"God is great," the Pathan muttered into his beard. "The strength of the Heaven-born is as that of mine own hills; and my Sahib will live. It is enough."

On the farther side of the bed, Desmond, in gauze vest, and belted trousers, mopped his forehead, and drew a long breath. Then, measuring out a tablespoonful of raw-meat soup, he slipped a hand under the dark head on the pillow.

"Lenox, dear chap, drink this, will you?" he said, speaking as persuasively as a mother to a child.

Lenox obeyed automatically. For a mere instant his lids lifted, and recognition gleamed in the eyes that seemed to have retreated half-way into his head. Then, with an incoherent murmur, he settled himself into a more natural attitude of rest; and the two men watching him intently, exchanged a nod of satisfaction.

The Pathan, sitting back on his heels, fumbled at his belt for a pellet of opium.

"He will sleep now, Huzoor, like a day-old babe; and the Presence will sleep also. Since yesterday at this time your Honour hath taken no rest; and there be three hours yet to parade-time."

"Good. We have fought a tough fight, thou and I, and be sure Lenox Sahib will know of thy share in it. Wake me at half-past five."

"Huzoor."

Zyarulla salaamed profoundly; and Desmond, dropping with fatigue, flung himself, even as he was, on to a chair-bed in the adjoining dressing-room, and slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

Before six he was over at Meredith's bungalow, sitting on the edge of his wife's bed, drinking tea with an egg in it,—her own prescription,—and enjoying her delight at his news.

"Good enough, isn't it?" he concluded heartily. "I'll take the telegraph office on my way back."

"And I'll come over to breakfast, bag and baggage!"

"Capital. If John agrees."

"Of course he will. He's not such a fidget as you are!"

"Glad to hear it; if it means getting you back; and both rooms shall be disinfected to-day, Lord, but it's a weight off my mind!"

And he cantered down to the Lines in such a mood of exaltation as they know who have been privileged to fight for a human life, and win.

Honor got her own way, as she always did; and half-past nine found her back at her deserted post behind the teapot. Desmond fancied that she looked paler than usual; that her cheerfulness was veiled by a shadow of constraint. But as Paul was present, enjoying his first normal breakfast, he contented himself with scrutinising her, when her attention seemed to be taken up elsewhere. As a matter of fact, Honor knew precisely how often he looked at her; and, womanlike, hugged his solicitude to her heart. For there had been moments, in the past two days, when the traitorous thought would obtrude itself that perhaps the child needed her most after all.

Directly the meal was over, she rose, murmuring that she had 'things to see to,' and went out, leaving the men with their cigars. But instead of going to the store cupboard, where the old Khansamah awaited her, armed with his daily hissab,[1] she slipped into the drawing-room, sat down at her bureau, and leaned her head on her hand; honestly hoping that Theo might leave the house without coming to her. For all that, the sound of his elastic step brought a light into her eyes. She did not rise, or look round; and he came and stood beside her.

"Not quite yourself this morning, old lady?" he asked. "Anything really wrong? Fever? Headache?"

She caught the note of anxiety, and with a quick turn of her head kissed the fingers resting on her shoulder.

"No, darling, neither. Don't worry yourself. I'm perfectly well."

"Sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Good." And he departed, whistling softly; clear sign that all was well with his world.

But twenty minutes later when Paul came in to look for a strayed pipe, he found Honor, quite oblivious of 'things,' crying quietly behind her hands. He retreated hastily; but she heard him and looked up.

"Don't go, Paul. I want you."

No three words in the language could have pierced him with so keen a thrust of happiness.

"Do you mean . . . can I help you?" he asked eagerly. "I felt sure something was wrong."

"Did you? I'm a bad actress! But . . it's about Baby,—the other Paul," she added, smiling through wet lashes. "I have just had a letter from Mrs Rivers that makes me want to pack my boxes and go straight back to Dalhousie."

"And shall you? Is it serious enough for that?"

"Oh, how can one tell?" she cried desperately, her voice breaking on the words. "It mightn't seem serious to you. He has fever, and a touch of dysentery, and terrible fits of crying with his double teeth. Mrs Rivers seems anxious; and of course one thinks . . . of convulsions. It all sounds rather a molehill, doesn't it, after the horrors we have been living in here? And perhaps only a mother would make a mountain out of it. But I think mothers must have God's leave to be foolish . . . sometimes!"

Fresh tears welled up, and she hid her face again. Paul could only wait beside her tongue-tied, half-sitting on the edge of the writing-table, wondering what dear, unfathomable impulse had led her to admit him to the sanctuary of her sorrow; realising, so far as a masculine brain can realise, something of the struggle involved in woman's twofold responsibility—to the man, and to the gift of the man.

It is the eternally old, eternally new tragedy of Anglo-Indian marriage; none the less poignant because it is repeated ad infinitum. Love him as she may, it costs more for a wife, and still more for a mother, to stand loyally by her husband in India than the sheltered women of England can conceive. For to read of such contingencies in print, is by no means the same thing as having one's heart of flesh pierced by the sword of division.

"Has Theo heard all this?" Paul hazarded gently. "He went off in such good spirits."

She dried her eyes, and looked up,

"I couldn't spoil it all by telling him. But I thought it might seem less of a nightmare, if I could tell some one . . . and . . ."

"And I happened to come handy?" he suggested with a rather pathetic smile.

"Oh, Paul, how horrid! It wasn't that," she contradicted him hotly. "It was because you are . . you, my boy's godfather, and my very dear friend. Do you suppose I would have shown my mother-foolishness to any other man of my acquaintance?"

"No. I don't suppose it," he answered, looking steadily down into the anxious beauty of her face. "Forgive my much less pardonable foolishness, and let me help you, if that's possible. Are you really thinking of going?"

"N . . no. I don't believe I am. Only . . for one mad moment, I felt as if nothing could hold me back. But children are such elastic creatures; and if I arrived to find him quite frisky and well, think how ashamed I should feel at having deserted Theo, and put him to so much expense for nothing. But I do want to wire at once; though I hardly like sending Theo's orderly . . ."

"Let me write it for you, and send my man," he volunteered, catching gratefully at something definite to be done; and taking up a form he prepared to write at her dictation.

"Reply prepaid, please; and addressed to Frank. I shall go straight over there, and stay till I get the answer, I could never keep it up with Theo all day. You saw how badly I did it at breakfast!—What's that? Some one come?"

Sounds of arrival were followed by an unmistakable Irish voice in the hall; and Honor hurriedly dabbed her eyes.

"Dear Frank, how clever of her! She can drive me over."

A minute later she was in the room; an angular workmanlike figure, in sun helmet, and the unvarying coat and skirt. It was her one idea of a dress,—drill in summer, tweed in winter. "An' be all that's sensible, what more should an ugly woman want?" had been her challenge to a misguided friend, who had suggested higher aspirations. "'Tis no manner o' use to dress up a collection of limbs and features without symmetry; an' it saves no end of mental wear and tear, to say nothing of rupees, that's badly wanted for polo ponies."

She entered talking; and shook hands talking still.

"The top o' the morning to you both! 'Tis an unholy hour for a visit. But I'm after the loan of a feeding-cup, knowing you've two. That murdering villain of a messalchi[2] broke me only one this morning; an' I'm afraid I used 'language' when I saw the corpse, besides threatening to cut the price of a new one out of his pay! 'Memsahib ke kushi,'[3] he answers, salaaming like a sainted martyr, and taking the wind clean out o' me sails. But I'll wash yours meself; so you needn't fear to lend it." Then, becoming aware of Honor's red eyelids, she broke off short. "Why, Honor, me dear, it's the born fool I am to be chattering like a parrot when you're in trouble, by the looks of it." A glance from one to the other revealed the telegram in Paul's hand. "Great goodness, it's never the child, is it?" she asked with a swift change of tone.

"Yes. Honor has had disturbing news," he answered for her. "She'll tell you about it while I send off this wire."

Honor, who had risen, sank into her chair again as he left the room.

"Read that, dear," she said simply: and while Frank Olliver read, a strange softness stole over her face, blanched and lined by many Frontier hot weathers. Outsiders, who wondered how any man had ever come to fall in love with her, might have wondered less had they chanced to see her then. On reaching the signature, she awkwardly patted Honor's shoulder.

"'Tis just one o' the bad minutes there's no evading, me darlint. The price you've to pay for the high privilege of carrying on the race."

"It seems a big price sometimes . . in India," Honor answered, not quite steadily. "And it's your one bit of compensation, Frank, that you're spared the wrench of having to live with your heart in two places at once."

At that Frank bit her lip, and stinging tears—an unusual phenomenon—blinded her eyes. But she was overstrung by a week of hard nursing; and some childless women never loss the tragic sense of incompleteness, the unacknowledged ache of empty arms.

"Spared? Ah, me dear, you ought to know me better by now," she protested reproachfully. "I've no use at all for cheap comforts o' that kind. What's the sharpest pangs, after all, balanced against . . . the other thing? Lighter than vanity itself; an' you know it. None better. But there . . . I'm clean daft to be talking so at this stage o' the proceedings. It's the happy woman I am, sure enough. Geoff and I are rare good friends. Always have been. But don't you talk to me again about being spared. It's one more than I can stand; an' that's the truth."

Honor took possession of the hand that patted her shoulder,—a square hand; rough with much riding and exposure,—and laid it against her cheek.

"Bless you, Frank," she said softly. "You make me feel quite ashamed of myself. Come and get the feeding-cup; and take me home with you. I've wired to Mrs Rivers; and the answer will come to you. I couldn't tell Theo, till . . I must."

