The Great Amulet

by Maud Diver

  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 wassore, with the twofold soreness of insomnia and thwarted passion; andwhen all a man's nerves are laid bare, he naturally dreads a touch inthe wrong place:--hence irascibility. To any one else he would havepresented an impenetrable curtain of reserve, of ironical refusal toadmit that anything was wrong. But Desmond had the man's tenderness,which is sometimes greater than the woman's: and, as Quita had oncesaid, he was privileged, simply by being what he was.

  Having set glasses and spirit-decanter within reach of their twochairs, 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 justknocking you to pieces again. No reflection on your wife. You knowwhat I mean?"

  "Yes. I know very well what you mean." Lenox spoke with repressedbitterness. "I once heard hell defined as disqualification in the faceof opportunity."

  Desmond turned back to the table, and helped himself to a fresh cigar."Are you so dead certain about the disqualification?" he asked withoutlooking 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 Iunderstand matters, I imagine that your wife's coming here makes adecided difference in regard to--ultimate possibilities?"

  "Yes; that's just it. She has cut away the ground from under my feeton all sides." He was thinking of his promise that afternoon, and hisvoice lost its schooled hardness. "She's set on going through withthings, 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 capacityfor loving us in spite of what we are is a thing to go down on one'sknees for. You'll appreciate it, one of these days, if you haven'tdone so already."

  "Appreciate it? Great Scott, Desmond, haven't I ten times more causeto do so than _you_ can ever have had? But that doesn't wipe out factsor principles."

  He left the hearth-rug, and paced the room in restless agitation.Desmond sat down, lit his cigar, and waited. His own suggestion couldbest be made if Lenox could be induced to unburden himself a littlefirst. Presently he sat on the edge of the writing-table, well out ofrange 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 atonce. She suggested it herself. But it seemed too brutal; and Iwasn't up to the wrench of letting her go just then. Besides, therewas your wife's illness. It would have been out of the question. Andnow 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 thedeuce is a man to tell her plainly that by an act of pure pluck anddevotion, at the wrong moment, she has practically pushed me deeperinto the pit than I've been yet? In fact, I'm beginning to be afraidthat . . . the damage may be permanent."

  Desmond stifled an exclamation of dismay.

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

  "I know that. If I hadn't meant to tell you, I shouldn't be in herenow. The fact is . . it's gone a good bit beyond tobacco this lastfortnight." He hesitated; but Desmond made no sign. "Did you nevermiss that bottle of chlorodyne you brought me the day I was bowledover?"

  This time Desmond started.

  "Good heavens, yes! I had to get a fresh one . . for Honor. But itnever 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 madwith pain, and want of sleep--I got hold of the raw drug, inpellets--from the bazaar." He shivered at the recollection: "I tellyou, Desmond, it's appalling to feel the foundations of things givingway. But I've taken it ever since, . . pain or no.--_Now_ do you doubtthe disqualification I spoke of? Personally I don't feel fit to touchher hand."

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

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

  Lenox hesitated; but his face gave no sign of the short sharp strugglewithin. "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'ttouch the heart of the difficulty. So long as she's here, I haven't achance. If I give up the stuff, I shall go to pieces with headache andinsomnia. That's flat."

  "Indeed I think you're mistaken," Desmond spoke with deliberatelightness. "At all events, I have a suggestion to make that may helpyou . . for the moment. I have quite decided that Honor must leavethis, directly she is strong enough to stand the short journey to SheikBudeen; 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 ofdaylight 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 botha very real kindness. Honor would break her poor heart alone at SheikBudeen; and if you put it to Quita that way, I don't think she willtake 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; helpedhimself 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 mea chance to fight the thing squarely; and I hope to God I maysucceed,--even yet."

  "Of course you'll succeed. We may take that for granted," Desmondanswered, smiling. "You've won the great talisman that puts failureout of the question. As soon as we are officially through with thecholera, you should take sick leave, and go off into the hills. You'llnot 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 alife-and-death matter for you. Besides, Courtenay will never let youstart duty till you've been away. 'Dick' can take fifteen days whenyou 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 Lenoxdrew a letter from his breast-pocket.

