by Maud Diver
CHAPTER XVI.
"What we love we'll serve, aye, and suffer for too." --W. Penn.
After sunset the mist came down again, thick as cotton-wool. Heavenand earth were obliterated, and a quietly determined downpour set infor the night.
Quita was still at her easel, trying bravely to disregard the collapseof her happy omen; Michael lounging in a cane chair, with Shelley and acigarette. He had returned from Jundraghat in a mood of skin-deepnonchalance, beneath which irritation smouldered, and Quita's news hadset the sparks flying. Behold him, therefore, doubly a martyr; ready,as always, to make capital out of his crown of thorns. A renewedpattering on the verandah slates roused him from the raptures of theEpipsychidion.
"Well, at least you can't think of going _now_," he said, flinging thebook aside with a gesture of impatience. "That's one blessing, if therest's a blank."
Quita, who was washing out her brushes, looked round quickly.
"I'm sorry to leave you alone in a bad mood, Michael; but I mean to go,whatever the weather chooses to say about it."
"_Parbleu_! But what has come to you, Quita? You are infatuated withthat granite-natured Scotchman!"
"And if I am . . . I have every right to be."
Her gaze had returned to the vigorous outline on the easel, and hervoice softened to an unconscious tenderness, peculiarly exasperating toa man in Michael's mixed frame of mind.
"_Naturellement_!" he answered with a shrug. "Being a woman, you havedivine right to monopolise a man,--if the man is fool enough to submitto it. Nature is determined that you women shall not escape your realtrade. That is why she takes care to make every one of you a bourgeoisat heart. And all these years I have cherished the delusion that you,at least, were a genuine artist!"
"So I am. Every whit as much as yourself."
"And also--a genuine woman?"
"I hope so."
Michael smiled--a smile of superior knowledge.
"One cannot serve two masters, _ma chere_. That's where thecomplication comes in, when an artist happens also to be a woman. Thecreative force, mental or physical, is a master-force. Only asuperhuman vitality can accomplish both with any hope of success.Succumb to your womanhood, and there's an end of your Art--_voilatout_."
"But no, Michel. I won't believe that." She spoke stoutly, thoughcold fear was upon her that a germ of truth lurked in his statement.
"Believe it or not, as you please. You are on the high-road to makethe discovery for yourself, and you will find it a case of nocompromise. One of the two must predominate. You will either becomean amateur artist or an amateur wife and mother. Which do you supposeit will be?"
She shut her paint-box with an impatient snap.
"I really don't know. I am not in the mood for abstract speculation."
"No. You are in the mood for concrete love-making; and in pursuit ofit, you're ready to face a drenching, to leave me is the worst possiblecompany, without a sisterly qualm, and without even troubling to put myrazor in your pocket."
"Don't talk melodramatic nonsense," she rebuked him sharply. Then pityand tenderness prevailed. "If it's really as bad as that, _mon cher_,why on earth didn't you take yesterday's chance, and ask Elsie to beyour wife? I believe she would have said 'Yes.'"
"So do I. Therefore I preferred not to ask her. Still--it's none theless maddening that because you women have this incurable mania formarriage, one should be cut off from her sweet companionship, from theinspiration that is to be found in that delectable borderland betweenfriendship and love; and insulted into the bargain by a chit of amother-woman, with no more brains and imagination than a sparrow! Butfor me, at any rate, there can be no compromise. I do not choose toprofane the sanctuary of my soul, to corrupt my Art, by becoming a merebreadwinner, a slave of the hearth-rug, and the tea-cup--in fact, theproperty of a woman. That's what it amounts to. And I doubt if any ofus relish the position when it comes to the point. Even that devotedhusband of yours, after waiting five years upon your imperial pleasure,seems in no hurry to tie himself up again; or you would hear less abouthis conscientious scruples, I assure you. They would be swept aside,like straws before a flood."
At that Quita's eyes flashed.
"Michel, you _shall_ not speak so of him," she cried imperiously."I've said already that I won't have the subject discussed. How should_you_ understand a man like Eldred,--you, who hardly know the meaningof the word 'conscience'?"
"_Dieu merci_; since its chief function seems to be to make oneself andevery one else uncomfortable.--Hark at the rain! I wish you joy ofyour journey."
He spoke the last words to an empty room. Quita was already changingher dress hurriedly, defiantly, shutting her ears to the discouragingsounds without. Michael's half-jesting insinuation had hit her harderthan he guessed; had deepened her determination to extricate herself,without loss of time, from a position that justified a suggestion sogalling to her pride.