Frank's smile had the effect of sunshine striking through a shower.

"Saints alive, how you spoil the dear man! But indeed an' I wonder who could help it? Not meself, I'll swear."

Desmond came in very late for tiffin. At Paul's announcement that Honor had gone to Mrs Olliver's till tea-time, he raised his eyebrows without question or comment: then, going over to the mantelpiece, stood contemplating a recent photo of her and the child.

"Did you happen to notice her at breakfast?" he asked abruptly, his eyes on the picture. "She didn't seem to me quite up to the mark. And of course . . bringing her into this . . . one feels responsible . . ."

There was more in the tone than in the broken sentence; and Wyndham, coming up behind him, grasped his shoulders.

"My dear Theo," he said soothingly, "I can't let you be hag-ridden by your favourite nightmare! Honor is woman enough to be responsible for her own actions. Besides, she is perfectly well. I had a talk with her before she went. As to her coming down into this, you couldn't have held her back. She has every right to stand by you, if she chooses; and you must know, even better than I do, that in the good future ahead of you, wherever you may be, unless it's active service, Honor will be there too, . . as sure as my name's Wyndham."

This was quite a long speech for Paul; one that it cost him an effort to make; and Desmond, fully realising the fact, turned upon his friend with impulsive warmth.

"True for you, Paul, old man! She's a Meredith. That about covers everything. What an amazing talent you have for casting out devils!—Now, let's be common-sensible, and have some food. Kohi hai! Tiffin lao." [4]

And as if the walls had ears, the meal made its appearance with that silent celerity which the retired Anglo-Indian—who has sworn at native servants for thirty years—misses so keenly, when he is relegated to the cumbersome ministrations of the British house-parlourmaid of Baling.

"By the way," Desmond remarked, as he dissected a fowl, cooked—by the mercy of the gods—in that elusive interval between toughness and putrescence, the pursuit of which gives to hot-weather housekeeping an excitement peculiarly its own, "there's bad news from the Infantry camp this morning. Poor old Buckley. A cramp seizure at midnight. Went out in three hours; and was buried at dawn, Mackay showed me a note from Dr Lowndes saying he believed it was one of those odd freaks of disease, a spurious case. Sheer funk; and nothing else. Camp was in a flourishing condition. No deaths for nearly a week. Then, yesterday, the Colonel's bearer must needs appropriate an unattached germ; and it seems that this got on the poor chap's nerves. He dined chiefly off whisky; and afterwards yarned away to Lowndes about his wife and children. Hadn't seen 'em for eight years. Never mentioned 'em to Lowndes in his life before: and from what one has heard, the wire that goes home this morning will barely spoil her appetite for dinner; which only seems to add a finishing touch to the pity of it all. Mysterious thing . . . marriage . . ."

He broke off short on the word. The thought of his own first venture, and the misery that might have come of it, but for an accident so strange as to seem unreal, sealed his lips on the subject of the eternal riddle of the universe: and Paul, being blest with understanding, unobtrusively shifted the talk to another channel.

There could be no thought of polo for Desmond that afternoon; though Major Olliver came and reasoned with him forcibly in the verandah. He devoted himself, instead, to the exhaustive disinfection of the sick-room and dressing room. It was hot work; unpleasant work. But it was good to be through with it; to have rid the house of the last vestige of an uninvited and unwelcome guest. With which reflection Desmond sat down finally in the sanctuary of his study; lit a cheroot; and opened a battered original of Omar Khayyam, whose stately quatrains and exquisite imagery were less hackneyed then, than they have since become among modern devotees of culture.

A great silence pervaded the house. He had left Lenox in the blessed borderland between sleeping and waking, with Zyarulla on guard; and looking in on Paul, had found him dozing also, after the morning's unwonted exertion. No doubt Frank would drive Honor back for tea: and even while he read Desmond's ear was strained to catch the sound of wheels. This capacity for sustained ardour is a very rare quality in love that has attained its object, and the woman who does not succeed—unwittingly enough—in extinguishing it within the first few years of marriage is rarer still.

The sound he waited for came at length; and he sprang out of his chair. But in hurrying through the drawing-room, towards the hall, another sound arrested him; the unmistakable clink of the tonga bar.

"A tonga? Why, who the deuce . . ." he ejaculated mentally. "It can't be . . . ."

But at this point he fairly ran into the arms of a woman, in alpaca dust-cloak and shikarri helmet; a woman who clutched his left arm with both hands: and before he could collect his scattered senses, Quita's voice was in his ears.

"Oh, Captain Desmond . . tell me . . is he . . . ?"

"He is out of all danger now, . . if he can be kept quiet," Desmond answered, stifling his own amazement in view of her white face and shaking lips.

"Thank God. Oh, thank God!" The words were a mere flutter of breath; and with the sudden relief from long tension all her courage went to pieces. A dry sob broke in her throat. Her lids dropped; and she fell limply against him.

"You poor, dear, plucky woman," he murmured, putting an arm round her, and gently removing the heavy helmet; while she lay motionless; her head on his shoulder; no vestige of colour in lips or cheeks.

Desmond began to think she must have fainted outright: and while he held her thus, meditating a cautious removal of his burden to the sofa, steps in the hall were followed by the appearance of Honor in the doorway: a radiant Honor, aglow with the good news that had brought her straight back to him, like a homing bird. Her small gasp of surprise melted into a smile of amused understanding, as Theo telegraphed wireless messages to her over the golden brown head that was trespassing, flagrantly and confidingly, on her own exclusive property. The whole thing was so exactly like Quita: so daring; so preposterous; so entirely forgivable! And Honor's hospitable brain at once began scouring the bungalow for some corner where she might stow this unexpected addition to her elastic household.

"She must have left Dalhousie directly she got my first wire," Desmond said under his breath. "Get some brandy, while I put her down."

But his first movement roused Quita from semi-unconsciousness. She lifted her head with a startled sound; and at sight of Honor the blood rushed back into her face.

"This is pretty behaviour!" she said with a little broken laugh. "I'm so sorry. It must have been the reaction, the relief, after that excruciating journey."

"No need to apologise!" Desmond answered, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "No use either to try and push my arm away. Let me get you to the sofa first."

Honor piled two cushions behind her; and as she sank back into their silken softness, leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"You very wonderful person," she said. "How on earth did you pull through it, all alone?"

Quita shrugged her shoulders.

"It was not amusing," she answered with her whimsical smile. "But it was an experience: and that is always something,—when it is over! I think I never realised before how big and how terrible a country India is; or how kind people are out here," she added, looking from one to the other with misty eyes.

"Kind? Nonsense!" It was Honor who spoke. "Now . . will you have a peg, or some tea?"

"Tea, please. And after that, I may see . . Eldred, mayn't I?"

Instinctively she appealed to Desmond, who knitted his brows in distress. "I'm afraid that's out of the question, . . yet awhile," he said.

"Well then . . when?"

"Can't say for certain. Probably not for two or three days. I wouldn't so much as risk telling him that you are here till then."

The mist on her lashes overflowed; and she dashed an impatient hand across them with small result.

"But I have waited three days already. And since this morning I have been counting the hours . . the minutes . ."

It was no use. She could not go on without further loss of dignity; and Honor hastened into the breach.

"Drink your tea first, dear. You can talk afterwards."

And as she obeyed, Desmond came round and sat beside her.

"See here, Miss Maurice," he began. But she raised an imploring hand.

"Oh, don't call me that . . now. It hurts. It makes me feel I have no manner of right to be here. And I have a little right, haven't I?"

"More than a little, I should say, . . Mrs Lenox. Is that better?"

She flushed to the eyes, and glanced down at her bare left hand. It was the first time she had heard her married name; and the sound of it was music in her ears. But she shook her head.

"No. It's almost worse, till I know for certain what's going to come of my mad leap in the dark."

"Well then . . . ?"

"Why not . . 'Quita'?" She looked up beseechingly. "I should love that: and it would make me feel less of an intruder."

"You are forbidden, on pain of instantaneous eviction, to feel anything of the sort! And I heartily vote for 'Quita,'" Desmond answered, smiling into her troubled face with so irresistible a friendliness that she must needs smile back at him, however mistily.

"Oh, but it's good to talk nonsense with you again!" she cried. "Only, I want to know, . . please, about Eldred. He is too weak. Is that it?"

"Far too weak. You see, we only pulled him round the corner at three o'clock this morning; and the great thing now is to avoid any risk of reactionary fever. Well, you know yourself . . I may speak frankly?" She inclined her head. "Your coming, besides being emotionally disturbing, will make something of a complication under the circumstances . ."

"Oh, I know . . I know! It seems like forcing his hand. Every minute I see more plainly that I ought never to come at all."

"Waiting would have been wiser," Desmond reproved her gently. "But I admire the pluck of the whole thing far too much to scold you for it."

Her smile had a touch of wistfulness.

"That's so like you! But I don't know about pluck. Perhaps, if I had realised all the details, I might have hesitated; though I doubt it. I half lost my senses for the time being; and I believe poor Michel thought I'd lost them permanently! He was furious with me for going."

"Rather rough on him, when you come to think of it! But why on earth didn't you wire to us before starting?"

"At first it simply didn't occur to me; and when it did, I had just sense enough to know that you would probably wire back 'Don't come.' And even I could hardly have persisted in the face of that! So I determined to take the small risk with the big one. Dak bungalows seem to grow wild in India; and I thought there would surely be one here where I could get some sort of a bed."

"Dak bungalow, indeed! If there is one, I won't help you to find it!" This from Honor, in a burst of righteous wrath. "So you may as well resign yourself to staying with us, whether you like it or not!"

