The Great Amulet

by Maud Diver

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  "Love's strength standeth in Love's sacrifice, And he who suffers most has most to give." --Hamilton King.

  Dinner that evening was an oppressively silent affair. The man's whiteNorthern anger still smouldered beneath his surface immobility; whileQuita, who could not bring herself to believe in the spontaneity ofRichardson's engagement at mess, was instinctively measuring andcrossing swords with the husband, whose personality held her captiveeven while it forced her every moment nearer to the danger-point ofopen defiance.

  Both were thankful when the solemn farce of eating and drinking came toan end; and Quita rose with an audible sigh of relief.

  "Are you coming into the drawing-room at all?" she asked, addressingthe question to his centre shirt-stud.

  "Yes--at once. I have a good deal to say to you."

  She raised her eyebrows with a small polite smile, and swept on beforehim, her step quickened by the fact that his words had set the bloodrushing through her veins. The dead weight of his silence pulverisedher. Speech, however dangerous, would be pure relief.

  Before following, he locked up spirit tantalus and cigar-box with hiswonted deliberation; and on reaching the drawing-room found herabsorbed in contemplation of Dick's portrait, hands clasped behind her,the unbroken lines of her grey-green dress lending height and dignityto her natural grace; the glitter of defiance gone out of her eyes.

  Lenox set his lips, and confounded the advantages nature and artconspire to bestow upon some women, more especially when they knowthemselves beloved. The mere man in him had one impulse only,--to takeinstant possession of her; to conquer her lurking antagonism by sheerforce of passion and of will. But he had sense enough to know thatsuch primitive methods would not shift, by one hair's-breadth, theirreal point of division; would, in fact, be no less than inverteddefeat. The heart of her was secure:--that he knew. It was herdetached, elusive mind and spirit that were still to win; and a man'sarms had small concern with that form of capture.

  Quita vouchsafed him a glance as he entered. Then her gaze returned tothe picture.

  "One misses him," she said, presumably to the tall figure on thehearth-rug. "I think I have never known a man so uniformly cheerfuland sweet-tempered. But it is selfish to grudge him a little change ofatmosphere. And no doubt he is having a livelier evening than we are."

  She was facing her husband now; but something in his aspect made herfeel suddenly ashamed of using small weapons against a nature toomagnanimous to retaliate. And, without giving him time to answer, shewent on, a little hurriedly, "Eldred, if this intolerable state ofthings means that you really imagine I am--how does one put anything sodetestable?--growing . . . too fond of Mr Richardson, you can set yourmind at rest. Morality apart, you are much too masterful, toolarge--in every way--to leave room for any one else in a woman's heart,once she has let you in."

  "Thank you," Lenox answered, in a non-committal tone. But a shadowpassed from his face, and she saw it.

  "Of course I know it has been rather marked this last week. But thatwas simply because for the moment he and my picture were the samething. Being absorbed in one meant being absorbed in the other. Toproduce a living portrait, one needs to get inside the subject of it asfar as possible. At least, I do. And on the whole, I think my methodis justified by the result!"

  But Lenox, as he stood listening, experienced fresh proof of man'sinnate spirit of perversity. For many days past he had been angered bythe suspicion that in this affair of portrait painting, the subjectcounted for too much;--and now, when he ought to have been relieved, hefound his anger rekindled to white heat by Quita's frank confessionthat his friend--whose heart had been wrenched from him by herso-called 'method'--counted for nothing at all. For one ignobleinstant, he was tempted to break through every restrainingconsideration and lash her with the truth.

  The fact that he did not answer her at once puzzled Quita.

  "Do you understand now, _mon ami_?" she asked, coming a step closer."I was absorbed in an interesting subject. It is over--_voila tout_."

  "No, Quita; I do not understand," he answered, repressed heat hardeninghis voice and face more than he knew. "To a mere soldier it all soundsrather inhuman; and I can only say that if you find it so necessary to'get inside' your subjects, as you express it, you had better makewomen and children your speciality, and let us poor devils alone."

  "Women and children? But, my dear--what a suggestion! One does notchoose one's subjects to order. Women and children don't interest me.I have always preferred to paint men, and always shall."

  "Then I'm afraid it may end in your having to drop portrait paintingaltogether."

  That touched the artist to the quick. With a small gasp--as if he hadstruck her--she sank upon the arm of his big chair; her hands clasped,so that the knuckles stood out sharp and white; two spots of fireburning in her cheeks.

  "Do you seriously mean--what you say?" she asked, pausing between thewords.

  "Certainly. I am not given to speaking at random."

  "You mean--you would insist?"

  "I hope it would never come to that."

  "_Mon Dieu_, no. It never would!" She flung up her head with a brokensound between a laugh and a sob. "Because--if it ever did----"

  She hung on the word a moment; and in a flash Lenox saw how near theywere to repeating the initial tragedy of more than six years ago.

