The Great Amulet

by Maud Diver

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  "Why was the pause prolonged, but that singing should issue thence? Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized!" --Browning.

  Quita Lenox lay back in a long low chair, lost in thought, her handsclasped behind her head, the folds of her dull-blue tea-gown trailingon the carpet. A cushion of darker blue threw into stronger relief thebrighter tints of her hair; and at her throat three rough lumps ofTibetan turquoise--recently sent by Lenox--hung on a fine gold chain.His last letter, full of the discovery of his Pass, lay open on herknee,--read and re-read till its contents were stamped upon her brain;and it seemed to her high time that a fresh one came to take its place.But the days slipped by--uneventful days, in which the long chairplayed a definite part--and no envelope in his hand-writing came tocheer her.

  Yet she was far removed from unhappiness. Her increasing pride in him,and in his achievement, prevented that. Only there were moments whenthe inner vision was too vivid; moments between sleep and waking whenpictures trooped unbidden through the corridors of her brain; whenneither sleep nor effort of will could shield her from that awfulvisualisation of the dreaded thing, which is the artist's penalty inthe day of trouble. At such times, the fear that he might slip out ofher life without knowledge of the great fact, that no amount ofrepetition can minimise, nor custom stale; without knowledge thatthrough his long love and constancy she had attained to the 'greatestcreative art of all,' had almost dragged her out of bed at midnight tobegin the letter that should carry the word to him amid the sublimityof his glaciers and eternal silences. But always something strongerthan fear had restrained her; so that the weeks had dropped away one byone, like faded petals, and the secret that was to be the crowningglory of their new life together still lay hidden in her heart.

  The cheerful round of festivities common to an Indian Hill season hadpassed her by; and she was content to have it so. Between her canvasand her unpractised needle, between the companionship of Michael, andof the Desmonds--while they were 'up'--her days had gone softly, yetpleasantly and profitably in more respects than one. For it is in thepauses between times of activity and stress that the still small voiceof God speaks most clearly to the soul; that power is generated andgarnered against the hidden things that shall be. It is in the pausesthat we can, as it were, stand back a space from our own corner of thepicture we are so zealously making or marring, and catch anilluminating glimpse of the proportions of the whole.

  Thus it had been with Quita Lenox. In these four months of seeminginactivity, the large, underlying forces of life had been silently atwork in her, touching the impressionable spirit of her to 'fine issues'that the sure years would reveal. Nor had her time of quiet beenlacking in immediate results. A completed picture stood to her credit;and a drawer full of surprising achievements in the way of needlecraft;achievements so pathetically small that at times the sight of thembrought tears to her eyes.

  But this afternoon neither brush nor needle tempted her. In spirit shewas with her husband, trying by concentration of thought to bridge thespace between. But always her thoughts ended in one cry: If only--ifonly--he could get back in time!

  Michael Maurice had stayed on at the Crow's Nest, possiblyfrom laziness, possibly for other reasons; and its littlestudio-drawing-room was as attractive, as untidy, and as eloquent ofQuita's personality as it had been sixteen months ago. It was lateAugust now; and a week's break in the rains had given the drenchedhills and those who dwelt upon them a foretaste of that elixir of lightand air which makes September the crowning month of the Himalayan year.And to Quita it gave promise that her days of waiting were numbered.In a week she would follow the Desmonds to Dera Ishmael, and remainwith them, at their urgent invitation, till her husband's return. Thefriendly smile of the sun after days of downpour and restless mistlifted her to renewed hope that in spite of the mountains he wouldsurely reach her in time.

  From the open door a stream of afternoon light barred the room withgold. Passing across her prostrate figure, it fell full upon hereasel, and upon the picture in which she had tried to express her ownsolution of the artist's eternal problem--Art or Love. It had beenbegun as a subject-picture, inspired by the impassioned cry of AuroraLeigh: "Oh, Art, my Art! Thou art much; but Love is more!" Thenbecause her taste leaned always to the actual, and because the picturewas to be a present for her husband, the woman's figure had grown intoa portrait of herself; a thing so living, so eloquent of her newappealing charm, that even Michael's critical spirit had been roused toenthusiasm. He had one quarrel only with her achievement, namely, thatit was not to be his own!

