"Passion has but one cry, one only;--Oh to touch thee, my beloved!"
--Olive Schreiner.
Asiatic cholera is as capricious as a woman; capricious both as to her
choice of victims, and as to the grisly fashion of her wooing. In one
mood she will kill at a stroke, like a poisoned arrow; in another she
will play with a tortured body as a cat plays with a mouse. And it was
thus that she dealt with Eldred Lenox.
For two days and nights Desmond and the Pathan wrestled against the
evil thing, and against that deadly apathy as to the result, which
kills more surely than the disease itself. And since the regiment
claimed many hours of the Englishman's day, the brunt of the nursing
devolved upon Zyarulla, who scorned suggestions of sleep, and appeared
to live on pellets of opium, and a hookah, which inhabited the verandah
outside his master's room.
There were moments when they were tempted to despair. But they fought
on doggedly, and without comment; and as the second night wore towards
morning, they knew that they had conquered. The gong at the police
station down the road had just clanged three times. Every door and
window-slit stood open at their widest; and through them entered in the
familiar, unforgettable smell of the Indian Empire under her yearly
baptism of fire; a smell of dust, and baked brick work, and stale
native tobacco. A hand-lamp on the mantelpiece diffused a yellow
twilight through the room; a twilight flavoured with kerosine: and
across the twilight the shadow of the punkah flitted, like a whispering
ghost.
Zyarulla, crouching at the bedside, slid a cautious knotted hand
between the buttons of the sleeping-coat, and laid it lightly on his
master's heart. The flutter within was feeble, but regular; though the
face, grey and shrunken almost past recognition, still bore the impress
of death.
"God is great," the Pathan muttered into his beard. "The strength of
the Heaven-born is as that of mine own hills; and my Sahib will live.
It is enough."
On the farther side of the bed, Desmond, in gauze vest, and belted
trousers, mopped his forehead, and drew a long breath. Then, measuring
out a tablespoonful of raw-meat soup, he slipped a hand under the dark
head on the pillow.
"Lenox, dear chap, drink this, will you?" he said, speaking as
persuasively as a mother to a child.
Lenox obeyed automatically. For a mere instant his lids lifted, and
recognition gleamed in the eyes that seemed to have retreated half-way
into his head. Then, with an incoherent murmur, he settled himself
into a more natural attitude of rest; and the two men watching him
intently, exchanged a nod of satisfaction.
The Pathan, sitting back on his heels, fumbled at his belt for a pellet
of opium.
"He will sleep now, Huzoor, like a day-old babe; and the Presence will
sleep also. Since yesterday at this time your Honour hath taken no
rest; and there be three hours yet to parade-time."
"Good. We have fought a tough fight, thou and I, and be sure Lenox
Sahib will know of thy share in it. Wake me at half-past five."
"Huzoor."
Zyarulla salaamed profoundly; and Desmond, dropping with fatigue, flung
himself, even as he was, on to a chair-bed in the adjoining
dressing-room, and slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
Before six he was over at Meredith's bungalow, sitting on the edge of
his wife's bed, drinking tea with an egg in it,--her own
prescription,--and enjoying her delight at his news.
"Good enough, isn't it?" he concluded heartily. "I'll take the
telegraph office on my way back."
"And _I'll_ come over to breakfast, bag and baggage!"
"Capital. If John agrees."
"Of course he will. He's not such a fidget as you are!"
"Glad to hear it; if it means getting you back; and both rooms shall be
disinfected to-day, Lord, but it's a weight off my mind!"
And he cantered down to the Lines in such a mood of exaltation as they
know who have been privileged to fight for a human life, and win.
Honor got her own way, as she always did; and half-past nine found her
back at her deserted post behind the teapot. Desmond fancied that she
looked paler than usual; that her cheerfulness was veiled by a shadow
of constraint. But as Paul was present, enjoying his first normal
breakfast, he contented himself with scrutinising her, when her
attention seemed to be taken up elsewhere. As a matter of fact, Honor
knew precisely how often he looked at her; and, womanlike, hugged his
solicitude to her heart. For there had been moments, in the past two
days, when the traitorous thought would obtrude itself that perhaps the
child needed her most after all.