  "Quita," he broke in sharply, "listen to me before you say unconsideredthings that we may both of us regret. Are we going to make havoc ofeverything again at the outset? Tell me that."

  "How do I know? It depends on you. I think I told you then, that youmight as well expect me to give up seeing or hearing as to give up myart. And that is truer--ten times truer--to-day, even though Iam . . . your wife."

  He saw her vibrating like a smitten harp-string; saw the quick rise andfall of the lace at her breast; and it was all a man could do to keephis hands off her. He had to remind himself that she was no child tobe comforted with empty kisses; but very woman and very artist, tornbetween the master-forces of life.

  "See here, lass," he said quietly, laying aside his half-smoked cigar."As this is a big matter for us both, we may as well get at the root ofit straight away. You said this afternoon that you could not give upyour individuality because you had accepted marriage. Very well.Neither can I. That still leaves us two alternatives. Either we mustgive up the notion of living together; or we must be prepared to makeconcessions--both of us. That is why I said that marriage meanscompromise. If we go on much longer as we have been doing lately,seeing next to nothing of one another because the house has beenconverted into a surplus club for half the fellows in the station; andif you are going to spend your time 'getting inside' other men with aview to painting their portraits, we shall simply drift apart as theNortons did. Conditions of life out here make that sort of thingfatally easy to fall into. But I tell you plainly that if there is tobe no attempt at amalgamation, if we are each to go our own way,then--we must lead separate lives. I would not even have you in India.It would be a case of going home."

  The two spots of fire had died out of her face, and she turned wide,startled eyes upon him.

  "I don't--quite understand." Her voice was barely audible, "Are youtelling me--to go?"

  "My dear--can you ask that? I am only pointing out the conditions thatmight make such a catastrophe--inevitable. Looking things in the facemay prevent future friction and misunderstanding, which are the verydevil. What's more, I never realised till lately what a very bigfactor your art is in your life. I believe it is the biggest thing ofall. Am I right?"

  "I don't know. I can't tell--yet."

  He straightened himself, and his face hardened.

  "You can easily find out by putting the matter to practical proof. Infact, I am going to make a proposal that will not leave you very longin doubt. You have genius, Quita. I recognise that. And I want youto think seriously over all you said this
afternoon about not crampingor distorting your individuality to suit my 'prejudices.' If you feelthat your art must come before everything, that marriage will onlyhamper its full development, without making good what you lose,--infact, if you think that the purely artist life will be better andhappier for you in the long-run, I would sooner you said so frankly, Iwould indeed."

  "Eldred!" she gasped, between indignation and fear. But he motionedher to silence.

  "Hear me out first. I told you I had a good deal to say; and as I amnot often taken that way, you must bear with me, for once. You knownow something, at least, of what it means for a man and woman to livetogether, as we do. I warned you that I should prove a sorry bargain;and--take me or leave me--I cannot pretend that any amount ofcompromise will make me other than I am. You think me hard, narrow,conventional, in some respects, no doubt. But in a matter so vitalconventional moralities go for nothing. I want the truth. If youbelieve, as I said, that art must stand first with you--always, I shallrespect your frankness and courage in telling me so; and I will giveyou--such freedom as the circumstances admit."

  "_Mon Dieu_!" she breathed, and for a second or two could say no more.She had touched the bed-rock of granite in the man at last. Then thefear that clutched at her found words, in her own despite.

  "Have I killed--your love, so soon? Surely you could not make such asuggestion--in cold blood, unless--I had."

  "You are simply shifting the argument," he answered without unbending."You know whether--I love you. In fact, if it comes to that, it isyou, my dear, who have not yet grasped the full meaning of the word, oryou would not need to be told that the free choice I am offering you ofcompromise with me, or independence--without me, is the utmost proofone can give that you and your happiness stand absolutely first----"

  At that she made an impulsive movement towards him, and her fingersclosed upon his arm. But with inexorable gentleness he unclasped herhand, and put it from him.

  "No, no," he said, and there was more pain than hardness in his tone."Better keep clear of that form of argument, for the present. Passionsettles nothing. Contact is not fusion. We have proved it,--you andI. It is not a question of what we feel. That may be taken forgranted by now. It is a question of what we are, individually,intrinsically; of how much each of us is ready to forego for the sakeof the one essential form of union that counts between a man and womanwho are not mere materialists; and we are neither of us that. I don'twant my answer to-night, nor even to-morrow. I have not spoken onimpulse; and I want you to think very thoroughly over all I have saidwhen your brain is cooler than it is just now."

  "But suppose--I don't want to think it over?"