  In detail, the picture was simplicity itself. Merely the woman besideher easel, turning eagerly away from it as if at the sound of afootstep; every line and curve of her athrill with expectancy, her eyesluminous with the dawn of a new truth, a new ecstasy of heart andspirit; while at her feet her palette lay broken in a dozen pieces, andher canvas had fallen, unheeded, to the ground. An open doorway behindher revealed a glimpse of sunlit verandah, trellis-work andhoneysuckle; revealed also an unmistakable length of shadow,--the headand shoulders of the man whose large, lonely personality had so takenpossession of her, as to transform her whole vision of life. And belowthe canvas, on the gilding of the frame, were graven the words: 'Loveis more.'

  For all her delight in this last work of her hands, there were dayswhen the sight of it pricked her to an anguish of impatience, shadowedalways by the darker anguish of fear lest the ecstasy she had sovividly portrayed should be snatched untasted from out her grasp; lestthe footstep her heart hungered for should never come back into herlife. But she fought resolutely against such black moods, forMichael's sake no less than her own. His joy in getting her back haddone much to soften the pang of separation; and now, while she laywaiting and dreaming,--too lazy to pour out tea till he came--it washis footstep that put her dreams to flight.

  He had been out on the Kajiar road 'taking notes,' and he flourished asketch-book at her by way of greeting.

  "Tea, _cherie_? _Ah, c'est bien_. I am thirsty!"

  She flung out her left hand and took possession of the book.

  "Pour it out yourself, there's a dear; and mine too."

  "_Voila donc_! What laziness!"

  "Energetic people are privileged to be lazy--sometimes."

  He laughed, and obeyed her, setting a cup and plate within reach.

  "You seem to have been making the most of your privilege. Have youdone anything while I was out?"

  "But yes. I have been possessing my soul in quietness; and--I havebeen talking to Eldred."

  He passed a caressing hand over her hair.

  "_Pauvre petite_! How much of that do you really believe?"

  "Don't ask uncomfortable questions! At least it helps a little when Ifeel I can't wait any longer, and--I am almost sure it helps him too.I shall find that out when--_if_ he gets back."

  "Let 'ifs' alone, _ma belle_. They are gadflies of the devil'sbreeding. That great Scotchman of yours would work his way back toyou, if he had to go through hell to do it. _Moi, je le sais_."

  She flushed softly; and her eyes looked beyond his through the opendoorway, rapt and shining.

  "You _do_ believe in him now, Michel," she said. "And you forgive him?He has made me so supremely happy."

  Michael shook his head.

  "Was I ever an altruist, _petite soeur_? If the man had not made youhappy, I should never have rested till I had you back again. As itis--" he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive turn of thehands--"one is glad--for your sake; and one makes the best of an emptyhouse. But, _mon Dieu_! it _is_ empty without you, Quita! You havelight and fire in you;--now, more than ever. You have temperament.You inspire a man. Your absence actually affects the quality of mywork. Absurd; but true! And as for my affairs--_nom de Dieu_, themoney slips away like water, but the bills never get paid! You saw howit was when you came. And in one little week you go again, with alight heart; while I return, _fa
ute de mieux_, to my 'wallowing in themire!'"

  "_Mon pauvre Michel_!" she said softly. "What a tragedy! You make mewish I was twins!"

  But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved himdearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that thepicture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the momentthrough the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him wasgenuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores andbroken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief partof her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, stillhad the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsivelytowards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes restingin his.

  "It is not true that I leave you lightly, _mon cher_; nor that I loveyou less because I have given myself to another--body and soul.Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love godeeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that tolove means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole naturerevolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel byinstinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished_ego_; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine ourart. But that is not true;--oh, believe me it's not."

  Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. Butbehind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He hadbeen aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpseinto the depths.

  "Possibly not, _cherie_--for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "Butfor a man----"

  "Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, settingher two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman'shorizon; but it goes deeper with men,--of the right sort, even if theyare artists! Look at Browning. _He_ knew. A big brain may set you ona pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulsesbeating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world."

  A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, andsat upright.

  "_Tiens_! But I am preaching! A new vice, _n'est ce pas_?"

  "New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?"

  "Need you ask? The first remark ever made upon the subject: 'It is notgood that the man should be alone.'"

  A dull flush showed under Michael's sallow akin.

  "_C'est a dire, il faut se ranger_!" he said with an embarrassed laugh."Well . . . find me a woman who understands and inspires me likeyourself, and it is possible,--I do not say probable,--that I may yetfulfil the whole duty of man. If one could only suggest a five years'contract . . !"

  "Michel! You are incorrigible; and I have preached in vain! Besides,it is not a wife of my sort you need, I thought you found that out lastyear; and . . . I think so still. If not, why have you stayed onhere? And why did you make that exquisite pastel of her portrait?"

  Michael's eyes seemed to demand an answer from the accusing picture;and there was an instant of silence.

  "I stayed on here," he said at length, "chiefly because, lacking you, Iseem to lack initiative; and I painted that . . well, as a memento ofmy best bit of work, and of a dream, more delectable than most . . .while it lasted; but none the less . . a dream."

  "Yet you have seen a good deal of her this season, one way and another."

  "Yes. In spite of the Button Quail!"

  "And it would hurt you it she were to marry another man?"

  Michael frowned. "There _is_ no other man, since Malcolm went home."

  "Is there any man at all, I wonder?"

  Michael rose abruptly, and going over to Elsie's portrait stood beforeit, his hands clasped behind him.

  "I have wondered also," he said on a rare note of gravity. "But youwomen are enigmas; even the simplest of you."

  "Ask her, Michel; ask her. Wondering is waste of time: and time islife. People so often forget that."

  Maurice did not answer. But Quita was well content: for she saw howElsie's violet-blue eyes were holding him, drawing him irresistiblyback to the old allegiance. Yet, had she known it, Elsie's eyes hadless to do with the matter than her own stimulating personality. Thesubtle development in her had not been without its effect on him. Hesaw her transfigured by the exquisite, self-effacing passion of thewoman; and found himself envying the man; though the eloquence of herappeal had, as usual, fired his imagination rather than his heart.

  Suddenly he swung round upon her, his face alight.

  "_Parbleu_, Quita, but you are right! You always are. And as there'sno time like now, I'll ask her to-day . . I have scarcely seen her thislast fortnight. But that shall be atoned for . . later. Give me yourblessing, _ma belle_!"

  Half-seriously, half in joke, he knelt beside her chair. But theentrance of the kitmutgar with a note brought him swiftly to his feet.

  "Talk of an angel! It is herself," he exclaimed as he broke the seal."My demure little Puritan meets me half-way after all!"

  He scanned the first page at a glance, then, with a sound between alaugh and a curse, crumpled up the paper in his hand.

  "_Mon Dieu_ . . a pretty bit of comedy!"

  "What is it now, _mon cher_?" Quita asked anxiously, guessing hisanswer.

  "It is Malcolm; no less. He reaps the reward of constancy; like thegood boy in a Sunday-school book! And she . . _eh bien_, she is quitecertain I shall be delighted to hear of her great good fortune. Verycharming! Very correct!"

  "And you, Michel . . _you_?"

  He shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the note into the fender.

  "_Comme ca_! It seems I am a negligible quantity. Possibly have beenall along. The notion does not comfort a man's natural vanity. But onthe whole . ." he paused; smiling at the concern in Quita's eyes, "onthe whole, _petite soeur_ . . . I am profoundly relieved! I shouldhave proposed . . yes; and enjoyed a few weeks of Elysium. But it iscertain I should never have delivered myself permanently into the handsof a woman! After that, it u useless to ask for your blessing, _n'estce pas_?"