Directly the meal was over, she rose, murmuring that she had 'things to
see to,' and went out, leaving the men with their cigars. But instead
of going to the store cupboard, where the old Khansamah awaited her,
armed with his daily _hissab_,[1] she slipped into the drawing-room,
sat down at her bureau, and leaned her head on her hand; honestly
hoping that Theo might leave the house without coming to her. For all
that, the sound of his elastic step brought a light into her eyes. She
did not rise, or look round; and he came and stood beside her.
"Not quite yourself this morning, old lady?" he asked. "Anything
really wrong? Fever? Headache?"
She caught the note of anxiety, and with a quick turn of her head
kissed the fingers resting on her shoulder.
"No, darling, neither. Don't worry yourself. I'm perfectly well."
"Sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Good." And he departed, whistling softly; clear sign that all was
well with his world.
But twenty minutes later when Paul came in to look for a strayed pipe,
he found Honor, quite oblivious of 'things,' crying quietly behind her
hands. He retreated hastily; but she heard him and looked up.
"Don't go, Paul. I want you."
No three words in the language could have pierced him with so keen a
thrust of happiness.
"Do you mean . . . can I help you?" he asked eagerly. "I felt sure
something was wrong."
"Did you? I'm a bad actress! But . . it's about Baby,--the other
Paul," she added, smiling through wet lashes. "I have just had a
letter from Mrs Rivers that makes me want to pack my boxes and go
straight back to Dalhousie."
"And shall you? Is it serious enough for that?"
"Oh, how _can_ one tell?" she cried desperately, her voice breaking on
the words. "It mightn't seem serious to you. He has fever, and a
touch of dysentery, and terrible fits of crying with his double teeth.
Mrs Rivers seems anxious; and of course one thinks . . . of
convulsions. It all sounds rather a molehill, doesn't it, after the
horrors we have been living in here? And perhaps only a mother would
make a mountain out of it. But I think mothers must have God's leave
to be foolish . . . sometimes!"
Fresh tears welled up, and she hid her face again. Paul could only
wait beside her tongue-tied, half-sitting on the edge of the
writing-table, wondering what dear, unfathomable impulse had led her to
admit him to the sanctuary of her sorrow; realising, so far as a
masculine brain can realise, something of the struggle involved in
woman's twofold responsibility--to the man, and to the gift of the man.
It is the eternally old, eternally new tragedy of Anglo-Indian
marriage; none the less poignant because it is repeated _ad infinitum_.
Love him as she may, it costs more for a wife, and still more for a
mother, to stand loyally by her husband in India than the sheltered
women of England can conceive. For to read of such contingencies in
print, is by no means the same thing as having one's heart of flesh
pierced by the sword of division.
"Has Theo heard all this?" Paul hazarded gently. "He went off in such
good spirits."
She dried her eyes, and looked up,
"I couldn't spoil it all by telling him. But I thought it might seem
less of a nightmare, if I could tell some one . . . and . . ."
"And I happened to come handy?" he suggested with a rather pathetic
smile.
"Oh, Paul, how horrid! It wasn't that," she contradicted him hotly.
"It was because you are . . you, my boy's godfather, and my very dear
friend. Do you suppose I would have shown my mother-foolishness to any
other man of my acquaintance?"
"No. I don't suppose it," he answered, looking steadily down into the
anxious beauty of her face. "Forgive my much less pardonable
foolishness, and let me help you, if that's possible. Are you really
thinking of going?"
"N . . no. I don't believe I am. Only . . for one mad moment, I felt
as if _nothing_ could hold me back. But children are such elastic
creatures; and if I arrived to find him quite frisky and well, think
how ashamed I should feel at having deserted Theo, and put him to so
much expense for nothing. But I do want to wire at once; though I
hardly like sending Theo's orderly . . ."
"Let me write it for you, and send my man," he volunteered, catching
gratefully at something definite to be done; and taking up a form he
prepared to write at her dictation.
"Reply prepaid, please; and addressed to Frank. I shall go straight
over there, and stay till I get the answer, I could never keep it up
with Theo all day. You saw how badly I did it at breakfast!--What's
that? Some one come?"
Sounds of arrival were followed by an unmistakable Irish voice in the
hall; and Honor hurriedly dabbed her eyes.