  A half smile dispelled his gravity. "Knowing you intimately, I shouldnot suppose anything else! In the two big crises of our life,remember, you were ruled purely by impulse and emotion, and you broughtus very near to shipwreck in consequence. But this time, you will dowhat I ask, and give my slower methods a chance; because this time yourdecision will be final. If we are to separate again, we separate forlife. That much _I_ have decided. The rest--I leave in your hands."

  She stood very still, like one magnetised, her gaze riveted on thecarpet. His steadfast aloofness had chilled her first headlong impulseof surrender; and she knew now that he was right:--that, dearly as sheloved him, independence in thought, word, and act were still the breathof life for her and for her art. He had put the matter to practicalproof with a sledge-hammer directness all his own; had opened her eyesto the humiliating truth that never in all her thirty years of livinghad she given up anything that mattered for any one. And now----

  She raised her head with a start, Zyarulla had brought in a telegram,and Lenox stood reading it with a transfigured face, an eager light inhis eyes.

  "What is it?" she wondered, not daring to ask. "He is going awaysomewhere--he is delighted. And he says I come absolutely first."

  Then Lenox raised his eyes, and a lightning instinct told her that forthe moment he had forgotten her existence.

  "Well, Quita," he said, unconscious elation in his tone, "I think theForeign Office must have known we had got to a difficult corner, anddecided to give us a helping hand. They want me to undertake anexploration north of Kashmir, and remonstrate with a small chief whohas been misbehaving up there. I am to report myself at Simla _ekdum_,[1] to receive detailed instructions of the mission, and we shallhave time enough to think things out very thoroughly before I get back."

  "Time? How long?"

  Her colour had ebbed; but the change in him had steeled her tounreasoning hardness of heart.

  "Six months, certain. Possibly more."

  "And you are as glad as you can be. One sees that quite plainly."

  Her tone stung him to sharp retort.

  "Yes, I am glad--since you insist, and since I am no hypocrite."

  Pride would not suffer her to remind him of his assurance, "You standabsolutely first." Instead she asked him in a repressed voice--

  "Doesn't it occur to you, after your eloquence about what each of usshould give up, that this is precisely where your share of thecompromise comes in?"

  "It occurred to me nearly a year ago," he said simply. "After our talkat Kajiar, I faced the fact that there was an end of my exploring as ahobby;--at least on the big scale that appeals to me most. It was justthe price one had to pay for getting you back again; and I paidit--willingly. In fact, I should never have mentioned it, if youhadn't dragged it out of me."

  The quiet of his tone, and the kindliness in the blue eyes thatchallenged her own, brought the blood into her face. He shamed herevery way, this big husband of hers. He had counted the cost and paidit--willingly. He would not even have mentioned it. There you havethe essence of the man. Her lids fell, and her incurable instinct forcomedy set a faint dimple in her cheek. Here he was at his old trickof dragging her on to higher ground; and the perverse spirit of herloved and hated him for it in one breath.

  "But you are going now?" she whispered, without looking up.

  "Certainly. That is quite another matter. When Government needs myservices for work which I have made a speciality, it would be neitherright nor possible for me to refuse; and, frankly, I am glad, because Ilove the work, fully as much as you love yours; and because theopportunity could hardly have come at a better moment."

  "And I--go back to Michael?"

  "Yes. For six months you will be free to travel, paint--what you will;and for six months I shall have my mountains to grapple with." Againthe light sprang to his eyes. "By the end of that time we shall knowonce for all how much we are ready to forego for the sake of spendingour lives together. That is the ultimate test of a big thing,Quita--what one will give up for it. Marriage is a big thing; and ifours is built on the right foundations, it will stand the test. Now, Ishall have a good deal to see to this evening, and I think you hadbetter go to bed early. You look tired."

  "I am tired." She realised suddenly that all the spring had gone outof her. "When do you leave?"

  "To-morrow, most likely. You had better write to Michael."

  "Very well. I suppose--one will be able to write to _you_?"

  "Yes. Now and then. But for a great part of the time I shall bebeyond the reach of posts."

  Though his surface hardness had melted, his voice had an impersonalnote that crushed her, making her feel as if she were dealing with acosmic force, rather than a human being;--one of his own detestablemountains, for instance. But for that, it is conceivable that theremight have been something approaching a 'scene'; that she might haveobeyed her unreasoning impulse to plead with him, and exhort him not topush his test of her to such pitiless lengths. As it was, she sankinto a chair without answering; and he turned towards the study with anew lift of his head, a new elasticity of step that struck at her heart.

