by Maud Diver
CHAPTER XXII.
"What Love may do, that dares Love attempt." --Shakspere.
It was evening at last: a sullen, breathless evening, heavy withthreatening cloud.
Since morning Honor Desmond had been fighting for life, againstappalling odds; while the man, whose love for her almost amounted to areligion, did all that human skill could devise, which was pitifullylittle after all, to ease the torturing thirst and pain, to uphold thevitality that ebbed visibly with the ebbing day. But the very vigourof her constitution went against her; for cholera takes strong boldupon the strong. And Desmond never left her for an instant. He seemedto have passed beyond the zone of hunger, thirst, or weariness, to havereached that exalted pitch of suffering where the soul transcends thebody's imperious demands, asserts itself, momentarily, for the absoluteunconquerable thing it is.
Frank Olliver, in defiance of a July sun, flitted restlessly in and outof the bungalow; and since Desmond would admit no one but the doctor tohis wife's room, she found some measure of comfort in futile attemptsto lighten Paul Wyndham's anxiety, and distract his thoughts; while thenewly joined husband and wife, so strangely isolated in their moment ofreunion, waited and hoped through the interminable hours, and snatchedfugitive gleams of contentment from the fact that now, at least, theycould suffer together.
James Mackay, the regimental doctor, a crustacean type of Scot, cameand went as frequently as his manifold duties would permit. On eachoccasion he was waylaid in the dining-room by Paul Wyndham, his facehaggard with suffering; and on each occasion the little man's decisiveheadshake struck a fresh blow at the hope that took 'such anunconscionable time a-dying.' Finally he spoke his convictionoutright. 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 thedoor of her room had been quietly closed behind him. "It'll be no lessthan 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 hopetill the last nail's in her coffin." Paul winced visibly, and by wayof atonement for his bluntness, the other made haste to add: "Ifthere's the remotest chance of pulling her through, Desmond 'll do it.You may swear to that. The man's just one concentrated, incarnatepurpose."
Wyndham set his lips, and turned away: and the Scotchman stood eyeinghim 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 anyone, and I don't want to have you back on my hands."
With that he departed, and Wyndham had just decided on filling anotherpipe, since some pretence at occupation was imperative, when Meredithentered 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. TheEnglishman's inability to put his heart into words has its patheticaspect at times. These two men were linked by years of mutual work,and immediate mutual pain: yet Wyndham merely laid down his pipe andasked; "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 andhunger 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 theleisurely swaying of the punkah, light and shadow flitted across thewide, low bed, on one side of which Honor lay, warmly covered withblankets, her breath coming in laboured gasps. Desmond knelt by her;and, on Meredith's entrance, set down the feeding-cup, but because herhand was on his coat-sleeve, he did not change his position, or risefrom his knees. She held out the other to Meredith, But it felllimply 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; andtaking up her hand, cherished it between both his own. It was cold andclammy, the finger-tips wrinkled like a washerwoman's, and at sight ofher face his self-control deserted him, so that he dared not riskspeech. For cholera does its work swiftly and efficaciously, and ineight hours Honor Desmond's beauty had been ruthlessly wiped out. Inthe grey, pinched features and sunken eyes--already dimmed by acreeping film that blurred the two faces she so loved--it was hard totrace any likeness to the radiant woman of twenty-four hours ago. Onlythe burnished bronze of her hair, encircling her head in a large looseplait, remained untouched by the finger of death.
When Meredith could command his voice, he spoke quietly and cheerfullyof 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 shespoke 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, tillit 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 getwell. 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 youagain after mess."
She sighed, and her lids fell. The terrible apathy of cholera wascrushing 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," hesaid quietly, "Trust me not to let her go."
And Meredith went reluctantly out, leaving man and wife alone with theShadowy Third; the only third that could ever come between them.
Honor's hand slipped down from his head to his shoulder, and she openedher eyes; the soul in them struggling to pierce the mists that deepenedevery minute.
"Darling," she breathed. "Come closer . . much closer. I wish . . Iwish 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," shepersisted, for in spite of pain and prostration, the mists had notclouded her brain. "It was selfish of me to insist. See . . what I'vemade you suffer. But you don't . . blame me, do you, . . in yourheart?"
"Blame you, . . my best beloved? How can you ask it? I . . I worshipyou," he added very low.
The extravagant word, reviving dear and imperishable memories, calledup a quivering smile, more heart-piercing than a cry: and Desmond,putting a great restraint upon himself, enfolded her with one arm, andkissed her softly, lingeringly, as one might kiss a child.
"My very Theo," she murmured, her voice breaking with love. "It hasbeen 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 anguishhe had forgotten his child.
Suddenly a convulsive shuddering ran through her, and her breath cameshort 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 toher lips.
"Drink it, Honor. For God's sake, drink it!" he commanded, a ring offear in his voice. For in that moment, a change, terrible andsignificant, had come over her. His appeal produced no response, nomovement of lips or eyelids. Her face seemed to shrink and sharpen,and change colour before his eyes. Her breath was cold as the air froma cave.
He set down the wine-glass, and in the first shock and horror of it allstood like a man turned to stone. Then common-sense pricked him backto life, and to the necessity for immediate action. After so sharp anattack, collapse would probably be severe and prolonged. He laid hisfingers on her pulse. It was rapid, and barely perceptible, but thestill small flutter of life was there.
He opened the verandah door, where Amar Singh and a very aggrievedAberdeen terrier had sat since morning, and issued a swift order forhot water, mustard, warm turpentine; a grim repetition of the battle hehad fought out a week ago. But now he fought single-handed, while AmarSingh and a small tremulous ayah, crouching beside a charcoal brazierin the verandah, kept up a steady supply of his primitive needs.
