"They are one and one, with a shadowy third;
One near one is too far."
--Browning.
Quita was troubled.
A full week had elapsed since that day so strangely compounded of
rapture and dread; of matter-of-fact service, and shy, tender
intimacies that had seemed to set a seal on the completeness of their
reunion. Yet, in the days that followed, she had been increasingly
aware of a nameless something, an indefinable constraint between them,
which instinct told her would not have been there if conscience had
surrendered all along the line.
It was not his mere avoidance, after the first, of caresses congenial
to the opening phase of marriage that disconcerted her. Such emotional
reticence squared with her idea of the man. She would not have had him
otherwise. They were sure of one another; and in both natures passion
was proud and fastidious. It could thrive without much lip-service.
The undefined aloofness that troubled Quita was spiritual, rather than
physical. She was conscious of walls within walls, separating her from
his essential self; and behind these again of an unobtrusive reserve
force, whose power of endurance she could not estimate; because her
dealings with Michael's shallower nature had afforded her no experience
of a moral stability free from the warp of the personal equation. It
was as if some intangible part of him, over which she could establish
no hold, stood persistently afar off,--tormented, but immovable.
She could not know that the form of opium administered during his
illness had revived and strengthened temptation when he himself was
physically unfit to cope with it; that by her impulsive return to him,
at a critical moment, she was forcing him open-eyed toward a
catastrophe more lasting, more terrible for them both, than the initial
harm done by her rejection of him five years ago. Reserve and
self-disgust made speech on the subject seem a thing impossible; while
his mere man's chivalry shrank from allowing her to guess that by an
act of seeming reparation, she had run grave risk of putting real
reparation out of her power. Once only did the love that consumed him
break through the restraint he put upon himself in sheer self-defence.
It was the first day he had been allowed up at a normal hour; and
coming into the dining-room, he had found her alone at her easel, near
one of the long glass doors. At the sound of his step she turned her
canvas round swiftly, and came to him with a glad lift of her head. He
took her hands in his big grasp, and kissed her forehead.
"Good morning, lass," he said. "You never told me you had brought that
with you. Couldn't be divorced from it, eh? What's the great work
now? May I see?"
"But yes, naturally. I've been keeping it as a surprise for you. I
don't believe I should ever have got through this last fortnight
without it. _Voila_!"
She set it facing him, and standing so with her eyes on the picture,
waited eagerly for his word of praise. But as the seconds passed, and
it did not come, she turned, to find him looking at her, not at the
picture; his teeth tormenting his lower lip; a suspicious film dimming
the clear blue of his eyes. Emboldened by this last incredible
phenomenon, she came and stood close to him, yet without touching him.
"Darling, you do like it, don't you? I can't complete it till you give
me a few sittings; but then--it will be my masterpiece. I shall never
show it, at home, though. It's too much a part of myself . . . my very
inmost self."
And he could not withhold the demonstration that such a confession
provoked.
"Oh, my dear," he said at last, without releasing her. "You made too
little of me once; and now you're making too much. I'm not worth it
all."
She put a hand on his lips.
"Be quiet! I won't hear you when you talk so. Look properly at my
picture now. You haven't told me it's good."
"Of course it's good. Amazingly good. But . . ." he laughed, a short
contented laugh--"it's beyond me how you could be misguided enough to
waste your remarkable talent in perpetuating anything so ugly!"
Her smile hinted at superior knowledge; yet she paid his obvious
sincerity the compliment of not contradicting his final statement.
"In the first place, because I love it. And in the second place,
because, for all true artists, who see in form and colour just a soul's
attempts at self-expression, there is more essential beauty in certain
kinds . . . of ugliness, than in the most faultless symmetry of lines
and curves. One is almost tempted to say that there is no such thing
as actual ugliness; that it is all a matter of understanding, of seeing
deep enough. For instance, I find that essential beauty I spoke of in
Mrs Olliver's face."
"Ah . . . so do I; of a rare quality."
"Well then, dear stupid, allow me to find it in yours also!"
"One to you," he admitted, smiling. "But now . . . I am in your hands
till tiffin. What are you going to do with me? Read? Sing? The
drawing-room's empty; and I haven't heard you since Kajiar."
"Do you want the Swinburne again?"
"No; by no means."
"Why not? Don't you like the song?"
"I like it far too well; and I'm not strong enough yet to stand a
brutal assault upon my feelings! Come along, and give me something
wholesome and simple. A convalescent needs milk diet mentally as well
as physically, you know!"
This was on one of his best days. But there were others,--following
upon nights of sleeplessness, and pain, and heart-searching
unspeakable, only to be alleviated by the one unfailing remedy,--when
the strain of repression demanded by her constant presence so wrought
upon his nerves that he would get up and leave her abruptly without
excuse; or shut himself into his room on the empty pretext of revising
manuscript. As a matter of fact, he spent most of the time girding at
the deliberate waste of good hours; till the consciousness of slipping
deeper into the mire and the dread of ultimate defeat became almost an
obsession, aggravated by ill-health and want of rest.