"With you? Is it possible? I thought . . . But have you really a corner available? I could sleep divinely on the hearth-rug, I'm so desperately tired, and so relieved."

"Very well. That settles it. But I'll let you off the hearth-rug, even though you did fling Dak bungalows at my head! Captain Lenox is in Baby's nursery; and we can shut off the dressing-room for you, if you can manage with a chair-bed. It's quite safe. Everything has been disinfected. I believe Theo knew you were coming! Will that do?"

"Do? Ma foi, . . but how does one say thank you for such goodness?"

"One refrains!" Desmond remarked, handing her empty cup across to his wife.

Quita laughed.

"You are incorrigible!" said she. "But there is still this to think of. With your friends coming and going, how am I to be . . accounted for till I have seen . . Eldred? If I am Miss Maurice, par exemple, what am I doing in Dera Ishmael? And if not . . ? Mon Dieu, but it's an ignominious tangle. I'm as bad as Alice in Wonderland in the wood. I seem suddenly to have lost my identity: and in my mad anxiety and impatience to get here I never thought anything about it till I was sweltering in that horrible barge this morning. Shall I live altogether in my room? It would be no more than I deserve."

"My dear, you'll do nothing of the sort." It was Honor this time, "Luckily for you, the Battery's in camp; and since Captain Lenox's illness there's been an end of my tea-parties. Our own people may be looking in now he's better. But for the next two days or so I shall simply be 'dawazar bund.'[5] It needs no effort to develop a headache, or a touch of fever this weather. There's only Paul, and Frank, whom I couldn't shut out. May we just explain to them, more or less, how things stand?"

"But yes. Of course you must. And . . after all . . ."

She hesitated, flushing painfully.

"After all," Desmond came to her rescue, "it won't be so very long before the vexed question of your identity is settled for good. Now I'd better go and speak to Paul. He may be turning up for tea, any minute; and that would be awkward for you."

As he reached the door at the far end of the room, Honor fled after him.

"Read those, dear," she said breathlessly, thrusting a letter and telegram into his hand. "They will account for this morning. I had bad news. But thank God it's all right now. I wired."

"And never told me?"

"You were so happy. How could I?"

"Then that was why you bolted?"

"Yes. I couldn't have kept it up for long."

"Well . . I've no time to scold you now," he said, looking unspeakable things at her. "Wait till I get you to myself, . . that's all!"

This short colloquy, carried on in an undertone, did not reach Quita's ears.

"What sort of a man is this Paul?" she asked as Honor returned to her chair. "I don't know his other name! Is he the sort that would be likely to understand . . our very incomprehensible position?"

Honor took a leather frame from the table beside her, and put it into Quita's hands.

"If you are any judge of faces, that's the best answer I can give you."

Quita scanned the picture abstractedly for several seconds.

"Yes. He'll do," was her verdict. Then she flung the thing from her; and burying her face in the cushions sobbed with the heart-broken abandonment of a child.

"Oh, what a blind fool I was to come!" she lamented through her tears. "I don't believe he'll understand my madness. And if he doesn't . . . he'll never forgive me!"



[1] Account.

[2] Scullery man.

[3] As Memsahib pleases.

[4] Any one there! Bring tiffin.

[5] Not at home.



CHAPTER XXI.

"Here the lost hours the lost hours renew."—Rossetti.

"It progresses, doesn't it?"

"It does more than that. It lives. You've transfigured it in these few days; and I like your knack of emphasising essentials without jarring the harmony of the whole. You ought to make your mark as a portrait painter in time."

"I've done so already . . more or less," Quita answered modestly, stepping backward, with tilted head, to get a better view of her achievement. It was the study of Lenox, which, for all her perturbation, she had packed as tenderly as if it were a live thing; and which alone had made life endurable for the past three days. Her easel had been set up in the dining-room, where she could work without fear of chance intruders, who gravitated either to the drawing-room or the study: and on this fourth morning after her arrival, she was standing at it with Desmond, who had looked in for a word with her before starting for the Lines. "If you were to go home now," she added, after a pause, "you would find the name Quita Maurice not quite unknown in artistic circles. But they'll never see this, though it's going to be the best thing I've done yet; because . . ."

"Yes, naturally, . . because . . ."

"How nice you are!" she said simply. "One needn't dot the i's, and cross all the t's with you. Of course it's very incomplete still. A suggestive study is the most one can achieve from memory. So you mustn't judge it as a portrait,—yet. It's just a daring experiment that no right-minded artist would have attempted. But it's come out better than I thought possible. And I'm glad you like my work."

"I do; no question. I'm no critic, though; only a soldier, with a taste for most kinds of art. It's full of latent vigour; rugged without being rough, like Lenox himself. A fine bit of weathered rock, eh? I am only afraid that after feasting your eyes on this, the original may give you something of a shock at first sight."

"Is he so terribly changed . . in one month?"

"Well, think what he's been through. Concussion and cholera have knocked some of the vigour out of him; and he looks years older, for the time being. But you mustn't let that upset you. It's not unusual after cholera; and in a week he'll be looking more like himself again."

Then the truth dawned on her.

"Captain Desmond,—are you telling me all this because . . ?"

"Yes . . again, because . . . !" he answered, smiling.

"To-day?"

"As soon as you please."

She gave a little gasp; then shut her lips tightly.

"Do you mean . . have you actually told him?" she murmured with averted eyes.

"Yes."

"And did he—is he——?"

"It's not for me to say." Desmond seemed equal to any amount of incoherence this morning. "You'll find out for yourself in no time."

"Oh dear!"

"Is it as dreadful as all that?"

"In some ways,—yes. It takes my breath away."

"Try and get it back before you go in to him," he counselled her kindly. "And keep some sort of hold on yourself—for his sake. Don't trouble him about results, unless he broaches the subject. It we can keep clear of the worry element, just getting hold of you again may do him a power of good."

Then,—creature of moods and impulse that she was,—she turned on him spontaneously, both hands outflung.

"Mon Dieu, what a friend you have been to us both! Thank you a thousand times, for everything. I know you hate it. But if I kept it in any longer, I should burst!"

"Just as well you let it out, then," Desmond answered, laughing, and grasping the proffered hands. "I must be off now. Good luck to you, Quita. You're worthy of him."

For some minutes after he had gone Quita stood very still, trying to get her breath back, as he had suggested: a less simple affair than it seemed, on the face of it. For although she had taken the plunge, in an impulse of despair, a week ago, she had only grasped the outcome in all its bearings during the past three days, throughout which she had been acutely aware of Eldred's presence on the farther side of her barred and bolted door. He had told her plainly that, until he felt quite sure of himself, he dared not take her back. Yet now, by her own unconsidered act, she was forcing upon him, at the least, a public recognition of their marriage; an acknowledgment that might make further separation difficult, if not impossible, for the present. All her pride and independence of spirit revolted against this unvarnished statement of fact; and the memory of Michael's random remark heightened her nervous apprehension. Yet, on the other hand, Love—who is a born peace-maker—argued that, after all, he might not be sorry to have his hand forced by so clear a proof of all that she was ready to do and suffer on his behalf. An argument strongly reinforced by her original determination to overrule his scruples, and help him in the struggle that loomed ahead.

In this fashion Love and Pride tossed decision to and fro, as they have done in a hundred heart-histories; till common-sense stepped in with the reminder that Eldred was waiting; and that by now retreat was out of the question. The thought roused her to a more normal state of confidence and courage. Putting away palette and brushes, she covered up her canvas: and because, for all her artistry, she was very much a woman, went straightway—not to her husband's door—but to her own mirror! The vision that looked out at her was by no means discouraging: a demure vision, in a simple, unconventional gown of green linen, with a Puritan collar, and a wide white ribbon at the waist. A few superfluous touches to her hair, and equally superfluous tweaks to the bow of her ribbon belt, wrought some infinitesimal improvement in the picture, which no mere man, hungering for the sight and sound of her, would be the least likely to detect. Then half a dozen swift steps brought her to his door: the one that communicated with the dining-room.

It opened on to a curtain, about which there still clung a faint suggestion of carbolic.

"Eldred?" she said softly. And the voice she had last heard through the hiss of rain, and the crash of broken branches, answered: "Come in."

She pushed aside the curtain, and stood so, paralysed by a nervousness altogether new to her.

He lay on a Madeira lounge-chair, with pillows at his back. Every bone in his face, every line scored by the graving-tools of conflict and pain, showed cruelly distinct in the morning light. At sight of her, he tried to speak; but the muscles of his throat rebelled: and he simply held out his arms. Then, in one rush, she came to him: and as he laid hands on her, drawing her down on to a spare corner of his chair, she leaned forward and buried her face in the soft flannel of his coat.

Nothing but silence becomes the great moments of life; and for a long while he held her thus, without power or desire of speech. All his man's strength melted in him at the faint fragrance of her hair; at the exquisite yielding of her figure, as she lay palpitating against him; at the yet more exquisite assurance that the love he had gained was a thing beyond estimation, a thing indestructible as the soul itself. For her very surrender was quick with the vitality that was her crowning charm.

And she, feeling the tremor that ran through him as he kissed the blue-veined hollow of her temple,—the only space available—exulted in the belief that love had triumphed over bloodless scruples once and for all.

"Quita," he whispered at length, "what possessed you to face that nightmare of a journey alone?"

"You possessed me." She made no attempt to lift her head.

"But, my darling, you ought not to have come. You ought not to be here. You know that."

"Yes. I know it. Are you . . angry, that I am here?"

"Angry? My God! It's new life to me. Your voice, just the music of it, gets into my head like wine. Look up, lass. I love your hair, every wisp and thread of it. But I am waiting for something more."