But the mere getting down from the top of Bakrota, and climbinghalf-way up the neighbouring hill, through a desolating world of mistand rain, was, in itself, a prospect that would have daunted a lessheadstrong woman. Michael returned her hasty "good-night" in a voiceof resigned martyrdom, and out in the verandah, four drenched_jhampannis_ cowering round a hurricane-lantern, had passed beyondmartyrdom to the verge of open rebellion.
They were poor men, and the Miss Sahib's slaves, they protested inchorus; but it was a very bad rain. Even with the lantern, it would beimpossible to keep the path; and if harm should come to the Protectorof the Poor, the Sahib would smite them without mercy. Also the "mate"[1] was even now shivering with ague; in proof whereof he so vigorouslyshook the lantern that it almost fell out of his hand.
But Quita was adamant. She bade them set out at once, or the Sahibwould smite them there and then. Awed by a threat that would neverhave been executed, they hastened to assure her that she was,collectively and individually, their "father and mother," that theirworthless lives were at her service, and that they would startforthwith.
Three minutes later, they were swinging cautiously along the four-foottrack that corkscrews down to the level of the Mall, the foremost manthrusting the lantern well ahead, with the sole result that a greatwhite circle showed weirdly upon the curtain of mist, through whichthey journeyed by faith, and not by sight. With every step of the wayQuita's conviction grew that she had pushed persistence to the verge offolly; and the thought of Michael, alone and dejected, tugged at herheart. The rain formed miniature canals in the waterproof sheet thatcovered her; and more than once a jerk of the dandy emptied these intoher lap; while the mist itself was so dense that she seemed to bebreathing water instead of air. There was no denying that to-morrowwould do as well as to-night. But her impatient spirit fretted againstdelay; and this senseless obtrusion of inanimate things,--angering her,as only the inanimate can,--drowned the still small voice ofcommon-sense.
Nevertheless, human will and endeavour have small chance in a duel withthat invisible Force, which men call Fate. In the language of theEast, "it was written" that she should not get down the hill thatnight; and before they reached the Mall, Quita was compelled to ownherself beaten.
A jerk, a crash, followed by darkness, and a thud that brought herhalf-overturned dandy into violent contact with the ground, fairlysettled the matter. The "mate" had missed the path; and, but for aninstantaneous counter-jerk on the part of the men behind, Quita wouldhave been shot down the _khud_, instead of on to the stony roadway. Asit was, she thrust out both hands to save herself, while the rainpattered through the light lace scarf on to her head and neck. Thelantern glass was broken, and the "mate," lamenting volubly, declaredthat his arm appeared to be broken also. Quita herself wasignominiously damp and bedraggled; and vanity apart, going on was outof the question. Even getting back, minus the lantern, would be adifficult matter. With tears in her eyes, and fierce disappointment ather heart, she submitted to the inevitable.
Michael greeted her
with lifted eyebrows, and an exasperating chuckle.
"Thought ten minutes of it would be enough for you," he remarkedcoolly; and her wrath against things in general vented itself on him.
"Really, Michel, you are _detestable_! It was not enough. The 'mate'lost his footing, and the lantern broke. Oh, it's cruel . . . afternearly three weeks . . ."
Her voice broke, and Michael, thankful to see her again, took one ofher hands and drew her towards him.
"_Pauvre cherie_," he said more gently. "Don't break your heart overit. Send a note to say you'll come to-morrow, and cheer me up a bitnow, like the sweet sister you are."
There was nothing else to be done. Arming an adventurous _sais_ withMaurice's lantern, an alpenstock, and two notes tied up in a scrap ofoiled silk, Quita choked down her misery, and did her utmost to complywith his request. But the meal was only a partial success, for therebellious heart of her was out there in the rain, following the notesto their destination.
They did not reach it till well after eight o'clock, when those whoawaited her had given up all hope, and were just sitting down to dinner.
Lenox still wore his arm in a sling, and the lines in his face lookeddeeper than usual. Otherwise he was quite himself again. The anxietyin his eyes gave place to dejection as Honor handed him Quita's note.
"Shall I open it for you?" she added gently.
