"What Love may do, that dares Love attempt."
--Shakspere.
It was evening at last: a sullen, breathless evening, heavy with
threatening cloud.
Since morning Honor Desmond had been fighting for life, against
appalling odds; while the man, whose love for her almost amounted to a
religion, did all that human skill could devise, which was pitifully
little after all, to ease the torturing thirst and pain, to uphold the
vitality that ebbed visibly with the ebbing day. But the very vigour
of her constitution went against her; for cholera takes strong bold
upon the strong. And Desmond never left her for an instant. He seemed
to have passed beyond the zone of hunger, thirst, or weariness, to have
reached that exalted pitch of suffering where the soul transcends the
body's imperious demands, asserts itself, momentarily, for the absolute
unconquerable thing it is.
Frank Olliver, in defiance of a July sun, flitted restlessly in and out
of the bungalow; and since Desmond would admit no one but the doctor to
his wife's room, she found some measure of comfort in futile attempts
to lighten Paul Wyndham's anxiety, and distract his thoughts; while the
newly joined husband and wife, so strangely isolated in their moment of
reunion, waited and hoped through the interminable hours, and snatched
fugitive gleams of contentment from the fact that now, at least, they
could suffer together.
James Mackay, the regimental doctor, a crustacean type of Scot, came
and went as frequently as his manifold duties would permit. On each
occasion he was waylaid in the dining-room by Paul Wyndham, his face
haggard with suffering; and on each occasion the little man's decisive
headshake struck a fresh blow at the hope that took 'such an
unconscionable time a-dying.' Finally he spoke his conviction
outright. It was late afternoon, and Honor's strength and courage,
though still flickering fitfully, were almost spent.
"I'm doubting if we can do much more for her now," he said, when the
door of her room had been quietly closed behind him. "It'll be no less
than a miracle if she lasts through the night."
"Have you told him that?" Wyndham asked in a voice of stunned quietness.
"Man alive, no! 'Twould be no mortal use. _He_ won't give up hope
till the last nail's in her coffin." Paul winced visibly, and by way
of atonement for his bluntness, the other made haste to add: "If
there's the remotest chance of pulling her through, Desmond 'll do it.
You may swear to that. The man's just one concentrated, incarnate
purpose."
Wyndham set his lips, and turned away: and the Scotchman stood eyeing
him keenly.
"What sort of a tiffin did you have?" he asked with rough kindliness.
"Oh, I don't know. Nothing much."
"I thought so. Eat a good dinner, man. Starvation's no use to any
one, and I don't want to have you back on my hands."
With that he departed, and Wyndham had just decided on filling another
pipe, since some pretence at occupation was imperative, when Meredith
entered unannounced.
A glance at his face showed Paul that he knew, and believed the worst;
and for a moment they confronted one another in mute dismay. The
Englishman's inability to put his heart into words has its pathetic
aspect at times. These two men were linked by years of mutual work,
and immediate mutual pain: yet Wyndham merely laid down his pipe and
asked; "Have you seen Mackay?"
"Yes. Met him on my way here. I'm going in to her at once."
And Paul, picking up the discarded pipe, looked after him with envy and
hunger in his eyes.
Meredith knocked at the bedroom door.
"Who's there?" Desmond's voice came sharp as a challenge.
"John."
"Come in, then."
And he went in.
The room was large, lofty, and very simply furnished. With the
leisurely swaying of the punkah, light and shadow flitted across the
wide, low bed, on one side of which Honor lay, warmly covered with
blankets, her breath coming in laboured gasps. Desmond knelt by her;
and, on Meredith's entrance, set down the feeding-cup, but because her
hand was on his coat-sleeve, he did not change his position, or rise
from his knees. She held out the other to Meredith, But it fell
limply before he could reach her.
"John . . dear," she greeted him in a husky whisper. "I'm so glad.
Sit near me . . here."
He obeyed, seating himself on the unoccupied part of the bed; and
taking up her hand, cherished it between both his own. It was cold and
clammy, the finger-tips wrinkled like a washerwoman's, and at sight of
her face his self-control deserted him, so that he dared not risk
speech. For cholera does its work swiftly and efficaciously, and in
eight hours Honor Desmond's beauty had been ruthlessly wiped out. In
the grey, pinched features and sunken eyes--already dimmed by a
creeping film that blurred the two faces she so loved--it was hard to
trace any likeness to the radiant woman of twenty-four hours ago. Only
the burnished bronze of her hair, encircling her head in a large loose
plait, remained untouched by the finger of death.
When Meredith could command his voice, he spoke quietly and cheerfully
of the day's work, and of the certainty that she would pull through.
Then the hand in his stirred uneasily.
"What is it, dear?" he asked.
"John, I want you to remember,"--the voice was still husky, and she
spoke with difficulty--"whatever happens, . . and tell father,
please . . it wasn't Theo's fault. It was mine."
The hand on her husband's coat-sleeve felt its way up uncertainly, till
it rested in a lingering caress on the dark bowed head. For Desmond,
leaning on his elbow, had covered his eyes with one hand.