The appeal was irresistible; and she looked up, accordingly, setting her hands lightly on his shoulders. The change wrought in him by illness and mental struggle pierced her like a physical pang; and her eyes fell before the yearning in his, the revelation of chained-up forces, and emotions straining at the leash. Then, still keeping her lids closed, she tilted her head backward, her lips just parted; and again, as on that night of enchantment at Kajiar, they were swept beyond the boundaries of space and time; beyond the stumbling-blocks, the pitiful limitations of earth.

But limitations are as indispensable to life on our bewildering planet as bread and meat. The wine of ecstasy can only be taken in small doses, at a price.

Quita sat upright at last, on the spare corner of her husband's chair, flushed, smiling, and not a little tremulous. Stumbling-blocks and limitations loomed again on the horizon. But for the present she would have none of them. Eldred was not angry. He wanted her—supremely:—how supremely, his lips had just been telling her in language more primitive, more forcible than speech.

And now he lay merely watching her, still retaining her hands, drinking in the penetrating charm of her, as a parched traveller drinks at a roadside spring.

"Well?" he asked presently. "After all that—what next? There's the rub."

"Need we spoil these first heavenly moments together by looking for rocks ahead, mon cher? Captain Desmond begged me to keep the 'worry element' at arm's-length."

"Dear old Desmond! He's made of gold. But now that you are here, you've got to be explained. And there's only one way to explain you—Mrs Lenox!"

Her face quivered.

"Eldred, I won't be explained . . that way, unless . . you really wish it. Only Mrs Olliver and Major Wyndham know about me: and now I've seen you, and feel sure there's no more danger, I can easily go back to Dalhousie and stay there, till you . . till you're more ready for me."

"Can you though?" He pressed her hands. "And do you believe I am capable of packing you off to-morrow?"

"I don't know. I think you'd prefer not to. But I believe you are capable of doing anything, once you're convinced it's right."

"Dearest, indeed I'm not." He spoke with sudden vehemence. "If I were, we might be clear of this unholy tangle by now. But since you've honoured me by plunging into hell fire on my account, I can't let you go again . . . yet."

The last word fell like a drop of cold water on the hope that glowed at her heart. But she chose to ignore it.

"Well then?"

He raised one hand, and laid it lightly on her breast, feeling for hidden treasure. Then his fingers closed on the two rings; and he smiled.

"Since you seem to have forgiven the ill-tempered chap who gave you those, you might do worse than have 'em out, and wear them—by way of explanation!"

Her own hand went up to them, instinctively, and closed over his.

"I'll take them out now, at once, if you'll promise to put the wedding one on, yourself, with the proper words."

"What? Not the whole blessed service?"

At the note of dismay in his voice her laughter rang out, clear and natural; a silver sound, that pierced him with its poignant sweetness.

"Darling idiot! Of course not. I only meant the 'ring' words for luck. Though if I could have my own way, I'd like the whole thing over again, to make it feel more real. All that seems to have happened to a not very admirable girl I once knew, in another life."

"Does it indeed?" he asked, smiling upon her in great contentment. "I rather admired that girl myself! But believe me, Quita, it's all real enough to satisfy us both. 'There's no discharge in that war.' And you don't get a human man to go through the ordeal of that service except under severe stress of circumstance! If I couldn't recapture you any other way, I'd do it . . with alacrity. Not unless."

"But who will do the explaining to the station at large?"

"Desmond and his wife will gladly do that much for us." He was about to add that his chief friend knew already: but decided that it would be hardly fair on Dick to 'give him away.'

"And where did it all happen?" she demanded, dimpling with enjoyment. "In Dalhousie?"

"I imagine so."

"You mustn't imagine. We must have all the details clear, so as to lie consistently!"

"Well then, to account for our abruptness, we'll decide that I lost my heart to you at home, some time ago; and rediscovered you by chance in Dalhousie."

She laughed again, from pure exuberance of happiness.

"That's capital! I'll explain it all to Mrs Desmond; and she shall do the rest."

While they talked, she had succeeded in extricating her rings; and now she dropped them into his open palm:—the gold band of Destiny, and the hoop of sapphires and diamonds that he had chosen with such elaborate care, and presented to her with such awkward, palpitating shyness nearly six years ago.

"Put them on, please," she said softly, thrusting out her wedding finger. "'For better for worse; for richer for poorer; in sickness and in health; till death us do part.'"

On the last words she lifted her head. He caught the gleam of tears on her lashes, and slipped the ring on to her finger; uttering the triple asseveration with a suppressed fervour rarely to be heard at the altar rails. Then the second hoop was added; and, still keeping possession of the fettered hand, he sat silent a moment, looking down at his achievement with an absurd sense of satisfaction. Quita was looking at it also, wondering if he could hear the hammering of her heart.

"Now we are really married," she murmured as simply as a child.

"Weren't we before?" he asked, on a note of amusement.

"I suppose so. It didn't feel like it."

"And does it feel more like it now?"

"Not much, yet. But it will, in time."

"Yes. In time."

The pause, and the emphasis smote her. But again she ignored the cloud no bigger than a man's hand; defying its power to veil her sunlight.

"The proper thing after a wedding is . . to kiss your wife," she remarked demurely, without looking up.

"Is it? I don't remember doing so last time."

"You never did; and it's bad luck not to. That's why everything went wrong! You were too shy; and . . your first wife didn't much like that sort of thing."

"My second wife will have to put up with it, whether she likes it or not!" he answered, drawing her towards him by dear and delicious degrees. "We won't play fast and loose with our luck this time."

An abrupt knock at the door startled her out of his arms; and the curtain was pushed aside by Desmond:—a strangely transfigured Desmond, with set jaw, and desperate eyes.

"My dear man . ." Lenox began. But an intuition of catastrophe past the show of speech made him break off short.

Then Desmond spoke, in a voice thick and unlike his own.

"Sorry to spoil things by interrupting you in this way. But one had to tell you. It's Honor . . ."

He could get no further: but his eyes were terribly eloquent; and the silence held them all as in a vice. The awakening woman in Quita gave her courage to break it.

"May I go to her?" she pleaded. "And help her . . if one can?"

Though the plea was addressed to Desmond, she glanced first at Lenox, and read approval in his eyes.

But Desmond shook his head.

"That's my business," he answered quietly. He had mastered his voice by now. "I want you to take over charge here. It's a sharp attack. I shan't leave her again, till . . . it's over."

And before either of them knew how to answer him, the curtain had fallen heavily behind him.

Overwhelming tragedy, striking across their golden hour like a naked sword, wrenched them out of themselves.

Without a word Quita knelt down beside her husband, bowing her forehead on the back of his hand. Women of her temperament are little given to the habit of prayer: and her rare communings with the Hidden Soul of Things more often took the form of wordless aspiration, than of direct petition or praise. But now her uplifted soul went out in a passionate appeal to the Great Giver, and the great Taker Away, for the life of the woman whom she had hated so heartily less than three months ago.

And Lenox lay looking straight before him, stroking her hair soothingly from time to time.

"Desmond is a strong man, a very strong man," he said, as if speaking to himself. "But there's a flaw in his armour just above the heart; and I believe that if any real harm comes to that wife of his, he'll go to pieces, like a wheel with the centre knocked out."



CHAPTER XXII.

"What Love may do, that dares Love attempt." —Shakspere.

It was evening at last: a sullen, breathless evening, heavy with threatening cloud.

Since morning Honor Desmond had been fighting for life, against appalling odds; while the man, whose love for her almost amounted to a religion, did all that human skill could devise, which was pitifully little after all, to ease the torturing thirst and pain, to uphold the vitality that ebbed visibly with the ebbing day. But the very vigour of her constitution went against her; for cholera takes strong bold upon the strong. And Desmond never left her for an instant. He seemed to have passed beyond the zone of hunger, thirst, or weariness, to have reached that exalted pitch of suffering where the soul transcends the body's imperious demands, asserts itself, momentarily, for the absolute unconquerable thing it is.

Frank Olliver, in defiance of a July sun, flitted restlessly in and out of the bungalow; and since Desmond would admit no one but the doctor to his wife's room, she found some measure of comfort in futile attempts to lighten Paul Wyndham's anxiety, and distract his thoughts; while the newly joined husband and wife, so strangely isolated in their moment of reunion, waited and hoped through the interminable hours, and snatched fugitive gleams of contentment from the fact that now, at least, they could suffer together.

James Mackay, the regimental doctor, a crustacean type of Scot, came and went as frequently as his manifold duties would permit. On each occasion he was waylaid in the dining-room by Paul Wyndham, his face haggard with suffering; and on each occasion the little man's decisive headshake struck a fresh blow at the hope that took 'such an unconscionable time a-dying.' Finally he spoke his conviction outright. It was late afternoon, and Honor's strength and courage, though still flickering fitfully, were almost spent.

"I'm doubting if we can do much more for her now," he said, when the door of her room had been quietly closed behind him. "It'll be no less than a miracle if she lasts through the night."

"Have you told him that?" Wyndham asked in a voice of stunned quietness.

"Man alive, no! 'Twould be no mortal use. He won't give up hope till the last nail's in her coffin." Paul winced visibly, and by way of atonement for his bluntness, the other made haste to add: "If there's the remotest chance of pulling her through, Desmond 'll do it. You may swear to that. The man's just one concentrated, incarnate purpose."

Wyndham set his lips, and turned away: and the Scotchman stood eyeing him keenly.

"What sort of a tiffin did you have?" he asked with rough kindliness.