  "From Sir Henry Forsyth at Simla," he explained, "about my chances upGilgit way. If we decide on re-establishing the Agency there, heevidently counts on sending me up again, with young Travers as myAssistant. He and I have done some decent work together in that partof the world. Nothing I should like better, of course. But . . in theface 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. "Withyour special knowledge, you'd be the right man in the right place, upthere: 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 denythat.--Jove, it's amazing what a fine crop of complications will growout of one false step. A little want of frankness on her part; alittle over-hastiness on mine; . . and see where we've travelled inconsequence. All my work in the past five years has been tendingtowards 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 therein time. Shut up in the heart of the hills, with half a dozenEnglishmen, and a husband who might end in going to the devil. Notanother woman nearer than Srinagar; and communication with India cutoff for six months in the year. No. One would never get permission.It would simply wrench us apart again.--There seems to be a Fateagainst this marriage of mine every way. My fault, no doubt. Perhapsas a soldier with a taste for exploration, I was a fool to go in for itat all."

  Desmond leaned forward, and flicked the ash from his cigar.

  "Nonsense, man," he said emphatically. "You're talking heresy andschism! Soldier or no soldier, I believe in marriage. Always havedone. With all its difficulties, it's an incomparable bond; as you'llfind out, once you two are on the right footing. But you're hardly fitenough yet to see things in their true perspective. All this Gilgitbusiness is still a good way ahead; and I can only say that if it doescome to spending a good part of your service up in the wilds, you couldnot have chosen a woman more fitted for it than Quita. The better oneknows her, the more one admires her . ."

  The other's face softened.

  "She's as straight and as plucky as a man," he said simply. "Andwhenever comes of it, I'm a lucky devil to be her husband.--Think I'llturn in now, and try for a little sleep. I never meant to inflict myaffairs on you like this. But you bring it on yourself, Desmond, bybeing so confoundedly sympathetic!"

  Before the two men parted, the box of opium pills had changed hands:and Lenox, by way of trying for a little sleep, lit a fresh cigar,--hewas beginning to tolerate them now,--and went out into the garden.

  Its open spaces were saturated with moonlight; while trees and bushes,solitary or huddled together, stood in black pools of shadow, andfragments of curded cloud trailed across the sky. Absorbed in thought,Lenox crossed a stretch of lawn set with rose-beds; and turning at thefar end strolled back towards the house, that loomed, an unwieldy massof shadow, against the palpitating radiance beyond.

  The light in his own room showed through the split bamboo of the'chick' in hair-line streaks of brightness; but from the door next hisown it issued in a wide stream that lost itself in the moon-splashedverandah. Quita had rolled up her 'chick,' and stood leaning againstthe doorpost in an attitude that suggested weariness, or despondency,or both; the tall slender form of her thrown into strong relief by thelight within. He knew that she must have seen him; and his hope wasthat she would come out and say good-night to him. Since he mustspeak, it would be a relief to speak at once, and get it over. Itmight even be possible to sleep, if matters could be definitely settledbetween them without further discord; otherwise, bereft of the opium,his chances were small indeed.

  But though he drew steadily nearer, she remained motionless; to allappearance unaware of his presence. But the mere craving to touch her,to hear her voice, grew stronger every minute; and he was not to bethwarted thus. At the verandah's edge he paused.

  "Quita," he said, scarcely above his breath.

  "Yes."

  "Have you forgiven me?"

  "No. Not quite."

  "But I want you."

  "Come to me, then." A slight movement suggested a defiant tilt of herchin.

  The verandah itself stood more than two feet above the ground; butinstead of going round by the steps, he sprang up on it, flung away hiscigar, and stood before her with proffered hands.

  She surrendered her own.

  "Now?" he asked, smiling.

  "No, no."

  He stooped and kissed her hair.

  "Now, perhaps?"

  "Yes, . . almost. Though I'm not sure that you deserve it."

  "I don't," he answered humbly, taking the wind out of her sails.

  Then objects in the room behind her caught his attention:--herdressing-table, with its silver-backed brushes and hand-glass, itsdainty feminine litter; her blue dressing-gown flung over a chair; and,tucked away in a corner, her small comfortless bed.

  "Come out into the garden, away from all this," he said hurriedly,almost angrily. "Why on earth did you drag me up here?"

