs and the family groups thatshared the mantelpiece with pipes, pouches, and a tin of tobacco. Ahanging bookcase held some military books, a couple of novels, and avolume 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 fastidiousdistaste. To-day, for the first time, a great longing possessed himfor the airy ramshackle bungalows of the Frontier he loved, for thetrumpet-call to "stables," for a sight of his squadron and the feel ofa saddle between his knees.
His wandering gaze lighted on a letter near Paul's place. The addresswas in Honor's handwriting. He stood a moment regarding it, thenturned sharply away and went over to the window. There he remained,seemingly absorbed in the varied traffic of Piccadilly, actuallyconsumed by such jealousy as he had never suffered while he imaginedthat her heart was given to his friend.
For Paul's sake he could and would endure all things; but thisdetestable unknown who had won her and could not claim her was quiteanother affair. There could be no thought of standing aside on hisaccount. It was simply a question of Honor herself. She was not thewoman lightly to withdraw her love, once given. And yet--in ayear--who could tell? Love, like the spirit, bloweth where it listeth;and Paul's failure did not of necessity predicate his own. For all hersudden bewildering reserves, she had drawn very near to him in thoselast terrible weeks at Kohat; and now--now--if he could believe therewas the veriest ghost of a chance--!
The mere possibility set heart and blood in a tumult; a tumult checkedruthlessly by the thought that if Honor Meredith was not the woman tochange lightly, still less was she the woman to approach with thatconfession which, at all hazards, he was bound to make. Speaking of itto Paul had cost him such an effort as he ached to remember. Speakingof it to her seemed a thing inconceivable. And yet--in that case--whathope of escape from this unholy tangle, from this fury of jealousythat had stabbed his manhood broad awake at last?
In Italy he fondly believed that he had fought his fight andconquered. Yet now, behold, it was all to do over again!
"Theo, my dear chap, there _is_ such a thing as breakfast!" Paul'svoice brought him back to earth with a thud. "Will you have acongealed rasher or a tepid egg--or both?"
"Neither, confound you!" Desmond answered, swinging round with anabrupt laugh and strolling back to the table.
Inevitably he glanced at the perturbing envelope, open now and proppedagainst the milk-jug, and as inevitably Paul answered his look.
"Honor is in town for a few days," he said, putting the letter nearTheo's plate, "staying with Lady Meredith's sister. She hopes I can goin and see her this morning. She seems under the impression that youare too busy, just now, to be included in any invitation."
Desmond buttered a leathery triangle of toast with elaborateprecision. "You may as well encourage that notion, old chap. Itsimplifies things.
You're going yourself, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Lucky devil!"
He scowled at the envelope by his plate and tacitly dismissed thesubject by an excursion into the _Morning Post_.
They talked politics and theatres till the unappetising meal was endedand Paul pocketed his treasure with a sigh. It was the first time Theohad ignored one of her letters; and the simple-hearted fellow--quiteunaware that his mention of the other man had been a master-stroke ofpolicy--felt almost at his wits' end. Standing by the mantelpiecemechanically filling his pipe, he watched Desmond set out his booksand papers on the table near the window, intent on a morning ofabnormal industry; and the pathos of it all caught at his heart. Forthe first time in his controlled and ordered life he felt impelled tocarry a situation by storm--the result possibly of playing Providenceto Theo for the space of a year.
But Theo plus a woman, loving and beloved, whom he obstinately refusedto meet, was a problem demanding far more of diplomacy, of intimatehuman experience than Paul Wyndham had been blest withal. The oneobvious service required of him was easier to recognise than toachieve. By some means these two must be brought together in spite ofthemselves; but for all his forty years he was pathetically at a lossto know how the deuce one contrived that sort of thing. It was awoman's job. Mrs Olliver, now, could have fixed it all up in atwinkling; while he--poor clumsy fool!--could only sit there smokingand racking his brain, while his eyes perfunctorily scanned thecolumns of the _Morning Post_.
The doings of the world and the misdoings of those in power,earthquakes, shipwrecks, and rumours of wars--all these were asnothing to him compared with the insignificant tangle of one man andone woman among the whole seething, suffering throng. But concernbrought him no nearer to the unravelling of their tangle; and when thetime came to go he could think of nothing better than a direct appealto his friend.
Desmond still sat at the table, head in hand, absorbed in theintricacies of military tactics.
Paul rose and went over to him. "I'm going now, old chap." The matterof fact statement was made with indescribable gentleness. "I'll beback in an hour or so. Wish to goodness you were coming too."
"Damned if you can wish it more than I do," Desmond answered withoutlooking up.
"Well then--come. Is it really--so impossible as you think?"
Desmond nodded decisively. "Can't you see it for yourself, man? Evenif she _was_ quit of that other confounded fellow, how could I facetelling her--the truth?"
For a moment Paul was silenced; not because he found the questionunanswerable, but because of that hidden knowledge which he might notdisclose, even to save his friend.
"My dear Theo," he said at last, "I know--and you know--that, soonerthan lose her, you could go through any kind of fire. Besides, I havean 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 andmine for instance, you blind old bat! Go along now, and enjoy the goodyou deserve. As for me--I have sinned and must take the consequenceswithout whining."
"There is a radical difference, Theo," Paul remarked quietly, "betweentemptation and sin."
"Casuist!" was all the answer vouchsafed to him; and baffled--but notyet defeated--he went out into the May sunlight, quite determined, foronce in his life, to take by storm the citadel that seemed proofagainst capitulation.
