"Mind, I give Mrs Desmond credit for being more passive than active in the whole affair," he concluded, since Paul seemed disinclined to volunteer a remark. "But the deuce of it is, that I feel sure Desmond knows less about the thing than any one else. Can you see him putting up with it under any circumstances?"

Wyndham shook his head; and for a while they smoked in silence thinking their own thoughts.

"You want me," Paul asked at length, "to pass all this on to Desmond? Is that it?"

"Yes; that's it. Unless you think he knows it already."

"No,—frankly, I don't. But is it our business to enlighten him?"

"That's a ticklish question. But I'm inclined to think it is. We can't be expected to stand a bounder like Kresney hanging round one of our ladies. Why, I met him as I came here, taking her into his bungalow; and I had only just passed the sister on that old patriarch she rides. I call that going a bit too far; and I fancy Desmond would agree with me."

Wyndham looked up decisively.

"I wouldn't repeat that to him, if my life depended on it."

"No, no. Of course not. You can make things clear without saying too much. Beastly unpleasant job, and I'm sorry to be forcing it on you. But you must know that you're the only chap in the Regiment who could dream of speaking two words to Desmond on such a delicate subject."

Paul acknowledged the statement with a wry smile under his moustache.

"I doubt if he will stand it, even from me; and I'd a deal sooner wring Kresney's neck. But I'll do the best I can, and take my chance of the consequences to myself."

Thus reassured, Olliver departed, and Wyndham, watching him go, wondered what he intended to say.

There are few things more distasteful to a well-bred man than the necessity of speaking to a friend, however intimate, on the subject of his wife's conduct or character; because there are few things a man respects more intimately than his fellow-man's reserve. Wyndham knew, moreover, that the real sting of his communication would lie less in the facts themselves than in Mrs Desmond's probable concealment of them; and his natural kindliness prompted him to a passing pity for Evelyn, who, in all likelihood, had not yet penetrated beyond the outer shell of her husband's strongly marked character.

The only means of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb lay in speaking first to Honor; and on that idea Wyndham unconditionally turned his back. Mrs Desmond had brought this thing upon herself. She must face the consequences as best she might.

But on entering the study, the words he had come to say were checked upon his lips.

Desmond stood beside the writing-table, where the green shade lay discarded; and a noticeable scar on his right cheek was all that now remained of the wound which had threatened such serious results. His whole attention was centred upon Rob, who pranced at his feet with ungainly caperings, flinging dignity to the winds, and testifying, with heart and voice and eloquent tail, to the joy that was in him.

Paul's sensitive soul revolted from the necessity of imparting ill news at such a moment; and it was Desmond who spoke first.

"Mackay's been here this minute making a final examination of my eyes. Gave me leave, thank God, to discard that abomination; and Rob hasn't left off congratulating me since I flung it on the table. The little beggar seems to understand what's happened just as well as I do." He turned on Wyndham with a short satisfied laugh. "By Jove, Paul, it's thundering good to look you squarely in the face again! But why,—what's the trouble, old man? Have you heard bad news?"

"Not very bad, but certainly—unpleasant."

"And you came to tell me?"

"Yes, I came to tell you."

Desmond motioned him to a chair; and, as he seated himself with unhurried deliberation, laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked. "The Regiment or yourself?"

"Neither."

"Well, then——?"

"It concerns you, my dear Theo," Paul answered slowly. "And it is about—your wife."

Desmond frowned sharply, and Wyndham saw the defensive look spring into his eyes.

"Do you mean——? Has there been an accident?"

"No—no; nothing of that sort. I'm sorry to have been so clumsy."

"She is quite safe? Nothing wrong with her?"

"Nothing whatever."

Desmond's mouth took an expression Wyndham knew well. An enemy might have called it pig-headed.

"At that rate, there can be no more to say about her."

And he went leisurely over to the mantelpiece, where he remained, leaning on one elbow, his back towards his companion. Paul saw plainly that he was ill at ease, and cursed the contingency which compelled him to further speech.

"Forgive me if I seem intrusive, Theo," he began, "but I am afraid there is more to be said. This afternoon Olliver spoke to me——"

Desmond swung round again, with blazing eyes.

"What the hell has Olliver got to do with my wife? I have never interfered with his."

Paul Wyndham looked very steadily into the disturbed face of his friend. Then he brought his hand down on the green baize of the table before him.

"Theo—my dear fellow," he said, "it is hard enough for me, in any case, to say what I must. Is it quite generous of you to make it harder?"

The fire died slowly out of Desmond's eyes, giving place to a look of stubborn resignation.

"Forgive me, Paul. Sorry I lost my temper. Let me have the bare facts, please. Though I probably know them already."

And he returned to his former attitude, the fingers of his left hand caressing mechanically the stem of a tall vase.

His last remark made Paul watch him anxiously. He was wondering whether Theo's determination to shield his wife would possibly goad him into a direct lie; and he devoutly hoped not.

"Well," he began at length, "Olliver spoke to me because there seems to be rather a strong feeling in the Regiment about Mrs Desmond and—Kresney being so constantly together again just now——"

The vase Desmond was handling fell with a crash on the concrete hearth, and the blood spurted from a surface cut on his finger. But beyond thrusting the scarred hand into his coat pocket, he made no movement.

"Go on," he said doggedly; and Paul obediently went on, addressing his unresponsive back and shoulders.

"You see, it was rather—noticeable while you were away. Perhaps the fact that we all dislike Kresney made it more so; and it naturally strikes one as very bad taste on his part to be forcing himself on your wife at a time like this. It seems there was some slight talk at the Club too—not worth noticing, of course. But you know Mrs Olliver takes fire easily, where any of us are concerned; and Olliver seemed afraid she might speak to Mrs Desmond, unless I came to you. He met them again this afternoon; and he felt you ought at least to know exactly how matters stand——"

"He might have taken it for granted that I should do that without his interference."

Desmond's temper was flaring up again; and his words brought the anxious look back to Paul's eyes. Theo was sailing very near the wind.

"We all know you too well to believe that you would—tolerate such a state of things—if you were aware of them," he answered slowly, choosing his words with care. "Please understand, Theo, that it is Kresney who is criticised; and that Olliver put the whole thing before me as nicely as possible. I feel I have been clumsy enough myself. But it goes against the grain to say anything at all, you understand?"

Desmond's sole answer was a decisive nod of the head. Then silence fell—a strained silence, difficult to break. Yet it was he himself who broke it.

"I can do no less than thank you," he said stiffly. "It was a hateful thing to have thrust upon you; but Frank's intrusion would have been unendurable. The truth is—" he paused, for the words were hard to bring out—"I have known—all along that my wife was more friendly with—these Kresneys than I quite cared about. One could make no valid objections without seeming uncharitable, and she is still too new here to understand our point of view. But I must see to it now that she shall understand, once and for all. It is intolerable to have one's brother officers—making remarks, even with the best intentions. Will you ask Honor to tell my wife, when she comes in, that I want to see her?"

Silence again; and Paul rose to his feet. It hurt him to leave his friend without a word. But the attitude Desmond had adopted precluded the lightest touch of sympathy, and Wyndham could not choose but admire him the more.

"By the way"—Desmond turned upon him as he went with startling abruptness—"Honor isn't in any way mixed up with all this, is she?"

Something in his look and tone made Wyndham glance at him intently before replying. "Of course she saw how things were while you were away. But she has been out very little lately; and as far as I can judge, she knows nothing about the talk that is going on now."

"Thank Heaven!" Desmond muttered into his moustache; but Paul's ear failed to catch the words.

"Won't you have a 'peg' or a cup of tea, Theo?" he asked gently.

"No, thanks."

"I think you ought to have one or the other."

"Very well, whichever you please. Only, bring it yourself, there's a good chap."

Paul's eyes rested thoughtfully upon his friend, who, absorbed in his own reflections, seemed to have forgotten his presence. Then he went slowly away, revolving the matter in his mind.

While avoiding the least shadow of false statement, Desmond had succeeded in shielding his wife from the one serious implication suggested by her conduct, or at least would have so succeeded, but for the tell-tale crash of glass upon the hearth-stone. Yet the most vivid impression left on Paul by their short interview was the look in Theo's eyes when he had asked that one abrupt question about Honor Meredith.

Was it possible——? Was it even remotely possible——?

Wyndham reined in the involuntary thought, as a man reins in his horse on the brink of a precipice. Common loyalty to the friend he loved, with the unspoken love of half a lifetime, forbade him to look that shrouded possibility frankly in the face.



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE LOSS OF ALL.

"The loss of all love has to give, Save pardon for love wronged." —O. MEREDITH.

"Here I am, Theo. Honor says you want to see me."

Evelyn Desmond closed the door behind her; and at sight of her husband transformed into his very self—freed at last from all disfigurements—she ran to him with outstretched arms.

"Theo, are you really all right again? I can hardly believe it."

But Desmond had no answer to give her. He simply squared his right arm, warding off her hands.

Then she saw the hard lines of his mouth, the inexpressible pain in his eyes; and, clutching at his rigid forearm, tried to force it down. She might as well have tried to shift a bar of iron.

"What's the matter with you now?" she asked, half petulant, half fearful. "Has anything else gone wrong? Haven't we had enough misery and depression——?"

"There's no more call for acting, Evelyn," Desmond interposed with an ominous quietness more disconcerting than anger—"Doesn't your own conscience tell you what may have gone wrong?"

At that the colour left her face. "You mean—is it about—me?" she asked with shaking lips.

"Yes. About you." Her pitiful aspect softened him; he took her arm and set her gently down upon a chair;—the selfsame chair that Paul had occupied half an hour ago. "Don't be frightened," he said gently; "I won't hurt you more than I must. Ever since we married I have done my utmost to help you, spare you, shield you; but now—we've got to arrive at a clear understanding, once for all. First I want you to answer a question or two, straightly, without prevarication. You went out early, it seems. Where?"

"To Mrs Riley's——"

"And after?"

"I met Mr Kresney—quite by chance. He wanted me to come in to tea. He said Miss Kresney would soon be home—and I—I——"

"No need for polite fabrications;" he took her up quickly. "You went in. Miss Kresney did not come home. Is this the first time he has trapped you with a convenient lie? Tell me that."

Words and tone roused her to a passing flash of retaliation.

"If you're going to get so angry, Theo, I won't tell you anything, and I won't be questioned like a creature in a witness-box! Some one's been saying horrid things of me. Major Wyndham, I suppose. You wouldn't listen to any one else. It's very mean of him——"

Desmond took a hasty step forward. "How dare you speak so of the straightest man living!" he cried with imperious heat. "You, who have taken advantage of my blindness to deceive me deliberately a second time, on account of a cad who isn't fit to tie your shoe-strings. I've been blind in more than one way lately. But that is over now. I am not likely to repeat the mistake of trusting you implicitly—after this."

She cowered under the lash of his just wrath, hiding her face and crying heart-broken tears—the bitterest she had yet shed. In snatching at the shadow it seemed she had lost the substance past recall.

"Oh! You are cruel—horrible!" she wailed, with her disarming, pathetic air of a scolded child that made a rough word to her seem cowardly as a blow.

"No need to break your heart over it," he said more gently; "and as to cruelty, Evelyn, haven't you abused my faith in your loyalty and dragged my pride in the dust by letting your name be coupled with that man's, though I told you plainly I had good reasons for distrusting and disliking him. I suppose he made a dead set at you while I was away—cowardly brute! But what hits me hardest of all is not your indiscretion; it's your persistent crookedness that poisons everything. It was the same over your bills last year—as I told you then. It's the same now. It's a poor look-out if a man can't trust his own wife; but I suppose you must have lied to me—and to Honor, a dozen times this last week."

It had cost him an effort to speak so plainly and at such length; but his wife's uneven breathing was the only answer he received.

He came closer and laid an arm round her shoulder.

"Evelyn—Ladybird—have you nothing to say to me?"

"N—no," she answered in a choked voice, without uncovering her face; "it wouldn't be any use."

"Why not? Am I so utterly devoid of understanding?"

"No—no. But you brave, strong sort of people can't ever know how hard little things are for—for people like me. It has been so—dull lately. You had—all those men, and—I was lonely. It was nice to have some one—wanting me—some one not miles above my head. But I knew you would be cross if I told you—and—and—" tears choked her utterance—"oh, it's no good talking. You'd never understand."

"I understand this much, my dear," he said. "You are done up with the strain of nursing, and badly in need of a change. But we shall soon get away on leave now; and I will see to it that you shall never feel dull or out of it again. Only one thing I insist upon—your intimacy with—that man is at an end. No more riding with him; no more going to his bungalow. From to-day you treat him and his sister as mere acquaintances."

She faced him now with terror-stricken eyes. For while he spoke, she had perceived the full extent of her dilemma.

"But, Theo—there isn't any need for that," she urged, with a thrill of fear at her own boldness. "They would think it so odd. What excuses could I possibly make?"

"That's your affair," Desmond answered unmoved. "You are a better hand at it than I am. My only concern is that you shall put an end to this equivocal state of things for good."

At that she hid her face again, with a sob of despair. "I can't do it—I can't. It's impossible!" she murmured vehemently more to herself than to him.

Her unexpected opposition fanned his smouldering wrath to a blaze. He took her by the shoulder—not roughly, but very decisively.

"Impossible! What am I to understand by that?"

It was the first time he had touched her untenderly; and she quivered in every nerve.

"I—I don't know. I can't explain. But—it's true."

For one instant he stood speechless;—then:

"Great Heavens, Evelyn!" he broke out, "don't you see that you are forcing upon me a suspicion that is an insult to us both?"

She looked up at him in blank bewilderment, then jerked herself free from his hand.

"I—I don't understand what you mean. But if you will think horrid things of me you may. I can't explain and—I won't!"

"You—won't," Desmond repeated slowly, frozen incredulity in his eyes; and she, fearing she had gone too far, caught at the hand she had shaken off.

"Oh, Theo, what does it matter after all?" she urged between irritation and despair, "when you know quite well it's you—that I love?"

The appeal was too ill-timed to be convincing; and Desmond's smile had a tinge of bitterness in it.

"You have an uncommonly original way of showing it," he said coldly; "and the statement doesn't square with your refusal to explain yourself. You have broken up the foundations of—things to-day, Evelyn! You have killed my trust in you altogether. You may remember, perhaps,—what that involves." And withdrawing his hand he turned and left her.

But he had roused her at last by the infliction of a pain too intense for tears. She sprang up, knocking over the chair that fell with a thud on the carpet, and hurried after him, clinging to his unresponsive arm.

"Theo, Theo, take care what you say! Do you mean—truthfully that you don't—love me any more?"

"God knows," he answered wearily. "Let me alone now, for Heaven's sake, till I can see things clearer. But I'll not alter my decision about Kresney, whatever your mysterious impossibilities may be."

Freeing himself gently but deliberately, he went over to the verandah door and stood there, erect, motionless, his back towards her, looking out upon the featureless huts of the servants' quarters with eyes that saw nothing save a vision of his wife's face, as it had shone upon him, more than two years ago, in the Garden of Tombs.

And it was shining upon him now—had he but guessed it,—not with the simple tenderness of girlhood; but with the despairing half-worshipping love of a woman.

When he heard the door close softly behind her, he came back into the room, mechanically righted the chair, and sitting down upon it buried his face in his hands.



CHAPTER XXXII.

EVEN TO THE UTMOST.

"How can Love lose, doing of its kind, Even to the utmost?" —EDWIN ARNOLD.

When Evelyn Desmond stumbled out of her husband's presence, stunned, bewildered, blinded with tears, the one coherent thought left in her mind was—Honor. Amid all that was terrifying and heart-breaking, Honor's love stood sure; a rock in mid-ocean—the one certainty that would never fail her, though the world went to pieces under her feet.

But Honor was not in the drawing-room; and Evelyn knocked timidly at her door.

"Come in," the low voice sounded from the other side. The girl was standing before the looking-glass, pinning on her hat.

"I was going across to ask after Mr Bradley," she explained, completing the operation before looking round. But at sight of Evelyn's face she hurried forward, holding out her arms.

"Dearest, what has happened to make you look like that?"

"Everything's happened! It's all finished between Theo and me. Broken up. He said so—and—I'm going away. There are—other people who care. I won't stay with a man who doesn't love me—or trust me——"

But Honor, holding her closer, looked searchingly into her face. "Evelyn, that is not true!"

"Well, he said so. And he doesn't tell lies!"

"Oh, you poor, poor child!" Honor murmured, kissing her with a strange fervour of sympathy. "But tell me—what's the reason of all this? If Theo did say such terrible things, he must have been cruelly hurt or very angry——"

"He was—very angry. I'm sure he won't forgive me this time; and I do believe it would be better all round if I went right away and left him in peace with his polo and his squadron and his precious Frontier Force——"

Honor's hand closed her lips. "My dear! Are you quite mad?"

"No. But I think I will be—very soon."

She spoke with such tragic certainty that the girl smiled in spite of herself. "Why? What have you done? Tell me—quick!"

"Oh! It's not me that's done," Evelyn declared with her engaging air of injured innocence. "It's other people—Major Wyndham, I believe—making remarks to him about me and—Mr Kresney."

"You've been there again. I was half afraid——"

"Why on earth shouldn't I? But now Theo's simply ordered me to drop them. It's quite impossible. I—I told him so."

"And you did not tell him why?"

"No. That would have been worse than all."

"But you will tell me. You must—if I am to help you."

Evelyn regarded her with a misty smile. "You're very wonderful, Honor. But even you can't help now. You see—it's money——"

"Money? How? What?"

"Promise you won't stop loving me and be angry—like Theo was," Evelyn pleaded, the incurable child flashing out in the midst of her distress. "I've had enough for to-day."

"I promise, dear. Go on."

Then the small sordid tragedy came out in broken snatches, to the last particle. For once in her life Evelyn Desmond spoke the unvarnished truth, adorning nothing, extenuating nothing; and Honour listened in an enigmatical silence—a silence which held even after the last word had been spoken. Evelyn looked up at her nervously.

"Honour, you are angry inside. I can see you are."

"No,—I am not angry," Honor answered slowly. "Where would be the use? I am simply—astounded that you could dare to run such risks with the love of a man who is one among a thousand."

She spoke the last words with unguarded enthusiasm; not perceiving, till they were out, the intent look on Evelyn's face.

"I knew you were friends with Theo, Honor," she said, "but I never thought you admired him as much—as all that."

The girl caught the note of jealousy, and coloured to the roots of her hair.

"I am not alone in my opinion," she said with an uneasy laugh. "There are dozens of others who would say no less. It is only that I want you to realise your good fortune before it is too late."

"But it is too late. If he's angry now he'll be furious when he knows. And unless I go away he will have to know."

"You shall not go away. And he must never know. He has suffered enough as it is——"

"Haven't I suffered just as much? You always think of him——"

"I am thinking of you both. How much is it that you still owe these Kresneys?"

"A hundred and fifty—no, two hundred. And I can't possibly pay it for months and months."

By this time Honor had crossed to the chest of drawers near her bed and had taken out a small japanned cash-box. Evelyn watched her movements with ecstatic enlightenment.

"Honor—what are you going to do?" she asked breathlessly.

But the girl neither answered nor turned her head. She took out a small sheaf of notes, locked the cash-box, and put it away. Then taking an envelope from her rack, she sealed and addressed it, while Evelyn leaned against the dressing-table, white and speechless from the shock of relief.

"The whole amount is in there," Honor said, handing her the envelope, and speaking in a repressed voice. "Luckily I had hardly touched my month's money. This makes you free to do as Theo wishes. I don't want a penny of it back—ever. And Theo is never to know anything about the whole transaction. Promise me that; and don't dare to break your word."

"I promise faithfully. Oh, Honor, you are my good angel! Shall I take it now—at once?"

"No. Not you. I must go myself. It ought to be delivered to him in person, and I must have a stamped receipt."

"Honor, how horrid! Just as if he were a shop! Besides—nobody but me can give it—or explain——"

"How can you explain? What will you say?"

"Just whatever comes into my head. Married women understand these sort of things. I shall know what to say—at the time."

"So will he. And then——"

"There you go!" Tears threatened again and her voice shook. "You talk about loving me and you don't trust me any more than Theo does. If I mayn't do this my own way I won't take the money at all."

"Don't talk nonsense, child," Honor cried desperately, her own self-control almost at an end. "You must take it. And if you insist on running risks with your eyes open, there's no more to be said except make haste and get the wretched thing done with. Go at once, in your jhampan—and don't leave it. Ask for Miss Kresney; and—shop or no shop—mind you get a proper receipt. Then come straight home and tell Theo you will do what he wishes. He will have had time to think things over and it will be all right. I know it will. Perhaps you would like me to speak of it to him, if I get the chance?"

"Yes—yes. Do, please! You dear, wonderful Honor! I don't know how to say thank you enough——"

But Honor disengaged herself something hurriedly. The ache of rebellion at her heart made Evelyn's effusiveness unendurable.

"Don't thank me at all," she said. "I don't want your thanks. I don't—deserve them. Take care of that envelope; it is worth more than two hundred rupees to you—and to me. Now go!"

And taking her by the shoulders, she put her gently outside the door. Then, drawing a deep breath of relief, stood alone with the realisation of all that had passed.

It seemed that she was not to be spared one drop of the cup of bitterness; that to her had been assigned the task of Sisyphus, the ceaseless rolling upward of a stone that as ceaselessly rolled down; the continual re-establishment of Evelyn in the shrine of her husband's heart. And there would be no end to it, even after John's return. So long as these two had need of her, heart and brain and hands would be at their service. She did not definitely think this, because true heroism is unaware of itself. "It feels, and never reasons; and therefore is always right."

Honor was aware of nothing just then, but the keen pang of self-reproach. "God forgive me!" she murmured, forming the words with her lips. "I did it for him."

Then she started, and the blood flew to her face. For Desmond's voice, imperious, entreating, rang clear through the quiet of the house.

"Ladybird, where are you? Come back!"

And without a thought of what she intended to say, Honor went out to the completion of her day's work. That was her practical way of looking at the matter.

"It will be easy enough," she reflected as she went. The entreaty in Desmond's voice assured her of that.

But in the drawing-room doorway she stood still, extraordinarily still. For Desmond himself confronted her; and she had not anticipated the ordeal of a face-to-face encounter.

Involuntarily, inevitably, their eyes met, and lingered in each other's depths. It was their first real greeting since his return; and they felt it as such. It was the first time also that Desmond had seen her completely since his lightning-flash of self-knowledge; and in the same instant the same thought sprang to both their minds—that, in the past three weeks, the detested shade had served them better than they knew.

For a full minute it seemed as if these two, whose courage was above proof, did not dare risk movement or speech. But it was no more than a minute. Each was incapable of suspecting the other's hidden fear; and now, as always, Evelyn was the foremost thought in the minds of both.

Desmond broke the spell by one step forward.

"I want Ladybird," he said abruptly. "Where is she?"

"I'm sorry. She has just gone out; but she won't be long."

Honor knew what must come next; knew also that she could neither lie to him nor tell him the truth.

"What possessed her to go out again? Do you know where she went?"

"Yes, Theo, I do know," she answered, coming into the room, and speaking with a noble directness that was like a light thrown across tortuous ways. "It was unavoidable. I would rather not say any more. You can trust me, can't you?"

"As I trust God and my own soul," he replied with profound conviction. "Did she seem—much upset?"

"Yes,—terribly upset. Not without reason. She told me everything. May I speak of it, Theo? You won't think me—intrusive?"

He gave her a quick, reproachful glance.

"You? Say what you please. I was a brute to her; and I know it. But I swear I wasn't hard on her till she refused to break with Kresney. Did she give you any sort of reason for that?"

"Yes; and I have quite cleared up the difficulty; though I'm afraid you mustn't ask me how."

"You seem hedged about with mysteries this evening," he remarked, a trifle curtly. "I confess I like daylight, and straight roads."

"Not more than I do, Theo. But you have said you can trust me; and at least I can assure you that there was no question of personal reluctance. Whatever Evelyn's failings may be, I know that you are the one big thing in her life."

Desmond compressed his lips, and looked down thoughtfully at the bearskin under his feet; while Honor allowed her eyes to dwell on the goodly lines of his face. Then he squared his shoulders and looked up at her.

"Honor—if that is true—and I think it is—you are bound to let me help her by the only means in my power. Give me back that promise of mine. I am strong enough now to tackle the subject; and I warn you fairly that I mean to have my own way. So don't waste time by beating about the bush."

The unexpected attack unbalanced her, and the blood left her face; but there was no hint of yielding in her eyes. They were equally matched these two—strength for strength; will for will. The ultimate victory might rest with either.

"Theo!" she protested, "you can ask that of me—to-day?"

"Yes, precisely—to-day. My mistake—my selfishness, has been very painfully brought home to me in the last hour; and I don't ask it of you—I demand it."

Honor drew herself up to her full height.

"You cannot command it, though," she said quietly. "And—I refuse."

The hot blood mounted to his temples, but he shut his teeth to keep back hasty speech. Then, as the silence grew and deepened between them, anger gave place to an unbounded admiration.

They were standing now face to face, beside the mantelpiece, exactly as they had stood on that eventful April afternoon a year ago. The memory came to them simultaneously; and each saw the light of it spring into the other's eyes. Honor's face softened.

"You remember," she urged. "I see that you remember; and the arguments you admitted then hold even more strongly now. Besides—you said I had earned the right——"

"So you have—ten times over since then. But to-day I see my duty to Ladybird so clearly, that no one—not even you—must stand in the way of it. You would realise better how I feel, if you had heard her pitiful excuses. She was 'dull.' She was 'lonely.' I had 'all those men,'—so I had. She was right, poor child! Truth is, my life is so richly filled with 'all those men,' that I sometimes wonder if I was justified in bringing a woman into it at all. But having done so, I'm bound to take her where she won't be tempted to entangle herself with cads like Kresney, just because she feels dull and lonely. That's the source of half the catastrophes one hears of in this country; and in nine cases out of ten I blame the husband more than the wife. You see, I happen to believe that when a man takes a woman's life into his hands, he makes himself responsible not only for her honour, but for her happiness and well-being. I'm not setting up a standard for other fellows, remember. I am simply stating my own by way of explanation."

Honor's eyes shone with a very tender light.

"I can only say that Evelyn is—a singularly fortunate woman. If most men held such views there would be ninety per cent fewer marriages in the world."

"Possibly. But that doesn't put me in the wrong. Now, I have set the picture before you as I see it——"

"Yes, with the core of it left out,—the loss to you and to the Regiment."

"Oh, hang it all!" Desmond protested with an embarrassed laugh. "One's bound to leave out something. That's the whole art of making a decent picture! But it strikes me we've had enough of argument. Whether I have convinced you or not, Honor, you must let me off that promise."

The girl held her breath, nerving herself for a last desperate stand.

"Forgive me, if you know how, Theo," she said; "but I cannot—I will not give up my right to save you from yourself."

Desmond simply raised his head and looked at her, as though he could not believe that he had heard aright; and when at last he spoke, his voice had the level note of authority which she had been dreading to hear.

"At the risk of seeming brutal, Honor, I warn you that I'll not give you one minute's peace till you unsay those words—for Ladybird's sake."

Then, to his unspeakable consternation, she took a step backward and sank into the chair behind her, pressing both hands over her eyes.

"Do whatever you think right," she murmured brokenly. "You are too strong for me altogether."

There are victories more bitter than defeat; and Desmond had no words in which to answer this girl, who cared so strangely, so intensely, much what became of him.

When a woman breaks down utterly in the presence of the man who loves her—whether he dare acknowledge it or no—words are not apt to meet the exigencies of the case; and Desmond had no other panacea at his command. He could only stand looking down upon her, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as if he feared that they might go out to her of their own accord; his eyes darkened with such intensity of pain that it was well for both that hers were shielded from sight of them.

He longed, beyond all things on earth, to kneel down and comfort her. He knew that three words from him would put an end to her distress, and cancel his own quixotic plan of action. But the words were not uttered; and he remained standing on the hearth-rug with his hands in his pockets. There was no sign in the quiet room that anything noteworthy had taken place. Yet on those two prosaic details the future of three lives depended—a man silent when he might have spoken; planted squarely on his feet when he might have been on his knees.

Rob got up and stretched himself elaborately, vented his boredom in a long musical yawn, then settled down to sleep again in a more expansive attitude; and Evelyn's French clock struck six with cheerful unconcern.

The silence, which seemed interminable, might possibly have lasted three minutes, when Honor let fall her hands, and looked up at the man who had mastered her. He looked what he was—unconquerable; and if she had not loved him already, she must infallibly have loved him then.

"Please understand," she said, and her voice was not quite steady, "that I have not given my consent to this. You have simply wrenched it from me by the sheer force of—your personality. You have not altered my conviction by a hair's-breadth. What you have set your heart on is a piece of unjustifiable quixotism; and I have only one thing to beg of you now. Do nothing decisive till you have spoken to Paul."

Desmond sighed.

"Very well. I will tackle him to-morrow."

"What a hurry you are in!" And she smiled faintly.

"I believe in striking while the iron's hot."

"And I believe in giving it time to cool. May I—first, say one word to Paul?"

"No, certainly not." The refusal came out short and sharp. "If you two combined forces against me I should be done for! Leave me to manage Paul alone."

With a sigh she rose to her feet.

Then, quite suddenly, her calmness fell away from her.

"Theo—Theo," she protested, "if you really persist in this, and carry it through, I don't think I shall ever forgive you."

The pain in her voice was more than he could bear.

"For God's sake spare me that!" he pleaded. "I am losing enough as it is."

And now his hands went out to her irresistibly, in the old impulsive fashion, that seemed an echo from a former life.

With superlative courage she turned and surrendered both her own. She wanted to prove herself, at all points, simply his friend; and he gave her no cause to repent of her courage, or to suspect the strong restraint he put upon himself during that brief contact, which, at a moment so charged with emotion, might well have proved fatal to them both.

"Thank you, Honor," he said quietly.

But for her, speech was impossible. She bowed her head, and left him standing alone, with the dregs of victory.

On reaching the blessed shelter of her own room she bolted the door; and for once in her life grief had its way with her unhindered.

She could not guess, while railing against Desmond's tenacity of purpose, that the same passionate self-reproach which had urged her to go all lengths for Evelyn, was urging him now to a supreme act of self-devotion to his wife's happiness.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE ONE BIG THING.

"The sky that noticed all makes no disclosure; And earth keeps up her terrible composure." —BROWNING.

His wife herself was, in the meanwhile, journeying hopefully back to the Kresneys' bungalow, on the shoulders of four long-suffering jhampanis, who murmured a little among themselves, without rancour or vexation, concerning the perplexing ways of Memsahibs in general. For the native of India the supreme riddle of creation is the English "Mem."

They had but just cast aside their liveries and, squatting on their heels in a patch of shadow, had embarked on leisurely preparations for the evening hookah and the evening meal. The scent of curry was in their nostrils; the regular "flip-flap" of the deftly turned chupattie was in their ears; when a flying order had come from the house—"The Memsahib goes forth in haste!" With resigned mutterings and head-shakings they had responded to the call of duty, and the mate,[30] who was a philosopher, had a word of comfort for them as they went. "Worse might have befallen, brothers, seeing that it hath pleased God to make our Memsahib light as a bird. Had it been the Miss Sahib, now——" A unanimous murmur testified that the Miss Sahib would have been a far weightier affair!

[30] Headman.

And on this occasion they must have found their mistress even lighter than a bird; for instead of lying back among her cushions, she sat upright, in strained anticipation, pressing between her hands the miraculous envelope which was to buy back for her all that she had so lightly flung away.

Honor had spoken truth when she said that Desmond was the one big thing in Evelyn's life. Everything else about her was small as her person, and little more effectual. But this impetuous, large-hearted husband of hers—whose love she had been so proud to win, and had taken such small pains to keep—could by no means be chiselled into proportions with the rest of the picture. He took his stand, simply and naturally, on the heights; and if it was an effort to keep up with him, it was a real calamity to be left behind. Understand him she could not, and never would; but it sufficed that she saw him fearless, chivalrous, admired on all sides, and singularly good to look at. This last should perhaps have been set down first; for there is no denying that her remorse, her suffering, had been less overwhelming without that unexpected vision of his face.

But things were going to be all right soon. She would never hide anything from him again—never. And the resolve may be counted unto her for righteousness, even if there could be small hope of its fulfilment.

Such absorbing considerations crowded out all thought of Honor's generosity. It was just Honor. No one else would ever give you two hundred rupees, at a moment's notice, as if it were sixpence. But you might expect anything from Honor—that was how she was made. And the one important point was—Theo. Nothing else really mattered at all.

As Kresney's bungalow came in sight she found herself fervently hoping that he might have gone out; that she might have to encounter nothing more formidable than Miss Kresney, or, better still, the bearer.

But before the gate was reached, she caught sight of him in the verandah, taking his ease very completely in one of those ungainly chairs, with arms extending to long wooden leg-rests, which seem to belong to India and no other country in the world. He had exchanged his coat for a Japanese smoking jacket, whose collar and cuffs could ill afford to brave daylight; and his boots for slippers of Linda's making, whose conflicting colours might have set an oyster's teeth on edge! His own teeth were clenched upon a rank cigar; and he was reading a paper-bound novel that she would not have touched with a pair of tongs.

He had never appeared to worse advantage; and Evelyn, fresh from her husband's air of unobtrusive neatness and distinction, was conscious of a sudden recoil—a purely physical revulsion; to which was added the galling thought that she owed her recent suffering and humiliation to her intimacy with a man who could look like that!

As she turned in at the gate, he sprang up and ran down the steps. Her return astounded him. He was prepared for anything at that moment, except the thing that happened—a common human experience.

"Back again, Mrs Desmond!" he cried cheerfully. "This is a most unexpected pleasure. Rukho jhampan."[31]

[31] Set down the jhampan.

But Evelyn countermanded the order so promptly that Kresney's eyebrows went up. She handed him her note, clutching the wooden pole nervously with the other hand.

"I had to come out again—on business," she said, with that ready mingling of the false and true which had been her undoing. "And I thought I could leave this for Miss Kresney as I passed. Will you please give it to her. I am sorry she is not in."

He took the envelope, and watched her while she spoke with narrowed eyes.

"You are in trouble?" The intimate note in his voice jarred for the first time. "Something has upset you since you left? You are quite knocked up with all this. You ought to have been in Murree two weeks ago."

And, presumably by accident, his hand came down upon her own. She drew it away with an involuntary shudder; and Kresney's sallow face darkened.

"You have no business to say that," she rebuked him with desperate courage; "I prefer to be with my husband till he is well enough to go too. You won't forget my note, will you? Good-night."

"Good-night, Mrs Desmond," he answered formally, without proffering his hand.

As he stood watching her depart, all that was worst in him rose to the surface and centred in his close-set eyes. "By God, you shall be sorry for that!" he muttered.

But in mounting the steps his curiosity was awakened by the bulkiness of Linda's letter. He turned it over once or twice; pressed it between his fingers and detected the crackle of new bank-notes.

"So that's it, is it? Well, I can forgive her. No doubt she had a jolly hot quarter of an hour; and I hope that fellow is enjoying himself now—like hell!" Then, without a glimmer of hesitation, he opened his sister's letter.

* * * * *

And, out in the road, Evelyn's jhampanis were experiencing fresh proof of the indubitable madness of Memsahibs.

No sooner were their faces set cheerfully homeward, than they were brought up short by an order to turn and carry her in the opposite direction. No destination was specified; and the road indicated led out towards the hills. Hookahs and chupatties tugging at their heart-strings, roused them to mild rebellion. The mate, as established spokesman, murmured of khana[32] and the lateness of the hour; adding that the road behind them led away from the Sahibs' bungalows to the boundary of the station.

[32] Food.

But Evelyn, whose Hindustani was still a negligible quantity, made no attempt to follow the man's remarks. She reiterated her wish, adding irritably, "Make no foolish talk. It is an order!"

Those magic words, Hukm hai, are the insignia of authority through the length and breadth of India; and consoling one another with the reflection that if the Memsahib had small understanding, the Sahib was great, they jogged obediently along the lonely road toward the hills.

Evelyn's order had been given on the impulse of a moment. The idea of confronting her husband again in less than ten minutes had overpowered her suddenly and completely. She had only one thought—to gain-time; to screw up her courage for the ordeal; and to realise a little what she intended to say. It is only the strong who dare to trust that the right words will be given them.

Her interview with Kresney had unnerved her; and a lurking doubt quenched the spark of hope at her heart. Would Theo accept her tardy obedience without asking unanswerable questions. Or would he simply put her aside, with his inexorable quietness, that was far more terrible than any spoken word?

In all the pain and bewilderment of their short interview, nothing had so smitten her as his recoil—first and last—from the touch of her hands. The bare possibility that he might treat her so again made return seem out of the question. And her unhappiness struck deeper than the fear of the moment. For the first time she realised her own instability of feeling and purpose; and with the realisation came a new paralysing fear of the future—of herself.

For the first time it dawned upon her that she was unworthy of the love and faith that had been given her in such generous measure;—which was proof conclusive, though she did not guess it, that Honor Meredith had not laboured in vain. To know oneself unworthy is to have achieved the first step upward. A year ago she would have been incapable of such knowledge; and now that it had come to her she was afraid.

Sudden cessation of movement roused her; and the mate, turning his head, spoke with respectful urgency.

"Protector of the Poor, it is not well to go farther. Behold the swift going of the sun. Before your servants can reach the bungalow there will be no more light, and it is against orders——The Sahib will make angry talk."

Evelyn did not follow the whole of this appeal; but the man's anxiety was evident. She caught the words "Sahib" and "angry" with an inward shudder; she had endured enough of the Sahib's anger for one day, and her own common-sense told her that she had behaved foolishly.

Even outlying bungalows were no longer in sight. A boundary pillar gleamed ghostlike a few hundred yards ahead. The last rim of the sun had already slipped behind the hills. Their harsh peaks black against a sky of faint amber, had a threatening look; and darkness was racing up out of the east. The mate was right. It would be upon them almost before they could reach the bungalow; and to be out after sunset was strictly against the rules of the station.

Sudden terror clutched her; a nameless dread of the country—of the natives—which she had never been able to shake off; a paralysing sense that she was alone in their midst—alone on the verge of night.

Fear unsteadied her voice as she answered the man. "Turn, turn at once, and go quickly,—run; the Sahib will give jacksheesh—run!"

But before they could obey, a white figure sprang up from behind a cluster of rocks. Quick as thought followed a flash, a report, a heart-piercing scream; and the men, with a cry of "Ghazi! Ghazi!" unceremoniously set down their mistress and fled.

The fanatic fled also, certain of a passport into Paradise; and as Evelyn Desmond fell back among her cushions, a shadow, that had not been there before, crept slowly across the shoulder of her muslin dress. The oncoming darkness mattered nothing to her now; and she herself, a mere atom of life, blown out like a candle, mattered less than nothing to the desert and the imperturbable hills.

But justice does not invariably tarry. The arm of the Lord is not shortened, though in these days of omniscience man has a larger faith in his own; and the Ghazi, heading post-haste through the dusk plunged unwittingly into a group of villagers and cattle returning home.

A short scuffle ensued, shouts and the tramping of feet—sounds which brought the flying jhampanis back in a twinkling, surcharged with voluble valour and explanations. Resistance was useless. Moreover, to the fanatic, death is the one great gift. With stoical indifference the man found himself overpowered and disarmed. Zealous villagers, unrolling turbans and kummerbunds, made fast his arms, bound him securely about the waist and neck, and in this ignominious fashion led him back to where Evelyn Desmond lay untroubled and alone.

The jhampanis shouldered their burden once more; and fell to discussing, in lively detail, the hanging and subsequent burning that awaited the Taker of Life, who walked unconcernedly in their midst.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

C'ETAIT MA VIE.

"C'etait toute petite, ma vie: Mais c'etait ma vie." —ANATOLE FRANCE.

"Honor, come out! I want you."

Desmond's voice, followed by a peremptory rap on the door, startled the girl back to a realisation of the flight of time. The sun had set, and a grey light filled the room. Without a passing thought of the tears upon her face, she lowered the bolt and confronted Evelyn's husband.

"Ladybird isn't back yet," he said quickly. "It'll be dark in ten minutes. I must know where she went to, and go after her myself."

Honor bit her lip. To tell him at such a moment would be madness; yet he was in an ill mood to oppose.

"Can't you send the orderly?" she asked, with something less than her wonted assurance.

"No. I am going myself. This is no time to fuss over trifles. Something may have gone wrong——"

"Hush,—listen! What's that?"

The shuffling and grunting of jhampanis, and the thud of the lowered dandy, were distinctly audible in the stillness.

"There she is!" Desmond said eagerly; and a moment later the blood in his veins was chilled by a long-drawn wail from the verandah. "Hai—hai—mere Memsahib murgya!"[33]

[33] My mistress is dead.

Before the cry had spent itself he was through the "chick," down the verandah steps at a bound, and bending over his unconscious wife. Her head had dropped down to one shoulder, and on the other ominous stains showed darkly in the half light.

"Great God—murder!" Desmond muttered between his teeth. "What devil's work is this?" he added, turning upon the cowering jhampanis.

"Ghazi, Sahib; Ghazi," they told him in eager chorus, with a childish mingling of excitement and terror; and would fain have enlarged upon their own valour in pursuing the Taker of Life, but that Desmond's curt "chupraho"[34] checked them in mid-career.

[34] Be quiet.

"Stay where you are, Honor," he added to the girl, who had followed him, and now stood at the head of the steps. "I am bringing her in."

"Is she—alive?"

"God knows. Look sharp and get some brandy."

He took up one limp hand and laid his fingers on her wrist. A faint flutter of life rewarded him.

"Thank Heaven!" he murmured; and lifted her tenderly in his arms. But at the foot of the steps he paused.

"Nassur Ali—the Doctor Sahib. Ride like the wind!" Then turning again to the jhampanis, big with harrowing detail, added: "The devil who did this thing, hath he escaped?"

"Nahin, nahin,[35] Sahib. Would your Honour's servants permit? The jackal spawn is even now in the hands of the police. May his soul burn in hell——"

[35] No, no.

"It is enough—go!" Desmond commanded in the peremptory vernacular; and mounted the steps with his burden.

Honor stood awaiting him in the drawing-room, white as her dress, tears glistening on her cheeks and lashes, yet very composed withal.

At sight of his face she started; it was grey-white and set like a rock. Only the eyes were alive—and ruthless, as she had never yet seen them, and prayed that she never might see them again.

"They've got the man," he said between his teeth. "I wish to God I could shoot him with my own hand."

Then he went forward to the sofa, and laid his wife upon it. His quick eye detected at once the nature of the wound. "Lung," he muttered mechanically. "No hope."

With the same unnatural calmness, he drew the long pins out of her hat—the poor, pretty hat which had so delighted her six hours ago; and as she moved, with a small sound of pain, he applied the spirit to her lips.

"What is it?" she murmured. "Don't touch me."

The faint note of distaste struck on her husband's heart; for he did not understand its meaning.

"Ladybird—look!" he entreated gently. "It is Theo." She opened her eyes, and gazed blankly up at him, where he leaned above her.

Then, as recognition dawned, he saw the shadow of fear darken them, and instantly dropped on one knee enclosing her with his arm.

"Ladybird, forgive me! You must never be frightened of me—never!"

The intensity of his low tone roused her half-awakened brain.

"But you were so angry, I was—afraid to come home."

"My God!" the man groaned under his breath. But before he could grasp the full horror of it all, she shrank closer to him, clutching at his arm, her eyes wide with terror.

"There's blood on me—look! It was—that man. Is it bad? Am I going—to die?"

"Not if human power can save you, my dear little woman. Mackay will soon be here."

But pain and fear clouded her senses, and she scarcely heard his words.

"Theo—I can't see you properly. Are you there?"

"Yes, yes. I am here."

The necessity for speech tortured him. But her one coherent longing was for the sound of his voice.

"Don't let me die, please—not yet. I won't make you angry any more, I promise. And—it frightens me so. Keep tight hold of me; don't let me slip—away."

Desmond had a sensation as if a hand had gripped his throat, choking him, so that he could neither speak nor breathe. But with a supreme effort he mastered it; and leaning closer to her, spoke slowly, steadily, that she might lose no word of the small comfort he had power to give.

"I am holding you, my darling; and I will hold you to the very end. Only try—try to be brave, and remember that—whatever happens, you are safe—in God's hands."

A pitiful sob broke from her.

"But I don't understand about God! I only want—you. I want your hands—always. Where is the other one? Put it—underneath me—and hold me—ever so close."

He obeyed her, in silence, to the letter. She winced a little at the movement; then her head nestled into its resting-place on the wounded shoulder, with a sigh that had in it no shadow of pain; and bending down he kissed her, long and fervently.

"Theo—darling," she breathed ecstatically, when her lips were free for speech, "now I know it isn't true—what you said about not—caring any more. And I am—ever so happy. God can't let me—die—now."

And on the word, a rush of blood from the damaged lung brought on the inevitable choking cough, that shattered the last remnant of her strength. Her fingers closed convulsively upon his; and at the utmost height of happiness—as it were, on the crest of a wave—her spirit slipped from its moorings;—and he was alone.

Still he knelt on, without movement, without thought, almost it seemed without breathing, like a man turned to stone; holding her, as he had promised, to the very end, and—beyond.

Honor, standing afar off, dazed and heart-broken, one hand clasping the back of a chair for support, heard at last the rattle of approaching hoofs, and nerved herself for the ordeal of speech. But when Mackay entered with Paul Wyndham, Desmond made no sign. The little doctor's keen eye took in the situation at a glance; and at the unlooked-for relief of Paul's presence, Honor's strained composure deserted her. She swayed a little, stretched out a hand blindly towards him, and would have fallen, but that he quietly put his arm round her, and with a strange mixture of feelings saw her head drop on to his shoulder. But it was only for a moment. Contact with the roughness of his coat roused her on the verge of unconsciousness. She drew herself up, a faint colour mantling in her cheeks, and tried to smile.

"Come away," Paul whispered, leading her to the door. "We can give him no help—or comfort—yet."



AFTERMATH.

"Had he not turned them in his hand, and thrust Their high things low and laid them in the dust, They had not been this splendour."

I.

Some two weeks after that day of tragedy—a tragedy that had stirred and enraged the whole station—Theo Desmond and Paul Wyndham left Kohat on furlough, long over-due to both. Such a wander-year, spent together, had, from early days, been one of their cherished dreams; but, as too often happens, there proved little family likeness between the dream and the reality. In the dream, Desmond was naturally to be the leading spirit of their grand tour. In the reality, all practical plans and considerations had devolved on Paul, and Theo it was who assented, unquestioning, uncaring, so long as he could put half the world between himself and Kohat.

His long illness, the fear of losing his sight, the double shock of self-revelation and loss had affected him mentally as blow on blow affects a man physically. Since the night of his wife's death none had seen him strongly moved, either by sorrow, pleasure, or anger. He had said and done all that was required of him with a strained unnatural precision. Even to the few who had drawn nearest to him in former times of trouble, he seemed now like a house whose every door is locked and every shutter drawn.

Outwardly unmoved, he had endured the ordeal of Evelyn's funeral, the storm of public surprise and indignation aroused by her murder. Though British officers, not a few, have been victims to fanaticism in India, no Englishwoman had ever been shot at before, and the strong feeling aroused by so dastardly a crime had been long in subsiding. The news had been wired to Peshawur. The Commissioner had galloped across thirty miles of desert next morning; and before Evelyn's funeral, at sundown, her death had been openly avenged by the hanging of her murderer and the burning of his body.

On that day Honor had gone over to Mrs Conolly's bungalow, there to remain till Meredith's arrival; and in the two weeks that followed, Desmond had seen little of her—or of any one save Paul. She had helped him in disposing of Evelyn's personal belongings; and at his earnest request, had accepted one or two of her trinkets, the remainder being sent home to her mother. At his request also, Honor had taken over charge of his piano while he was away; and if a touch of constraint marked their parting, neither was aware of it in the other.

By one sole distinction he had set her apart from the rest. To her, and her only, he could and did speak of his wife; for the simple reason that in her he recognised a love and a sorrow that matched his own—a sorrow untainted by the lurking after thought, "Better so"; and that tacit recognition had been for Honor the single ray of light in her dark hour. Once, before parting, she had spoken of it to Paul, who thenceforward knew his friend's aloofness for what it was—not the mere reserve of the strong man in pain, but the old incurable loyalty to his wife that had kept them all at arm's length in respect of her while she lived.

So they two went forth together on their sorrowful pilgrimage; and, once gone, there fell a curtain of silence between Desmond and those he had left behind. Week after week, month after month, that silence remained unbroken, though Olliver and his wife wrote and John Meredith wrote also on his return; though they plied him with questions, with news of the Regiment and Border politics, never a sight of his handwriting came to cheer them. But for Paul's unfailing, if discouraging bulletins, no word of him would have reached them at all.

Honor herself wrote twice, without avail; and thereafter accepted the fiat of silence, gleaning what comfort she might from a steady correspondence with Paul. It was not in her to guess how those fortnightly letters, so frank in expression, so reserved in essence, had upheld him through the darkest and most difficult months of his life; months in which he could only stand aside and wait till the man he loved, as Jonathan loved David, should come forth out of the house of sorrow and take up the broken threads of life once more.

Meantime, with inexhaustible patience, he continued to try one place after another, one distraction after another, with small result. It was a costly prescription, and though Desmond imagined he contributed his share, the chief of it was paid by his friend. During those first months he read little, talked little, and rarely expressed a definite wish. He would go anywhere, do anything in reason, so long as no mental effort was required of him; but music—to Paul's utter mystification—he decisively refused to hear. For the time being the man's whole nature seemed awry, and there were moments when Paul's heart contracted with dread of the worst.

Christmas found them at Le Trayas, on the Esterelles coast, an isolated paradise unprofaned by sight or sound of the noisy, restless life of the French Riviera. Here Theo Desmond had spent whole hours at a stretch, basking in the temperate December sunshine, under feathery mimosa bushes, that glorify the foothills,—silent as ever, yet seemingly content.

Still he wrote no line to the Regiment, that for thirteen years had stood second only to his God, and very rarely asked for news of it or his friends. By now their letters betrayed hints and more than hints of increasing anxiety. The men wrote tentatively; but Frank Olliver, nothing if not direct, poured forth her loving, unreasoning Irish heart on closely-written sheets of foreign paper, to Wyndham's alternate distraction and delight.

"Is there no manner of wild tale you could invent now to rouse the blessed man?" she wrote about this time. "Sure it's past believing that his pretty doll of a wife—who went near to ruin him living—should stand between him and us that love him, worse than ever now she's dead. The fear of it haunts me like a bogey and makes me go red hot inside."

The selfsame fear made Paul Wyndham go cold in the small hours; but he could not bring himself to write of it, even to Frank.

At last, in the second week of the New Year, there came news that wrought a change in Desmond; news from John Meredith of his father's broken health and his sister's immediate departure for England. She would sail in a week, he wrote, and would travel overland.

Paul, reading the letter to his friend, had a sudden inspiration.

"Theo, let's go and meet her at Marseilles!" he said eagerly, "and see her safe into the express. It would please Meredith—and her too."

For the fraction of a second, an answering eagerness glowed in Desmond's eyes; then vanished, leaving his face a politely interested mask. But Paul had seen the flash and pressed his point accordingly.

"Of course you'll come, Theo. A sight of her will do us both good. I'm glad I thought of it."

"So am I," Desmond agreed, without a particle of gladness in his level tone. "But—you can leave me out of the programme. One of us is enough—for all that is needed; and it's only right it should be you."

"I don't quite follow the logic of that."

Desmond's set face softened to a smile. "Don't you, old man? Then you must take my word for it."

In spite of that smile Paul heard the note of finality in his friend's voice and said no more.

On the appointed morning he set out alone to meet the ship, pain and elation contending in his heart. But when, at last, he set eyes on Honor Meredith, and saw her whole face lighten at sight of him, complexities were submerged in a flood-tide of simple, human joy.

But the exalted moment was short-lived. He could not fail to see how, instinctively, her glance travelled beyond him; how her lower lip was indrawn for the space of a heart-beat; and when their hands met, he, as instinctively, answered her thought.

"I couldn't persuade Theo to come. He is still difficult to rouse or move. The news of your father did seem to stir him and I am hoping he will write."

She let out her breath unsteadily. "Oh, if he only would! This interminable silence seems—so inhuman. In a way, I understand it; but the others, out there, are getting terribly unhappy over it; John and Frank more than all. You don't think—do you—that there is really any fear——?"

The look in her eyes recalled that terrible night of March when they two had watched over Theo in turn; and Paul knew that now—as then—she craved no cheap consolation, but the truth.

"There have been bad moments," he admitted, "when one was afraid——But now I honestly believe that he will fight again and live again with his old zest; and I want you to believe it too, with all your heart."

"I will believe it—with all my heart," she answered very low and steadily. "Have you any plans—beyond Le Trayas?"

"Nothing definite. I just keep my eye on him and act accordingly. In April, I think Bellagio would be a sound move. There, if anywhere, the call of the spring should prove irresistible. At least it's a prescription worth trying."

She smiled; and, even in smiling, he noted the pathetic droop of her eyelids and the corners of her lips.

"How wise you are for him, Paul! And you will come home for a little before going back?"

"I hope so, devoutly, if Bellagio proves a success."

The crowd about them, surging chaotically to and fro, recalled them to prosaic considerations of luggage and a corner seat in the express, which Paul—unhurried yet singularly efficient—did not fail to secure. That done, Honor was confided to the care of an assiduous guard, and was supplied with fruit, chocolate, and more newspapers than she could possibly digest;—trifling services which the girl, in her great loneliness, rated at their true value.

By that time the platform had emptied its contents into the high, dingy-looking carriages of the Paris-Lyons Express. A gong clanged. Honor put out an ungloved hand and had some ado not to wince before it was released.

"Thank you—for everything," she murmured, sudden tears starting to her eyes. "I only wish Theo could have come too!"

"I'll tell him that. It may do him good!"

In spite of herself the blood flew to her cheeks. But before she could answer, the train jolted forward—and she was gone.

Paul Wyndham stood a long while motionless, looking into empty space; then, with a sensible jar, he came very completely back to earth.

* * * * *

It was near sunset when he reached their haven of refuge, a small hotel set in a rocky garden overlooking the sea. No sign of Theo within doors,—and Paul strolled down the narrow pathway that led to his friend's favourite seat. There, at the far end, leaning upon the balustrade, he sighted an unmistakable figure black against a blazing heaven rippled with light clouds that gave promise of greater glory to come.

Footsteps behind him roused Desmond. He started and turned about with a new eagerness that was balm to the heart of his friend.

"Ah—there you are! It's been a long day." His eyes scanned Wyndham's face. "You've seen her?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes—I have seen her."

"How did she look? Well?"

"She looked very beautiful," Paul answered simply, an odd thrill in his voice. "But not—not like her old self. One can see—she has suffered."

Desmond bit his lip and turned away again. A sudden mist blurred the sunset splendour, the bronze and purple iridescence of the sea. Paul went on speaking.

"She sent you a message, Theo—she wished you had come too."

"Did she? That was kind of her.—Sir John no worse?"

"Apparently not. She will write from Mavins."

"Good."

He leaned on the balustrade as before and tacitly dismissed the subject; but Wyndham, regarding him thoughtfully, and remembering Honor's tell-tale blush, fell to dreaming of a golden future for these two who were dearer to him than his own soul.

Suddenly Desmond spoke again in an altered tone.

"Paul—I've been thinking——"

"Have you, indeed! You do very little else these days. What's the outcome?"

"Nothing brilliant. Quite the reverse. I'm a coward at heart. That's all about it."

Paul smiled as a mother might smile at the vagaries of a beloved child.

"Can't say I've seen any symptoms of the disease myself."

"Well—you're going to, old man, plain as daylight. It's like this——" he squared his shoulders with a jerk and thrust both hands into his pockets. "I can't face—going back to Kohat. I've suspected it for some time. Now I know it. There's too much—that is to say—there are reasons. Pretty big ones. But they don't bear talking of. Think me a broken-backed cornstalk if you must. It'll hurt. But it can't be helped."

For an instant Paul's heart stood still. Then: "Don't talk that brand of nonsense to me, old man," he said gently. "But if you really can't go back—what then?"

"I said—to Kohat. The reliefs will take us to Dera in the autumn. Well—I want to work another six months on urgent private affairs——" he tried to smile. "Do you think the Colonel will come within a hundred miles of understanding and be persuaded to back me up?"

"I think, just at present, he would be loth to refuse you anything, Theo. But still——"

"Well—what?"

His tone had a touch of defiance, almost of temper, purely refreshing to hear.

"Well, naturally—I was thinking of the Regiment——"

"Damn the Regiment!" Desmond flashed out, and turning on his heel strode off toward a wooded headland, whose red rocks took an almost unearthly glow from the setting sun.

For several seconds Paul looked after him, scarcely able to believe his ears. If Theo had arrived at damning the Regiment, Frank's fear might not prove to be chimerical after all; and yet the flash of temper, the renewed energy of speech and movement were symptoms of the best.

Paul sat down on the bench, folded his arms, and proceeded to consider, in practical fashion, how they could secure the desired extension of leave. Theo might dub himself coward if he would. Paul knew better. He had long ago guessed that stronger forces were at work in his friend than mere sorrow for the loss of a wife, however dear—and he had guessed right. It was Desmond's sensitive conscience that had been his arch tormentor throughout those months of silence and strangeness that had brought him near to madness and Paul near to despair.

Tragedy on tragedy—loss of the Boy, dread of blindness, the shock of his own discovery of Evelyn's defection, and the awful fashion of her death—had so unsteadied and overwrought his strong brain that, even now, he could neither see nor think clearly in respect of those most terrible weeks of his life. Obsessed by an exaggerated sense of his own disloyalty to the wife who should never have been transplanted to such stony soil, he saw himself virtually her murderer, in the eyes of that God who was, for him, no vague abstraction but the most commanding reality of his consciousness.

Day after day, week after week, he had lived over and over again the events of that fateful month, from the moment of his return, to the last bewildering, unforgettable scene with his wife. Always he discovered fresh excuses for her. Always he lashed himself unsparingly for his own failings;—the initial folly of bringing her to the Frontier, his promise to Honor that had delayed his determination to exchange, and more than all, that final straight speaking—wrung from him by pain and shame—that had made fear of him outweigh even her childish terror of the dark. In the hidden depth of his heart he had been untrue to her, and his passionate attempt at reparation had come too late. There had even been fevered moments when he told himself that he, Theo Desmond, not the crazy fanatic in quest of sainthood—should by rights have been hanged and burned on the day of her death.

The whole tragical tangle, blurred and distorted by incessant repetition, had come at last to seem almost a separate entity; a horror, outside his own control, that now shrank to a pin-point and now loomed gigantic, oppressive, till all true sense of proportion was lost. The silence that he could not force himself to break, infallibly made matters worse. And now came Honor, re-awakening the great love he had wrestled with and trampled on to very small purpose; a love beside which his chivalrous tenderness for Evelyn showed like the flame of a candle in the blaze of noon.

Her sudden return, the perturbing sense of her nearness, had for the first time wrenched him away from the obsession of the past. But even now he dared not frankly face the future; dared not let his mind dwell on the colourless emptiness of life without her. Neither could he, as yet, face the only alternative—to tell her, of all women, that he had loved her before his wife's death. Besides, there was Paul, who obviously cared, in his own repressed fashion, and who must not be baulked of his chance.

Yet to-night, as he tramped the whole round of that rocky headland—in the glow of a sky rippled by now with feathers of flame—his blood was in a fever for sheer desire of her, and he cursed the folly that had impelled him to refuse the morning's golden opportunity.

Returning later, in a more chastened mood, he found Wyndham sitting still as a statue, seemingly forgetful of his existence; and of a sudden his heart contracted at thought of his friend's inexhaustible patience, his unquestioning acceptance of moods to which he did not hold the key. Stepping lightly, Desmond came up behind him and laid both hands on his shoulders.

"Forgive me, old man. I didn't precisely mean all that——"

Wyndham scarcely started.

"I thought as much! Don't apologise!" he said, looking up with his slow smile. "It was a pure pleasure to hear you swear again!"

Desmond laughed abruptly. "You'll get more than enough of that kind of pleasure if they refuse me my six months!—But look here, I'm thinking I can't keep you away from them any longer——"

"My dear Theo," Paul interposed with gentle decision. "So long as you stay—I stay. That goes without saying. Meredith will fix it up for us—no fear. Come on now. It's time we went indoors."

They sauntered back up the gravel path together without further speech, yet with thoughts more closely linked than either guessed; thoughts that flew instinctively as homing doves to the one beloved woman—Honor Meredith.

II.

A late April evening on Lake Como:—for the initiated there is magic in the very words; magic of light and warmth and colour; glory of roses and wistaria, that everywhere renew the youth of ancient ruins and walls and weave a spring garment even for the sombre cypress who has none of his own. Love-song of birds, laughter of men and women, the passionate blue above, the sun-warmed cobblestones underfoot—in these also there is magic, unseizable, irresistible as the happiness of a child. There is nothing great about Como, nothing in the measured beauty of her encircling hills to uplift or strike awe into the soul of a man. She is exquisite, finished; a garden enclosed, a garden of enchantment that speaks straight to the heart; and the banner over her is peace.

Here Paul Wyndham—with the instinctive understanding that belongs to a great love—had chosen to round off the wander-year devoted to his friend. Throughout that year he had done all that one man may do for another in his dark hour; and each week his conviction grew stronger that Honor—and none but Honor—could do the rest. Let them only meet again, in fresh surroundings, and Theo—already so very much her friend—could not fail to come under her spell. His present seeming disposition to avoid her Paul set down to her intimate association with his wife. Six months' extension of leave had been granted to both, and Paul looked to a summer in England to establish what Italy had already begun.

Since that night at Le Trayas, when Theo had damned the Regiment and confessed his dread of returning to Kohat, Paul had begun to be aware of a change in his friend. Apathy had given place to restlessness, to a craving for distraction that neither Nature nor Art could satisfy. From place to place he had shifted like a man pursued. He fled as an animal flies from a gadfly securely fastened into his flesh. Go where he would, the passionate voice of his own heart spoke louder than books and pictures, mountains and the sea, urging him always in the one direction that his will was set to avoid.

Wyndham—aware of some inner struggle, while far from suspecting its nature—reckoned it all to the good, since it implied that the real man was astir at last. His suggestion of the Hotel Serbelloni at Bellagio—diplomatically broached—had been hailed almost with enthusiasm; and a month of Italy's April at its radiant best had proven, past question, the wisdom of the move.

In those four weeks they had explored the length and breadth of the lake with the restless energy of their race; had tramped the stony roads of North Italy and climbed every height within reach.

Better than all, it was now Theo who planned their expeditions, studied guide books and discussed local legends with his very good friend the Head Waiter. Flashes of temper had become more frequent. He could even be lured into argument again and grow hot over a game of chess. Trivial details—but for Wyndham each was a jewel beyond price. And Desmond was writing again now; fitfully but spontaneously, as of old. He had written to Sir John, and to the Colonel; and there had been two thick envelopes addressed to Frank; but never a one to Honor Meredith.

It had needed only this to fill Paul's cup of content; but Desmond—though he talked more openly of other matters—seldom mentioned the girl.

As on his return from the Samana, so now, he had fought his hidden fight and come off conqueror. All things conspired to convince him that Paul was the man—the infinitely worthier man—of her choice; and their steady correspondence seemed proof conclusive. At that rate there was nothing for it but to stand aside, leaving Paul to go in and win; only—he could not bring himself to be present at the process.

So these two friends, united by one of the closest ties on earth, lived and thought at cross purposes, for the simple reason that even of so fine a quality as reserve it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

And now an end of peaceful isolation. To-morrow they would cross to Menaggio homeward bound; and on this their last evening they climbed the cobblestoned, corkscrew of a path that winds to the ruins of Torre di Vezio above Varenna. The fine outlook from the summit was Desmond's favourite view of the lake. He himself had planned the outing, and now strode briskly ahead of his friend, with more of the old vigour and elasticity in his bearing than Paul had yet seen. To-day, too, for the first time, he had discarded the crepe band from the sleeve of his grey flannel suit; a silent admission that the spirit of resurrection had not called to him in vain.

Paul, noting these significant trifles, decided that he could have chosen no time more propitious for the thing he had to say. That morning's post had brought a letter from Sir John Meredith begging them both to come straight to his country house in Surrey for a week. Paul saw that invitation as Theo's God-given chance to discover the treasure that was his for the asking; and all day he had patiently awaited the given moment for speech. Now he recognised it, and did not intend to let it slip through his fingers.

* * * * *

The grey stone walls and towers of the Torre di Vezio stood four-square and rugged in the last of the sun; their battlements jewelled with fine mosaic work of lichens, their feet in the young grass of April starred with cowslips and late primroses. Near the old wooden door two cypresses stood sentinel, and the gnarled olives in the foreground loomed ancient and unresponsive as the walls themselves. The light wind of the morning had dropped with the sun; and the lake, far below them, showed delicately blurred mirages of townlets, hills, and sky. Southward, toward Como and Lecco, all was saturated in the magical blue atmosphere, the aura of Italy. Northward, toward Gravedona, the lesser Alps gloomed grey-violet under a mass of indigo cloud that blotted out the snows.

Theo Desmond, standing very erect, with the sun in his eyes, felt the peace and beauty of it all flow through his veins like wine.

"It's good to be up here. Very good. Sit down, old man."

Paul obeyed. They settled themselves on a green ledge near a bold outcrop of rock. Desmond, leaning forward, sunk his chin on his hand and fell into one of his brooding silences that had grown rarer of late.

So long it lasted that Paul began to fear he might lose the given moment after all. Yet every line of his friend's face and figure spelled peace; and he was loth to break the silence. Taking the letter from his pocket he opened it with ostentatious cracklings. He read it through twice, very leisurely; and still Desmond sat motionless, absorbed in the changing lights on the water and the hills. Then Paul gave it up and spoke.

"Theo—I've had a letter from Sir John. They're delighted to hear we're coming home."

Desmond started and frowned without changing his position. Only his stillness took on a more rigid quality. It had been natural; now it was forced.

"The old man going on well?" he asked, feeling that some remark was expected of him.

"Yes. He's almost himself again. He and Lady Meredith want us to go straight to Mavins for a week. What do you think?"

This time an answer was imperative; but it stuck in Desmond's throat.

"Very good of them. All the same—I think not," he said slowly; then made a clumsy attempt to modify the blank refusal. "You see, though I've taken this extra leave, I don't mean to spend it in loafing. We've had our fill of that. As soon as I get to town, I shall start reading in earnest for my promotion."

Paul, puzzled and dismayed as he was, could not lightly relinquish his castle in the air.

"I'm glad you feel up to work again, Theo," he said. "But a week in the country wouldn't seriously delay matters; and, in the circumstances, it seems ungracious to refuse. It would cheer the old man up. And it goes without saying that Honor would be glad to see us again."

The last appeal roused Desmond effectually. He jerked himself upright and faced his friend; faced also the ordeal of open speech after months of evasion.

"Yes—yes. You're always right, old man," he said, eyes and voice superbly under control. "I'm a selfish brute to monopolise you and—er—stand in your light. A sight of you will do them all good; and you'll be glad to see—Honor again. I used to wonder—long ago—what hindered you from fixing things up—you two."

It was Paul's turn now to start and change colour.

"You wondered?" he echoed blankly; then his voice dropped a tone. "Well, Theo, since you've touched on the subject, I'd as soon you knew the truth. I—spoke to Honor last March, while you were away; and—she refused."

"Refused—you?"

In that flash of amazement and sympathy with his friend's pain, Desmond escaped, if only for a moment, from the tyranny of his own tormented soul. His gaze travelled back to the hills.