"Oh, I don't know. Nothing much."

"I thought so. Eat a good dinner, man. Starvation's no use to any one, and I don't want to have you back on my hands."

With that he departed, and Wyndham had just decided on filling another pipe, since some pretence at occupation was imperative, when Meredith entered unannounced.

A glance at his face showed Paul that he knew, and believed the worst; and for a moment they confronted one another in mute dismay. The Englishman's inability to put his heart into words has its pathetic aspect at times. These two men were linked by years of mutual work, and immediate mutual pain: yet Wyndham merely laid down his pipe and asked; "Have you seen Mackay?"

"Yes. Met him on my way here. I'm going in to her at once."

And Paul, picking up the discarded pipe, looked after him with envy and hunger in his eyes.

Meredith knocked at the bedroom door.

"Who's there?" Desmond's voice came sharp as a challenge.

"John."

"Come in, then."

And he went in.

The room was large, lofty, and very simply furnished. With the leisurely swaying of the punkah, light and shadow flitted across the wide, low bed, on one side of which Honor lay, warmly covered with blankets, her breath coming in laboured gasps. Desmond knelt by her; and, on Meredith's entrance, set down the feeding-cup, but because her hand was on his coat-sleeve, he did not change his position, or rise from his knees. She held out the other to Meredith, But it fell limply before he could reach her.

"John . . dear," she greeted him in a husky whisper. "I'm so glad. Sit near me . . here."

He obeyed, seating himself on the unoccupied part of the bed; and taking up her hand, cherished it between both his own. It was cold and clammy, the finger-tips wrinkled like a washerwoman's, and at sight of her face his self-control deserted him, so that he dared not risk speech. For cholera does its work swiftly and efficaciously, and in eight hours Honor Desmond's beauty had been ruthlessly wiped out. In the grey, pinched features and sunken eyes—already dimmed by a creeping film that blurred the two faces she so loved—it was hard to trace any likeness to the radiant woman of twenty-four hours ago. Only the burnished bronze of her hair, encircling her head in a large loose plait, remained untouched by the finger of death.

When Meredith could command his voice, he spoke quietly and cheerfully of the day's work, and of the certainty that she would pull through. Then the hand in his stirred uneasily.

"What is it, dear?" he asked.

"John, I want you to remember,"—the voice was still husky, and she spoke with difficulty—"whatever happens, . . and tell father, please . . it wasn't Theo's fault. It was mine."

The hand on her husband's coat-sleeve felt its way up uncertainly, till it rested in a lingering caress on the dark bowed head. For Desmond, leaning on his elbow, had covered his eyes with one hand.

Meredith frowned.

"Dearest girl, it was no one's fault. Besides, you are going to get well. But talking is a strain on you now, I'll look in later."

He stooped and kissed her forehead.

"Good-bye," she whispered.

"No, not good-bye," he contradicted her steadily. "I shall see you again after mess."

She sighed, and her lids fell. The terrible apathy of cholera was crushing the soldier spirit out of her by inches.

"God! I don't believe she heard me," he murmured in sudden despair.

At that Desmond uncovered his eyes. "She heard you, right enough," he said quietly, "Trust me not to let her go."

And Meredith went reluctantly out, leaving man and wife alone with the Shadowy Third; the only third that could ever come between them.

Honor's hand slipped down from his head to his shoulder, and she opened her eyes; the soul in them struggling to pierce the mists that deepened every minute.

"Darling," she breathed. "Come closer . . much closer. I wish . . I wish you didn't seem all blurred."

He bent nearer, looking steadfastly into her altered face.

"That better, dear?" he asked, controlling his voice with an effort.

"Yes. A little. Whatever John may say, it was my fault," she persisted, for in spite of pain and prostration, the mists had not clouded her brain. "It was selfish of me to insist. See . . what I've made you suffer. But you don't . . blame me, do you, . . in your heart?"

"Blame you, . . my best beloved? How can you ask it? I . . I worship you," he added very low.

The extravagant word, reviving dear and imperishable memories, called up a quivering smile, more heart-piercing than a cry: and Desmond, putting a great restraint upon himself, enfolded her with one arm, and kissed her softly, lingeringly, as one might kiss a child.

"My very Theo," she murmured, her voice breaking with love. "It has been so perfect . . I suppose that's why . . Not three years yet; and . . I can't bear . . to leave you behind, even for a little."

"You'll not do that, Honor," his voice had the level note of decision. "If you go, . . . I go too."

"No, no. You must wait . . for your boy."

Desmond set his teeth, and answered nothing. In the stress of anguish he had forgotten his child.

Suddenly a convulsive shuddering ran through her, and her breath came short and quick.

"Theo, . . what's happening?" she panted. "Where are you? Hold me. Everything's . . slipping away."

It cut him to the heart to unclasp the fingers that clung to him; though he was back again in a moment, holding weak brandy and water to her lips.

"Drink it, Honor. For God's sake, drink it!" he commanded, a ring of fear in his voice. For in that moment, a change, terrible and significant, had come over her. His appeal produced no response, no movement of lips or eyelids. Her face seemed to shrink and sharpen, and change colour before his eyes. Her breath was cold as the air from a cave.

He set down the wine-glass, and in the first shock and horror of it all stood like a man turned to stone. Then common-sense pricked him back to life, and to the necessity for immediate action. After so sharp an attack, collapse would probably be severe and prolonged. He laid his fingers on her pulse. It was rapid, and barely perceptible, but the still small flutter of life was there.

He opened the verandah door, where Amar Singh and a very aggrieved Aberdeen terrier had sat since morning, and issued a swift order for hot water, mustard, warm turpentine; a grim repetition of the battle he had fought out a week ago. But now he fought single-handed, while Amar Singh and a small tremulous ayah, crouching beside a charcoal brazier in the verandah, kept up a steady supply of his primitive needs.

Thus James Mackay found him on his return; still doggedly applying friction and restoratives without having made an inch of progress for his pains. Darkness had fallen by now, and the one lamp, set well away from the bed, made a pallid oasis in its own vicinity. Desmond had flung aside his coat, and his thin shirt clung in patches to his damp body. His face was set in rigid lines; and the little doctor, who carried a heart of flesh under a porcupine exterior, was haunted for days by the despair in his eyes.

"How long have you been at it, man?" he asked without preamble.

"A lifetime, I should say. Possibly an hour."

"No change at all?"

"Not the slightest. But I know . . she's alive."

Mackay scrutinised the awful stillness on the bed.

"We must try hypodermic injection," he said gently. "And in the meantime . . ." he went over to a table strewn with sick-room paraphernalia, and poured out half a pint of champagne, "you'll please drink that."

And as Desmond obeyed automatically, his hand shook so that the edge of the tumbler rattled against his teeth. The body was beginning to assert itself at last. But the stinging liquid revived him; and in a silence, broken only by an abrupt direction or request from the Scotchman, the last available resources were tried again and yet again, without result. Finally Mackay looked up, and Desmond read the verdict in his eyes.

"My dear man, it's no use," he said simply. "She's beyond our reach now."

Desmond's lips whitened: but he braced his shoulders. "She's not. I don't believe it," he answered, on a toneless note of decision. And the other knew that only the slow torture of the night-watches could brand the truth into his brain.

With a gesture of weariness, infinitely pathetic, he turned back to the bed, and bending down, mechanically rearranged the sheet, and smoothed a crease or two out of the pillow. The bowed back and shoulders, despite their suppleness and strength, had in them a pathos too deep for tears: and Mackay, feeling himself dismissed, went noiselessly out.

For a long moment Desmond's unnatural stoicism held firm. Then, deep down in him, something seemed to snap. With a dry, choking sob, he flung himself on his knees beside the bed, and the waters came in even unto his soul.

It seemed a thing incredible that one hour could hold such a store of anguish. The half of his personality, the hidden life of heart and spirit, seemed dead already: and in that first shuddering sense of loneliness, time was not.

A familiar choking sensation recalled him to outward things. The punkah coolie had fallen asleep; and in a fever of irritation he sprang to his feet. Then the thought pierced him: "What on earth does it matter . . now?"

But the trivial prick of discomfort had, in some inexplicable fashion, readjusted the balance of things; reawakened the conviction that had so strangely upheld him throughout the day; and with it the spirit of 'no surrender,' which was the very essence of the man. All the tales he had heard of cholera patients literally dragged from the brink of the grave by devoted nursing crowded in upon him, like reinforcements backing up a forlorn hope, and once again he bent over his wife, caressing the crisp upward sweep of her hair.

"Honor, you shall live. By God, you shall!" he whispered low in her ear, as though her spirit could hear and take comfort from the assurance.

A downward jerk of the punkah rope set the great frill flapping with ostentatious vigour; and he himself set to work again no less vigorously; fighting death hand to hand with every weapon at command. He clung to his renewed hope with a desperation that was terrible; realising more acutely than before that to let go of her was to fall into nameless spaces void of companionship and love. Once or twice the flicker of the punkah frill created an illusion of movement in the face, and his heart leapt into his throat, only to sink to the depths again when he discovered his mistake. But nothing now could turn him from his purpose; or quench that indomitable determination to succeed which is one of the strongest levers of the world.

And at long-last, when persistence had begun to seem mere folly, came the first faint shadow of change. Slowly, very slowly, her face appeared to be losing the bluish tinge of cholera. Fearful lest imagination should be cheating him, he fetched the lamp, and held it over her. Unquestionably the colour had improved.

The loose chimney rattled as he set down the lamp; and he spilled half the brandy he tried to pour into a spoon. Then, steadying himself by a supreme effort, he managed to pour a little of it between her lips, watching with suspended breath for the least sign of moisture at the corners. A drop or two trickled uselessly out, but the muscles of her throat stirred slightly, and the rest was retained.