  "Quite useless!"

  But the hands stretched out to him belied her words; and as he kneltbeside her once more, she set them upon his shoulders and kissed hisforehead.

  "This time I give you up for good, Michel!" she said, smiling. "Atleast I have done my level best for you; so my conscience is clear.But it is written that 'no man may redeem his brother'; and I mighthave known that Providence was not likely to make an exception infavour of a woman!"

  "Is it perhaps a step towards redemption if, on your account, I give upplaying with the _feu sacre_ of the heart, and confine myself to theonly form of it that the gods appear to have granted me?"

  "_Dieu vous garde_," she whispered, and kissed him again.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  "I have my lesson; understand The worth of flesh and blood at last." --Browning.

  "Oh, Theo--it is too cruel. Too terrible! What on earth is one totell her?"

  "Anything but the truth," Desmond answered decisively, his gazereverting to the telegram in his hand. It was from the Resident ofKashmir; bald and brief, yet full of grim possibilities.

  "Captain Lenox dangerously ill at Darkot. Rheumatic fever. Doctorsent out. Will wire further news. Writing."

  Desmond read and re-read the words mechanically, an anxious frownbetween his brows. Then, looking up again, he encountered his wife'seyes, heavy with tears; and his arm enfolded her on the instant.

  "Bear up, my darling, like the plucky woman you are," he commandedgently, his lips against her cheek. "It's not the worst. By God'smercy we may get him back yet. You must keep on upholding her a littlelonger; that's all. I know it has been a strain for you,--this lastfortnight; so soon after your own affair too."

  For they themselves had been enriched by a new life, a new link in thechain that bound them--a bright-haired daughter not yet four months old.

  Honor did not answer at once; but leaned upon him, choking back hersobs, soothed by the magnetism of his hand and vo
ice, that seemedalways to leave things better than they found them.

  When her tears were under control, she drew herself up, brushing themfrom her cheeks and lashes.

  "Yes, it has been a strain," she admitted. "And I did so hope this hadbrought news I could give her, at last. You don't see her as I do,Theo, lying there day after day, so frail and white and patient. Quitapatient! Can you picture it? I quite long for a flash of her oldperversity. She has almost left off speaking of him. But the eternalquestion in her eyes haunts me; and I feel half ashamed of my goldentime with you, when I see her going through it alone, poor darling; hernatural joy in the child shadowed and broken by the anxiety and longingthat are eating her heart out, and holding her back from health. Isthere nothing I can tell her, that would be truth, yet not all thetruth?"

  Desmond knitted his brows again, pondering.

  "Go to her now," he said. "Tell her we've heard by wire that he issafely over the Darkot, but he may be delayed in getting on to Kashmir,and we hope for more news within the week. If she asks to see thewire, say you're sorry, but I tore it up."

  He did so on the spot, dropping the shreds of paper reflectively amongthe smouldering logs upon the hearth; while Honor hurried to thesick-room, with her fragment of news: the room in which Lenox hadalmost died of cholera, and in which Quita's ring had been restored toher finger sixteen months before.

  She lay in it now, propped up among frilled pillows, an etherealisededition of herself; her hair divided into two plaits, one lying overeach shoulder; the sweeping curve of her lashes shadowing her cheek;her eyes resting on a small dark head that nestled in the hollow of herarm. For, to Quita's intense satisfaction, the child had Eldred'sblack hair, and the clear Northern eyes that held all she knew, or asyet cared to know, of heaven.

  Her delight at the inadequate tidings of her husband was greater thanHonor had dared to expect. For she could not know how the wakefulnight watches, and the hours of enforced quiet, had been haunted bythat nightmare dread of the mountains, which Eldred's expurgatedaccounts of certain vicissitudes had justified rather than dispelled.But now--now he was through the worst of them, within easy distance ofKashmir; and she felt as a prisoner may feel when the doors swing wide,and he finds himself once more lord of light and space.

