"Here the lost hours the lost hours renew."--Rossetti.
"It progresses, doesn't it?"
"It does more than that. It lives. You've transfigured it in these few
days; and I like your knack of emphasising essentials without jarring the
harmony of the whole. You ought to make your mark as a portrait painter
in time."
"I've done so already . . more or less," Quita answered modestly,
stepping backward, with tilted head, to get a better view of her
achievement. It was the study of Lenox, which, for all her perturbation,
she had packed as tenderly as if it were a live thing; and which alone
had made life endurable for the past three days. Her easel had been set
up in the dining-room, where she could work without fear of chance
intruders, who gravitated either to the drawing-room or the study: and on
this fourth morning after her arrival, she was standing at it with
Desmond, who had looked in for a word with her before starting for the
Lines. "If you were to go home now," she added, after a pause, "you
would find the name Quita Maurice not quite unknown in artistic circles.
But they'll never see this, though it's going to be the best thing I've
done yet; because . . ."
"Yes, naturally, . . because . . ."
"How nice you are!" she said simply. "One needn't dot the i's, and cross
all the t's with you. Of course it's very incomplete still. A
suggestive study is the most one can achieve from memory. So you mustn't
judge it as a portrait,--yet. It's just a daring experiment that no
right-minded artist would have attempted. But it's come out better than
I thought possible. And I'm glad you like my work."
"I do; no question. I'm no critic, though; only a soldier, with a taste
for most kinds of art. It's full of latent vigour; rugged without being
rough, like Lenox himself. A fine bit of weathered rock, eh? I am only
afraid that after feasting your eyes on this, the original may give you
something of a shock at first sight."
"Is he so terribly changed . . in one month?"
"Well, think what he's been through. Concussion and cholera have knocked
some of the vigour out of him; and he looks years older, for the time
being. But you mustn't let that upset you. It's not unusual after
cholera; and in a week he'll be looking more like himself again."
Then the truth dawned on her.
"Captain Desmond,--are you telling me all this because . . ?"
"Yes . . again, because . . . !" he answered, smiling.
"To-day?"
"As soon as you please."
She gave a little gasp; then shut her lips tightly.
"Do you mean . . have you actually told him?" she murmured with averted
eyes.
"Yes."
"And did he--is he----?"
"It's not for me to say." Desmond seemed equal to any amount of
incoherence this morning. "You'll find out for yourself in no time."
"Oh dear!"
"Is it as dreadful as all that?"
"In some ways,--yes. It takes my breath away."
"Try and get it back before you go in to him," he counselled her kindly.
"And keep some sort of hold on yourself--for his sake. Don't trouble him
about results, unless he broaches the subject. It we can keep clear of
the worry element, just getting hold of you again may do him a power of
good."
Then,--creature of moods and impulse that she was,--she turned on him
spontaneously, both hands outflung.
"_Mon Dieu_, what a friend you have been to us both! Thank you a
thousand times, for everything. I know you hate it. But if I kept it in
any longer, I should burst!"
"Just as well you let it out, then," Desmond answered, laughing, and
grasping the proffered hands. "I must be off now. Good luck to you,
Quita. You're worthy of him."
For some minutes after he had gone Quita stood very still, trying to get
her breath back, as he had suggested: a less simple affair than it
seemed, on the face of it. For although she had taken the plunge, in an
impulse of despair, a week ago, she had only grasped the outcome in all
its bearings during the past three days, throughout which she had been
acutely aware of Eldred's presence on the farther side of her barred and
bolted door. He had told her plainly that, until he felt quite sure of
himself, he dared not take her back. Yet now, by her own unconsidered
act, she was forcing upon him, at the least, a public recognition of
their marriage; an acknowledgment that might make further separation
difficult, if not impossible, for the present. All her pride and
independence of spirit revolted against this unvarnished statement of
fact; and the memory of Michael's random remark heightened her nervous
apprehension. Yet, on the other hand, Love--who is a born
peace-maker--argued that, after all, he might not be sorry to have his
hand forced by so clear a proof of all that she was ready to do and
suffer on his behalf. An argument strongly reinforced by her original
determination to overrule his scruples, and help him in the struggle that
loomed ahead.
In this fashion Love and Pride tossed decision to and fro, as they have
done in a hundred heart-histories; till common-sense stepped in with the
reminder that Eldred was waiting; and that by now retreat was out of the
question. The thought roused her to a more normal state of confidence
and courage. Putting away palette and brushes, she covered up her
canvas: and because, for all her artistry, she was very much a woman,
went straightway--not to her husband's door--but to her own mirror! The
vision that looked out at her was by no means discouraging: a demure
vision, in a simple, unconventional gown of green linen, with a Puritan
collar, and a wide white ribbon at the waist. A few superfluous touches
to her hair, and equally superfluous tweaks to the bow of her ribbon
belt, wrought some infinitesimal improvement in the picture, which no
mere man, hungering for the sight and sound of her, would be the least
likely to detect. Then half a dozen swift steps brought her to his door:
the one that communicated with the dining-room.