He frowned, and thanked her. There are few things more galling to aman than helplessness over trifles. He laid the open note beside hisplate, and its half-dozen lines of love took him an amazingly longwhile to read: for Quita, like many spontaneous natures, had the giftof making herself almost seen and heard by means of a few writtenwords. He tried to win comfort from the thought that it was only amatter of getting through eighteen hours, after all, and roused himselfresolutely to a fair semblance of cheerfulness. But both husband andwife were too keenly sympathetic to be quite successful in theirattempts to change the current of his thoughts; and their own heartswere heavy with a great anxiety for Desmond's life-long friend, PaulWyndham. A phenomenal downpour at Dera Ishmael had produced a prolificcrop of fever cases, and Wyndham's had taken a serious turn. The lasttwo days had brought such disquieting news that Desmond was alreadyhalf-inclined to throw up the rest of his leave and go straight down toPaul's bedside. The possibility of broaching the subject to his wifethat night so absorbed his mind that surface conversation was aneffort; and all three were thankful when the meal was over.
"Bring your coffee and cigars into the drawing-room, and we'll havesome music," Honor said, as they rose from the table, and Lenox lookedhis gratitude. Intimate speech of any kind, even with Desmond, wasanathema to him just then, and his full heart went out to this woman,whose genius for divining others' needs was so unerring, because hersympathies were so deep and true.
He determined to put Quita out of his head for the evening, if shewould consent to stay there; and less than five minutes after thistriumph of common-sense, a slight stir in the verandah roused him tounreasoning hope that it might be she after all. But it was only AmarSingh, the bearer, with a telegram for Desmond.
His heart stood still as he tore it open; then a stifled sound ofdismay brought Honor instantly to his side.
"Dearest--what is it?" she asked under her breath.
For answer he handed her the flimsy scrap of paper, and went quicklyinto the next room. Honor's eyes took in the curt statement at aglance.
"Leave cancelled. Return at once. Infantry for cholera camp. None ofours yet. Wyndham worse. High temperature persists. Conditioncritical."
A low sound escaped her, and she passed the telegram to Lenox. It wasfrom her brother, Colonel Meredith, now in command of the regiment.
"A double blow," she murmured mechanically. "By this time it maybe--all over!"
Her lips quivered, but she did not follow her husband, knowing that inthe first bewilderment of grief he would prefer to be alone. And Lenoxhad no answer for her; had, in fact, scarcely heard what she said.Then, as his brain grasped the latter half of the telegram, he glancedat her. He had never seen her look less like herself.
"I'm afraid this has hit you hard," he said, with more of feeling inhis eyes than he knew how to put into his tone. "But you mustn't takethe worst for granted. Desmond won't, if I know anything of him."
"I hope not. But this is . . . Paul; and you don't know what thatmeans to us both. Besides . . . the saints of the earth are alwaystaken too soon."
"No, not always. Fate does sometimes make mistakes on the rightside . . . by accident," he added grimly. "I suppose one of these hasgone to the Strawberry Bank. I must send Zyarulla off at once to getmy traps together. It means starting first thing."
She looked at him in surprise.
"Yes. But not you, surely. You're hardly fit for duty yet."
"Nonsense. Barring my arm, I'm fit for anything. And if we're in forcholera, I don't see myself leaving Dick to handle the Battery withoutme."
"You're bound to ask Dr O'Malley's permission, though."
"Yes, worse luck. But I fancy I shall square him. At the sametime--it's hard lines----"
He broke off short. The thing did not bear speaking of.
"It _is_ bitterly hard lines, for you both," Honor answered, lookingaway from him. But she knew the best men of her service too well tosuggest that, without straining a point, he might honestly be declaredunfit for duty.
"At least it will be a comfort to her having _you_ here," he went onmechanically, because the thing had to be said somehow. "I'll leave anote, of course, but I'd be grateful if you'd take it for me some timein the morning. She may not understand how impossible it is for a manto hold back--on any pretext, at a time like this, and I know I cantrust _you_ to make things clear to her. You're more than half asoldier yourself."
"So I ought to be!" Honor answered, inexpressibly touched by hisconfidence in her. "And of course I would go to her if I were here.But to-morrow I shall be on my way back to Dera with you both."
"Dera!--But that would be madness. Do you suppose Desmond would everhear of such a thing?"
"I haven't supposed anything about it yet," she answered, smiling. "Ionly know that I can't let him go down into--all that, alone. Now Imust say good-night, and go to him. We'll make all arrangements forthe journey," she added, as they shook hands, "and Zyarulla will do thepacking for you. So be sure and get some sleep when you have seen DrO'Malley."
His face hardened.
"I only know one way to make sure of that," he said, avoiding her eyes.
"Oh, no, no; not that way, please."