  For, in truth, until he read that summons from Simla he had scarcelyknown how irresistibly the old free life drew him; how the whitesilence of the mountains called to him
as friend calls friend; and thewhole heart of him answered, 'I come.' 'As the dew is dried up by thesun, so are the sins of mankind by the glory of Himachal.' The wordsof the old Hindoo worshipper sprang to his brain, and for him they wereno fanciful imagery, but a radiant truth. Six months of the Himalayas,six months of freedom from brain work, and headache, and strain,--forthough loyalty denied it, the past month had been a strain,--wouldsuffice to break the power of the hideous thing that was sapping hismanhood; to dispel the great black something that shadowed his mind andspirit--to set him on his feet again, a free man.

  But since he had kept the deeper source of his trouble secret fromQuita, she did not hold the key to the deeper source of his joy. Andnow, lying back in his chair, her eyes closed, violet shadows showingbeneath the black line of her lashes, she saw herself, momentarily, asa trivial thing--a mere tangle of nerves, perversity, andegotism--flung aside without hesitation, perhaps even with relief, atthe first call of the larger life, the larger loyalty. Two tears stoleout on to her lashes, and slipped down her check. Mere concessions tooverwrought feeling, and she knew it; knew, in the depths of her, thatshe was no triviality, but a woman into whose hands power had beengiven; the power of things primeval that are the mainspring of life.

  For Quita also had her secret--at once mysterious and disturbing; sinceto your highly-strung woman motherhood rarely comes as a matter ofcourse--a secret that brought home to her, with a force as quiet andcompelling as her husband himself, the awful sense of the human bond.He had told her she was free to choose; to take him or leave him as shesaw fit. But the dice were loaded. They were bound to one another nowby a far stronger power than mere law; by the power of action andconsequence, which transcends all laws.

  She had guessed the truth, and rebelled against it, on that day whenHonor had unwittingly spoken the right word at the right moment, asthose who believe in Divine transmission through human agency are aptto do. She had faced and accepted it during Eldred's absence; but hadnot found courage since his return to put it into words; had, in fact,with the revival of inspiration, thrust the knowledge aside, anddeliberately tried to forget.

  Now it came back upon her, unrebuked; and while she lay thinking overall that had passed between them, one insistent question repeateditself in her brain, "Can I tell him? Shall I tell him before hegoes?" And after much debating, she decided on silence. In the firstplace, he would be saved anxiety if he should not return in time; andin the second place--though this consideration stood undeniably firstwith her--she preferred that he, at least, should believe in thefiction of their freedom; that nothing should weigh with him, or drawhim back to her but his unalterable need of herself. How far hersecret was her own to hide or reveal, how far she had any right towithhold such knowledge from the man on the eve of a perilousundertaking,--the man to whom insight told her it would meanimmeasurably much,--were questions that simply did not enter her mind.The artist's egotism, and the woman's love of dominion, left no roomfor fine-drawn scruples of the kind. Never till to-night had sherealised how the mountains claimed and held him; and in her sudden fearof losing him, either through misadventure or through the reawakeningof the explorer in him, she lost sight of the original point at issue;of the fact that it was her own work, not his, which had threatened tostand between them.

  An hour later she went into the study, where Lenox, his brow furrowedinto deep lines, bent over an outspread map. A glance showed her thatalready in spirit he was miles away from her, planning the explorationof passes and glaciers guessed at in former journeyings, engrossed,mind and heard, in the possibilities ahead.

  She came and stood beside him. "I am going now, Eldred," she said, atouch of listlessness in her tone.

  He looked up and nodded. "That's right. You do look rather faggedthis evening."

  "Only a headache," she answered, flushing and avoiding his eyes. "Ishall be all right if I sleep well."

  "Do you ever sleep badly?" he asked, with the quick sympathy of thesufferer.

  "Oh dear, no." She hesitated. "Are you coming?"

  "Yes--later."

  Still she stood irresolute. Caresses had become rare between them oflate; and now pride as well as shyness checked her natural impulse. Inturning away, she allowed her left hand to swing outward, ever solittle, merely by way of experiment. "He won't see it," she toldherself. And, as if in mute denial, his own hand met and grasped it,close and hard.

  On the threshold she paused and looked back. He was miles away again,hopelessly out of reach. A sudden thought seized her, tempted her.Half a dozen words would suffice to snap the chain that held him; tobring her into his arms. Yet now it seemed impossible to speak them,even if she would; and she went out, leaving him in undisturbedpossession of his maps and his mountains.

  She lingered long over her undressing; and when it was over could notbring herself to put out the lamp; but lay, waiting and listening forhis coming. Then, as the night slipped away and the silence became aburden, a dead weight upon brain and heart, the old haunting dread ofthose days in Dalhousie came back upon her, and she shivered. ThePagan in her leaned too readily to superstitious fancy, and her dreadshaped itself finally in a definite thought. "If he comes to me now, Iknow I shall conquer the mountains in the end. But if he doesn't come,they will be too strong for me. They will take him from me for good."

  And he did not come; till one of the morning, when he found her fastasleep, the lamp still burning beside her.

  [1] At once.