It opened on to a curtain, about which there still clung a faint
suggestion of carbolic.
"Eldred?" she said softly. And the voice she had last heard through the
hiss of rain, and the crash of broken branches, answered: "Come in."
She pushed aside the curtain, and stood so, paralysed by a nervousness
altogether new to her.
He lay on a Madeira lounge-chair, with pillows at his back. Every bone
in his face, every line scored by the graving-tools of conflict and pain,
showed cruelly distinct in the morning light. At sight of her, he tried
to speak; but the muscles of his throat rebelled: and he simply held out
his arms. Then, in one rush, she came to him: and as he laid hands on
her, drawing her down on to a spare corner of his chair, she leaned
forward and buried her face in the soft flannel of his coat.
Nothing but silence becomes the great moments of life; and for a long
while he held her thus, without power or desire of speech. All his man's
strength melted in him at the faint fragrance of her hair; at the
exquisite yielding of her figure, as she lay palpitating against him; at
the yet more exquisite assurance that the love he had gained was a thing
beyond estimation, a thing indestructible as the soul itself. For her
very surrender was quick with the vitality that was her crowning charm.
And she, feeling the tremor that ran through him as he kissed the
blue-veined hollow of her temple,--the only space available--exulted in
the belief that love had triumphed over bloodless scruples once and for
all.
"Quita," he whispered at length, "what possessed you to face that
nightmare of a journey alone?"
"You possessed me." She made no attempt to lift her head.
"But, my darling, you ought not to have come. You ought not to be here.
You know that."
"Yes. I know it. Are you . . angry, that I am here?"
"Angry? My God! It's new life to me. Your voice, just the music of it,
gets into my head like wine. Look up, lass. I love your hair, every
wisp and thread of it. But I am waiting for something more."
The appeal was irresistible; and she looked up, accordingly, setting her
hands lightly on his shoulders. The change wrought in him by illness and
mental struggle pierced her like a physical pang; and her eyes fell
before the yearning in his, the revelation of chained-up forces, and
emotions straining at the leash. Then, still keeping her lids closed,
she tilted her head backward, her lips just parted; and again, as on that
night of enchantment at Kajiar, they were swept beyond the boundaries of
space and time; beyond the stumbling-blocks, the pitiful limitations of
earth.
But limitations are as indispensable to life on our bewildering planet as
bread and meat. The wine of ecstasy can only be taken in small doses, at
a price.
Quita sat upright at last, on the spare corner of her husband's chair,
flushed, smiling, and not a little tremulous. Stumbling-blocks and
limitations loomed again on the horizon. But for the present she would
have none of them. Eldred was not angry. He wanted her--supremely:--how
supremely, his lips had just been telling her in language more primitive,
more forcible than speech.
And now he lay merely watching her, still retaining her hands, drinking
in the penetrating charm of her, as a parched traveller drinks at a
roadside spring.
"Well?" he asked presently. "After all that--what next? There's the
rub."
"Need we spoil these first heavenly moments together by looking for rocks
ahead, _mon cher_? Captain Desmond begged me to keep the 'worry element'
at arm's-length."
"Dear old Desmond! He's made of gold. But now that you are here, you've
got to be explained. And there's only one way to explain you--Mrs Lenox!"
Her face quivered.
"Eldred, I won't be explained . . that way, unless . . you really wish
it. Only Mrs Olliver and Major Wyndham know about me: and now I've seen
you, and feel sure there's no more danger, I can easily go back to
Dalhousie and stay there, till you . . till you're more ready for me."
"Can you though?" He pressed her hands. "And do you believe I am
capable of packing you off to-morrow?"
"I don't know. I think you'd prefer not to. But I believe you are
capable of doing anything, once you're convinced it's right."
"Dearest, indeed I'm not." He spoke with sudden vehemence. "If I were,
we might be clear of this unholy tangle by now. But since you've
honoured me by plunging into hell fire on my account, I can't let you go
again . . . yet."
The last word fell like a drop of cold water on the hope that glowed at
her heart. But she chose to ignore it.
"Well then?"
He raised one hand, and laid it lightly on her breast, feeling for hidden
treasure. Then his fingers closed on the two rings; and he smiled.
"Since you seem to have forgiven the ill-tempered chap who gave you
those, you might do worse than have 'em out, and wear them--by way of
explanation!"
Her own hand went up to them, instinctively, and closed over his.
"I'll take them out now, at once, if you'll promise to put the wedding
one on, yourself, with the proper words."
"What? Not the whole blessed service?"