Before reaching his destination he had devised a plan so simple andobvious that it might have occurred to a child; and like a child hegloried in his unaided achievement. The fact that it involved leadingthem both blindfold to the verge of mutual discovery troubled him nota whit. Heart and conscience alike asserted that in this case the endjustified the means; and it needed but the veiled light in Honor'seyes at mention of Theo's name to set the seal on his decision.
For near an hour they talked, with that effortless ease and intimacywhich is the hail-mark of a genuine friendship; and at the end of itHonor realised that, without any conscious intention on her part,Theo--and little else but Theo--had been their topic as a matter ofcourse. Never dreaming of design on the part of Paul, she merelyblessed him for a devotion that almost equalled her own, and accepted,with unfeigned alacrity, his suggestion that they should meet nextmorning at the Diploma Gallery.
"I've not been there for a hundred years!" she declared with more ofher old lightness than he had yet seen in her: "It will take me backto bread-and-butter days! And I believe they have added some reallygood pictures since then."
Paul exulted as an angler exults when he feels his first salmon tug atthe 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 underfootto some purpose--walked back to Piccadilly like a man reprieved. Honorwas secure. Remained the capture of Theo--a more difficult feat; but,in his present mood, he refused to contemplate the possibility offailure.
* * * * *
A morning of unclouded brilliance found Desmond frankly bored withtactics and topography; the more so, perhaps, because Paul with simplecraft took his industry for granted.
Soon after eleven, he put aside the inevitable pipe and newspaper andtook up his hat. "Well, Theo," said he, "you won't be needing me tillafter lunch I suppose?--I'm off."
"Where to, old man?" Desmond yawned extensively as he spoke, andpushed aside his little pile of red books with a promising gesture ofdistaste. "What's your dissipated programme?"
"An hour in the Diploma Gallery, and a stroll in the Park," Paulreplied with admirable unconcern. "D'you feel like coming?"
"I feel like chucking all these into the waste-paper basket! WhenEngland takes it into her capricious head to do this sort of thing inMay, 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 stillas he glanced at Theo striding briskly beside him, head in air allunconscious that he was faring toward a tryst far more in tune withthe season and the new life astir in his blood than his late abnormalzeal 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 skyscarcely less blue and ardent than Italy's own. In every open spaceyoung leaves flashed, golden-green, on soot-blackened branches ofchestnut, plane, and lime. And there were flowers everywhere--insquares and window-boxes and parks; in florists' and milliners'windows; in the baskets of flower-sellers and in women's hats. Thepaper-boy--blackbird of the London streets--whistled a livelier stave.Girls hurried past smiling at nothing in particular. They were glad tobe alive--that was all.
And Theo?
He too was glad to be alive, to be free, at last, from the conqueringshadow of memory and self-reproach. If penance were required of him,surely that black year must suffice. Now the living claimed him; andthat claim could no longer be ignored. With a heart too full forspeech he walked beside his friend; and halting at last, on the stepsof Burlington House, he bared his head to the sunlight and drew a deepbreath 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 ofhimself 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 on _my_ whims long enough!"
No sign of Honor in the cloistered coolness of the first room; only asmall group of people in earnest talk before one of the pictures, andan artist, with stool and easel, making a conscientious copy ofanother.
Desmond made a cursory tour of the walls and passed on into the secondroom. Paul, increasingly anxious every moment, lagged behind andconsulted his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. Would shenever come?
The second room was empty, and there Desmond's aimless wandering hadbeen checked by a battle picture; a vigorous and tragic presentment ofSir John Moore's retreat from Corunna.
"Here you are, Paul. Here's something worth looking at," said he asWyndham joined him; and, soldier-like, they soon fell to discussingthe event rather than the picture. Desmond--his head full of tacticsand military history--held forth fluently quite in his old vein; whilePaul--who heard scarce one word in six--nodded sagely at appropriateintervals.
Hope died hard in him. A clock outside, chiming the half-hour, rangits knell with derisive strokes that seemed to beat upon his heart. Itwas just his luck. She would never turn up. A hundred contingenciesmight arise to prevent her--a street accident, a headache, bad newsof her father----
Sudden silence from Theo cut short the dismal list; and one glance athim 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'sshoulder 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, stoodspellbound, there by the doorway, her cheeks aflame, her eyes moreeloquent than she knew. Taken completely unawares, each had surprisedthe other's secret, even as Paul had foreseen. In that lightning flashof 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 thatpassionate unspoken avowal. Then Honor came forward slowly, like onewalking in her sleep--and the spell was gone. In two strides Desmondhad 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 hestood before her thus--his face transfigured and illumined by loveunutterable, by a discovery scarcely realised even now.
There was so much to tell, and again, so little after all, that thereseemed no need to tell it. Yet Honor could not choose but long for thesound of his voice; and to that end she tried very gently to withdrawher hand.
Desmond--suddenly aware that they were alone--tightened his grasp."No--no," he protested under his breath, "unless--you wish it. _Do_you--Honor?"
"I don't wish it," she answered very low, and her eyes, resting onhis, had a subdued radiance as of sunlight seen through mist.
Haloed in that radiance Desmond beheld the "infernal chap" he had beencursing for weeks; realised instantaneously all that the recognitionimplied; 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 agaze so compelling that it seemed as though he were drawing her verysoul into his own with a force that she had neither will nor power toresist.
In that long look she knew that, for all her passionate intensity ofheart and spirit, this man, whom she had won, surpassed her in both;that in all things he rose above her--and would always rise. Andbecause she was very woman at the core, such knowledge gladdened herbeyond telling; crowned her devotion as wedded love is rarely crownedin a world honeycombed with half-heartedness in purpose and faith andlove.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends