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 distracted attempt to see more of his wife than the shade would permit, and held out 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 bewildered misery she forgot that he would expect her to stoop and kiss him. It was a fatal omission—how fatal she did not realise till later.

He drew her closer with quiet decision; and she submitted, as she would 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 near the truth. "Only—I can't seem able to believe that—it is really you."

"Well, I give you my word it is really me—the very same Theo who won 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 might never sit a pony or dance with her again.

The sob that had been clutching at her throat escaped, in spite of herself. "Lahore!" she murmured. "It was all so beautiful at Lahore!"

"Don't cry about it, darling. It will be just as beautiful again, in time. Sit down on the floor—here, close to me. I can't get a sight of you any other way."

She sat down, but in such a position that he had only a scant view of her tear-disfigured face. He pushed the damp ringlets back from her forehead. 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. She caught his hand and pressed it against her burning cheek. It was cool and steady and sustaining—the hand of a brave man.

"Poor child," he said gently. "I'm an uncomfortable sort of husband for 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 to save 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. That was all!"

"And you might just as well have come back strong and splendid, like you went away?"

"No use thinking of what might have been, darling. We've got to set our teeth and face what is."

"Oh, Theo—you are very brave."

"Needs must, Ladybird. If a man fails in that, he had better not have been 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 its broken protest to the full. The effort to uphold her was to be useless after all. He compressed his lips and gently released her hand.

"If it's as bad as that, my dear, and you really feel it will be too much for you," he said in a changed tone, "I might arrange for Honor to 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 you by 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 would never take me. She thinks it's dreadful that I should go. I never saw her 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 in distraction at her own foolishness, "I never meant to say that. I—I——"

"No—but you meant to do it," he said, breathing hard and speaking with an effort. "You actually thought of—going—before I came? You would 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 she said terrible things."

His wife knelt upright now and caught at his hand. But he withdrew it hastily.

"Theo—will you listen to me and not be so angry? You are very unkind!"

"Am I? Don't you think it is the other way about? I confess I'm in no humour to listen to you just now. I've had about as much as I can stand to-night; and Mackay told me I must not upset myself about things." He laughed harshly—a sound that chilled her blood. "But no mere man could anticipate this!"

"Well, I never meant to say it, and I think you're horrid, you don't understand——"

"No; thank God, I don't understand—cowardice and desertion. Get up now and leave me alone, please. It's the greatest kindness you can do me; and yourself also, I imagine."

"Oh, don't say that. It's not true; and I'm not going to dream of leaving you. Won't you let me explain?"

"To-morrow, Evelyn, to-morrow," he answered wearily. "I shall be able to give you a fairer hearing by then; and I pray God I may have misjudged you. Now—go."

She bent down and kissed his hand; then rose and slipped silently back into 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, as he had never been broken in all his days.

It is written that a man must be defeated in order to succeed; and in that moment Desmond bit the dust of the heart's most poignant tragedy and defeat—the shattering of faith in one who is very near to us. Nor was it the shattering of faith alone. The shock of his wife's unwitting revelation, coming when he stood supremely in need of her loyalty and tenderness, struck a mortal blow at his love for her; though in his present state he was not capable of recognising the truth. He only knew that, for the first time in his life, he felt unutterably alone—alone in a dimness which might deepen to permanent darkness; and that the wholesome vigorous realities of life seemed to have slipped for ever out of reach. He only knew that his wife would have turned her back upon him in his hour of extremity—openly disgracing herself and him—but for the intervention of Honor Meredith.

Her mere name called up a vivid vision of her beauty, a remembrance of the 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 stirred slightly; and tried, without success, to turn in his chair. It was as if the compelling spirit of her had dragged him back from the brink of nothingness to renewed life, to the assurance that in his utmost loneliness he was not—nor ever would be—alone. And, in that moment of 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—the exquisitely simple Largo of the Second Sonata. From that she passed on to the Pastoral itself, opening it, as of custom, with the fine Andante movement—the presage of coming storm.

None among all that wondrous thirty-two is so saturate with open-air cheerfulness and vigour as this Sonata, aptly christened the Pastoral. Here we are made accomplices of Nature's moods, and set in the midst of her voices. Here, in swift succession, are storm and sunshine; falling rain-drops; the plash and ripple of mountain streams; bird notes of rare verisimilitude, from the anxious twitterings before the thunder-shower, to the chorus of thanksgiving after it has swept vigorously past. And Theo Desmond, lying in semi-darkness, with pain for his sole comrade, knew that the hand of healing had been again outstretched to him,—not all in vain.

The Sonata ended in a brisk ripple of sound; and for a while Honor sat motionless, her shapely hands resting on the keyboard as if awaiting further inspiration.

Desmond moved again uneasily. He wondered what her unfailing intuition of his need would lead her to play next; and even as he wondered, expectancy was lulled into a great rest by the measured tranquillity of Beethoven's most stately and divine Adagio—the Moonlight Sonata.

There are some people who get deeper into a piano than others, who breathe a living soul into the trembling wires. The magic of Honor's music lay in this capacity; and she exerted it now to the limit of her power.

The Moonlight Sonata is cumulative from start to finish, passing from the exalted calm of the Adagio, through the graciousness of the Allegretto, to that inspired and inspiring torrent of harmony the Presto Agitato. Its incomparable effect of the rush and murmur of many waters, through which the still small voice of melody rings clear as a song dropped straight from heaven, leaves little room in a listener's soul for the jangling discords of earth. Into that movement the great deaf musician seems to have flung the essence of his impatient spirit;—that rare mingling of ruggedness and simplicity, of purity and passionate power, which went to make up the remarkable character of the man, and which sets Beethoven's music apart from the music of his compeers. Wagner, Chopin, Grieg,—these range the whole gamut of emotion for its own sake. But in the hands of the master it becomes what it should be—the great uplifting lever of the world.

The listener in the darkened room drew a long breath, and clenched his teeth so forcibly that a spasm of pain passed, like a fused wire, through the wound in his cheek. But the keener stress of mind and heart dulled his senses to the pin-prick of the flesh. For in the brief space of time since the music began, Theo Desmond—the soldier of proven courage and self-forgetfulness—had fought the most momentous battle of his life;—a battle in which was no flourish of trumpets, no clash of arms, no medal or honour for the winning.

But the price of conquest had still to be paid. There were still practical issues to be faced, and he faced them with the straightforward simplicity that was his. He saw as in a lightning-flash, the hidden meaning of this girl's power to stimulate and satisfy him; saw the unnameable danger ahead; and in the same breath decided that Honor must go. There must be no risk of disloyalty to Evelyn, were it only in thought.

He could not as yet see how he was to retract his request for her presence. His stunned brain refused to cope with such harassing details. The thing must be said; and no doubt he would find strength to say it aright. For him that was enough; and he deliberately turned his back on the subject.

The Presto was drawing to a close now in a cascade of single notes, as stirring to the ear as the downrush of a waterfall to the eye; and during the silence that followed upon the last crashing chords, the bitter thought came to him that Honor's departure would mean not only the loss of her comradeship, but of the music, which had again become one of the first necessities of his life.

With a sensation altogether strange to him, since it had in it an element of fear, he heard her shut the piano and come towards the door of his room. Closing his eyes, he lay very still, in the hope that she might believe him to be asleep. Ordinary speech with her seemed an impossibility just then.

He felt her come in, and pause beside his chair. His stillness clearly deceived her, for she said nothing; neither did she move away, as he had devoutly hoped she would do.

Remembering that his eyes were hidden, he opened them; and was rewarded by the sight of her cream-coloured skirt, and her hands hanging loosely clasped upon it. An intolerable longing came upon him to push off the shade; to satisfy himself with one glimpse of her face before banishing it out of his life. But strength was given him to resist, and to realise his own cowardice in deceiving her thus.

Then, because he was incapable of doing anything by halves, he made a slight movement and put out his hand.

"Thank you," he said simply. "You have heartened me more than I can say."

"I am so glad," she answered in a low tone, allowing her hand to rest for a mere instant in his. "Now I want you to shut all trouble out of your 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 do my best to act upon it."

"In that case—you are bound to succeed."

And, without waiting for his possible answer, she slipped quietly out of the room.



CHAPTER XXVI.

STAND TO YOUR GUNS.

"It is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes." —R. L. S.

Wyndham, returning to the bungalow soon after ten o'clock, found it readjusted to its new conditions. Frank Olliver had returned to her empty home; and Desmond, at his own request, had had his camp-bed made up in the study, that he might in no way disturb his wife. She herself had retired early, without going in to him again. Honor noted and wondered at the omission; but since Evelyn had said nothing about her short interview with Theo, she forbore to question her or press her unduly at the start.

When Paul arrived Desmond was sound asleep, wearied out with pain of body and mind; while Honor moved noiselessly to and fro, setting in readiness all that might be wanted before morning. Paul came armed with Mackay's permission to remain on duty for the night, taking what little rest he required on the drawing-room sofa, and Honor could not withhold a smile at his satisfaction.

"I believe you're jealous!" she said. "You want to oust me, and have him all to yourself!"

"You are right," he answered frankly; and going over to the bed, stood looking upon his friend in an unspeakable content, that even anxiety was powerless to annul.

For all that, it was late before Honor managed to leave her patient, and slip away into the bare room where Harry Denvil lay awaiting the dawn.

Save for the long scar across his face, no suggestion of that last desperate fight was visible; and in the presence of the Great Silence, her own turmoil of heart and brain was stilled as at the touch of a reassuring hand. She knelt a long while beside the Boy. It pleased her to believe that he was in some way aware of her companionship; that perhaps he was even glad of it—glad that she should feel no lightest shrinking from the temple that had enshrined the brave jewel of his soul.

Arrived in her own room, she found Parbutti huddled on the ground, in a state of damp and voluble distress. She could not bring herself to dismiss the old woman at once; though her heart cried out for solitude, and weariness seemed suddenly to dissolve her very bones. She saw now that her love had deepened and strengthened during Desmond's absence, as great love is apt to do; and the shock of his return, coupled with the scant possibility of her own escape, had tried her fortitude more severely than she knew.

She submitted in silence to the exchanging of her tea-gown for a white wrapper, and to the loosening of her hair, Parbutti crooning over her ceaselessly the while.

"Now I will soothe your Honour's head till weariness be forgotten, O my Miss Sahib, daughter of my heart! Sleep without dreams, my life; and have no fear for the Captain Sahib, who is surely favoured of the gods by reason of his great courage."

While her tongue ran on, the wrinkled hands moved skilfully over the girl's head and neck, fingering each separate nerve, and stilling the throbbing pulses by that mystery of touch, which we of the West are just beginning to acquire, but which is a common heritage in the East.

"Go now, Parbutti," Honor commanded at length. "Thy fingers be miracle-workers. It is enough."

And as Parbutti departed, praising the gods, Honor leaned her chin upon her hands, and frankly confronted the decision that must be arrived at before morning.

To her inner consciousness it seemed wrong and impossible to fulfil her promise and remain; while to all outward appearance it seemed equally wrong and impossible to go. She could not see clearly. She could only feel intensely; and her paramount feeling at the moment was that God asked of her more than human nature could achieve.

The man's weakness and dependence awakened in her the strongest, the divinest element of a woman's love, and with it the longing to uphold and help him to the utmost limit of her power. It was this intensity of longing which convinced her that, at all costs, she must go. Yet at the first thought of Evelyn her invincible arguments fell back like a defeated battalion.

If she had sought the Frontier in the hope of coming into touch with life's stern realities, her hope had been terribly fulfilled.

"Dear God, what ought I to do?" she murmured on a note of passionate appeal. But no answer came out of the stillness; and sheer human need was too strong upon her for prayer.

Rising impulsively, she went over to the wide-flung door that led into the back verandah, and rolled up the "chick," flooding the room with light; for a full moon rode high in the heavens, eclipsing the fire of the stars. She stepped out into the verandah, and passed to the far end, that looked across a strip of rocky desolation to the hills.

The whole world slept in silver, its radiance intensified by patches of blue-black shadow; and with sudden distinctness her night journey of a year ago came back to her mind. What an immeasurable way she had travelled since then! And how far removed was the buoyant-hearted girl of that March morning from the woman who rebelled with all her soul against the cup of bitterness, even while she drank it to the dregs!

Deliberately she tried to gather into herself something of the night's colossal calm, to wrest from the starved scrub of the desert a portion of its patience, its astounding perseverance; to stifle her craving for clear unprejudiced human counsel.

By a natural impulse her thought turned to Mrs Conolly, who alone possessed both will and power to satisfy her need. To speak of her own trouble was a thing outside the pale of possibility. Death itself were preferable. But to consult her friend as to what would really be best for Evelyn was quite another matter. She would go and see Mrs Conolly before breakfast and be ruled by her unfailing wisdom.

Having arrived at one practical decision, her mind grew calmer. She went back to her room, lowered the "chick" and knelt for a long while beside her bed—a white, gracious figure, half-veiled by a dusky curtain of hair.

Habit woke her before seven; and she dressed briskly, heartened by a sense of something definite to be done. A sound of many feet and hushed voices told her that Wyndham and the Pioneer officers had arrived. Chaplains were rare on the Border in those days; and Wyndham was to read the service, as he did on most occasions, Sundays included.

When Honor came out into the hall she found the chick rolled up and the verandah a blaze of full-dress uniforms. No man plays out his last act with more of pomp and circumstance than a soldier; and there is a singular fitness in this emphasis on the dignity rather than the tragedy of death.

The girl remained standing afar off, watching the scene, whose brilliance was heightened by an untempered April sun.

A group of officers, moving aside, revealed two scarlet rows of Pioneers; and beyond them Paul's squadron, striking a deeper note of blue and gold. The band was drawn up ready to start. Slanting rays flashed cheerfully from the brass of trumpets, cornets, bassoons; from the silver fittings of flutes; from the gold on scarlet tunics. And in the midst of this ordered brilliance stood the gun-carriage, grey and austere, its human burden hidden under the folds of the English flag. Behind the gun-carriage the Boy's charger waited, with an air of uncomplaining weariness, the boots hanging reversed over the empty saddle.

With an aching lump in her throat Honor turned away. At that moment the shuddering vibrations of muffled drums ushered in the "Dead March" and each note fell on her heart like a blow.

In passing the study door she paused irresolute, battling with that refractory heart of hers, which refused to sit quiet in its chains. It argued now that, after all, she was his nurse; she had every right to go in and see that all was well with him. But conscience and the hammering of her pulses warned her that the greater right was—to refrain; and straightening herself briskly, she went out through the back verandah to Mrs Conolly's bungalow.

She had not been gone twenty minutes when Evelyn crept into the study, so softly that her husband was not aware of her presence till her fingers rested upon his hand.

He started, and took hold of them.

"That you?" he said gently. "Good-morning."

There was no life in his tone; and its apathy—so incredible a quality in him—gave her courage.

"Theo," she whispered, kneeling down by him, "is it any good trying to speak to you now? Will you believe that—I am ever so sorry? I have been miserable all night; and I am not frightened any more,—see!" In token of sincerity she caressed his empty coat-sleeve. "Will you please—forgive me? Will you?"

"With all my heart, Ladybird," he answered quietly. "But it's no use speaking. A thing like that can't be explained away. It is simply wiped off the slate—you understand?" And almost before the words were out she had kissed him.

Then she slid down into a sitting position, one arm flung lightly across the rug that covered him.

In that instant the thunder of three successive volleys shook the house; and heart-stirring trumpet-notes sounded the Last Post. With a small shudder Evelyn shrank closer to her husband, resting her head against his chair; and Desmond lay watching her in silent wonderment at the tangle of moods and graces which, for lack of a truer word, must needs be called her character. He wondered also how much might have been averted if she had come to him thus yesterday instead of to-day. Impossible to guess. He could only wrench his thoughts away from the forbidden subject; and try to beat down the strong new yearning that possessed him, by occasionally stroking his wife's hair.

It is when we most crave for bread that life has this ironical trick of presenting us with a stone.

* * * * *

Honor, in the meanwhile, had reached Mrs Conolly's bungalow. She found her in the drawing-room arranging flower-vases, and equipped for her morning ride.

"Honor? You? How delightful!" Then catching a clearer view of the girl's face: "My dear—what is it?"

Honor smiled.

"I am afraid you were going out," she said, evading the question.

"Certainly I was; but I am not going now. It is evident that you want me."

"Yes—I want you."

Mrs Jim called out an order to the waiting sais; and followed Honor, who had gone over to the mantelpiece, and buried her face in the cool fragrance of a cluster of Gloire de Dijons.

Mrs Conolly took her gently by the arm.

"I can't have you looking like that, my child," she said. "Your eyes are like saucers, with indigo shadows under them. Did you sleep a wink last night?"

"Not many winks; that's why I am here."

"I see. You must be cruelly anxious about Captain Desmond, as we all are; but I will not believe that the worst can happen."

"No—oh no!" Honor spoke as if she were beating off an enemy. "But the trouble that kept me awake was—Evelyn."

"Ah! Is the strain going to be too much for her? Come to the sofa, dear, and tell me the whole difficulty."

Honor hesitated. She had her own reasons for wishing to avoid Mrs Conolly's too sympathetic scrutiny.

"You sit down," she said. "I feel too restless. I would rather speak first." And with a hint of inward perplexity Mrs Conolly obeyed.

"It's like this," Honor began, resting an arm on the mantelpiece and not looking directly at her friend, "Dr Mackay has asked me to take entire charge of Theo for the present. He spoke rather strongly,—rather cruelly, about not leaving him in Evelyn's hands. I think he wanted to force my consent; and for the moment I could not refuse. But this is Evelyn's first big chance of rising above herself; and if I step in and do everything I take it right out of her hands. This seems to me so unfair that I have been seriously wondering whether I ought not to—go right away till the worst is over." And she reiterated the arguments she had already put before Theo, as much in the hope of convincing herself as her friend.

Mrs Conolly, watching her with an increasing thoughtfulness, divined some deeper complication beneath her unusual insistence on the wrong point of view; and awaited the sure revelation that would come when it would come.

"You see, don't you," Honor concluded, in a beseeching tone, "that it is not easy to make out what is really best, what is right to be done? And Evelyn's uncertainty makes things still more difficult. One moment I feel almost sure she would 'find herself' if I were not always at her elbow; and the next I feel as if it would be criminal to leave her unsupported for five minutes at a time like this."

"That last comes nearer the truth than anything you have said yet," was Mrs Jim's unhesitating verdict. "Frankly, Honor, I agree with Dr Mackay; and I must really plead with you to leave off splitting straws about your 'Evelyn,' and to think of Captain Desmond—and Captain Desmond only. Surely you care more for him, and for what comes to him, than your line of argument seems to imply?"

Honor drew herself up as if she had been struck. The appeal was so unlooked for, the implication so unendurable, that for an instant she lost her balance. A slow colour crept into her cheeks, a colour drawn from the deepest wells of feeling; and while she stood blankly wondering how she might best remedy her mistake, Mrs Conolly's voice again came to her ears.

"Indeed, my child, you spoke truth just now," she said slowly, a fresh significance in her tone. "It must be very hard for you to make out what is right."

Honor threw up her head with a gesture of defiance.

"Why should you suddenly say that?" she demanded, almost angrily. But the instant her eyes met those of her friend the unnameable truth flashed between them clear as speech and with a stifled sound Honor hid her face in her hands.

Followed a tense silence; then Mrs Conolly came to her and put an arm round her. But the girl stiffened under the touch of sympathy implying mutual knowledge of that which belonged only to herself and God.

"How could I dream that you would guess?" she murmured, without uncovering her face—"that you would even imagine such a thing to be possible?"

"My dearest," the other answered gently, "I am old enough to know that, where the human heart is concerned, all things are possible."

"But I can't endure that you should know; that you should—think ill of me."

"You know me very little, Honor, if you can dream of that for a moment. Come and sit down. No need to hold aloof from me now."

Honor submitted to be led to the sofa, and drawn down close beside her friend. The whole thing seemed to have become an incredible nightmare.

"Listen to me, my child," Mrs Conolly began, the inexpressible note of mother-love sounding in her voice. "I want you to realise, once for all, how I regard this matter. I think you know how much I have loved and admired you, and I do so now—more than ever. An overwhelming trouble has come upon you, by no will of your own; and you are evidently going to meet it with a high-minded courage altogether worthy of your father's daughter."

Honor shivered.

"Don't speak of father," she entreated. "Only—now that you understand, tell me—tell me—what must I do?"

The passionate appeal coming from this girl—apt rather to err in the direction of independence—stirred Mrs Jim's big heart to its depths.

"You will abide by my decision?" she asked.

"Yes; I am ready to do anything for—either of them."

"Bravely spoken, my dear. In that case I can only say, 'Stand to your guns.' You have promised to take over charge of Captain Desmond, and a soldier's daughter should not dream of deserting her post. Mind you, I would not give such advice to ninety-nine girls out of a hundred in your position. The risk would be too serious; and I only dare give it to you because I am sure of you, Honor. I quite realise why you feel you ought to go. But your own feelings must simply be ignored. Your one hope lies in starving them to death, if possible. Give Evelyn her chance by all means, but I can't allow you to desert Captain Desmond on her account. You must be at hand to protect him, and uphold her, in case of failure. In plain English, you must consent to be a mere prop—putting yourself in the background and leaving her to reap the reward. It is the eternal sacrifice of the strong for the weak. You are one of the strong; and in your case there is no shirking the penalty without an imputation that could never be coupled with the name of Meredith."

Honor looked up at that with a characteristic tilt of her chin, and Mrs Conolly's face softened to a smile.

"Am I counselling cruelly hard things, dear?" she asked tenderly.

"No, indeed. If you were soft and sympathetic, I should go away at once. You have shown me quite clearly what is required of me. It will not be—easy. But one can do no less than go through with it—in silence."

Mrs Conolly sat looking at the girl for a few seconds. Then:

"My dear, I am very proud of you," she said with quiet sincerity. "I can see that you have drawn freely on a Strength beyond your own. Just take victory for granted; and do your simple human duty to a sick man who is in great need of you, and whose fortune or misfortune is a matter of real concern to many others besides those near and dear to him. I know I am not exaggerating when I say that if any serious harm came to Captain Desmond it would be a calamity felt not only by his regiment, but by more than half the Frontier Force. He has the 'genius to be loved,' that is perhaps the highest form of genius——"

"I know—I know. Don't talk about him, please."

"Ah! but that is part of your hard programme, Honor. You must learn to talk of him, and to let others talk of him. Only you must banish him altogether out of your own thoughts. You see the difference?"

"Yes; I see the difference."

"The essence of danger lies there, and too few people recognise it. I believe that half the emotional catastrophes of life might be traced back to want of self-control in the region of thought. The world's real conquerors are those who 'hold in quietness their land of the spirit'; and you have the power to be one of them if you choose."

"I do choose," Honor answered in a low level voice, looking straight before her.

"Then the thing is as good as done." She rose on the words, and drew Honor to her feet. "There; I think I have said hard things enough for one day."

Honor looked very straightly into the elder woman's strong plain face.

"I know you don't expect me to thank you," she said; "we understand each other too well for that. And we will never speak of this again, please. It is dead and buried from to-day."

"Of course. That is why I have spoken rather fully this morning. But be sure you will be constantly in my thoughts, and—in my prayers."

Then she took possession of the girl, holding her closely for a long while; and when they moved apart tears stood in her eyes, though she was a woman little given to that luxury.

"This has been a great blow to me, dear," she said. "I had such high hopes for you. I had even thought of Major Wyndham."

Honor smiled wearily.

"It was perverse of me. I suppose it ought to have been—Paul."

"I wish it had been, with all my heart; and I confess I am puzzled about you two. How has he come to be 'Paul' within this last fortnight?"

"It is simply that we have made a compact. He knows now that he can never be anything more than—Paul—the truest friend a woman ever had."

"Poor fellow! So there are two of you wasted!"

"Is any real love ever wasted?" Honor asked so simply that Mrs Conolly kissed her again.

"My child, you put me to shame. It is clearly I who must learn from you. Now, go home; and God be with you as He very surely will."

Then with her head uplifted and her spirit braced to unflinching endurance, Honor Meredith went out into the blue and gold of the morning.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE EXECRABLE UNKNOWN.

"Doubting things go wrong, Often hurts more than to be sure they do." —SHAKESPEARE.

Honor found Evelyn in a state of chastened happiness, buttering toast for Theo's breakfast, which stood ready on a tray at her side.

"Would you like to take this in yourself?" she said, as she completed her task. "I think he would be pleased. He was asking where you were."

The suggestion was so graciously proffered that Honor deposited a light kiss on the coiled floss silk of Evelyn's hair as she bent above the table. Then she took up the tray, and went on into the study.

She entered, and set it down without speaking; and Desmond, who was lying back with closed eyes, roused himself at the sound.

"Thank you, little woman," he said. Then, with a start, "Ah, Honor,—it's you. Very kind of you to trouble. Good-morning."

The contrast in his tone and manner was apparent, even in so few words; and Honor was puzzled.

"I hope you got some sleep last night," she said, "after that cruel thirty-six hours."

"More or less, thanks. But I had a good deal to say to Paul. You and he seem to have become very close friends while I have been away."

"We have; permanently, I am glad to say. I should have come in to you when I got up, but I was sure he would have done everything you could want before leaving."

"He did; and he'll be back the minute he's through with his work. He is an incomparable nurse; and with him at hand, I shall not need to—trespass on so much of your time, after all."

Honor bit her lip and tingled in every nerve, less at the actual words than at the manner of their utterance—a mingling of embarrassment and schooled politeness, which set her at arm's length, checked spontaneity, and brought her down from the heights with the speed of a dropped stone.

"It is not a question of trespassing on my time," she said, and in spite of herself a hint of constraint invaded her voice. "But I have no wish to deprive Paul of his privilege and right. You can settle it with Dr Mackay between you. Now, it's time you ate your breakfast. Can you manage by yourself? Shall I send Evelyn to help you?"

"No, thanks; I can manage all right."

He knew quite well he could do nothing of the sort; but his one need was to be alone.

"Very well. I shall be busy this morning with mail letters. Evelyn will sit with you till Paul comes; and Frank is sure to be round during the day. I pointed out to you yesterday that there were plenty of—others able and willing to see after you."

Before he could remonstrate she was gone. He drew in his breath sharply, between set teeth, and struck the arm of his chair with jarring force.

"I have hurt her—clumsy brute that I am. And I must do worse before the day's out. But the sooner it's over the better."

It was his invariable attitude towards a distasteful duty; and he decided not to let slip a second opportunity. Weak and unaided, he made what shift he could to deal with the intricacies of breakfast, choking back his irritability when he found himself grasping empty air in place of the teapot handle, sending the sugar-tongs clattering to the floor, and deluging his saucer by pouring the milk outside the cup. For the moment, to this man of independent spirit, these trivial indignities seemed more unendurable than the loss of his subaltern, the intrusive shadow threatening his self-respect, or the fear of blindness, that lay upon his heart cold and heavy as a corpse.

And on the other side of the door, Honor stood alone in the drawing-room, trying to regain some measure of calmness before returning to the breakfast-table.

Red-hot resentment fired her from head to foot. Resentment against what, against whom? she asked herself blankly, and in the same breath turned her back upon the answer. Chiefly against herself, no doubt, for her inglorious descent from the pinnacle of stoicism, to which she had climbed barely an hour ago. It seemed that Love, coming late to these two, had come as a refiner's fire, to "torment their hearts, till it should have unfolded the capacities of their spirits." For Love, like Wisdom, is justified of all her children.

Breakfast, followed by details of housekeeping, reinstated common-sense. After all, since she had resolved to remain in the background, Theo had simplified affairs by consigning her to her destined position. She could quite well keep her promise to Dr Mackay, and superintend all matters of moment, without spending much time in the sick-room. Evelyn had agreed to accept her share of the nursing; and, as she had said, there were others, whose right was beyond her own.

Shortly after tiffin, Wyndham arrived with Rajinder Singh; and finding them together in the drawing-room—after the short interview permitted by Paul—Honor took the opportunity of fulfilling a request made by Theo on the previous evening.

"I have to write to Mrs Denvil," she said to Paul. "Would the Sirdar mind giving me a few details about the fighting on the 17th?"

Paul glanced approvingly at the old Sikh, who stood beside him, a princely figure of a man, in the magnificent mufti affected by the native cavalry officer—a long coat of peach-coloured brocade, and a turban of the same tint.

"Mind? He needs very little encouragement to enlarge on Theo's share in the proceedings."

"I would like to hear all he can tell me about that," she answered on a low note of fervour.

"You could follow him, I suppose?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"You hear, Ressaldar Sahib." Paul turned to his companion. "The Miss Sahib desires full news of the attack and engagement on Tuesday morning, that she may write of it to England."

The man's eyes gleamed under his shaggy brows, and he launched into the story, nothing loth; his eloquence rising as he warmed to the congenial theme.

Paul Wyndham stepped back a few paces into a patch of shadow, the better to watch Honor Meredith at his ease. She had balanced herself lightly on the arm of a chair; and now leaned a little forward, her lips just parted in the eagerness of anticipation. A turquoise medallion on a fine gold chain made a single incident of colour on the habitual ivory tint of her gown; threads of burnished copper glinted among the coils of her hair; and the loyal loving soul of her shone like a light through the seriousness of her eyes.

And as he watched, hope—that dies harder than any quality of the heart—rose up in him and prevailed. A day must come when this execrable unknown would no longer stand between them; when she would come to him of her own accord, as she had promised;—and he could wait for years, without impatience, on the bare chance of such a consummation.

But at this point a growing change in her riveted his attention—a change such as only the eyes of a lover could detect and interpret aright. She sat almost facing him; and at the first had looked towards him, from time to time, certain of his sympathy with the interest that held her. But before five minutes were out he had been forgotten as though he were not; and by how all else about her was forgotten also. Not her spirit only, but her whole heart glowed in her eyes; and Paul Wyndham, standing watchful and silent in the shadow, became abruptly aware that the execrable unknown—whom he had been hating for the past fortnight with all the strength of a strong nature—was the man he loved better than anything else on earth.

The Ressaldar was nearing the crowning-point of his story now. Honor listened spellbound as he told her of the breathless rush up that rugged incline, and of the sight that greeted them after scaling the mighty staircase of rock.

"None save the fleetest among us could keep pace with the Captain Sahib, wounded as he was," the Sikh was saying, when Wyndham, with a hideous jar, came back to reality. "But God gave me strength, though I have fifty years well told, so that I came not far behind; and even as Denvil Sahib fell, with his face to the earth, at the Captain Sahib's feet, he turned upon the Afridi devils like a lion among wolves, and smote three of them to hell before a man could say, 'It lightens.' Yet came there one pig of a coward behind him, Miss Sahib. Only, by God's mercy, I also was there, to give him such greeting as he deserved with my Persian sword, that hath passed from father to son these hundred and fifty years, and hath never done better work than in averting the hand of death from my Captain Sahib Bahadur, whom God will make Jungi-Lat-Sahib[29] before the end of his days! For myself I am an old man, and of a truth I covet no higher honour than this that hath befallen me, in rendering twice, without merit, such good service to the Border. Nay, but who am I that I should speak thus? Hath not the Miss Sahib herself rendered a like service? May your honour live long, and be the mother of heroes!"

[29] Commander-in-Chief.

Rajinder Singh bowed low on the words, which brought the girl to her feet and crimsoned her clear skin from chin to brow. By a deft question she turned the tide of talk into a less embarrassing channel; and Paul Wyndham, pulling himself together with an effort, went noiselessly out of the room.

Passing through the hall, he sought the comparative privacy of the back verandah, which was apt to be deserted at this time of day. Here he confronted the discovery that tortured him—denied it; wrestled with it; and finally owned himself beaten by it. There was no evading the witness of his own eyes; and in that moment it seemed to him that he had reached the limit of endurance. Then a sudden question stabbed him. How far was Theo responsible for that which had come about? Was he, even remotely, to blame?

Had any living soul dared to breathe such questions in his hearing Wyndham would have knocked the words down his throat, and several teeth along with them, man of peace though he was. But the very depth of his feeling for Desmond made him the more clear-eyed and stern in judgment; and the intolerable doubt, uprising like a mist before his inner vision, held him motionless, forgetful of place and time; till footsteps roused him, and he turned to find Honor coming towards him.

"Why, Paul," she said, "what brings you here? I have been looking for you everywhere. I thought you had gone to him. Evelyn says he is alone, and he wants you."

The unconscious use of the pronoun did not escape Paul's notice, and he winced at it, as also at the undernote of reproof in her tone.

"Sorry to have kept him waiting," he said quietly, and for the first time his eyes avoided her face. "I will go to him at once."

But on opening the study door he hesitated, dreading the necessity for speech; glad—actually glad—that his face was hidden from his friend. For all the depth of their reserve, the shadow of restraint was a thing unknown between them. But the world had been turned upside down for Wyndham since he left the familiar room half an hour ago. A spark that came very near to anger burned in his heart.

Desmond turned in his chair. Two hours of undiluted Evelyn had left him craving for mental companionship.

"Paul, old man," he said on a questioning note, "can't you speak to a fellow? Jove! what wouldn't I give for a good square look at you! It's poor work consorting with folk who only exist from the waist downward. You've not got to be running off anywhere else, have you?"

"No; I am quite free."

"Come on then, for Heaven's sake, dear chap! I have been wanting you all the morning."

The direct appeal, the pathos of his shattered vigour, and the irresistible friendliness of words and tone dispelled all possibility of doubt, or of sitting in judgment. Whatever appearances might suggest, Paul stood ready to swear, through thick and thin, to the integrity of his friend.

He came forward at once; and Desmond, cavalierly ousting Rob, made room for him on the lower end of his chair.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

YOU SHALL NOT—!

"I have very sore shame if like a coward I shrink away from battle. Moreover, my own soul forbiddeth me."—HOMER.

Quite a little party of a quiet kind assembled in the drawing-room for tea—Frank Olliver, Mrs Conolly, Wyndham, and his subaltern George Rivers, a promising probationer of a year's standing. The funeral of the morning, and anxiety as to the fate of Desmond's eyes, gave a subdued tone to the attempt at cheerfulness that prevailed. But Evelyn was grateful even for so mild a reversion to a more normal condition of things.

Each in turn had paid a short visit to the wounded hero in the study; but now they were grouped round the tea-table, leaving him temporarily alone. Evelyn had just filled his cup; and being in no mood to interrupt her exchange of light-hearted nothings with George Rivers, she glanced across at Wyndham, who promptly understood the situation and the mute request.

Honor, standing apart from the rest, noted the characteristic bit of by-play, and with a pang of envy watched Paul receive the cup and plate destined for Theo's room. It seemed a century since she had left him in the morning, with words wrung from her bitterness of heart and regretted as soon as they were uttered; and because of the longing, that would not be stifled, she refrained from the offer that came instinctively to her lips.

But, as if drawn by the magnetism of her thoughts, Paul came straight up to her.

"Won't you take these yourself?" he said in a low tone. "He has seen plenty of me this afternoon; and when I spoke of you just now he said you had not been near him since breakfast. Is that your notion of taking charge of a patient? It isn't mine, I can tell you!"

He spoke lightly, easily; for if life were to be tolerable, the discovery he had made must be ignored, without and within.

"It is not mine either," she answered, flushing at the unmerited reproof. "But I am by way of handing over my charge to you. Doesn't the arrangement suit you?"

"By all means. But Mackay rightly chose you. Besides, I am not so selfish that I should want to deprive Theo of the pleasure of your ministrations."

"Deprive him? You are judging him by yourself! It is hardly a question of deprivation, surely."

Wyndham glanced at her keenly.

"Hullo!" he said, "one doesn't expect that sort of tone from you where Theo is concerned. What do you mean me to understand by it?"

"Nothing—nothing at all! Only—he happens to prefer your ministrations. He almost told me so. You or he can settle it with Dr Mackay to-night. But I will take these in to him—if you wish."

"Purely as a favour to me?"

Her face lit up with a gleam of irrepressible humour.

"Purely as a favour to you!"

She took the cup and plate from him, still smiling, and passed on into the study.

As she bent above the table, Desmond lifted his head in a vain effort to get a glimpse of her face.

"Thank you—thank you—how good of you!" he said, his constraint softened by a repressed eagerness, which gave her courage to speak her thought.

"Why am I suddenly to be discomfited by such elaborate thanks, such scathing politeness?" she asked in a tone of valiant good-humour.

"I didn't mean it to be scathing."

"Well, it is. Overmuch thanks for small services is a poor compliment to friendship. I thought you and I agreed on that point."

He answered nothing. He was nerving himself to the effort of decisive speech, which should set danger at arm's length and end their distracting situation once for all.

She set the small table closer to his side.

"I will look in again, in case you should want some more," she said softly, "if you will promise me not to say 'thank you!'"

"I promise," he answered with a half smile; and she turned to go. But before she had reached the door his voice arrested her.

"Honor,—one minute, please. I have something particular to say."

The note of constraint was so marked that the girl stood speechless, scarcely breathing, wondering what would come next—whether his words would break down the barrier that held them apart.

"Well?" she said at length, as he remained silent.

"I have been thinking," he began awkwardly, "over what you said yesterday—about Evelyn. You remember?"

"Yes."

"And I have been wanting to tell you that I believe you were right. You generally are. I believe we ought to give her the chance you spoke of. Besides—I asked too much of you. This may be a slow business; and really we have no right to trade on your unselfishness to the extent I proposed. You understand me?"

For the life of him he could not ask her to go outright; his excuse appeared to him lame enough to be an insult itself. A fierce temptation assailed him to push up the detested shade and discover whether he had hurt this girl, who had done so infinitely much for him. But he grasped the side of his chair, keeping his arm rigid as steel; and awaited her answer, which seemed an eternity in coming.

Indeed, if he had struck her, Honor could scarcely have been more stunned, more indignant, than she was at that moment. But when she found her voice it was at least steady, if not devoid of emotion.

"No, Theo," she said. "For the first time in my life I don't understand you. But I see clearly—what you wish; and if you feel absolutely certain that you are making the right decision for Evelyn, I have no more to say. For myself, you are asking a far harder thing to-day than you did yesterday. But that is no matter, if it is really best for you both—I don't quite know what Dr Mackay will say. I will see him about it this evening; and you will please tell Evelyn—yourself."

He knew now that he had hurt her cruelly; and with knowledge came the revelation that he was playing a coward's part in rewarding her thus for all she had done; in depriving Evelyn of her one support and shield, merely because he distrusted his own self-mastery at a time of severe mental stress and bodily weakness.

His imperative need for a sight of her face conquered him at last. Quick as thought his hand went up to the rim of the shade. But Honor was quicker still. The instinct to shield him from harm swept everything else aside. In a second she had reached him and secured his hand.

"You shall not do that!" she said—anger, fear, determination vibrating in her low tone.

Then, to her astonishment, she found her own hand crushed in his, with a force that brought tears into her eyes. But he remained silent; and she neither spoke nor stirred. Emotion dominated her; and her whole mind was concentrated on the effort to hold it in leash.

For one brief instant they stood thus upon the brink of a precipice—the precipice of mutual knowledge. But both were safeguarded by the strength that belongs to an upright spirit; and before three words could have been uttered Desmond had dropped her hand, almost throwing it from him, with a decisiveness that might have puzzled her, but that she had passed beyond the region of surprise.

Still neither spoke. Desmond was breathing with the short gasps of a man who has ran a great way, or fought a hard fight; and Honor remained beside him, her eyes blinded, her throat aching with tears that must not be allowed to fall.

At last she mastered them sufficiently to risk speech.

"What have I done that you should treat me—like this?"

There was more of bewilderment than of reproach in the words, and Desmond, turning his head, saw the white marks made by his own fingers upon the hand that hung at her side.

"Done?" he echoed, all constraint and coldness gone from his voice. "You have simply proved yourself, for the hundredth time—the staunchest, most long-suffering woman on God's earth. Will you forgive me, Honor? Will you wipe out what I said—and did just now? I am not quite—myself to-day; if one dare proffer an excuse. Mackay is right, we can't do without you—Evelyn least of any. Will you believe that, and stay with us, in spite of all?"

He proffered his hand now, and she gave him the one that still tingled from his pressure. He held it quietly, closely, as the hand of a friend, and was rewarded by her frank return of his grasp.

"Of course I will stay," she said simply. "But don't let there be any talk of forgiveness between you and me, Theo. To understand is to forgive. I confess I have been puzzled since—yesterday evening, but now I think we do understand one another again. Isn't that so?"

"Yes; we understand one another, Honor," he answered without a shadow of hesitation; but in his heart he thanked God that she did not understand—nor ever would, to her life's end.

Relief reawakened the practical element, which had been submerged in the emotional. She was watching him now with the eyes of a nurse rather than the eyes of a woman.

When he had spoken, his arm fell limply; and he leaned back upon the pillows with a sigh of such utter weariness that her anxiety was aroused. She remembered that his hand had seemed unnaturally hot, and deliberately taking possession of it again, laid her fingers on his wrist. The rapidity of his pulse startled her; since she could have no suspicion of all that he had fought against and held in check.

"How is one to keep such a piece of quicksilver as you in a state of placid stodge!" she murmured. "I suppose I ought to have forbidden you to talk. But how could I dream that—all this would come of it? You must lie absolutely quiet and see no one for the rest of the evening. I will send at once for Dr Mackay; and, look, your tea is all cold. You shall have some fresh—very weak—it will do you good. But not another word, please, to me or any one till I give you leave."

"Very well; I'll do my best to remain in a state of placid stodge, if that will ease your mind," he answered so humbly that the tears started to her eyes afresh. "Won't you let me smoke, though? Just one cigarette. It would calm me down finely before Mackay comes."

Without answering she took one from his case and gave it to him. Then, striking a match, held it for him, till the wisp of paper and tobacco was well alight; while he lay back, drawing in the fragrant smoke, with a sigh in which contentment and despair were strangely mingled.

It is to be hoped that, to the end of time, woman's higher development will never eradicate her delight in ministering to the minor comforts of the man she loves.

"As soon as I have seen Paul, and sent for Dr Mackay," Honor said, "I will come back and stay with you altogether for the present."

"Thank you." He smiled directly the word was out. "I forgot! That's against regulations! But I swear it came straight from my heart."

"In that case you are forgiven!" she answered, with a low laugh.

It was such pure pleasure to have recaptured the old spontaneous Theo, with whom one could say or do anything, in the certainty of being understood, that even anxiety could not quell the new joy at her heart.

Re-entering the drawing-room, she beckoned Wyndham with her eyes and passed on into the hall. So surprisingly swift are a woman's changes of mood, that by the time he joined her anxiety had taken hold of her again, to the exclusion of all else.

"What is it?" he asked quickly.

"Oh, Paul, you did well to reprove me! We must send the orderly for Dr Mackay at once. He has fever now—rather high, I am afraid. Did you notice nothing earlier?"

"No; he seemed quiet enough when I was with him."

"I think he has been worrying over something, apart from his eyes and the Boy; but I can't get at the bottom of it. No need to make the others anxious yet; only—I won't leave him again. I intend to stick to my charge after all," she added, with a sudden smile. "There was some sort of—misunderstanding, it seems. I don't quite know what, but there's an end of it now."

"Thank God!" The words were no mere formula on Paul Wyndham's lips. "Misunderstandings are more poisonous than snakes! Go straight back to him, and I'll send the orderly flying in two minutes."

* * * * *

There was little sleep for either Wyndham or Honor that night.

The girl persuaded Evelyn to go early to bed, merely telling her that as Theo was restless she would have to sit up with him for a while; and Evelyn, secretly relieved at not being asked to do the sitting up herself, deposited a light kiss on her husband's hair and departed with a pretty air of meekness that brought a smile to Honor's lips.

She had felt mildly happy and oppressively good all day. The tea-party had helped to lighten the hushed atmosphere of the house; and her last waking thought was of George Rivers' deep-toned voice and frankly admiring eyes. She decided that he might "do" in place of Harry Denvil, who must naturally be forgotten as soon as possible; because it was so uncomfortable to think of people who were dead.

Desmond's temperature rose rapidly; and the two, who could not bear to leave his side, divided the night watches between them. Amar Singh, his chin between his knees, crouched dog-like on the mat outside the door, presenting himself, from time to time, with such dumb yearning in his eyes that Honor devised small services for him in pure tenderness of heart.

Paul took a couple of hours' rest at midnight, on the condition that Honor should do the same towards morning; and since she was obviously reluctant when the unwelcome hour arrived, he smilingly conducted her in person to the threshold of her room.

"Good-night to you,—Miss Meredith! Or should it be good-morning?" he said lightly, in the hope of chasing the strained look from her face.

"Good-morning, for preference," she retorted, with an attempt at a laugh. "You can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink! I shan't sleep even for five minutes."

"You think so; but Nature will probably have her way with you all the same."

He moved as if to go, but she came suddenly nearer; and the hidden fear leaped to her lips.

"Paul—is there any real danger because of this fever? One is so afraid of erysipelas with a wound of that kind; and it would be—fatal. Has Dr Mackay said anything definite? Tell me—please. I must know the truth."

In the urgency of the moment she laid a light hand upon him; and Wyndham, bracing the muscles of his arm, tried not to be aware of her finger-tips through his coat-sleeve.

"You evidently know too much for your own peace of mind," he said. "But Mackay is as inscrutable as the Sphinx. One could see he was anxious, because he was ready to snap one's head off on the least provocation; but beyond that I know no more than you do. We can only do our poor utmost for him every hour, you and I, and leave the outcome—to God."

"Yes, yes,—you are right. Oh, Paul, what a rock you are at a bad time like this!"

Unconsciously her fingers tightened upon his arm, and a thrill like a current of electricity passed through him. Lifting her hand from its resting-place, he put it aside, gently but decisively.

"I may be a rock," he remarked with his slow smile, "but I also happen to be—a man. Don't make our compact harder for me than you can help. Good-night again; and sleep soundly—for Theo's sake!"

Before she could find words in which to plead forgiveness, he had almost reached the study door; and she stood motionless, watching him go, her face aflame with anger at her own unwitting thoughtlessness, and humiliation at the exquisite gentleness of his rebuke.

Surely there were few men on earth comparable to this man, whose heart and soul were hers for the taking. A cold fear came upon her lest in the end she should be driven to retract her decision; to forego all, and endure all, rather than withhold from him a happiness he so abundantly deserved.

"Why is it such a heart-breaking tangle?" she murmured, locking her hands together till the points of her sapphire ring cut into the flesh. But she only pressed the harder. She understood now how it was that monks and fanatics strove to ease the soul through torments of the flesh. A pang of physical pain would have been a positive relief just then. But there was none for her to bear. She was young, vigorous, radiantly alive. She had not so much as a headache after her anxious vigil. The high gods had willed that she should feel and suffer to the full. There is no other pathway to the ultimate heights.

The soft closing of the study door sounded loud in the stillness; and she went reluctantly into her own room.



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 to cancel all that he had been at such pains to achieve. Pure spite so mastered him, that even the news of Desmond's critical condition—which stirred the whole station the morning after the funeral—awakened no spark of pity in that region of concentrated egotism which must needs be called his heart.

The "counter-check quarrelsome" would have been welcome enough. But this impersonal method of knocking the ground from under his feet goaded him to exasperation. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing that he had wrought jealousy or friction between husband and wife. Desmond had practically ignored his existence. There lay the sting that roused all the devil in Kresney; and the devil is a light sleeper in some men's souls. But the Oriental strain in the man made him an adept at a waiting game; and finding himself cavalierly thrust aside, he could do no otherwise than remain in the background for the present, alert, vigilant, cursing his luck.

* * * * *

In the blue bungalow a strained calmness prevailed. The work that must be done could only be carried through by living from hour to hour, as Paul had said; and Evelyn could now no longer be shielded from the pain 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 strength and courage.

Evelyn listened with wide eyes and blanching cheeks.

"Did—did I make him bad?" she asked in an awe-struck whisper, for she had not been able to keep her own counsel in regard to her fatal interview with Theo.

"I think not—I hope not," Honor answered gravely. "But you did wound him 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 use with 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 at once. She wanted to be very sure of saying the right word; and it is only when we try to grapple with another's intimate need that we find ourselves baffled by the elusive, intangible spirits of those with whom 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 Theo Desmond's wife; and the extravagant idea impelled her to a sudden decision.

She drew Evelyn nearer.

"Listen to me, darling," she said. "We have got to pull Theo through this between us, you and I; and you always say I can help you to do difficult things. Very well. I am quite determined that you shall be a brave wife to him, for the next two weeks at least. And when I make up 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 the softness lay an invincible assurance, which Evelyn felt without being able to analyse or understand.

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

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

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

* * * * *

The ill news brought Frank Olliver round later in the morning. She did not stay long; and the look in her eyes as she parted from Paul in the verandah touched him to the heart.

"You'll send me word how he goes on, won't you?" she said. "I'll not be 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 I could 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 answered promptly. "I shall get a chance to talk things over with Honor this morning, and you shall hear the result. May I invite myself to tea, please?"

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

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

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

Evelyn accepted, with a slight lift of her brows, Honor's announcement that Mrs Olliver would be only too glad to help in nursing Theo. These odd people, who seemed to enjoy long nights of watching, the uncanny mutterings of delirium, and the incessant doling out of food and medicine, puzzled her beyond measure. She had a hazy idea that she ought to enjoy it in the same way, and a very clear knowledge that she did no such thing. She regarded it as a sort of penance, imposed by Honor, not altogether unfairly. She had just conscience enough to recognise that. And as the hushed monotone of nights and days dragged by, with little relief from the dead weight of anxiety, it did indeed seem as if Honor had succeeded in willing a portion of her brave spirit into her friend. What had passed in secret between God and her own soul resulted in a breaking down of the bounds of self—an unconscious spiritual bestowal of the best that was in her, with that splendid lack of economy in giving which is the hall-mark of a great nature. And Evelyn took colour from the new atmosphere enveloping her with the curious readiness of her type.

Desmond himself, in moments of wakefulness, or passing freedom from delirium, was surprised and profoundly moved to find his wife constantly in attendance on him. At the time he was too ill to express his appreciation. But a vision of her dwelt continually in his mind; and the frequency of her name on his lips brought tears of real self-reproach to her eyes as she sat alone with him through the dread small hours, not daring to glance into the darkest corners or to stir unless necessity compelled her; overpowered by those vague terrors that evaporate like mist in the cold light of definition.

In this fashion an interminable week slipped past, bringing the patient to that critical "corner" with which too many of us are familiar. Neither Paul nor Mackay left the study for twenty-four hours; while the women sat with folded hands and waited—a more arduous task than it sounds.

With the coming of morning, and of the first hopeful word from the sick-room, an audible sigh of relief seemed to pass through the house and compound. It was as if they had all been holding their breath till the worst was over. It became possible at last to achieve smiles that were not mere dutiful distortions of the lips. James Mackay grew one degree less irritable; Wyndham one degree less monosyllabic; Amar Singh condescended to arise and resume his neglected duties; while Rob—becoming aware, in his own fashion, of a stir in the air—emerged from his basket, and shook himself with such energy and thoroughness that Mackay whisked him unceremoniously into the hall, where he sat nursing his injured dignity, quietly determined to slip back, on the first chance, into the room that was his by right, though temporarily in 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 the unbroken line of her blue dressing-gown, with its cloud of misty whiteness at the throat. A shaded lamp in a far corner clashed with the first glimmer of dawn; and in the dimness Evelyn's face showed pale and indistinct, save for two dusky semicircles where her lashes rested on her cheek. Desmond saw all this, because at night the shade was 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-figure in a dream.

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

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

"Such a brave Ladybird!" he said, imprisoning her fingers. "You seem to 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 little wistfully. "It is Honor who really does everything."

Desmond frowned. Mention of Honor effectually dispelled the dream. "I choose to believe that everything isn't her doing," he said with unnecessary 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 of the 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 anything about nursing people. Honor just told me that I was going to do it beautifully, that I wasn't really frightened or stupid at all; and somehow, she has made it all come true. She's been ever so kind and patient; and I'm not half so nervous now when I'm left alone all night. She writes out every little thing I have to do, and sits up herself 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 it comforts me to feel there's some one else awake; and she does her own nights of nursing just the same. I often wonder how she stands it all."

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

Evelyn caught the sound and misunderstood it.

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

She consulted her paper; and returning with the medicine-glass half filled, held it to his lips, raising his head with one hand. But at the 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 was an 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 in her tone. But Desmond laughed as he had not laughed since his parting with the Boy.

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

"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, collapsed beside the bed and burst into tears.

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

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

"Only it wasn't—and you didn't!" he retorted, smiling. "You're upset, and worn out from want of sleep; that's all."

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

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

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

Evelyn started. "I won't shut up about Honor! I love her, and you're very 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 noticed nothing, and for a while neither spoke.

"Look here, Ladybird," he said suddenly, "I can't have you calling yourself names as you did just now. You only get these notions into your small head because I have condemned you to a life that makes demands on you beyond your strength. I ought to have seen from the start that it was a case of choosing between the Frontier and you. At all events, I see it clearly now; and—it's not too late. One can always exchange into a down-country regiment, you know. Or I have interest 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 the repressed eagerness in her tone sounded the death-knell of his dearest ambitions.

"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 again I'll see what can be done."

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

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

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

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

"It—it wouldn't make me happy. And, please, don't talk about it any more."

At that he drew her down to him.

"God bless you, my darling!" he whispered. But even in speaking he knew that he could not accept her sacrifice; that her courage—barely equal to the verbal renunciation—would be crushed to powder in the crucible of days and years. For the moment, however, it seemed best to drop the subject, since nothing definite could be done without Honor's consent.

"Now I ought to be attending to my business!" she said, freeing herself with a little nervous laugh. "It's getting too light. I must put 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 let slip her one chance of escape, and she did not know why she had done it. The impulse to refuse had been unreasoning, overpowering; and now it was all over she only knew that she had done what Honor would approve, and what she herself would regret to the end of her life. How far the girl whose soul had been concentrated on Evelyn's uplifting was responsible for her flash of self-sacrifice, is a problem that must be left for psychologists to solve.

Desmond had only one thought in his brain that morning—"How in the world am I going to tackle Honor?" He foresaw a pitched battle, ending in possible defeat; and decided to defer it till he felt more physically fit for the strain. For he possessed the rapid recuperative power of his type; and, the fever once conquered, each day added a cubit to his returning vigour.

One night, towards the close of the second week of his illness, he awoke suddenly from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness, a sense of renewed health and power thrilling through his veins. He passed a hand across his forehead and eyes, for the pure pleasure of realising their freedom from the disfiguring bandage, and glanced toward the writing-table, whence the too familiar screened lamp flung ghostly lights and shadows up among the bare rafters twenty feet above.

It was Honor who sat beside it now, in a loose white wrapper, her head resting on her hand, an open book before her. The light fell full upon her profile, emphasising its nobility of outline—the short straight nose, the exquisite moulding of mouth and chin; while all about her shoulders fell the burnished mantle of her hair.

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

"Honor—I am awake."

She started, and instinctively her hand went to her hair, gathering it deftly 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 the heavy mass hastily, thankful to screen her face from view. Then, because silence had in it an element of danger, she forced herself to break it.

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

"Why apologise?" he asked, smiling. "What is it you are reading? Won't you share it with me? I feel hopelessly wide-awake."

"It would be delightful to read to you again," she said simply. "But you 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 deal about that form of responsibility,—you who are so superbly strong." And again she was grateful for her sheltering veil of hair. "The text is from Romans, I suppose?"

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

"It's a heavy penalty," he mused. "But one is bound to pay it to the uttermost 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 fatal mistake, and it's not fair on Ladybird."

She stifled an exclamation of dismay. It had been one thing to plead with him a year ago; but now it seemed impossible to speak a dozen words 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, of course?"

"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 said reproachfully.

"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 for the moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.

He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distracting vision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standing close to him—a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hair reaching almost to her knees.

"Theo," she said softly, with an eloquent gesture of appeal, "you don'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 to do this thing. I frankly confess you are right from your point of view. But there remains my point of view; and so long as I have the right to prevent it, you shall not spoil your life and hers."

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

"I don't quite understand you, Honor," he said slowly. "It is strange that 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 you for 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 to resist him; but she steeled herself against the sensation by main force of will.

"At least I can forbid any further mention of it till you are fitter to cope with such a disturbing subject. Are you aware that it's only two o'clock? And you need sleep more than anything else just now. I'll give you some beef-jelly, and sit in my own room for an hour, or I believe 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. "Not another word to-night, Theo, or I must go altogether."

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



CHAPTER XXX.

SHE SHALL UNDERSTAND.

"The light of every soul burns upward; but we are all candles in a wind; and due allowance must be made for atmospheric disturbances." —GEO. MEREDITH.

Certain souls, like certain bodies, cannot breathe for long at a stretch the rarefied atmosphere of the heights; and towards the end of the second week Evelyn's zeal began to wear thin. Dr Mackay had at last spoken hopefully as to the fate of Desmond's eyes. Night-nursing was no longer a necessity; and with the relief from anxiety, from the effort to meet the demands upon her small stock of strength, came the inevitable drop to the comfortable commonplaces of everyday life.

Nor was she alone in her sensations. In varying degrees they affected every inmate of the blue bungalow during that last week of Desmond's imprisonment; and it is probable that Honor unconsciously relaxed her mental concentration upon Evelyn which had been responsible for more than either knew. Her midnight talk with Desmond, and the knowledge that a second contest lay before her, gave her food for much troubled reflection; while the comparative lightness of sick-room duties left her free to grapple with arrears of letters, work, and household accounts. Thus, being only human, and very much absorbed in matters practical, she made the fatal mistake of relaxing her vigilance at the very moment when Evelyn needed it most. But it is written that "no man may redeem his brother"; and, soon or late the relapse must have come. Honor could not hope to lay permanent hold upon the volatile spirit of her friend.

Desmond himself, whose patience under the burden of illness and of a nerve-shattering fear had amazed even those who knew him best, was approaching the irritable stage of convalescence,—the strong man's rebellion against Nature's unhurried methods; against enforced restriction and imprisonment, when renewed life is pulsing through every artery, renewed vigour stirring the reawakened brain.

Nor were matters enlivened by Mackay's decree that, if risk were to be avoided, the detested shade must be worn for three full weeks or a month. Thus to imprisonment was added the gall and wormwood of total dependence upon others; the unthinkable prospect of parting with Paul, with the Border itself—with everything that had hitherto made life worth living; and, worse than all, the undercurrent of striving to ignore that veiled danger, which he refused to name, even in his thoughts, and which lay like a millstone upon his heart.

Thus there were inevitable moments when his spirit kicked against the pricks; when his return to life and health seemed a parody of a blessing, a husk emptied of the life-giving grain. In these moods Evelyn found herself powerless to cope with him; and was not a little aggrieved when she discovered that his unvarying need, on black days, was the companionship of Paul Wyndham, whose insight detected some hidden trouble, and who, as a matter of course, devoted every spare moment to his friend.

One thing Desmond missed beyond all else—the sound of music in the house. Since the terrible evening of his home-coming, the piano had not been opened; and his recent experience of the effect Honor's music could produce on him made him chary of asking her to play.

He saw very little of her in these days. Now and then she would come and read to him; but their former open-hearted intercourse seemed irrevocably a thing of the past. With the return of the troops, however, interests multiplied. Desmond's hold on the hearts of all who knew him had seldom been so practically proven; and the man was moved beyond measure at that which he could not fail to perceive. His small study was rarely empty, and often overcrowded with men—Sikhs, Gunners, Sappers, and, above all, his own brother officers, who filled the place with tobacco-smoke, the cheerful clink of ice against long tumblers, and frequent explosions of deep-chested laughter; while Desmond threw himself whole-heartedly into the good minute and enjoyed it to the full.

To Evelyn this new state of things was a little disconcerting. During Theo's illness she, as his wife, had enjoyed special attention and consideration; and since her incomprehensible refusal of his offer to throw up the Frontier, had even regarded herself as something of a heroine, if an unwilling one. Now, all of a sudden, she felt deserted, unimportant, and more or less "out of it all." The past fortnight seemed an uplifted dream, from which she had awakened to find herself sitting among the dust and stones of prose and hard facts. Yet she could not complain definitely of anything or any one. Honor and Theo were kind and tender, as always; but the one was temporarily busy, and the other very naturally enjoying a reversion to masculine society. Nobody seemed to want her. There seemed no particular use for her any more.