  "Oh, Baby, think of it!" she whispered in ecstasy to the unheedingmorsel of life in her arms. "He is coming--actually coming! Nothingcan delay him very long now."

  But the slow days multiplied into weeks; and still he did not come; andthe scanty news from Kashmir was not hopeful enough to be passed on toher--yet. Then, as she grew stronger, and more openly bewildered atthe silence and delay, Desmond decided to speak to her himself. Andwhile the tale was still upon his lips, while Quita sat listening toit, white and tearless, his hand grasping her own, a merciful fatebrought her an envelope quaveringly addressed in pencil, containingword of definite progress at last, and an assurance that once he couldset foot to ground nothing should hold him back.

  Ten days later the message, "Starting this morning," flashed throughspace to Dera Ishmael from Kashmir; and after that each hour broughthim nearer. A second flash from Lahore; a third from Jhung; andDesmond, sending on a spare horse, rode down to the Indus to meet hisfriend, in Oriental fashion, 'at the edge of the carpet.'

  It was a gaunt, weather-beaten figure of a man that stepped out of theferry-boat and grasped his hand; but there was that in his bearing andin his unshadowed eyes that told Desmond the chief of what he wished toknow. For the rest, the greeting between them was of their race andkind.

  "Well, old chap, how are you?"

  "Deuced glad to see you back again."

  "And--Quita?"

  "Deuced glad also, I suspect."

  "Uncommonly kind of you both keeping her all this while."

  "Kind? It's been a privilege seeing so much of her. We shall grudgegiving her up."

  And Desmond bestowed a reflective glance on the man who guessed nothingof the revelation in store for him.

  Their talk riding back to the station was fitful and fragmentary. Allthat remained to be said--and there was a good deal of it--would comeout bit by bit, at odd moments, mainly under the influence of tobacco.In the meantime, their mutual satisfaction went deeper than speech; andit was enough.

  At the drawing-room door they parted.

  "You'll find all you need in there, I think," Desmond said, on a noteof profound understanding; and Lenox, putting a strong hand uponhimself, pushed aside the heavy curtain and stood, at last, before hiswife.

  With a low cry, and arms outflung, she came to him; and that firstrapture of reunion, of the heart's passionate upheaval andrevealing--the more intense for the muteness of it--was a rapturesacred to themselves alone; not to be pried upon or set down. Suchmoments--come they but once in a lifetime, to one among a hundred--areGod's reiterate answers to the problem of creation. The man or womanwho has passed that way will never ask the soul's most witheringquestion: To what end was I born? 'The rest may reason and welcome.'They are of the few who know.

  Lenox and Quita swept headlong, as it were, to the crest of a wave,dropped presently back to earth. Then he set her a little away fromhim, almost at arm's-length, the better to feast his eyes upon thesight of her; and so became aware of the subtle change perceptible inher letters:--some exquisite quality, the fruit of long waiting,crowned by the miracle of motherhood; an appreciable softening of thelips; a triumph of the essential woman over mere line and curve thatbrought her near to actual beauty. But it was the new depth andtenderness in her eyes that drew and held him; eyes luminous, as neverbefore, with the pride, the exaltation, of a consummateself-surrender,--not of necessity, but of free choice, the woman'sutmost gift to her own one lover and compeer in all the world; if so bethat she is privileged to find him, and if so be that he himselfaspires to the larger claim. Eldred Lenox had so aspired; and, inconsequence, had attained. Her mute confession of it stirred him tospeech.

  "I believe I _have_ won the whole of you at last--you very woman," hesaid almost under his breath.

  "And I know it," she answered in the same tone. "Do you remembersaying that day you were angry: 'If you _will_ make it a case ofmastery----!' Well, it is a case of mastery--absolute and permanent."