"I imagine it'll be that or none," he answered almost roughly, as heturned away, and with a sigh Honor followed her husband into thedining-room.
He sat with his back to her, elbows planted on the writing-table, hishead between his hands. But at her approach he looked up, and with asharp contraction of heart she saw that tears stood in his eyes. Awoman takes small account of her own wet lashes, but a man's tears arelike drops of blood wrung from the heart.
Honor took his head between her hands, and kissed him, long andtremulously. After that there seemed no need for words on the subjectnearest their hearts.
"You knew why I didn't come sooner?" was all she said, and Desmondpressed the hand resting on his shoulder. Then, seating herselfopposite him on the edge of the table, she glanced at the telegraphform lying before him.
"Are you wiring for more news?"
"Yes. I want an 'urgent,' care of the Station-master, to catch me atLahore to-morrow night, and another at Thung dak bungalow next day;unless . . . of course . . ."
"Hush, hush. You _must_ not think of that."
He frowned, and was silent. The two men loved one another as menlinked by half a lifetime of toil and ambition learn to love,--or hate;and in the face of a calamity so unthinkable, even Desmond's incurablehopefulness was shaken.
"Captain Lenox believes he will be allowed to go," Honor went on aftera pause. "But
he's hardly fit for it, is he?"
"Not quite, perhaps, though he's made of iron under it all, and if he'sset on going, I don't fancy O'Malley will stand in his way."
"I told him we would make all travelling arrangements, and you'll besending Dunni out with this, I suppose?"
"Yes. At once. Why?"
"Because I want him to take a note to Mrs Rivers at the same time."
"Mrs Rivers? Would you sooner go to her than stay on here?"
Honor smiled.
"Do you really imagine I shall stay on here?"
"Why not? It would save the trouble of moving; and you wouldn't feellonely with the little chap for company."
"But, you dear, foolish man, can't you see that it's you I want?" Andshe leaned forward, speaking quickly to stave off interruption. "Don'tmake a fuss about it, please; because I have settled everything in mymind. I'll ask Mrs Rivers to take baby and Parbutti for me. I knowshe gladly will. As for me, of course I go down to Dera to-morrow, anddo what I can for you all."
At that Desmond straightened himself; and Honor foresaw one of thosepitched battles, which, between natures equally imperious andhot-headed, were unavoidable from time to time; while Desmond, becausehe meant to have his own way, dared not let her see how profoundly hewas moved by this culminating proof of her devotion.
"My dear Honor, the thing is out of the question," he said decisively."It's splendid of you even to think of coming down. But it would beunpardonable in me to allow it, so be a sensible woman and put thenotion out of your head, once for all. You know you could never bearto leave little Paul when it came to the point."
"I could . . . I could. Oh, Theo, don't be unreasonable over this."
"The unreasonableness is yours, my dear. If this is going to be bad,we may all be off into camp before the week's out."
"Well, then, Frank would take me in . . . and at least I should be onthe spot--in case . . . Oh, Theo, I _must_ come! Why on earthshouldn't I be there just as much as Frank, and that little missionarywoman, Mrs Peters?"
"Frank" Olliver, a Major's wife, was the only other woman in theregiment, and hill stations were not (as she would have expressed it)"in her line." But Desmond was immovable.
"That's quite another matter. Being there already, they naturallywouldn't desert their post. But you are here, thank God, safe out ofit all; and I must insist on your remaining here, if it's only for mysake." A half smile dispelled the gravity of his face. "I've a notionthat when you married me you promised, among other things, to obey me!"
"Well, I was driven to. It was the only way to get you. But I'm suremost of us make that promise with mental reservations. In certaincases I should not dream of obeying you, Theo, and this is one!"
"But if I flatly refuse to take you with me?"
"I suppose I should have to follow on alone."
He looked at her straightly for a moment. Then: "I don't think youwould deliberately defy me, Honor," he said in a level tone. "Icouldn't put up with that, even from you."
There was a short silence. She saw that in direct opposition to hiswill she could go no further. But the woman who loves, and knowsherself beloved, has subtler weapons at command. Setting her two handsupon his shoulders, and bringing her beautiful face very close to his,Honor returned her husband's look with a smile so mutely beseeching,that his fortitude, already undermined by the news from Dera, began towaver, and she saw it.