Meredith frowned.
"Dearest girl, it was no one's fault. Besides, you are going to get
well. But talking is a strain on you now, I'll look in later."
He stooped and kissed her forehead.
"Good-bye," she whispered.
"No, not good-bye," he contradicted her steadily. "I shall see you
again after mess."
She sighed, and her lids fell. The terrible apathy of cholera was
crushing the soldier spirit out of her by inches.
"God! I don't believe she heard me," he murmured in sudden despair.
At that Desmond uncovered his eyes. "She heard you, right enough," he
said quietly, "Trust me not to let her go."
And Meredith went reluctantly out, leaving man and wife alone with the
Shadowy Third; the only third that could ever come between them.
Honor's hand slipped down from his head to his shoulder, and she opened
her eyes; the soul in them struggling to pierce the mists that deepened
every minute.
"Darling," she breathed. "Come closer . . much closer. I wish . . I
wish you didn't seem all blurred."
He bent nearer, looking steadfastly into her altered face.
"That better, dear?" he asked, controlling his voice with an effort.
"Yes. A little. Whatever John may say, it was my fault," she
persisted, for in spite of pain and prostration, the mists had not
clouded her brain. "It was selfish of me to insist. See . . what I've
made you suffer. But you don't . . blame me, do you, . . in your
heart?"
"Blame you, . . my best beloved? How can you ask it? I . . I worship
you," he added very low.
The extravagant word, reviving dear and imperishable memories, called
up a quivering smile, more heart-piercing than a cry: and Desmond,
putting a great restraint upon himself, enfolded her with one arm, and
kissed her softly, lingeringly, as one might kiss a child.
"My very Theo," she murmured, her voice breaking with love. "It has
been so perfect . . I suppose that's why . . Not three years yet;
and . . I can't bear . . to leave you behind, even for a little."
"You'll not do that, Honor," his voice had the level note of decision.
"If _you_ go, . . . I go too."
"No, no. You must wait . . for your boy."
Desmond set his teeth, and answered nothing. In the stress of anguish
he had forgotten his child.
Suddenly a convulsive shuddering ran through her, and her breath came
short and quick.
"Theo, . . what's happening?" she panted. "Where are you? Hold me.
Everything's . . slipping away."
It cut him to the heart to unclasp the fingers that clung to him;
though he was back again in a moment, holding weak brandy and water to
her lips.
"Drink it, Honor. For God's sake, drink it!" he commanded, a ring of
fear in his voice. For in that moment, a change, terrible and
significant, had come over her. His appeal produced no response, no
movement of lips or eyelids. Her face seemed to shrink and sharpen,
and change colour before his eyes. Her breath was cold as the air from
a cave.
He set down the wine-glass, and in the first shock and horror of it all
stood like a man turned to stone. Then common-sense pricked him back
to life, and to the necessity for immediate action. After so sharp an
attack, collapse would probably be severe and prolonged. He laid his
fingers on her pulse. It was rapid, and barely perceptible, but the
still small flutter of life was there.
He opened the verandah door, where Amar Singh and a very aggrieved
Aberdeen terrier had sat since morning, and issued a swift order for
hot water, mustard, warm turpentine; a grim repetition of the battle he
had fought out a week ago. But now he fought single-handed, while Amar
Singh and a small tremulous ayah, crouching beside a charcoal brazier
in the verandah, kept up a steady supply of his primitive needs.
Thus James Mackay found him on his return; still doggedly applying
friction and restoratives without having made an inch of progress for
his pains. Darkness had fallen by now, and the one lamp, set well away
from the bed, made a pallid oasis in its own vicinity. Desmond had
flung aside his coat, and his thin shirt clung in patches to his damp
body. His face was set in rigid lines; and the little doctor, who
carried a heart of flesh under a porcupine exterior, was haunted for
days by the despair in his eyes.
"How long have you been at it, man?" he asked without preamble.
"A lifetime, I should say. Possibly an hour."
"No change at all?"
"Not the slightest. But I know . . she's alive."
Mackay scrutinised the awful stillness on the bed.
"We must try hypodermic injection," he said gently. "And in the
meantime . . ." he went over to a table strewn with sick-room
paraphernalia, and poured out half a pint of champagne, "you'll please
drink that."
And as Desmond obeyed automatically, his hand shook so that the edge of
the tumbler rattled against his teeth. The body was beginning to
assert itself at last. But the stinging liquid revived him; and in a
silence, broken only by an abrupt direction or request from the
Scotchman, the last available resources were tried again and yet again,
without result. Finally Mackay looked up, and Desmond read the verdict
in his eyes.
"My dear man, it's no use," he said simply. "She's beyond our reach
now."
Desmond's lips whitened: but he braced his shoulders. "She's not. I
don't believe it," he answered, on a toneless note of decision. And
the other knew that only the slow torture of the night-watches could
brand the truth into his brain.