  "Because it's the man's place to come to the woman," she answered, witha demure dignity more provocative than tenderness. "It has been toomuch the other way round between us lately. As one has to suffer fromthe drawbacks of being a woman, one may as well enjoy the advantagesalso."

  "And having enjoyed them, will you graciously condescend to come outthere with me?"

  "But yes; of course I will."

  He turned on his heel; and they went out together. In the strongIndian moonlight her soft blue dinner-dress, sweeping the grass behindher, was blanched to a silvery pallor; her bare neck and arms gleamedlike marble touched into life; and unconsciously she swayed a littletowards him as she walked, like a tall flower in a breeze. The radiantmystery of earth and sky, the scarcely less radiant mystery ofwomanhood beside him, conspired with her veiled mood of gentlealoofness to strike his defences from him. But he kept his hands inhis pockets by way of safeguard; and because he had small skill inbroaching a difficult subject, he held his tongue.

  Half-way across the lawn, she came deliberately closer.

  "You know, you hurt me cruelly this afternoon, Eldred."

  "Did I, lass? That was abominable of me. But you must makeallowances, even if you don't understand. I'm a man, and you're awoman. That seems to be the root of the difficulty. And now I'm halfafraid I may hurt you again."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm a clumsy brute; and I do it without meaning to. But Isuppose it's plain to you that we can't go on much longer as we aredoing now?"

  "Of course we can't." She let out a breath of relief. "I've beenwondering when you were going to see that."

  "I have seen it all along. Only, for the life of me, I didn't know howto make the next move. But I have just had a talk with Desmond, . .about his wife. He wants to send her to Sheik Budeen, the minute she'sfit to spend a night in a doolie."

  "Where . . and what . . is Sheik Budeen?"

  The perceptible change in her tone disconcerted him. But the thing hadto be got through; and he went ahead without swerving.

  "It is an apology for a Hill Station, about fifty miles north of this.Just a handful of bungalows, on an ugly desolate rock, rising straightout of the plain. No trees; no water, except what they collect in atank for use. But being nearly four thousand feet up, it's a fewdegrees cooler than this: and probably after a week or two there MrsDesmond would be fit to stand the journey to Dalhousie."

  It was characteristic of him that he made no attempt to soften facts:and Quita, edging a little away from him, lifted her head.

  "Is it settled when one is to start for this inviting spot?" she asked,critically examining a distant star.

  "In a few days, if Mackay agrees. Poor Desmond, he hates letting hiswife go. But for her sake he wants to get her away from here as soonas possible."

  "I see. And you want to get me away from here as soon as possible.It's a very convenient arrangement for you both."

  Her implication stabbed him. He stood still, and faced her; his eyesfull of pain. But he made no attempt to touch her: which was a mistake.

  She stood still also,--head uplifted, hands clasped behindher,--without discontinuing her scrutiny of the heavens.

  "By the Lord, you are hitting back harder than I deserve," hereproached her desperately. "At least you might believe of me all thatI said of Desmond, . . that it is for your sake, and that I shall hateletting you go. The suggestion was entirely his own. He asked me totell you, from him, that you would be doing them both a very realkindness by going with Mrs Desmond; and I thought . . you would be gladof a chance to help either of them; especially since you must know,after all I said at Kajiar, that it is impossible . . yet for us tostart fair and square."

  It was a long speech for Eldred, and it brought her down from the stars.

  "Naturally I am delighted to do anything on earth f
or the Desmonds,"she said sweetly, ignoring his final remark. "You speak as if I mightrefuse to go. But I haven't fallen quite so low as that."

  "Quita, have you _no_ mercy on a man?" he flashed out between anger andpain. "There has never been any question of 'falling' on your side,and you know it. But surely you understand that, in spite of all thathas happened between, what I dared not to do a month ago, I dare not donow."

  "Do you mean . . is . . the trouble not any less?"

  "No."

  "But I thought you were going . . to fight it?"

  "So I am; so I shall, till I break it, or it breaks me. But look backover the past few weeks, and ask yourself if I have had much of achance so far."

  She unclasped her hands and looked up at him, speech hovering in hereyes. But she dropped them again, and stood so, with bowed head,shifting her rings nervously up and down her slim third finger.