Then for a moment Desmond let himself go. With a low cry he leaned down, and slipping both arms under her, pressed his lips upon her cold ones, long and passionately, as though he would impart to her the very power of his spirit, the living warmth of his body and heart. And at length, he was aware of a faint unmistakable attempt to return his pressure. He could have shouted for sheer triumph. It was as if he had created her anew. But love, having achieved its perfect work, must be kept under subjection till the accepted moment.

A little more brandy, a little more chafing of hands and limbs, and the miracle was complete. By degrees, as imperceptible as the coming of dawn, life stole back in response to his touch. She stirred, drew a deep breath, and opened her eyes.

"Theo, . . is it you? Have I . . got you . . still?"

It was her own voice, clear and low, no longer the husky whisper of cholera. The caress in it penetrated like pain; and tears, sharp as knives, forced their way between his lids.

"Yes, my darling; . . . and I've got you still," he answered, his tenderness hovering over her like a flutter of wings.

"But what happened? I thought . . ."

"Don't tire your dear head with thinking. By God's mercy, I dragged you back from the utmost edge of things; and you've come to stay. That's enough for me."

Ten minutes later she was sleeping, lightly and naturally, her head nestling in the crook of his elbow, one hand clinging to a morsel of his shirt; while he leaned above her, half-sitting, half-lying on the extreme edge of the bed, not daring to shift his strained position by so much as a hair's-breadth; till overwhelming weariness had its way with him, and he slept also, his head fallen back against the wall.

When at last he awoke, a pale shaft of light was feeling its way across the room from the long glass door that gave upon the verandah. Outside in the garden the crows and squirrels were awake, and talkative. The well-wheel had begun its plaintive music, punctuated with the plash of falling water, and the new day, in a sheet of flame, rolled up unconcernedly from the other side of the world.

Honor had turned over in her sleep, leaving him free to rise, and stretch himself exhaustedly; and as he stood looking down upon the night's achievement, upon the rhythmical rise and fall of his wife's breast beneath its light covering, new fires were kindled in the man's deep heart; new intimations of the height and depth, and power of that 'grand impulsion,' which men call Love; and with these, a new humility that forced him down upon his knees in a wordless ecstasy of thanksgiving.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far." —Browning.

Quita was troubled.

A full week had elapsed since that day so strangely compounded of rapture and dread; of matter-of-fact service, and shy, tender intimacies that had seemed to set a seal on the completeness of their reunion. Yet, in the days that followed, she had been increasingly aware of a nameless something, an indefinable constraint between them, which instinct told her would not have been there if conscience had surrendered all along the line.

It was not his mere avoidance, after the first, of caresses congenial to the opening phase of marriage that disconcerted her. Such emotional reticence squared with her idea of the man. She would not have had him otherwise. They were sure of one another; and in both natures passion was proud and fastidious. It could thrive without much lip-service. The undefined aloofness that troubled Quita was spiritual, rather than physical. She was conscious of walls within walls, separating her from his essential self; and behind these again of an unobtrusive reserve force, whose power of endurance she could not estimate; because her dealings with Michael's shallower nature had afforded her no experience of a moral stability free from the warp of the personal equation. It was as if some intangible part of him, over which she could establish no hold, stood persistently afar off,—tormented, but immovable.

She could not know that the form of opium administered during his illness had revived and strengthened temptation when he himself was physically unfit to cope with it; that by her impulsive return to him, at a critical moment, she was forcing him open-eyed toward a catastrophe more lasting, more terrible for them both, than the initial harm done by her rejection of him five years ago. Reserve and self-disgust made speech on the subject seem a thing impossible; while his mere man's chivalry shrank from allowing her to guess that by an act of seeming reparation, she had run grave risk of putting real reparation out of her power. Once only did the love that consumed him break through the restraint he put upon himself in sheer self-defence.

It was the first day he had been allowed up at a normal hour; and coming into the dining-room, he had found her alone at her easel, near one of the long glass doors. At the sound of his step she turned her canvas round swiftly, and came to him with a glad lift of her head. He took her hands in his big grasp, and kissed her forehead.

"Good morning, lass," he said. "You never told me you had brought that with you. Couldn't be divorced from it, eh? What's the great work now? May I see?"

"But yes, naturally. I've been keeping it as a surprise for you. I don't believe I should ever have got through this last fortnight without it. Voila!"

She set it facing him, and standing so with her eyes on the picture, waited eagerly for his word of praise. But as the seconds passed, and it did not come, she turned, to find him looking at her, not at the picture; his teeth tormenting his lower lip; a suspicious film dimming the clear blue of his eyes. Emboldened by this last incredible phenomenon, she came and stood close to him, yet without touching him.

"Darling, you do like it, don't you? I can't complete it till you give me a few sittings; but then—it will be my masterpiece. I shall never show it, at home, though. It's too much a part of myself . . . my very inmost self."

And he could not withhold the demonstration that such a confession provoked.

"Oh, my dear," he said at last, without releasing her. "You made too little of me once; and now you're making too much. I'm not worth it all."

She put a hand on his lips.

"Be quiet! I won't hear you when you talk so. Look properly at my picture now. You haven't told me it's good."

"Of course it's good. Amazingly good. But . . ." he laughed, a short contented laugh—"it's beyond me how you could be misguided enough to waste your remarkable talent in perpetuating anything so ugly!"

Her smile hinted at superior knowledge; yet she paid his obvious sincerity the compliment of not contradicting his final statement.

"In the first place, because I love it. And in the second place, because, for all true artists, who see in form and colour just a soul's attempts at self-expression, there is more essential beauty in certain kinds . . . of ugliness, than in the most faultless symmetry of lines and curves. One is almost tempted to say that there is no such thing as actual ugliness; that it is all a matter of understanding, of seeing deep enough. For instance, I find that essential beauty I spoke of in Mrs Olliver's face."

"Ah . . . so do I; of a rare quality."

"Well then, dear stupid, allow me to find it in yours also!"

"One to you," he admitted, smiling. "But now . . . I am in your hands till tiffin. What are you going to do with me? Read? Sing? The drawing-room's empty; and I haven't heard you since Kajiar."

"Do you want the Swinburne again?"

"No; by no means."

"Why not? Don't you like the song?"

"I like it far too well; and I'm not strong enough yet to stand a brutal assault upon my feelings! Come along, and give me something wholesome and simple. A convalescent needs milk diet mentally as well as physically, you know!"

This was on one of his best days. But there were others,—following upon nights of sleeplessness, and pain, and heart-searching unspeakable, only to be alleviated by the one unfailing remedy,—when the strain of repression demanded by her constant presence so wrought upon his nerves that he would get up and leave her abruptly without excuse; or shut himself into his room on the empty pretext of revising manuscript. As a matter of fact, he spent most of the time girding at the deliberate waste of good hours; till the consciousness of slipping deeper into the mire and the dread of ultimate defeat became almost an obsession, aggravated by ill-health and want of rest.

Quita, who remembered well his inexhaustible capacity for keeping still, was distressed and puzzled by these moods of restlessness verging on irritability, whose true significance she could not guess at; though she was woman enough to know that a position merely unsatisfactory for her, must be an actual strain on him. And as his strength returned, she could only hope from day to day for some allusion to the possibility of moving into their own bungalow; since it was clear that they could not remain with the Desmonds for ever! Pride and delicacy alike withheld her from the lightest mention of the subject. It seemed to her that she had transgressed sufficiently in both respects already. Yet, as the days accumulated to a week, and still he said no word, she grew definitely anxious to know what was going to happen next.

But, with all its drawbacks and difficulties, this week of intimate everyday companionship had been one of the best weeks in her life. It had served, above all things, to establish her conviction that the husband she had chosen, by a lightning instinct of the brain rather than the heart, was in all respects a man among men. He appealed to the artist in her by a natural dignity and distinction of person and character, by a suggestion of volcanic forces warring with the ascetic strain in him yet steadfastly controlled; and above all, by a superb simplicity and unconsciousness of self, that draws introspective temperaments as infallibly as the moon draws the sea.

And apart from her joy in him, she was keenly alive to her surroundings; to the practical work going on about her; to the stimulating contact with a new type, a new atmosphere. At first she saw little of outsiders, or indeed of any one besides her husband. John Meredith came over every day; Wyndham, though still living in the house, had gone back to duty; while Desmond—after one day of complete collapse, when Frank revenged herself on him by monopolising Honor—had taken up his work again with heightened zest, and devoted every spare hour to his wife. But the four met at meals, and in the evening, when Quita kept all three men alert and amused by her intelligent questionings, her frank interest in every detail of her new profession, as it pleased her to call it.

Before the week was out her pocket note-book contained a small portrait-gallery of studies in pencil and water-colour. She sketched Desmond's old Sikh Ressaldar, with his finely carved features, deep eyes, and vast lop-sided blue and gold turban; and Desmond himself in the white uniform and long boots, which so greatly pleased her, occupied several pages.

Mounted on Shaitan's successor, she rode down with him twice to early parade; and sat entranced through the whole proceeding; watching the long lines of men and horses sweeping across the open plain, wheeling, retiring, advancing, changing formation with exquisite and instantaneous precision, in response to Meredith's brisk words of command; while massed lance-heads and steel shoulder-chains flashed and winked in the level light.

It was her first experience of meeting soldiers in the mass, on their own ground, and the man who has faced death and dealt it out to others appeals irresistibly to the fundamental barbaric in women. To this fascination, Quita added the artist's reverence for the men who 'do things,' as opposed to the men who record or express them.