"Dear Frank, how clever of her! She can drive me over."
A minute later she was in the room; an angular workmanlike figure, in
sun helmet, and the unvarying coat and skirt. It was her one idea of a
dress,--drill in summer, tweed in winter. "An' be all that's sensible,
what more should an ugly woman want?" had been her challenge to a
misguided friend, who had suggested higher aspirations. "'Tis no
manner o' use to dress up a collection of limbs and features without
symmetry; an' it saves no end of mental wear and tear, to say nothing
of rupees, that's badly wanted for polo ponies."
She entered talking; and shook hands talking still.
"The top o' the morning to you both! 'Tis an unholy hour for a visit.
But I'm after the loan of a feeding-cup, knowing you've two. That
murdering villain of a _messalchi_[2] broke me only one this morning;
an' I'm afraid I used 'language' when I saw the corpse, besides
threatening to cut the price of a new one out of his pay! '_Memsahib
ke kushi_,'[3] he answers, salaaming like a sainted martyr, and taking
the wind clean out o' me sails. But I'll wash yours meself; so you
needn't fear to lend it." Then, becoming aware of Honor's red eyelids,
she broke off short. "Why, Honor, me dear, it's the born fool I am to
be chattering like a parrot when you're in trouble, by the looks of
it." A glance from one to the other revealed the telegram in Paul's
hand. "Great goodness, it's never the child, is it?" she asked with a
swift change of tone.
"Yes. Honor has had disturbing news," he answered for her. "She'll
tell you about it while I send off this wire."
Honor, who had risen, sank into her chair again as he left the room.
"Read that, dear," she said simply: and while Frank Olliver read, a
strange softness stole over her face, blanched and lined by many
Frontier hot weathers. Outsiders, who wondered how any man had ever
come to fall in love with her, might have wondered less had they
chanced to see her then. On reaching the signature, she awkwardly
patted Honor's shoulder.
"'Tis just one o' the bad minutes there's no evading, me darlint. The
price you've to pay for the high privilege of carrying on the race."
"It seems a big price sometimes . . in India," Honor answered, not
quite steadily. "And it's your one bit of compensation, Frank, that
you're spared the wrench of having to live with your heart in two
places at once."
At that Frank bit her lip, and stinging tears--an unusual
phenomenon--blinded her eyes. But she was overstrung by a week of hard
nursing; and some childless women never loss the tragic sense of
incompleteness, the unacknowledged ache of empty arms.
"Spared? Ah, me dear, you ought to know me better by now," she
protested reproachfully. "I've no use at all for cheap comforts o'
that kind. What's the sharpest pangs, after all, balanced
against . . . the other thing? Lighter than vanity itself; an' you
know it. None better. But there . . . I'm clean daft to be talking so
at this stage o' the proceedings. It's the happy woman I am, sure
enough. Geoff and I are rare good friends. Always have been. But
don't you talk to me again about being spared. It's one more than I
can stand; an' that's the truth."
Honor took possession of the hand that patted her shoulder,--a square
hand; rough with much riding and exposure,--and laid it against her
cheek.
"Bless you, Frank," she said softly. "You make me feel quite ashamed
of myself. Come and get the feeding-cup; and take me home with you.
I've wired to Mrs Rivers; and the answer will come to you. I couldn't
tell Theo, till . . I must."
Frank's smile had the effect of sunshine striking through a shower.
"Saints alive, how you spoil the dear man! But indeed an' I wonder who
could help it? Not meself, I'll swear."
Desmond came in very late for tiffin. At Paul's announcement that
Honor had gone to Mrs Olliver's till tea-time, he raised his eyebrows
without question or comment: then, going over to the mantelpiece, stood
contemplating a recent photo of her and the child.
"Did you happen to notice her at breakfast?" he asked abruptly, his
eyes on the picture. "She didn't seem to me quite up to the mark. And
of course . . bringing her into this . . . one feels responsible . . ."
There was more in the tone than in the broken sentence; and Wyndham,
coming up behind him, grasped his shoulders.