With a gesture of weariness, infinitely pathetic, he turned back to the
bed, and bending down, mechanically rearranged the sheet, and smoothed
a crease or two out of the pillow. The bowed back and shoulders,
despite their suppleness and strength, had in them a pathos too deep
for tears: and Mackay, feeling himself dismissed, went noiselessly out.
For a long moment Desmond's unnatural stoicism held firm. Then, deep
down in him, something seemed to snap. With a dry, choking sob, he
flung himself on his knees beside the bed, and the waters came in even
unto his soul.
It seemed a thing incredible that one hour could hold such a store of
anguish. The half of his personality, the hidden life of heart and
spirit, seemed dead already: and in that first shuddering sense of
loneliness, time was not.
A familiar choking sensation recalled him to outward things. The
punkah coolie had fallen asleep; and in a fever of irritation he sprang
to his feet. Then the thought pierced him: "What on earth does it
matter . . now?"
But the trivial prick of discomfort had, in some inexplicable fashion,
readjusted the balance of things; reawakened the conviction that had so
strangely upheld him throughout the day; and with it the spirit of 'no
surrender,' which was the very essence of the man. All the tales he
had heard of cholera patients literally dragged from the brink of the
grave by devoted nursing crowded in upon him, like reinforcements
backing up a forlorn hope, and once again he bent over his wife,
caressing the crisp upward sweep of her hair.
"Honor, you _shall_ live. By God, you shall!" he whispered low in her
ear, as though her spirit could hear and take comfort from the
assurance.
A downward jerk of the punkah rope set the great frill flapping with
ostentatious vigour; and he himself set to work again no less
vigorously; fighting death hand to hand with every weapon at command.
He clung to his renewed hope with a desperation that was terrible;
realising more acutely than before that to let go of her was to fall
into nameless spaces void of companionship and love. Once or twice the
flicker of the punkah frill created an illusion of movement in the
face, and his heart leapt into his throat, only to sink to the depths
again when he discovered his mistake. But nothing now could turn him
from his purpose; or quench that indomitable determination to succeed
which is one of the strongest levers of the world.
And at long-last, when persistence had begun to seem mere folly, came
the first faint shadow of change. Slowly, very slowly, her face
appeared to be losing the bluish tinge of cholera. Fearful lest
imagination should be cheating him, he fetched the lamp, and held it
over her. Unquestionably the colour had improved.
The loose chimney rattled as he set down the lamp; and he spilled half
the brandy he tried to pour into a spoon. Then, steadying himself by a
supreme effort, he managed to pour a little of it between her lips,
watching with suspended breath for the least sign of moisture at the
corners. A drop or two trickled uselessly out, but the muscles of her
throat stirred slightly, and the rest was retained.
Then for a moment Desmond let himself go. With a low cry he leaned
down, and slipping both arms under her, pressed his lips upon her cold
ones, long and passionately, as though he would impart to her the very
power of his spirit, the living warmth of his body and heart. And at
length, he was aware of a faint unmistakable attempt to return his
pressure. He could have shouted for sheer triumph. It was as if he
had created her anew. But love, having achieved its perfect work, must
be kept under subjection till the accepted moment.
A little more brandy, a little more chafing of hands and limbs, and the
miracle was complete. By degrees, as imperceptible as the coming of
dawn, life stole back in response to his touch. She stirred, drew a
deep breath, and opened her eyes.
"Theo, . . is it you? Have I . . got you . . still?"
It was her own voice, clear and low, no longer the husky whisper of
cholera. The caress in it penetrated like pain; and tears, sharp as
knives, forced their way between his lids.
"Yes, my darling; . . . and I've got _you_ still," he answered, his
tenderness hovering over her like a flutter of wings.
"But what happened? I thought . . ."
"Don't tire your dear head with thinking. By God's mercy, I dragged
you back from the utmost edge of things; and you've come to stay.
That's enough for me."
Ten minutes later she was sleeping, lightly and naturally, her head
nestling in the crook of his elbow, one hand clinging to a morsel of
his shirt; while he leaned above her, half-sitting, half-lying on the
extreme edge of the bed, not daring to shift his strained position by
so much as a hair's-breadth; till overwhelming weariness had its way
with him, and he slept also, his head fallen back against the wall.
When at last he awoke, a pale shaft of light was feeling its way across
the room from the long glass door that gave upon the verandah. Outside
in the garden the crows and squirrels were awake, and talkative. The
well-wheel had begun its plaintive music, punctuated with the plash of
falling water, and the new day, in a sheet of flame, rolled up
unconcernedly from the other side of the world.
Honor had turned over in her sleep, leaving him free to rise, and
stretch himself exhaustedly; and as he stood looking down upon the
night's achievement, upon the rhythmical rise and fall of his wife's
breast beneath its light covering, new fires were kindled in the man's
deep heart; new intimations of the height and depth, and power of that
'grand impulsion,' which men call Love; and with these, a new humility
that forced him down upon his knees in a wordless ecstasy of
thanksgiving.