  She spoke truth. At that moment, and indeed for many years after, shewould have walked, at his bidding, into the heart of a furnace. Hedrew her close again.

  "No, no, lass. I hope it's a case of love and comradeship on an equalfooting,--as you have seen it in this house; the rarest thing in theworld between a man and woman."

  Her smile brought into play the dimple that he loved.

  "How one needs you at every turn, to keep the balance of things! Butcome over to my easel. I have something to show you."

  Very deliberately she lifted the draperies that hid the picture, and alow sound broke from him. Then he stood gazing upon it,--absorbed,captivated; and whereas, a moment since, the woman had triumphed, nowall the artist in her thrilled at his tribute of silence, knowing itfor the highest praise.

  "A bit of pure inspiration," he said at last. "It lives and breathes!"

  "That is your doing, more than mine. And I am glad it pleases you; forit is a present, and--a confession!"

  "You did it simply for me?"

  "For who else, in earth or heaven, dear and dense one?" she demanded,laughing; and was effectually put to silence. "Wasn't it just like meto throw all my heart into a portrait of myself?" she added, as hereleased her.

  "It was enchanting of you; that's all _I_ know. But see here, lass,there must be no question of murdering half your personality on myaccount. I am grasping. I want both of you,--artist and woman."

  "Dear heart, you've taken arbitrary possession of as many of me asthere are! And indeed, I'd be puzzled to swear to the exact number. Iseem to have let you in for three sorts of wives already! Butseriously, Eldred, I have come to one conclusion in the long months Ihave had for thinking things over. I believe you
were right in sayingit might be best for me to give up painting men's portraits. Notaltogether: I don't think I could, unless you insisted! But I won'tmake it a speciality, as I have done; and I'll be more circumspect inmy methods, and in my choice of subjects. Will that do?"

  He looked full at her for a moment; his keen eyes melting into wells oftenderness.

  "My darling--what's come to you?" was all he said.

  "A spirit of understanding, I hope," she answered sweetly. "But you'llfind plenty of the old unreasonable Quita effervescing underneath!_Par exemple_--on the heels of my great renunciation, the first thing Iwant to do is a portrait of Major Desmond for my dear Honor,--if I may?"

  "If you may! What next?" But being a man and human, he was obviouslygratified. "You could suggest nothing that would please me better.You'll make a fine thing of it; and as for your methods, 'get inside'Desmond for all you're worth. You'll do no harm in _that_ quarter!"

  "Harm?" she flashed out, half indignant. "Has it ever, in all of yourknowledge of me, gone as far as that?"

  He could not lie to her; neither would he betray Dick.

  "Did such a possibility never occur to you?" he suggested, evadingdirect reply.

  But she was not to be thwarted.

  "I asked you a question, _mon cher_."

  "And that is my answer."

  "A question is not an answer." Then intuition, and his evidentdiscomfiture, enlightened her. "_Mon Dieu_, Eldred! Yon are neverthinking--of Dick?"

  He frowned. "What put that into your head?"

  "Your manner; and something he wrote to me while he was away. Youheard, of course? He said he had told you the good news."

  "What good news? When?"

  "Weeks ago. Before he came back off leave."

  "I had no letter. Must have been mislaid while I was ill. What's up?Has he got a command?"

  "Yes. And better than that. He is going to be married."

  "By Jove! That's first-rate. Good old Dick! But what was it he saidto you?"

  "I'll show you the letter. Such a charming one. He began, 'DearFriend,' which wasn't like him. It puzzled me. And he ended by sayinghe felt sure I should be glad to know how much of his present happinesshe owed to his intimacy with me. So you see, dearest, I did noirretrievable harm."

  "No, mercifully not, thanks to Dick's uprightness, and his happytemperament. But he might have been quite another sort; like myself,for instance. By the time I had known you two weeks, Quita, the damagewas permanent. Even if there had been no word of love between us, Ishould never have given a thought to another woman--after that."

  The quietness of his tone carried conviction, and her arms went out tohim.

  "Bless you, bless you, my own man," she murmured into the lapel of hiscoat. "I can never thank God enough that I came out to India and wonyou back."

  Weak as he still was from the pain and prostration of his terribleillness, the exquisite completeness of her surrender almost unmannedhim; and she felt him tremble through all his big frame. That rousedthe mother in her.

  "Darling, how thoughtless of me! You are not strong enough yet forthis sort of thing. Let me get you some wine--please."

  "Wine? Nonsense, I'm all right. Desmond gave me a peg."

  "Come to a chair, then."

  She drew him towards one; but he gently forced her into it, sinking onone knee beside her, with a sigh of satisfaction.

  "That's good. I begin to realise that I am actually home!"

  "And I begin to realise what a wreck of yourself you are, _mon pauvre_.Wait till I've tyrannised over you for a month or so! Then we must getlong leave."

  And taking his head between her hands, she cherished it, smiling intohis eyes; the passion of the wife deepened and hallowed by theprotective tenderness of the mother. When and how should she tell him?That was the question in her mind. A paralysing shyness, for which shespurned herself, suffused her at the thought; and behind the shynesslurked a great longing to know how he would receive her culminatingrevelation. But in his present state she dreaded a shock forhim,--even a shock of joy. She would wait a little longer for thegiven moment; and then . . . .

  "The hair on your temples has gone quite silver," she lamented,caressing it with light finger-tips. "It is all those terriblemountains; and I hope you've had enough of them now to keep you quietfor a time. But I begin to dread Sir Henry Forsyth. He hasn't gotanother 'mission' up his sleeve, has he?"

  She spoke laughingly, but his eyes were grave; and taking her two handshe prisoned them in his own.

  "Quita, my brave lass," he said gently. "After all that has justpassed between us, I can tell you no less than the truth, and leave youto give the casting vote. I am afraid the mountains are bound to playa big part in our immediate future, unless you seriously prefer that Ishould give up all idea of political work in those parts, and stick tothe Battery."

  "And if I _do_ seriously prefer it?"

  "Your decision will be mine."

  He spoke so steadily that she would fain have believed in hisindifference as to the result. But the art of self-deception was notone of her accomplishments. She suppressed a sigh.

  "Dear, there is only one decision possible. But for me you might neverhave put your hand to that plough. It was the one good that came toyou through my crowning act of folly; and I'll not undo it, whatever itmay mean--for me."

  He thanked her with his eyes; and the mute homage in them was dearer toher than a score of kisses. When he tried to speak, she forestalledhim.

  "You have said it all, Eldred. I understand. I only want--more facts.Is it Gilgit? And when?"

  "Next year, I'm afraid. They want us to re-establish theAgency--Travers and myself. I was up there, you see, before I foundyou again. We should be quite alone, at the start, with just a doctorand our Kashmiri soldiers."

  "And I--it would be impossible?"

  He pressed her hands.

  "For the first few years--certainly. Everything would be raw; and thework incessant and absorbing. But later on, who can tell? We mightsee what could be done."

  "And the nearest I could get to you, so as to live more or less withinreach?"

  "Srinagar. That's about twenty days' march from Gilgit. I could do itin ten, to get to you!" he added, smiling. "Spare time would bescarce, though; and in the winter we should be quite cut off by snow."

  "Oh, Eldred!"

  "I should hate that no less than you, be sure. But when things got abit more settled, some sort of arrangement might be possible, at leastfor part of the summer; if you could really stand the isolation and thelife."

  "Stand it? Of course I could. I should love it."

  His eyes lit up.

  "You have pluck enough for half a dozen! But you don't look as strongas you did. There's a fragile air about you that troubles me. I neversaw it before."

  The faint colour in her cheeks invaded her temples. It was the givenmoment; long enough delayed in all conscience. Yet it found herpalpitating--unprepared.