"My very dearest," she said, on a low note of tenderness, "of course Iwould never defy you. But don't break my heart by pushing me on oneside, and leaving me up here alone, idle, anxious, when there is realwork--woman's work--waiting to be done down there. I'm as strong as achurch, you know that. And I could help with Paul when he isconvalescent. We could have him in the bungalow. I know separation isbound to come some day. But not in this terrible fashion, and not yet._Please_, Theo, not yet."
Then, because tears threatened, she leaned down till her foreheadrested against his shoulder, and furtively dried her lashes with theback of her hand. When a strong woman lays aside her strength, andrelies on the inherent power of her womanhood, no man on earth is amatch for her. Desmond could only surrender at discretion, and takeher altogether to himself.
"And you began by saying you would never defy me!" he whispered intoher ear. "What else do you call this, I wonder? You incurable woman!Is it really because you are so keen to help, or chiefly because youwant to be in my pocket? Which?"
"Chiefly because I want to be in your pocket," she answered withoutshame, and he kissed her bowed head.
"But mind you," his tone changed abruptly, "I have no business to givein to you; and if any harm should come of it, I could never forgivemyself. I believe I should blow my brains out on the spot."
At that she lifted her head and stood up beside him.
"Theo, you _shall_ not say such dreadful things."
"It's no more than the truth," he answered, with a touch of defiance."Lord, how you women, and the children you give us, complicate life fora man! Yet it's not worth a brass farthing without you both."
"Thank you for owning that much!--Now I must write my note, and seeabout packing. Come up soon, dear. There's an endless deal to dobefore we can think of going to bed."
On his way up to join her twenty minutes later, Desmond looked intoLenox's small room. Zyarulla had strewn the floor with books, boots,clothes, and a couple of boxes, preparatory to going into action. Hismaster, enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke, sat afar off directing theplan of campaign. A great peace pervaded his aspect, and theunmistakable fragrance that filled the room brought two deep lines intoDesmond's forehead.
"Just looked in to find out how you were getting on," said he. "Notseen O'Malley already, have you?"
"No. But his verdict is a foregone conclusion, so we're going aheadwith things. Your wife's not really coming, is she?"
"Yes. I did my best to prevent it; but there's no gainsaying her."
"Great Scott, she's a plucky woman! You must have plenty to see toboth of you. Don't let me keep you, old chap, I'm all right."
"Glad to hear it. You'll sleep. That's certain. But I wish togoodness you'd given Nature a chance."
"Nature wouldn't have given _me_ a chance," the other answered withsudden heat. "And there's a limit to what a man can stand. By theway," he added in an altered tone, "I can't tell you how sorry I amabout Wyndham. But you must hope for the best."
"Thanks," Desmond answered quietly. "Good-night."
The door of his wife's room stood ajar, and in passing it to go to hisdressing-room, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a muffledsob. Treading softly, he pushed the door open, and looked in.
A night-light in the basin, and one candle on the dressing-table showedhim a tall white figure bending over the rail of the cot where his sonlay asleep. Honor had discarded her dinner dress for a light wrapper,and her loosened hair fell in a dusky mass almost to her knees.
For a few seconds Desmond stood watching her, uncertain whether tointrude upon her grief or no. He knew her peculiar dread of separationfrom those she loved, knew that throughout the sixteen mouths of herchild's life she had never left him for more than a few hours except togo to Chumba, and then not without remonstrance. Yet she was leavinghim now of her own free will, for an indefinite time, and in the fullknowledge of the grim possibilities ahead. It is in such rare momentsof revelation that a man realises dimly what it may mean for a womandowered with the real courage and dignity of self-surrender to giveherself to him; that he is vouch-safed a glimpse into that mystery oflove, which cynics of the decadent school dismiss as "amoristicsentiment," a fictitious glorification of mere natural instinct. ButDesmond took a simpler, more reverential view of a quality which hebelieved to be the most direct touch of the Divine in man, and which hehad proved to be the corner-stone of his wife's character.
He went forward at length, but so noiselessly that Honor had no idea ofhis presence till his arms came round her
from behind, and drew her upso close against him that her wet cheek touched his own.
"Theo . . . that wasn't fair!" she protested with a little broken laugh.
"Not quite. But I couldn't resist it."
Then they stood silent, looking down at the sleeping child.
He lay on his back, one half-opened hand flung high above his head, andthe fair soft face, in its halo of red-gold hair, bore the impress ofthe angelic, that only comes with sleep, and vanishes like magic at thelifting of the eyelids.
Suddenly Desmond tightened his hold of her, and by a mutual impulsetheir lips met.
[1] Headman.