"My dear Theo," he said soothingly, "I can't let you be hag-ridden by
your favourite nightmare! Honor is woman enough to be responsible for
her own actions. Besides, she is perfectly well. I had a talk with
her before she went. As to her coming down into this, you couldn't
have held her back. She has every right to stand by you, if she
chooses; and you must know, even better than I do, that in the good
future ahead of you, wherever you may be, unless it's active service,
Honor will be there too, . . as sure as my name's Wyndham."
This was quite a long speech for Paul; one that it cost him an effort
to make; and Desmond, fully realising the fact, turned upon his friend
with impulsive warmth.
"True for you, Paul, old man! She's a Meredith. That about covers
everything. What an amazing talent you have for casting out
devils!--Now, let's be common-sensible, and have some food. Kohi hai!
Tiffin lao." [4]
And as if the walls had ears, the meal made its appearance with that
silent celerity which the retired Anglo-Indian--who has sworn at native
servants for thirty years--misses so keenly, when he is relegated to
the cumbersome ministrations of the British house-parlourmaid of Baling.
"By the way," Desmond remarked, as he dissected a fowl, cooked--by the
mercy of the gods--in that elusive interval between toughness and
putrescence, the pursuit of which gives to hot-weather housekeeping an
excitement peculiarly its own, "there's bad news from the Infantry camp
this morning. Poor old Buckley. A cramp seizure at midnight. Went
out in three hours; and was buried at dawn, Mackay showed me a note
from Dr Lowndes saying he believed it was one of those odd freaks of
disease, a spurious case. Sheer funk; and nothing else. Camp was in a
flourishing condition. No deaths for nearly a week. Then, yesterday,
the Colonel's bearer must needs appropriate an unattached germ; and it
seems that this got on the poor chap's nerves. He dined chiefly off
whisky; and afterwards yarned away to Lowndes about his wife and
children. Hadn't seen 'em for eight years. Never mentioned 'em to
Lowndes in his life before: and from what one has heard, the wire that
goes home this morning will barely spoil her appetite for dinner; which
only seems to add a finishing touch to the pity of it all. Mysterious
thing . . . marriage . . ."
He broke off short on the word. The thought of his own first venture,
and the misery that might have come of it, but for an accident so
strange as to seem unreal, sealed his lips on the subject of the
eternal riddle of the universe: and Paul, being blest with
understanding, unobtrusively shifted the talk to another channel.
There could be no thought of polo for Desmond that afternoon; though
Major Olliver came and reasoned with him forcibly in the verandah. He
devoted himself, instead, to the exhaustive disinfection of the
sick-room and dressing room. It was hot work; unpleasant work. But it
was good to be through with it; to have rid the house of the last
vestige of an uninvited and unwelcome guest. With which reflection
Desmond sat down finally in the sanctuary of his study; lit a cheroot;
and opened a battered original of Omar Khayyam, whose stately quatrains
and exquisite imagery were less hackneyed then, than they have since
become among modern devotees of culture.
A great silence pervaded the house. He had left Lenox in the blessed
borderland between sleeping and waking, with Zyarulla on guard; and
looking in on Paul, had found him dozing also, after the morning's
unwonted exertion. No doubt Frank would drive Honor back for tea: and
even while he read Desmond's ear was strained to catch the sound of
wheels. This capacity for sustained ardour is a very rare quality in
love that has attained its object, and the woman who does not
succeed--unwittingly enough--in extinguishing it within the first few
years of marriage is rarer still.
The sound he waited for came at length; and he sprang out of his chair.
But in hurrying through the drawing-room, towards the hall, another
sound arrested him; the unmistakable clink of the tonga bar.
"A tonga? Why, who the deuce . . ." he ejaculated mentally. "It can't
be . . . ."
But at this point he fairly ran into the arms of a woman, in alpaca
dust-cloak and shikarri helmet; a woman who clutched his left arm with
both hands: and before he could collect his scattered senses, Quita's
voice was in his ears.
"Oh, Captain Desmond . . tell me . . is he . . . ?"
"He is out of all danger now, . . if he can be kept quiet," Desmond
answered, stifling his own amazement in view of her white face and
shaking lips.
"Thank God. Oh, thank God!" The words were a mere flutter of breath;
and with the sudden relief from long tension all her courage went to
pieces. A dry sob broke in her throat. Her lids dropped; and she fell
limply against him.