  "You mustn't be troubled." She plunged desperately; unsure of whatwould come next. "It will pass. I am growing stronger every day."

  "Stronger? Good Lord! You haven't been ill too, and I never knew it?"

  "No--oh, no! Not ill--that is . . . not exactly. I mean . . ."

  Confusion submerged her. His shoulder--the woman's legitimaterefuge--was conveniently close; and she buried her blushes in it. Atthat a suspicion of the truth thrilled through him, like an electriccurrent.

  "Quita--look up--speak to me!" he besought her; his voice low, and notquite steady. "Is it possible . . ?"

  "Darling, of course it is," she whispered back, without stirring."Only--will you ever forgive me? I've saddled you with two women now,as if one wasn't bother enough!"

  For answer he strained her closer; and so knelt for the space of manyseconds; stunned, momentarily, by that deep-rooted, elemental joy inthe transmission of life, which, in men of fine fibre, is tempered with
amazement and awe; a sense of poignant, personal contact with the OpenSecret of the world.

  At last he spoke; and his words held no suggestion of the emotion thatuplifted him.

  "When? How old . . . how long ago?"

  "Seven weeks ago. The second of October."

  "Great Heaven! The day I was nearly done for; the day I crossed thePass. And I never dreamed . . . how it was with you."

  Then, very gently, she found her head lifted from its resting-place;his eyes searching her own with an insistence not to be denied.

  "Quita, you must have realised--all this before I started?"

  "Yes."

  "And you let me go without a word! By the Lord, I think I had theright to know."

  Her lips trembled a little at the reproach in his tone; but she did notavert her eyes.

  "Of course you had the right," she acknowledged with a flash of her oldfrankness. "But things were going crooked just then. It all seemed sostrange, so difficult to speak of; and I thought if you were delayed itwould save you from anxiety, not to know. Besides--I confess I knew itwould mean . . . a great deal to you; and I wanted to win you all myown self, before I told you. There! That's the whole truth. Can youforgive me?"

  "Forgive you, my darling? To-day of all days! I am at your feet."

  She drew a deep breath. "That is quite wrong! But I can't pretend notto be proud of it; though in theory I object to pedestals as much asever! And now----" she laid both hands upon him, her eyes full oflaughter and tenderness. "Now--don't you want to come and see--theother woman?"

  At that, his gravity went to pieces.

  "Woman indeed! Bless her heart. Naturally I do. Hasn't she achieveda name yet?"

  "No, poor little heathen. I told her she must wait for you; though thematter was settled long ago. What else could we call her--but Honor?And I pray she may be worthy of the name. Both the Desmonds will standfor her. I thought you would wish it; for, indeed, without their greatgoodness to us both she might never have found her way into the worldat all! Now--come."

  He raised her to her feet, and together they entered the room where, ina railed cot, the unconscious herald of a larger joy, a more sacredintimacy, lay sleeping:--a creature of flower-soft tints and curves,who, in the sublime wisdom of babyhood, was concerned for nothing onearth but her own inspired devices for self-development.

  For long the two stood speechless before that astonishing, yetinevitable, third; that miracle of incorporate self-expression, wherebya man and woman behold their hidden spirits that have so passionatelyclung together across the gateless barrier of individual being,'visibly here commingled and made flesh.' Then Lenox put out a handand caressed the small soft head, reverently, cautiously, as if toverify its actuality. At his touch the child stirred; the dark lasheslifted; and in that instant of revealing, the truth came home to himthat, by his will, a living soul, a thing of mysterious and infinitepotentialities, had been added to the world's sum of life.

  "See--she has your eyes," said Quita, tenderly triumphant; and for thesecond time she looked into his own through a mist of tears. "My lastpicture pleases you even better than the other one?" she added; andstooping, he kissed her lips.

  "It lifts you into a new kingdom, Quita; and doesn't he honestly seemto you worth all the rest put together?"

  "But yes, _mon ami_. She is my masterpiece--our masterpiece," sheanswered very low.