Thus James Mackay found him on his return; still doggedly applyingfriction and restoratives without having made an inch of progress forhis pains. Darkness had fallen by now, and the one lamp, set well awayfrom the bed, made a pallid oasis in its own vicinity. Desmond hadflung aside his coat, and his thin shirt clung in patches to his dampbody. His face was set in rigid lines; and the little doctor, whocarried a heart of flesh under a porcupine exterior, was haunted fordays 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 themeantime . . ." he went over to a table strewn with sick-roomparaphernalia, and poured out half a pint of champagne, "you'll pleasedrink that."
And as Desmond obeyed automatically, his hand shook so that the edge ofthe tumbler rattled against his teeth. The body was beginning toassert itself at last. But the stinging liquid revived him; and in asilence, broken only by an abrupt direction or request from theScotchman, the last available resources were tried again and yet again,without result. Finally Mackay looked up, and Desmond read the verdictin his eyes.
"My dear man, it's no use," he said simply. "She's beyond our reachnow."
Desmond's lips whitened: but he braced his shoulders. "She's not. Idon't believe it," he answered, on a toneless note of decision. Andthe other knew that only the slow torture of the night-watches couldbrand the truth into his brain.
With a gesture of weariness, infinitely pathetic, he turned back to thebed, and bending down, mechanically rearranged the sheet, and smootheda crease or two out of the pillow. The bowed back and shoulders,despite their suppleness and strength, had in them a pathos too deepfor tears: and Mackay, feeling himself dismissed, went noiselessly out.
For a long moment Desmond's unnatural stoicism held firm. Then, deepdown in him, something seemed to snap. With a dry, choking sob, heflung himself on his knees beside the bed, and the waters came in evenunto his soul.
It seemed a thing incredible that one hour could hold such a store ofanguish. The half of his personality, the hidden life of heart andspirit, seemed dead already: and in that first shuddering sense ofloneliness, time was not.
A familiar choking sensation recalled him to outward things. Thepunkah coolie had fallen asleep; and in a fever of irritation he sprangto his feet. Then the thought pierced him: "What on earth does itmatter . . now?"
But the trivial prick of discomfort had, in some inexplicable fashion,readjusted the balance of things; reawakened the conviction that had sostrangely upheld him throughout the day; and with it the spirit of 'nosurrender,' which was the very essence of the man. All the tales hehad heard of cholera patients literally dragged from the brink of thegrave by devoted nursing crowded in upon him, like reinforcementsbacking 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 herear, as though her spirit could hear and take comfort from theassurance.
A downward jerk of the punkah rope set the great frill flapping withostentatious vigour; and he himself set to work again no lessvigorously; 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 fallinto nameless spaces void of companionship and love. Once or twice theflicker of the punkah frill created an illusion of movement in theface, and his heart leapt into his throat, only to sink to the depthsagain when he discovered his mistake. But nothing now could turn himfrom his purpose; or quench that indomitable determination to succeedwhich is one of the strongest levers of the world.
And at long-last, when persistence had begun to seem mere folly, camethe first faint shadow of change. Slowly, very slowly, her faceappeared to be losing the bluish tinge of cholera. Fearful lestimagination should be cheating him, he fetched the lamp, and held itover her. Unquestionably the colour had improved.
The loose chimney rattled as he set down the lamp; and he spilled halfthe brandy he tried to pour into a spoon. Then, steadying himself by asupreme effort, he managed to pour a little of it between her lips,watching with suspended breath for the least sign of moisture at thecorners. A drop or two trickled uselessly out, but the muscles of herthroat stirred slightly, and the rest was retained.
Then for a moment Desmond let himself go. With a low cry he leaneddown, and slipping both arms under her, pressed his lips upon her coldones, long and passionately, as though he would impart to her the verypower of his spirit, the living warmth of his body and heart. And atlength, he was aware of a faint unmistakable attempt to return hispressure. He could have shouted for sheer triumph. It was as if hehad created her anew. But love, having achieved its perfect work, mustbe kept under subjection till the accepted moment.
A little more brandy, a little more chafing of hands and limbs, and themiracle was complete. By degrees, as imperceptible as the coming ofdawn, life stole back in response to his touch. She stirred, drew adeep 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 ofcholera. The caress in it penetrated like pain; and tears, sharp asknives, forced their way between his lids.
"Yes, my darling; . . . and I've got _you_ still," he answered, histenderness 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 draggedyou 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 headnestling in the crook of his elbow, one hand clinging to a morsel ofhis shirt; while he leaned above her, half-sitting, half-lying on theextreme edge of the bed, not daring to shift his strained position byso much as a hair's-breadth; till overwhelming weariness had its waywith 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 acrossthe room from the long glass door that gave upon the verandah. Outsidein the garden the crows and squirrels were awake, and talkative. Thewell-wheel had begun its plaintive music, punctuated with the plash offalling water, and the new day, in a sheet of flame, rolled upunconcernedly from the other side of the world.
Honor had turned over in her sleep, leaving him free to rise, andstretch himself exhaustedly; and as he stood looking down upon thenight's achievement, upon the rhythmical rise and fall of his wife'sbreast beneath its light covering, new fires were kindled in
the man'sdeep heart; new intimations of the height and depth, and power of that'grand impulsion,' which men call Love; and with these, a new humilitythat forced him down upon his knees in a wordless ecstasy ofthanksgiving.