"You poor, dear, plucky woman," he murmured, putting an arm round her,
and gently removing the heavy helmet; while she lay motionless; her
head on his shoulder; no vestige of colour in lips or cheeks.
Desmond began to think she must have fainted outright: and while he
held her thus, meditating a cautious removal of his burden to the sofa,
steps in the hall were followed by the appearance of Honor in the
doorway: a radiant Honor, aglow with the good news that had brought her
straight back to him, like a homing bird. Her small gasp of surprise
melted into a smile of amused understanding, as Theo telegraphed
wireless messages to her over the golden brown head that was
trespassing, flagrantly and confidingly, on her own exclusive property.
The whole thing was so exactly like Quita: so daring; so preposterous;
so entirely forgivable! And Honor's hospitable brain at once began
scouring the bungalow for some corner where she might stow this
unexpected addition to her elastic household.
"She must have left Dalhousie directly she got my first wire," Desmond
said under his breath. "Get some brandy, while I put her down."
But his first movement roused Quita from semi-unconsciousness. She
lifted her head with a startled sound; and at sight of Honor the blood
rushed back into her face.
"This is pretty behaviour!" she said with a little broken laugh. "I'm
so sorry. It must have been the reaction, the relief, after that
excruciating journey."
"No need to apologise!" Desmond answered, a twinkle of amusement in his
eyes. "No use either to try and push my arm away. Let me get you to
the sofa first."
Honor piled two cushions behind her; and as she sank back into their
silken softness, leaned over and kissed her cheek.
"You very wonderful person," she said. "How on earth did you pull
through it, all alone?"
Quita shrugged her shoulders.
"It was not amusing," she answered with her whimsical smile. "But it
was an experience: and that is always something,--when it is over! I
think I never realised before how big and how terrible a country India
is; or how kind people are out here," she added, looking from one to
the other with misty eyes.
"Kind? Nonsense!" It was Honor who spoke. "Now . . will you have a
peg, or some tea?"
"Tea, please. And after that, I may see . . Eldred, mayn't I?"
Instinctively she appealed to Desmond, who knitted his brows in
distress. "I'm afraid that's out of the question, . . yet awhile," he
said.
"Well then . . when?"
"Can't say for certain. Probably not for two or three days. I
wouldn't so much as risk telling him that you are here till then."
The mist on her lashes overflowed; and she dashed an impatient hand
across them with small result.
"But I have waited three days already. And since this morning I have
been counting the hours . . the minutes . ."
It was no use. She could not go on without further loss of dignity;
and Honor hastened into the breach.
"Drink your tea first, dear. You can talk afterwards."
And as she obeyed, Desmond came round and sat beside her.
"See here, Miss Maurice," he began. But she raised an imploring hand.
"Oh, don't call me that . . now. It hurts. It makes me feel I have no
manner of right to be here. And I have a little right, haven't I?"
"More than a little, I should say, . . Mrs Lenox. Is that better?"
She flushed to the eyes, and glanced down at her bare left hand. It
was the first time she had heard her married name; and the sound of it
was music in her ears. But she shook her head.
"No. It's almost worse, till I know for certain what's going to come
of my mad leap in the dark."
"Well then . . . ?"
"Why not . . 'Quita'?" She looked up beseechingly. "I should love
that: and it would make me feel less of an intruder."
"You are forbidden, on pain of instantaneous eviction, to feel anything
of the sort! And I heartily vote for 'Quita,'" Desmond answered,
smiling into her troubled face with so irresistible a friendliness that
she must needs smile back at him, however mistily.
"Oh, but it's good to talk nonsense with you again!" she cried. "Only,
I want to know, . . please, about Eldred. He is too weak. Is that it?"
"Far too weak. You see, we only pulled him round the corner at three
o'clock this morning; and the great thing now is to avoid any risk of
reactionary fever. Well, you know yourself . . I may speak frankly?"
She inclined her head. "Your coming, besides being emotionally
disturbing, will make something of a complication under the
circumstances . ."
"Oh, I know . . I know! It seems like forcing his hand. Every minute
I see more plainly that I ought never to come at all."
"Waiting would have been wiser," Desmond reproved her gently. "But I
admire the pluck of the whole thing far too much to scold you for it."