At the note of dismay in his voice her laughter rang out, clear and
natural; a silver sound, that pierced him with its poignant sweetness.
"Darling idiot! Of course not. I only meant the 'ring' words for luck.
Though if I could have my own way, I'd like the whole thing over again,
to make it feel more real. All that seems to have happened to a not very
admirable girl I once knew, in another life."
"Does it indeed?" he asked, smiling upon her in great contentment. "I
rather admired that girl myself! But believe me, Quita, it's all real
enough to satisfy us both. 'There's no discharge in that war.' And you
don't get a human man to go through the ordeal of that service except
under severe stress of circumstance! If I couldn't recapture you any
other way, I'd do it . . with alacrity. Not unless."
"But who will do the explaining to the station at large?"
"Desmond and his wife will gladly do that much for us." He was about to
add that his chief friend knew already: but decided that it would be
hardly fair on Dick to 'give him away.'
"And where did it all happen?" she demanded, dimpling with enjoyment.
"In Dalhousie?"
"I imagine so."
"You mustn't imagine. We must have all the details clear, so as to lie
consistently!"
"Well then, to account for our abruptness, we'll decide that I lost my
heart to you at home, some time ago; and rediscovered you by chance in
Dalhousie."
She laughed again, from pure exuberance of happiness.
"That's capital! I'll explain it all to Mrs Desmond; and she shall do
the rest."
While they talked, she had succeeded in extricating her rings; and now
she dropped them into his open palm:--the gold band of Destiny, and the
hoop of sapphires and diamonds that he had chosen with such elaborate
care, and presented to her with such awkward, palpitating shyness nearly
six years ago.
"Put them on, please," she said softly, thrusting out her wedding finger.
"'For better for worse; for richer for poorer; in sickness and in health;
till death us do part.'"
On the last words she lifted her head. He caught the gleam of tears on
her lashes, and slipped the ring on to her finger; uttering the triple
asseveration with a suppressed fervour rarely to be heard at the altar
rails. Then the second hoop was added; and, still keeping possession of
the fettered hand, he sat silent a moment, looking down at his
achievement with an absurd sense of satisfaction. Quita was looking at
it also, wondering if he could hear the hammering of her heart.
"Now we are really married," she murmured as simply as a child.
"Weren't we before?" he asked, on a note of amusement.
"I suppose so. It didn't feel like it."
"And does it feel more like it now?"
"Not much, yet. But it will, in time."
"Yes. In _time_."
The pause, and the emphasis smote her. But again she ignored the cloud
no bigger than a man's hand; defying its power to veil her sunlight.
"The proper thing after a wedding is . . to kiss your wife," she remarked
demurely, without looking up.
"Is it? I don't remember doing so last time."
"You never did; and it's bad luck not to. That's why everything went
wrong! You were too shy; and . . your first wife didn't much like that
sort of thing."
"My second wife will have to put up with it, whether she likes it or
not!" he answered, drawing her towards him by dear and delicious degrees.
"We won't play fast and loose with our luck this time."
An abrupt knock at the door startled her out of his arms; and the curtain
was pushed aside by Desmond:--a strangely transfigured Desmond, with set
jaw, and desperate eyes.
"My dear man . ." Lenox began. But an intuition of catastrophe past the
show of speech made him break off short.
Then Desmond spoke, in a voice thick and unlike his own.
"Sorry to spoil things by interrupting you in this way. But one had to
tell you. It's Honor . . ."
He could get no further: but his eyes were terribly eloquent; and the
silence held them all as in a vice. The awakening woman in Quita gave
her courage to break it.
"May I go to her?" she pleaded. "And help her . . if one can?"
Though the plea was addressed to Desmond, she glanced first at Lenox, and
read approval in his eyes.
But Desmond shook his head.
"That's my business," he answered quietly. He had mastered his voice by
now. "I want you to take over charge here. It's a sharp attack. I
shan't leave her again, till . . . it's over."
And before either of them knew how to answer him, the curtain had fallen
heavily behind him.
Overwhelming tragedy, striking across their golden hour like a naked
sword, wrenched them out of themselves.
Without a word Quita knelt down beside her husband, bowing her forehead
on the back of his hand. Women of her temperament are little given to
the habit of prayer: and her rare communings with the Hidden Soul of
Things more often took the form of wordless aspiration, than of direct
petition or praise. But now her uplifted soul went out in a passionate
appeal to the Great Giver, and the great Taker Away, for the life of the
woman whom she had hated so heartily less than three months ago.
And Lenox lay looking straight before him, stroking her hair soothingly
from time to time.
"Desmond is a strong man, a very strong man," he said, as if speaking to
himself. "But there's a flaw in his armour just above the heart; and I
believe that if any real harm comes to that wife of his, he'll go to
pieces, like a wheel with the centre knocked out."