To make matters worse, the whole station wore a subdued air. The Club compound was practically deserted; and Evelyn's first outing in that direction left her with no desire to repeat the experiment for the present. The Sikhs had lost a popular captain; while a Gunner subaltern, who had returned seriously wounded, was being nursed by Mrs Conolly and the only woman in the battery.

This sort of thing was, as Theo had said, "part and parcel" of life on the Frontier; it was to this that she had condemned herself for the next twenty years at least; by which time she supposed she would be far too old to care for the frivolities of life at all! If only Theo would be generous and give her a second chance, she would not let it slip this time—she would not indeed!

Altogether the aspect of things in general was sufficiently depressing. Then one afternoon she met Owen Kresney; and all at once life seemed to take on a new complexion. Here, at least, was some one who wanted her, when every one else seemed only to want Theo; some one who was really glad to see her—rather too emphatically glad, perhaps; but the eagerness of his greeting flattered her, and she had overlooked the rest. She had been returning in her jhampan from her melancholy outing to the Club, when he had caught sight of her in the distance, and cantering up to her side, had dismounted, and shaken hands as though they had not met for a year.

"How awfully white and pulled down you look!" he had said with low-toned sympathy. "They must have been working you too hard. They forget that you are not a strapping woman like Miss Meredith."

"No one has worked me too hard," she answered, flushing at the veiled implication against her husband. "I wanted to do as much as the others."

"Of course you did. But you are too delicate to work like that, and it isn't fair to take advantage of your unselfishness. I hope you're going off to the Hills very soon, now that Desmond is better?"

"Yes, I hope so too."

Her voice had an unconscious weariness, and he bent a little closer, scanning her face with a concern that bordered on tenderness. "We have thought of you a great deal these two weeks, Mrs Desmond," he said. "We hardly cared to go out to tennis, or anything, while you were in such trouble. But now it has all come out right, you must be dreadfully in want of cheering up. Won't you come home with me and have a talk, like old times? Linda would be awfully pleased to see you again."

The temptation was irresistible. It emphasised her vague sense of loneliness, of being left out in the cold. The longing to be comforted and made much of was strong upon her.

"It is very nice of you to want me," she had said, as simply as a child. To which he had replied with prompt, if somewhat cheap, gallantry that no one could possibly help wanting her; and his reward had been a flush, as delicate in tint as the inner surface of a shell. This man had one strong point in his favour—he invariably talked to her about herself; a trick Desmond had never learnt, nor ever would.

She had spent more than an hour in Miss Kresney's stuffy, dusty drawing-room, and had left it with a pleasantly revived sense of her own importance; had left Kresney himself in a state of carefully repressed triumph; for she had promised him an early morning ride in two days' time.

It was all harmless enough so far as she was concerned—merely a case of flattered vanity and idle hands. But the strong nature, the large purpose, lies eternally at the mercy of life's little things.

She said nothing to Honor or Theo of her meeting with Kresney, or of the coming ride. A fortnight of submission to the former had evoked a passing gleam of independence. They would probably make a fuss; and since they neither of them needed her, she was surely at liberty to amuse herself as she pleased.

On her return a buzz of deep voices greeted her from the study, and it transpired that Honor had gone over to Mrs Conolly's. Thus she had leisure before dinner to argue the matter out in her mind to her own complete justification. If Mr Kresney chose to be polite to her, why should she rebuff him and hurt his feelings, just because Theo had some stupid prejudice against him? On the other hand, where was the use of vexing Theo, when every one was doing their best to shield him from needless irritation? As soon as his eyes were right they would go to the Hills together. She would have him all to herself; and Kresney sank into immediate insignificance at the thought.

Meanwhile the man's assiduity and thinly veiled admiration formed a welcome relief in a desert of dulness. Besides, one was bound to be pleasant to a man when one practically owed him two hundred rupees.

Unwittingly she shelved the fact that Kresney was beginning to exercise a disturbing fascination over her; that the insistence underlying his humility alternately pleased and frightened her; the lurking fear of what he might say next gave a distinct flavour of excitement to their every meeting.

The slippery path that lies between truth and direct falsehood had always been fatally easy for her to follow; and she followed it now more from natural instinct, and from the child's dread of making people "cross," than from any deliberate intent to deceive. It was so much easier to say nothing. Therefore she said nothing; and left the future to look after itself.

On returning from her first ride with Kresney, she found Honor in the verandah giving orders to a sais. The girl lifted her out of the saddle, and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Such a very early Ladybird!" she said, laughing. "You might have let me come too."

Accordingly they went out together the next morning, but on future occasions Evelyn returned more cautiously, and changed her habit before appearing at the breakfast-table. She went out once or twice in the afternoons also, and Honor's thoughts flew to the Kresneys as a matter of course; but remembering a certain incident at Murree, she held her peace. She was disheartened, and very far from satisfied, nevertheless.

* * * * *

In this fashion ten days slipped uneventfully past. Then, on a certain afternoon, Kresney again met Evelyn by chance,—and begged her to come back with him to tea before going home. Her consent was a foregone conclusion; and as they neared Kresney's whitewashed gate-posts, Captain Olliver trotted past. He had already met Miss Kresney jogging out to tea on a long-tailed pony of uncertain age; and glancing casually back over his shoulder, he saw Mrs Desmond's jhampan entering the gateway. Whereat he swore vigorously under his breath, and urged his pony to a brisker pace.

But of these facts Evelyn was blissfully unaware. Her uppermost thought was a happy consciousness of looking her best. From the forget-me-nots in her hat to the last frill of her India muslin gown all was blue—the fragile blue of the far horizon at dawn. And Kresney had an eye for such things.

She started slightly on discovering that the drawing-room was empty.

"Where's Miss Kresney?" she asked, stopping dead upon the threshold.

"Why, what a fool I am!" the man exclaimed with a creditable air of frankness. "I clean forgot she had gone out to tea. But you're not going to desert me on that account! You wouldn't be so unkind!"

Evelyn felt herself trapped. It would seem foolish and pointed to go; yet she had sense enough to know that it would be very unwise to stay. She compromised matters by saying sweetly that she would come in just for ten minutes, to have a cup of tea before going back in the sun.

Kresney looked his gratification—looked it so eloquently that she lowered her eyes, and went forwards hurriedly, as if fearing that something more definite might follow the look.

But the man, though inwardly exultant, was well on his guard. If he startled her this first time, he could not hope to repeat the experiment. He chose the most comfortable chair for her; insisted on an elaborate arrangement of cushions at her back; poured out her tea; and plied her assiduously with stale sponge-cake and mixed biscuits. Then drawing up his own chair very close, he settled himself to the congenial task of amusing and flattering her, with such success that her ten minutes had stretched to an hour before she even thought of rising to go.

Captain Olliver, meanwhile, had ridden on to the blue bungalow, which chanced to be his destination; and had spent half an hour in desultory talk with Desmond, Wyndham, and the Colonel, who had fallen into a habit of dropping in almost daily.

As he rose to take his leave, a glance at Wyndham brought the latter out into the hall with him.

"What is it?" he asked. "Want to speak to me about something?"

"Yes. Can we have a few words alone anywhere? It concerns Desmond, and I can't speak to him myself."

Paul frowned.

"Nothing serious, I hope. Come in here a minute." And he led the way into his own Spartan-looking room.

"Now let me hear it," he said quietly.

But Olliver balanced himself on the edge of the table, tapped his pipe against it, and loosened the contents scientifically with his penknife before complying with the request.

"The truth is," he began at length, "that it's about Mrs Desmond and that confounded cad Kresney."

"Ah!" The note of pain in Wyndham's voice made the other look at him questioningly.

"You've noticed it, then?"

"Well,—it was rather marked while Desmond was away. Nothing to trouble about, though, if it had been any other man than Kresney."

Olliver brought his fist down on the table.

"That's precisely what my wife says. You know what a lot she thinks of Desmond; and I believe she's capable of tackling the little woman herself, which I couldn't stand at any price. That's why I promised to speak to you to-day. Hope it doesn't seem infernal cheek on my part."

"Not at all. Go on."

Each instinctively avoided the other's eyes; while Olliver, in a few curt sentences, spoke his mind on the subject in hand.

The bond that links the inhabitants of small isolated Indian stations is a thing that only the Anglo-Indian can quite understand. Desmond's illness, and the possible tragedy overhanging him, had roused such strong feeling in Kohat, that his wife's conduct—which at another time would merely have supplied material for a little mild gossip—had awakened the general sense of indignation, more especially among the men. But men are not free of speech on these matters, and it was certain pungent remarks made by little Mrs Riley of the Sikhs which had set Frank Olliver's Irish temper in a blaze. The recollection of what she had seen during Desmond's absence still rankled in her mind; and her husband, with a masculine dread of an open quarrel between the only two ladies in the Regiment, had accepted the lesser evil of speaking to Wyndham himself.