Her smile had a touch of wistfulness.
"That's so like you! But I don't know about pluck. Perhaps, if I had
realised all the details, I might have hesitated; though I doubt it. I
half lost my senses for the time being; and I believe poor Michel
thought I'd lost them permanently! He was furious with me for going."
"Rather rough on him, when you come to think of it! But why on earth
didn't you wire to us before starting?"
"At first it simply didn't occur to me; and when it did, I had just
sense enough to know that you would probably wire back 'Don't come.'
And even _I_ could hardly have persisted in the face of that! So I
determined to take the small risk with the big one. Dak bungalows seem
to grow wild in India; and I thought there would surely be one here
where I could get some sort of a bed."
"Dak bungalow, indeed! If there is one, _I_ won't help you to find
it!" This from Honor, in a burst of righteous wrath. "So you may as
well resign yourself to staying with us, whether you like it or not!"
"With you? Is it possible? I thought . . . But have you really a
corner available? I could sleep divinely on the hearth-rug, I'm so
desperately tired, and so relieved."
"Very well. That settles it. But I'll let you off the hearth-rug,
even though you did fling Dak bungalows at my head! Captain Lenox is
in Baby's nursery; and we can shut off the dressing-room for you, if
you can manage with a chair-bed. It's quite safe. Everything has been
disinfected. I believe Theo knew you were coming! Will that do?"
"Do? _Ma foi_, . . but how does one say thank you for such goodness?"
"One refrains!" Desmond remarked, handing her empty cup across to his
wife.
Quita laughed.
"You are incorrigible!" said she. "But there is still this to think
of. With your friends coming and going, how am I to be . . accounted
for till I have seen . . Eldred? If I am Miss Maurice, _par exemple_,
what am I doing in Dera Ishmael? And if not . . ? _Mon Dieu_, but
it's an ignominious tangle. I'm as bad as Alice in Wonderland in the
wood. I seem suddenly to have lost my identity: and in my mad anxiety
and impatience to get here I never thought anything about it till I was
sweltering in that horrible barge this morning. Shall I live
altogether in my room? It would be no more than I deserve."
"My dear, you'll do nothing of the sort." It was Honor this time,
"Luckily for you, the Battery's in camp; and since Captain Lenox's
illness there's been an end of my tea-parties. Our own people may be
looking in now he's better. But for the next two days or so I shall
simply be '_dawazar bund_.'[5] It needs no effort to develop a
headache, or a touch of fever this weather. There's only Paul, and
Frank, whom I couldn't shut out. May we just explain to them, more or
less, how things stand?"
"But yes. Of course you must. And . . after all . . ."
She hesitated, flushing painfully.
"After all," Desmond came to her rescue, "it won't be so very long
before the vexed question of your identity is settled for good. Now
I'd better go and speak to Paul. He may be turning up for tea, any
minute; and that would be awkward for you."
As he reached the door at the far end of the room, Honor fled after him.
"Read those, dear," she said breathlessly, thrusting a letter and
telegram into his hand. "They will account for this morning. I had
bad news. But thank God it's all right now. I wired."
"And never told _me_?"
"You were so happy. How could I?"
"Then that was why you bolted?"
"Yes. I couldn't have kept it up for long."
"Well . . I've no time to scold you now," he said, looking unspeakable
things at her. "Wait till I get you to myself, . . that's all!"
This short colloquy, carried on in an undertone, did not reach Quita's
ears.
"What sort of a man is this Paul?" she asked as Honor returned to her
chair. "I don't know his other name! Is he the sort that would be
likely to understand . . our very incomprehensible position?"
Honor took a leather frame from the table beside her, and put it into
Quita's hands.
"If you are any judge of faces, that's the best answer I can give you."
Quita scanned the picture abstractedly for several seconds.
"Yes. He'll do," was her verdict. Then she flung the thing from her;
and burying her face in the cushions sobbed with the heart-broken
abandonment of a child.
"Oh, what a blind fool I was to come!" she lamented through her tears.
"I don't believe he'll understand my madness. And if he doesn't . . .
he'll never forgive me!"
[1] Account.
[2] Scullery man.
[3] As Memsahib pleases.
[4] Any one there! Bring tiffin.
[5] Not at home.