  "Dear lass, what's troubling you?" he asked. "We've got to understandone another to-night; so don't be afraid to speak out. Better make aclean wound and have done with it, than think hard things of me thatmay be unjust. Tell me the thought I saw in your eyes."

  "I was thinking of something Michael said." She spoke in an even voicewithout looking up.

  "Michael? Well . . what was it?" Anxiety sharpened his tone.

  "He said that if . . if you really . . wanted me back again, yourconscientious scruples would be swept away like straws before a flood.I wouldn't believe him then. But now . . I'm afraid it's true."

  "Confound the man! What does he know about my scruples?" Lenox brokeout with irrepressible vehemence; and she looked up quickly.

  "Please don't be violent, Eldred. You told me to speak out. Besides,Michael is my brother."

  "I'm sorry. But if he were ten times your brother, I'd say the same.He had no business to try and set you against me like that." He caughther unresisting hands now, and held them fast.

  "You take Michael's word against mine . . is that so?" he asked, a dullflush rising in his face; and he tried to look into her eyes. But shewould not have it.

  "Oh, my dear, can't you see it's not," she said, so low that hescarcely heard her. "It's . . your own actions, contradicting your ownwords, that make me feel he must be right."

  Lenox stood aghast at this new and unanswerable aspect of the case; atthe knowledge that, in respect of practical proof to the contrary, hishands were tied.

  "Good God! what can a man do to convince you?" he demanded on a note ofsmothered passion. "Quita . . my very wife, look me in the eyes, andanswer me straight. Do you honestly believe that I have been insultingyou with mere lip-service all this while?"

  He stood before her in mingled dignity and humility, trying to masterhimself, to find some admissible outlet for the tumult of feeling thatwas undermining the foundations of his will. But she did not answer atonce; nor did she look up.

  "Think how I welcomed you a week ago," he urged.

  "I do think of it. But . . since then . . ." She hesitated; and aslow wave of colour crimsoned her neck and face, even to her forehead."I . . I don't know what to believe," she added very low.

  The words struck away his last defences, and he caught her in his arms;straining her to him, and kissing her almost roughly on lips and eyesand throat. She submitted at first, in sheer amazement andhalf-frightened joy at having roused him thus. Then she tried to freeherself; but he held her close, and hard.

  "Do you believe now," he asked, his lips at her ear, "that I wantyou . . that I love you . . with every part of me, heart, and mind, andbody?"

  For all answer she leaned her head against him with a broken sob.

  "Oh, Eldred," she rebuked him through her tears. "I never knew youcould behave . . like that!"

  "No more did I," he answered bluntly. "Forgive me, darling, if youcan. I was a brute to lose control of myself. But you pushed me toofar. There are things no man of human passions can put up with; and ifyou are going to begin by doubting my sincerity, all hope of real unionbetween us is at an end."

  "Dear love, I promise I'll never doubt it again," she whisperedfervently. "I'll go away, and stay away . . without any fuss, if onlyI can see things straight and clear; if only you won't quite shut meout from the best part of yourself."

  "I've no notion of shutting you out from any part of myself, youprecious woman. But the habit of half a lifetime is not easy to breakthrough; and I suppose that when two people marry they have to learnone another bit by bit, like a new language; except in such a rare caseas the Desmonds, where love and understanding are not two things, butone, like the man and woman themselves. There . . did you ever guess Ihad thought all that about marriage!"

  She laughed contentedly.

  "No. How could I? And it's your thoughts I want, Eldred;--the hiddenyou, that belongs to no one but me."

  "Do you, though? It sounds rather wholesale! But I'll do my best."

  "Come over and sit on the steps; and I'll try to tell you just howmatters stand, and how I feel about it all."

  He led her back to the verandah, and establishing her on the topmoststep, seated himself lower down, one arm passed behind her, his lefthand covering hers that lay folded in her lap. Quita, looking downupon it in a flutter of happiness, noted and approved it as an epitomeof the man; large, without clumsiness, nervous and full of character.