"I'd have given her credit for more perception," he said quietly; and Paul, regarding him with a whimsical tenderness: "Has love anything to do with that sort of thing?"

"No—no. I'm a blatant fool. But still—a man like you——!" He broke off short, and there was a moment of strained silence. But the real Desmond was awake at last, and he forced himself to add: "Women change sometimes—once they know. Have you never been tempted to try again?"

"No; and never shall be, for a very good reason. There's some one in the way—some other man——"

Desmond drew in his breath sharply.

"Good Lord!" he muttered in a low dazed voice, as if thinking aloud. "But where the deuce is he? Why hasn't he come forward? He must be a rotten sort of chap——"

Paul caressed his moustache to hide a smile. "Not necessarily Theo. I gather, from what she said that—there were difficulties——"

"Difficulties—?" Again he broke off, stunned by the coincidence, yet incapable of suspecting the truth. Then, pulling himself together, his spoke in his natural voice: "Well, anyway, Paul, you'd better accept Sir John's invitation, since you can still manage to be friends with her in spite of that infernal chap in the background."

This time Paul smiled outright; but Desmond saw nothing. His chin sunk in his hand, he sat still as a rock, raging inwardly—as he had not raged for a full year—at thought of that same "infernal chap" whose difficulties might not be permanent; who might even now——

Suddenly he became aware that Paul was answering his last remark.

"Yes, Theo, I can just manage it," he was saying in a voice of grave tenderness. "It has not been easy; but the truth is that—when it came to the wrench—I hadn't the courage to let her go quite out of my life."

"You had not the courage!" Desmond flashed round on him, a gleam of the old fire in his eyes. "It's like you to put it that way, Paul. The real truth is that you had the courage to put mere passion under your feet. I should feel rather, in such a case, that she must go quite out of my life. There's the root difference between us. I should not have the courage to accept friendship when I wanted—the other thing. But we're not discussing my affairs—" He dismissed himself with a gesture. "The point is, you'll go to Mavins and make my excuses to Sir John."

"Yes, if you really wish it, I'll go alone, a little later on. Only—you must furnish me with something valid in the way of excuse. You know, as well as I do, that you are first favourite with the old man. But I take it for granted you have some good reason at the back of your mind——"

"You're right there. I have—the strongest reason on earth." He paused and set his teeth, bracing himself to the final effort of confession. "What's more—I unintentionally stated it a minute ago, in plain terms." He faced Wyndham squarely now and a dull flush mounted to his temples. "Since the ice is broken at last, there can be nothing less than absolute truth between us," he said simply; and there was no more need for the clumsy machinery of speech.

Paul's eyes, that neither judged nor questioned, rested on his friend like a benediction. In that moment he had his reward for months of silent service, of patience strained almost to breaking point, of anxiety that bordered on despair.

Minute after minute they sat silent, while the splendour in the west blazed and spread till it challenged the oncoming shadow in the north; and the near hills grown magically ethereal, stood in a shimmer of gold, like hills of dream.

Then Desmond spoke again very quietly, without looking round.

"Now perhaps you better understand—this last year?"

"Yes, Theo, I do understand," Paul answered in the same tone, and Desmond let out a great breath.

"God! The relief it is to feel square with you again!"

III.

In a third-floor sitting-room, facing east, breakfast was laid for two. Every item of the meal bespoke furnished apartments; and even the May sunshine, flooding the place, failed to beautify the shabby carpet and furniture, the inevitable oleographs and the family groups that shared the mantelpiece with pipes, pouches, and a tin of tobacco. A hanging bookcase held some military books, a couple of novels, and a volume of Browning—the property of Paul. After Bellagio—Piccadilly; and their year abroad constrained them to economy at home.

Theo Desmond sauntering in, scanned every detail with fastidious distaste. To-day, for the first time, a great longing possessed him for the airy ramshackle bungalows of the Frontier he loved, for the trumpet-call to "stables," for a sight of his squadron and the feel of a saddle between his knees.

His wandering gaze lighted on a letter near Paul's place. The address was in Honor's handwriting. He stood a moment regarding it, then turned sharply away and went over to the window. There he remained, seemingly absorbed in the varied traffic of Piccadilly, actually consumed by such jealousy as he had never suffered while he imagined that her heart was given to his friend.

For Paul's sake he could and would endure all things; but this detestable unknown who had won her and could not claim her was quite another affair. There could be no thought of standing aside on his account. It was simply a question of Honor herself. She was not the woman lightly to withdraw her love, once given. And yet—in a year—who could tell? Love, like the spirit, bloweth where it listeth; and Paul's failure did not of necessity predicate his own. For all her sudden bewildering reserves, she had drawn very near to him in those last terrible weeks at Kohat; and now—now—if he could believe there was the veriest ghost of a chance—!

The mere possibility set heart and blood in a tumult; a tumult checked ruthlessly by the thought that if Honor Meredith was not the woman to change lightly, still less was she the woman to approach with that confession which, at all hazards, he was bound to make. Speaking of it to Paul had cost him such an effort as he ached to remember. Speaking of it to her seemed a thing inconceivable. And yet—in that case—what hope of escape from this unholy tangle, from this fury of jealousy that had stabbed his manhood broad awake at last?

In Italy he fondly believed that he had fought his fight and conquered. Yet now, behold, it was all to do over again!

"Theo, my dear chap, there is such a thing as breakfast!" Paul's voice brought him back to earth with a thud. "Will you have a congealed rasher or a tepid egg—or both?"

"Neither, confound you!" Desmond answered, swinging round with an abrupt laugh and strolling back to the table.

Inevitably he glanced at the perturbing envelope, open now and propped against the milk-jug, and as inevitably Paul answered his look.

"Honor is in town for a few days," he said, putting the letter near Theo's plate, "staying with Lady Meredith's sister. She hopes I can go in and see her this morning. She seems under the impression that you are too busy, just now, to be included in any invitation."

Desmond buttered a leathery triangle of toast with elaborate precision. "You may as well encourage that notion, old chap. It simplifies things. You're going yourself, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Lucky devil!"

He scowled at the envelope by his plate and tacitly dismissed the subject by an excursion into the Morning Post.

They talked politics and theatres till the unappetising meal was ended and Paul pocketed his treasure with a sigh. It was the first time Theo had ignored one of her letters; and the simple-hearted fellow—quite unaware that his mention of the other man had been a master-stroke of policy—felt almost at his wits' end. Standing by the mantelpiece mechanically filling his pipe, he watched Desmond set out his books and papers on the table near the window, intent on a morning of abnormal industry; and the pathos of it all caught at his heart. For the first time in his controlled and ordered life he felt impelled to carry a situation by storm—the result possibly of playing Providence to Theo for the space of a year.

But Theo plus a woman, loving and beloved, whom he obstinately refused to meet, was a problem demanding far more of diplomacy, of intimate human experience than Paul Wyndham had been blest withal. The one obvious service required of him was easier to recognise than to achieve. By some means these two must be brought together in spite of themselves; but for all his forty years he was pathetically at a loss to know how the deuce one contrived that sort of thing. It was a woman's job. Mrs Olliver, now, could have fixed it all up in a twinkling; while he—poor clumsy fool!—could only sit there smoking and racking his brain, while his eyes perfunctorily scanned the columns of the Morning Post.

The doings of the world and the misdoings of those in power, earthquakes, shipwrecks, and rumours of wars—all these were as nothing to him compared with the insignificant tangle of one man and one woman among the whole seething, suffering throng. But concern brought him no nearer to the unravelling of their tangle; and when the time came to go he could think of nothing better than a direct appeal to his friend.

Desmond still sat at the table, head in hand, absorbed in the intricacies of military tactics.

Paul rose and went over to him. "I'm going now, old chap." The matter of fact statement was made with indescribable gentleness. "I'll be back in an hour or so. Wish to goodness you were coming too."

"Damned if you can wish it more than I do," Desmond answered without looking up.

"Well then—come. Is it really—so impossible as you think?"

Desmond nodded decisively. "Can't you see it for yourself, man? Even if she was quit of that other confounded fellow, how could I face telling her—the truth?"

For a moment Paul was silenced; not because he found the question unanswerable, but because of that hidden knowledge which he might not disclose, even to save his friend.

"My dear Theo," he said at last, "I know—and you know—that, sooner than lose her, you could go through any kind of fire. Besides, I have an idea she would understand——"

"So have I," Desmond answered gruffly, "that's the deuce of it all. But it doesn't make a man less unworthy——"

"If it comes to that," urged the diplomatist, "are any of us worthy?"

Desmond flung up his head with an odd laugh.

"Possibly not! But there happen to be degrees of unfitness—yours and mine for instance, you blind old bat! Go along now, and enjoy the good you deserve. As for me—I have sinned and must take the consequences without whining."

"There is a radical difference, Theo," Paul remarked quietly, "between temptation and sin."

"Casuist!" was all the answer vouchsafed to him; and baffled—but not yet defeated—he went out into the May sunlight, quite determined, for once in his life, to take by storm the citadel that seemed proof against capitulation.

Before reaching his destination he had devised a plan so simple and obvious that it might have occurred to a child; and like a child he gloried in his unaided achievement. The fact that it involved leading them both blindfold to the verge of mutual discovery troubled him not a whit. Heart and conscience alike asserted that in this case the end justified the means; and it needed but the veiled light in Honor's eyes at mention of Theo's name to set the seal on his decision.

For near an hour they talked, with that effortless ease and intimacy which is the hail-mark of a genuine friendship; and at the end of it Honor realised that, without any conscious intention on her part, Theo—and little else but Theo—had been their topic as a matter of course. Never dreaming of design on the part of Paul, she merely blessed him for a devotion that almost equalled her own, and accepted, with unfeigned alacrity, his suggestion that they should meet next morning at the Diploma Gallery.

"I've not been there for a hundred years!" she declared with more of her old lightness than he had yet seen in her: "It will take me back to bread-and-butter days! And I believe they have added some really good pictures since then."