She enlarged on the subject at breakfast one morning, in her usual direct fashion; but Desmond would have none of it.

"Remember, Quita," said he, "that an artist, in the inclusive sense, when he is worth anything, stands for the strongest thing in the world . . . an idea."

Her face brightened with interest.

"That's true. But unhappily great art doesn't necessarily imply great character, and great action does. That's why the world's heroes have nearly always been men of action; and always will be."

"Ah, now you've given yourself away neatly!" Desmond cried, like a great schoolboy. "Where would your heroes be a hundred years after their death, but for the men who immortalise them on canvas, and in print? Would the effect of their noble living be one-half as far-reaching, if it remained unrecorded? It's no case for comparison, any more than the eternal man and woman question. They are diverse; and the world has equal need of both. So there's consolation for us all!"

"Well played, Desmond!" Lenox remarked, smiling and nodding across the table at his wife.

"I surrender at discretion," she admitted sweetly. "But still, being an artist, I take off my hat to men of action, and always shall."

"Good luck for the men of action!" Desmond retorted, with an amused glance at Lenox, as they rose from the table.

By now cholera and fever were dying out slowly, like spent fires. The Infantry had come in from camp; and the Battery was expected back shortly, only two fresh cases having occurred. Then, as Honor began to mend, people dropped in again at tea-time, eager for news of her; and Quita discovered how widely and deeply she was beloved. Little Mrs Peters disappeared behind a very crumpled handkerchief while trying to express her feelings; and the Chicken blew his nose vigorously when Quita announced that Honor would soon be allowed into the drawing-room for tea.

She was getting used to her new name now. Officers of all ranks came to call on her as a 'bride'; an embarrassing attention which she would gladly have dispensed with in the circumstances, since Eldred basely deserted her on each occasion; and she was introduced to Norton, who inspected her critically and flagrantly, as a possible stumbling-block to a promising career. Altogether, she was beginning to see India in a new perspective. Hitherto, in her aimless wanderings with Michael, she had merely looked on at its vast and varied panorama of life; had studied it with the detached interest of the outsider. Now she felt herself absorbed into the brotherhood of those who worked and suffered for the great country of her husband's service; who were as flies on the wheels of its complex mechanism; and who heartily loved or hated it, as the case might be.

At last, after a week of devoted nursing, Honor was allowed to make her first appearance in the drawing-room; and Desmond invited a 'select few' to tea for the occasion. Wyndham stood alone on the hearth-rug when she entered, her husband supporting her with his arm. She was visibly thinner; and her face was almost as colourless as the sweeping folds of her tea-gown. Otherwise her beauty had reasserted itself triumphantly; and Wyndham caught his breath as he came towards her.

She gave him both her hands; and he held them closely for a long moment. Then, obeying a rare and imperative impulse, he bent down and touched them with his lips. A faint colour tinged Honor's cheeks. "Dear Paul," she said under her breath: and Desmond, leading her to the sofa, established her in a nest of cushions, with a light covering for her feet, just as Quita and Lenox came in, closely followed by Max Richardson in uniform.

He had come in from camp not an hour ago; and had ridden over without changing, in his zeal to shake hands with Lenox and his wife. The former had endured his congratulations and delight at the news with the best grace he could muster; and had avoided a word with him alone. Now he drew up a chair and sat down by Honor: while Quita, pricked to a passing jealousy by his instant gravitation to her, moved off with Max Richardson, talking and laughing as if she had known him for years. It was not her habit to waste time in preliminaries.

"They'll get on splendidly, those two," Honor said, smiling as she watched them.

"I'll be glad if they do," Lenox answered without enthusiasm; and her eyes scanned his face.

"You aren't getting on splendidly, though. You look worn to a shadow. I'm afraid it's been difficult."

"Hideously difficult."

"And you ought both to be so happy, now of all times . . ."

"Yes. That's the exquisitely refined torment of it."

"You haven't been sleeping?"

"No . . . nothing to speak of. But don't give yourself a headache on my account, dear lady. Desmond would never forgive me! I'm a tough customer. I shall pull through somehow."

"If you could only bring yourself to talk it over with Theo," she urged in a lower tone, as he came towards them with Mrs Peters, who flung shyness to the winds, and fairly took Honor's breath away by kissing her on both cheeks.

Desmond's 'select few' amounted to less than a dozen. Honor's sofa was the centre of attraction; and her sympathetic spirit thrilled in response to the friendliness that glowed, like a jewel, at the heart of everyday talk and laughter. For the past fortnight of pain and stress seemed to have drawn them all indefinably closer to one another: which is the true mission of pain and stress in this very human world.

Later in the evening there were light sports on the Cavalry parade-ground, which Meredith, Desmond, and Olliver were bound to attend; Wyndham and half a dozen others remaining behind.

Courtenay, on his way to the door, remarked to Lenox that a short outing would do him no harm; and Quita, who chanced to be standing at his elbow, pressed lightly against him.

"Drive me down, dear," she said softly. "I should love it." And since he had avoided her for the greater part of the morning, he could not well refuse.

"I like your 'Dick,' Eldred," she informed him, as they bowled along the wide straight road. "He is bon garcon, through and through. Not brilliant, perhaps: but quick, appreciative, and he can talk."

"Yes: Dick's a real good sort. Glad you approve of him. And as for talking . . . you could draw conversation out of a stone wall!"

"I don't always succeed with the one I am leaning against just now!"

"Well, I'll swear it's not your fault if you fail," he answered, smiling down upon her with such unfathomable sadness in his eyes, that she cried out involuntarily, between vexation and despair—

"Oh, mon Dieu, is it always going to be like this between us? Is there nothing I can do to make you happy again?"

"Nothing just at present, worse luck," he said grimly, looking straight ahead: for in the face of such an appeal he could hardly confess his desperate need to be left alone. "It's a question of time, as I told you, and my own strength of will. But if the situation becomes too intolerable for you, there is always the last resort of overstepping the limit, and setting you free for good."

Quita could not know how cruelly ill he had slept since her coming, nor how little a man tortured by insomnia can be held responsible for his utterances; and the significance of his last words so startled her that she clutched his arm.

"Eldred . . . Eldred, promise me you'll never even think of such a thing . . . never!"

He winced under her touch. "Quita, remember where we are," he said sharply; and she dropped her hand.

"But all the same, promise me . . what I asked; or I shall never have an easy moment."

"It might come to seem the kindest thing one could do for you," he persisted, still without looking at her. But fear gave her courage to strike deep while the chance of speech was hers.

"It would never be anything less than an act of cruelty and cowardice. Remember that. I am ready to put up with everything . . . everything rather than lose you, now."

"If that's the truth, lass," he said with sudden gentleness, "you may set your mind at rest. I promise."

"Thank you, mon cher."

Then they fell silent till the parade-ground came in sight.

This, their first appearance together in public, was something of an ordeal to both; and at the last minute Quita's courage evaporated.

"Eldred . . . stop, please," she said suddenly. "I'm shy of them all; and I don't want to talk to them just now."

"Thank the Lord for that!" he answered so fervently, that they both laughed aloud; and there is nothing like laughter for clearing the air.

"Take me for a drive," she suggested. "Show me your bungalow . . . our bungalow, will you?"

He hesitated. It seemed he was only to exchange one ordeal for another. "It's a ramshackle, comfortless place, Quita," he objected. "Wouldn't it be better to wait till . . till I can have it decently fitted up for you? Or you might like to pick another one."

"But no. I want that one; and I want to see it first just as you lived in it, please."

"Very well. If you wish it."

An officious chowkidar opened doors for them with a great clatter of bolts, and an elaborate air of being very much on the spot; and they stepped straight from the verandah into the one room Lenox had furnished besides the bedroom. It looked desolate, and smelt uninhabited; but Quita inspected the horns, the rugs, the sketches, even the handful of books left on the writing-table, with eager interest; and Eldred, stationed on the hearth-rug, answered her running fire of questions a little vaguely, because he was listening more intently to her voice than to what it said!

Suddenly his thoughts were checked by a vivid sense of having lived through this identical scene before; of standing near a fireplace watching her light-hearted explorations. But where? When? Then, like a dash of cold water, came enlightenment. It was at the Kiffel Alp Hotel, on the day of their wedding; and the bitterness of the lost years between, with their final heritage of evil, flowed over him like the sluggish waters of a dead sea.

Quita was hesitating on the threshold of the bedroom now; and an insane conviction came upon him that if she went in there he would lose her again, as on that earlier day. It was all sheer brain-sickness, and lack of sleep, but at the moment it was horribly real.

"May one look at the other rooms too?" she asked. "I want to see which would do best for my studio!"

"Look into every hole and corner, if it amuses you, dearest," he answered; but made no attempt to accompany her.

When at last she reappeared, the nightmare feeling took him afresh. He felt certain she would come straight up to him, and lay hold of the lapels of his coat. And this she actually did; lifting a glowing face to his.

"Eldred," she began, exactly as before . . . and it was more than he could stand. The oppression of her nearness set the blood rushing in his ears; and taking her hands from their resting-place he put her from him, almost an arm's-length, as though the better to look into her eyes.

"Well?" he asked, with an attempt at lightness that rang false. "Is your Highness quite satisfied with it all?"

But she was not to be deceived. Her cheeks flamed; and she almost snatched away her hands.

"Yes. I am quite satisfied," she said, in a changed voice. "And I think it's high time we went back."

Then she left him, a shade too rapidly for dignity, and sprang into the cart, before he could get near enough to help her up.