  Then he told her, simply and straightly, a part of what he had toldDesmond; and more, that was for herself alone. Through all he said,and left unsaid, Quita felt the force of his ascetic personality, of astrong man, stern with himself and his own passion; and, womanlike,thrilled at thought of her dominion over him; her power to set himvibrating by a word, a look, a touch. Yet she listened withoutmovement or interruption; for the which he blessed her in his heart.

  "I suppose there are numbers of men who would take . . what I refusewithout a twinge of conscience," he said finally. "But the fact that Ishould be acting dead against the right, as I see it, would makecapitulation wrong for me, . . if not for them. Besides, one dare nottrifle with an inherited evil. One's only chance lies in taking strongmeasures on the spot. You understand?"

  "Yes, I understand . . now; though I didn't at first. And I wouldn'thave you different by one hair's-breadth, though your strength andsingle-mindedness does make things harder for both of us."

  He pressed her hands.

  "It's worth all I've been through, and more, to hear you say that.Only remember, lass, it's not simply a question of principles that mayseem to you high-flown, but of bedrock facts. I don't want to enlargeon the ugly or painful side of a very ugly subject; but I do want youto understand that not only my career, but our whole future happinessdepends upon my crushing out this habit before it degenerates to acraving; before my conscience gets blunted, my will-power undermined.Opium is worse than drink in both respects: and if things ever reachedsuch a pass--which God forbid--it would mean losing my commission; justgoing under, like dozens of ill-fated chaps, and sinking in the scale:or at best scraping along in the army by means of constant subterfuges,at the hourly risk of discovery and disgrace. A nice sort of life foryou, my proud little woman. And for----" he broke off short.

  She tried to speak, but tears were clutching at her throat; and after amoment's pause, he went on: "There is a great black something deep downin me, Quita, that rises up now and then, like a spiritual fog, andblots all the light and colour out of life. This, and the dread ofthose hideous possibilities I spoke of, made me feel, a month ago, asif it might be better for you to be left in comparative freedom, thanchained to a man with a devil inside him. But your coming down herehas put all that out of the question."

  "Thank God I came, then."

  "Yes. Thank God you came," he echoed fervently. "Though I was afraidyou didn't quite realise . . ."

  "Dear, I did. More than you imagine. But I wanted . . to help you inspite of yourself; and I hoped we could fight it out together."

  He shook his head.

  "Don't thin
k me brutal, Quita, but a man's got to fight out this sortof thing alone with his own soul . . and God. You can only help justby . . loving me, and believing that I shall pull through. Dear oldDesmond has done about as much for me as one human being seemspermitted to do for another in big contingencies; and, by the way, hesaid rather a charming thing to-night."

  "He has a gift for that. What was it?"

  "He said I won the great talisman that put failure out the question."

  She laughed again, softly.

  "Oh, how I love that man, and his incurable idealism!"

  "You do? You lawless young woman! How many more?"

  "Only one more . . I think!"

  And freeing her left hand she slipped it round his head, that was on alevel with her shoulder, drew it close against her, and ran her fingerslightly through his thick hair.

  "I'm going to weave a magic over your head to make you sleep, andreward you for giving up the opium, you poor, poor darling."

  And with a sigh Lenox yielded himself to the ecstasy of her touch.

  Their talk grew fitful, and fragmentary; intimate lover's talk,interspersed with luminous pauses, that were but hidden channels ofspeech; till Quita felt the walls within walls giving way under her'magic,' and knew that she had reached the shy, inmost heart of the manat last. That enchanted hour lifted them beyond the ardours ofpassion, to the mastery of spirit; to a passing revelation of theeternal beauty underlying earth's tragedies and complexities: and bothwere conscious of an exalted strength.

  The harsh clanging of the police gong, twelve times repeated, broughtthem back to the iron facts of life. With a murmur of reluctance theyrose; and Lenox escorted his wife to the door of her room.

  "Shall I let down your 'chick' for you?" he asked.

  "Please."

  He untied the strings that held it up. Then, as the curtain fellbetween them and the lamplit room, Quita turned, and with a gesture alltenderness, laid both arms round his neck.

  "I shall never forget to-night, Eldred," she whispered, "even if welive to be cross prosaic old people together. You may go to the otherend of the world, now, and stay there as long as you like! I am sureof you; and I feel in every fibre of me that we are going to winthrough in the end."