"Quita . . . why did you do that? What's wrong?" he asked, lamely enough as he gathered up the reins.

"Need you add insult to injury by asking that?" she flashed out, angry tears pricking her eyeballs. "I'm wrong. You're wrong. Everything's wrong. I ought never to have come here . . . before I was wanted."

He made no comment on that. It was not a question to be discussed in the open road, with a sais jogging on the tail-board behind; and no more was said till they reached home.

Then, as Eldred pressed the reins under the clip, he said in a quiet tone of command: "Stay where you are, please, till I can get round." And for all the rebellion in her blood, she obeyed.

He lifted her out bodily, and drew her into the hall. It was empty and almost dark: and before she guessed his intent, his lips had touched hers lightly, with a quick sigh that told of passion held in check. But she broke away from him, unappeased, and shut herself into her room.

She was relieved to find that a sprinkling of the tea party—the Ollivers, Norton, and Richardson—had stayed to dinner. Olliver was her partner; and evinced his appreciation of the fact by chaffing her laboriously throughout the meal; the one form of conversation she frankly detested.

But Richardson sat on her right, and, in Olliver's phraseology, "made the running with her all the time." For good, single-hearted Max frankly admired her. His conscience pricked him more acutely than it had yet done at thought of his own responsibility for the wasted years; and he longed for a chance to say as much to his friend. But Lenox was not in a mood to talk about his wife; and Richardson got no word in private with him throughout the evening.

Frank Olliver left early; and as Desmond half-lifted his wife from the sofa, Quita came up and said good-night also. She had been watching these two with reawakened interest throughout the afternoon and evening, and wondering whether she and Eldred could ever arrive at such perfect community of heart and mind.

In passing her husband, she laid butterfly finger-tips upon his coat-sleeve. "Good-night, mon ami," she said, just framing the words with her lips: and before he could get a square look at her, she was gone.

When the three men were left alone, Wyndham drank his 'peg' standing, and departed; but Desmond took Lenox by the arm.

"Come into the dufta[1] for half an hour," he said. "I've hardly spoken to you since Monday; and I think we have a thing or two to talk over."

Lenox submitted with a smile of resigned amusement, and the study door closed behind them.



[1] Study.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"I dare not swerve From my soul's rights; a slave, though serving thee. I but forbear more nobly to deserve; The free gift only cometh of the free." —O. Meredith.

"Well, old chap?"

Lenox tried to speak carelessly; to evade the inevitable; for he was sore, with the twofold soreness of insomnia and thwarted passion; and when all a man's nerves are laid bare, he naturally dreads a touch in the wrong place:—hence irascibility. To any one else he would have presented an impenetrable curtain of reserve, of ironical refusal to admit that anything was wrong. But Desmond had the man's tenderness, which is sometimes greater than the woman's: and, as Quita had once said, he was privileged, simply by being what he was.

Having set glasses and spirit-decanter within reach of their two chairs, he came over to Lenox, and set both hands on his shoulders.

"My dear fellow, it's no use shirking facts," he said straightly. "You're only flesh and blood; and the strain of all this is just knocking you to pieces again. No reflection on your wife. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. I know very well what you mean." Lenox spoke with repressed bitterness. "I once heard hell defined as disqualification in the face of opportunity."

Desmond turned back to the table, and helped himself to a fresh cigar. "Are you so dead certain about the disqualification?" he asked without looking up: and he heard Lenox grind his teeth.

"Oh Lord, man, if you're going on that tack, I'm off."

"Indeed you're not. There's a deal more to be said. As far as I understand matters, I imagine that your wife's coming here makes a decided difference in regard to—ultimate possibilities?"

"Yes; that's just it. She has cut away the ground from under my feet on all sides." He was thinking of his promise that afternoon, and his voice lost its schooled hardness. "She's set on going through with things, at any price. But then . . she doesn't realise . . ."

"Believe me, it wouldn't make the smallest difference if she did. Women are made that way, to our eternal good fortune. Their capacity for loving us in spite of what we are is a thing to go down on one's knees for. You'll appreciate it, one of these days, if you haven't done so already."

"Appreciate it? Great Scott, Desmond, haven't I ten times more cause to do so than you can ever have had? But that doesn't wipe out facts or principles."

He left the hearth-rug, and paced the room in restless agitation. Desmond sat down, lit his cigar, and waited. His own suggestion could best be made if Lenox could be induced to unburden himself a little first. Presently he sat on the edge of the writing-table, well out of range of the lamp; stretched out his long legs, and folded his arms.

"By rights, I suppose I ought to have let her go back to Dalhousie at once. She suggested it herself. But it seemed too brutal; and I wasn't up to the wrench of letting her go just then. Besides, there was your wife's illness. It would have been out of the question. And now I'm in a bigger hole than before. We are living at cross purposes. She sees I'm holding back; and she's puzzled, and unhappy. But how the deuce is a man to tell her plainly that by an act of pure pluck and devotion, at the wrong moment, she has practically pushed me deeper into the pit than I've been yet? In fact, I'm beginning to be afraid that . . . the damage may be permanent."

Desmond stifled an exclamation of dismay.

"I wonder if you could bring yourself to tell me exactly what you mean by that?" he said quietly. "Perhaps I have no business to ask; but unless one goes to the root of a thing it's useless to talk of it at all."

"I know that. If I hadn't meant to tell you, I shouldn't be in here now. The fact is . . it's gone a good bit beyond tobacco this last fortnight." He hesitated; but Desmond made no sign. "Did you never miss that bottle of chlorodyne you brought me the day I was bowled over?"

This time Desmond started.

"Good heavens, yes! I had to get a fresh one . . for Honor. But it never occurred to me . . ."

"It wouldn't. You're not the sort. I emptied it, though, in no time. But it's poor stuff. It didn't half work. Then, one night—I was mad with pain, and want of sleep—I got hold of the raw drug, in pellets—from the bazaar." He shivered at the recollection: "I tell you, Desmond, it's appalling to feel the foundations of things giving way. But I've taken it ever since, . . pain or no.—Now do you doubt the disqualification I spoke of? Personally I don't feel fit to touch her hand."

The bitterness of conviction in his tone made Desmond lean forward to get a better sight of him.

"Lenox, old man," he said, almost tenderly, "such exaggerated notions are all a part of your unsettled nerves.—Smash up your devil's box of pills; or . . hand it over to me . . if you will . . . ?"

Lenox hesitated; but his face gave no sign of the short sharp struggle within. "You shall have the thing, if you wish it," he said at length. "It gives me no pleasure to make a beast of myself. But that doesn't touch the heart of the difficulty. So long as she's here, I haven't a chance. If I give up the stuff, I shall go to pieces with headache and insomnia. That's flat."

"Indeed I think you're mistaken," Desmond spoke with deliberate lightness. "At all events, I have a suggestion to make that may help you . . for the moment. I have quite decided that Honor must leave this, directly she is strong enough to stand the short journey to Sheik Budeen; probably in three or four days; and after a week or two there, she must go on to Dalhousie till September. Can you see a chink of daylight now?"

"Why, naturally. You want Quita to go up with her? A capital notion!"

His eagerness was an unconscious revelation of all that he had endured.

"Yes. I want you to tell her, from me, that she would be doing us both a very real kindness. Honor would break her poor heart alone at Sheik Budeen; and if you put it to Quita that way, I don't think she will take your suggestion amiss."

"I'm positive she won't. I'll speak to her to-morrow."

He got up; squared his shoulders, with a great sigh of relief; helped himself to whisky-and-soda; and emptied half the tumbler at a draught.

"By Jove, Desmond, you've put fresh spirit into me. This will give me a chance to fight the thing squarely; and I hope to God I may succeed,—even yet."

"Of course you'll succeed. We may take that for granted," Desmond answered, smiling. "You've won the great talisman that puts failure out of the question. As soon as we are officially through with the cholera, you should take sick leave, and go off into the hills. You'll not fight to any purpose, till you're in sound health again."

"How about Dick, though? It's his turn for leave."

"He'll survive missing it. He's in splendid condition; and this is a life-and-death matter for you. Besides, Courtenay will never let you start duty till you've been away. 'Dick' can take fifteen days when you get back."

"Poor chap! But I'm afraid that's the only programme possible."

He sat down at last; and for a time they smoked contentedly; then Lenox drew a letter from his breast-pocket.

"From Sir Henry Forsyth at Simla," he explained, "about my chances up Gilgit way. If we decide on re-establishing the Agency there, he evidently counts on sending me up again, with young Travers as my Assistant. He and I have done some decent work together in that part of the world. Nothing I should like better, of course. But . . in the face of recent developments, I swear I don't know how to answer him."

He handed the letter to Desmond, who read it and looked thoughtful

"If you get this chance, I think you must take it," he said. "With your special knowledge, you'd be the right man in the right place, up there: and apart from your own ambition, you owe something to India, after what you've done already."

Lenox sighed.

"I owe something to my wife also. You'd be the last to deny that.—Jove, it's amazing what a fine crop of complications will grow out of one false step. A little want of frankness on her part; a little over-hastiness on mine; . . and see where we've travelled in consequence. All my work in the past five years has been tending towards something of this kind. But it would never do . . for Quita. Think what a life for a woman, even if one could hope to have her there in time. Shut up in the heart of the hills, with half a dozen Englishmen, and a husband who might end in going to the devil. Not another woman nearer than Srinagar; and communication with India cut off for six months in the year. No. One would never get permission. It would simply wrench us apart again.—There seems to be a Fate against this marriage of mine every way. My fault, no doubt. Perhaps as a soldier with a taste for exploration, I was a fool to go in for it at all."