Quita, who remembered well his inexhaustible capacity for keeping
still, was distressed and puzzled by these moods of restlessness
verging on irritability, whose true significance she could not guess
at; though she was woman enough to know that a position merely
unsatisfactory for her, must be an actual strain on him. And as his
strength returned, she could only hope from day to day for some
allusion to the possibility of moving into their own bungalow; since it
was clear that they could not remain with the Desmonds for ever! Pride
and delicacy alike withheld her from the lightest mention of the
subject. It seemed to her that she had transgressed sufficiently in
both respects already. Yet, as the days accumulated to a week, and
still he said no word, she grew definitely anxious to know what was
going to happen next.
But, with all its drawbacks and difficulties, this week of intimate
everyday companionship had been one of the best weeks in her life. It
had served, above all things, to establish her conviction that the
husband she had chosen, by a lightning instinct of the brain rather
than the heart, was in all respects a man among men. He appealed to
the artist in her by a natural dignity and distinction of person and
character, by a suggestion of volcanic forces warring with the ascetic
strain in him yet steadfastly controlled; and above all, by a superb
simplicity and unconsciousness of self, that draws introspective
temperaments as infallibly as the moon draws the sea.
And apart from her joy in him, she was keenly alive to her
surroundings; to the practical work going on about her; to the
stimulating contact with a new type, a new atmosphere. At first she
saw little of outsiders, or indeed of any one besides her husband.
John Meredith came over every day; Wyndham, though still living in the
house, had gone back to duty; while Desmond--after one day of complete
collapse, when Frank revenged herself on him by monopolising Honor--had
taken up his work again with heightened zest, and devoted every spare
hour to his wife. But the four met at meals, and in the evening, when
Quita kept all three men alert and amused by her intelligent
questionings, her frank interest in every detail of her new profession,
as it pleased her to call it.
Before the week was out her pocket note-book contained a small
portrait-gallery of studies in pencil and water-colour. She sketched
Desmond's old Sikh Ressaldar, with his finely carved features, deep
eyes, and vast lop-sided blue and gold turban; and Desmond himself in
the white uniform and long boots, which so greatly pleased her,
occupied several pages.
Mounted on Shaitan's successor, she rode down with him twice to early
parade; and sat entranced through the whole proceeding; watching the
long lines of men and horses sweeping across the open plain, wheeling,
retiring, advancing, changing formation with exquisite and
instantaneous precision, in response to Meredith's brisk words of
command; while massed lance-heads and steel shoulder-chains flashed and
winked in the level light.
It was her first experience of meeting soldiers in the mass, on their
own ground, and the man who has faced death and dealt it out to others
appeals irresistibly to the fundamental barbaric in women. To this
fascination, Quita added the artist's reverence for the men who 'do
things,' as opposed to the men who record or express them.
She enlarged on the subject at breakfast one morning, in her usual
direct fashion; but Desmond would have none of it.
"Remember, Quita," said he, "that an artist, in the inclusive sense,
when he is worth anything, stands for the strongest thing in the world
. . . an idea."
Her face brightened with interest.
"That's true. But unhappily great art doesn't necessarily imply great
character, and great action does. That's why the world's heroes have
nearly always been men of action; and always will be."
"Ah, now you've given yourself away neatly!" Desmond cried, like a
great schoolboy. "Where would your heroes be a hundred years after
their death, but for the men who immortalise them on canvas, and in
print? Would the effect of their noble living be one-half as
far-reaching, if it remained unrecorded? It's no case for comparison,
any more than the eternal man and woman question. They are diverse;
and the world has equal need of both. So there's consolation for us
all!"
"Well played, Desmond!" Lenox remarked, smiling and nodding across the
table at his wife.
"I surrender at discretion," she admitted sweetly. "But still, being
an artist, I take off my hat to men of action, and always shall."
"Good luck for the men of action!" Desmond retorted, with an amused
glance at Lenox, as they rose from the table.
By now cholera and fever were dying out slowly, like spent fires. The
Infantry had come in from camp; and the Battery was expected back
shortly, only two fresh cases having occurred. Then, as Honor began to
mend, people dropped in again at tea-time, eager for news of her; and
Quita discovered how widely and deeply she was beloved. Little Mrs
Peters disappeared behind a very crumpled handkerchief while trying to
express her feelings; and the Chicken blew his nose vigorously when
Quita announced that Honor would soon be allowed into the drawing-room
for tea.
She was getting used to her new name now. Officers of all ranks came
to call on her as a 'bride'; an embarrassing attention which she would
gladly have dispensed with in the circumstances, since Eldred basely
deserted her on each occasion; and she was introduced to Norton, who
inspected her critically and flagrantly, as a possible stumbling-block
to a promising career. Altogether, she was beginning to see India in a
new perspective. Hitherto, in her aimless wanderings with Michael, she
had merely looked on at its vast and varied panorama of life; had
studied it with the detached interest of the outsider. Now she felt
herself absorbed into the brotherhood of those who worked and suffered
for the great country of her husband's service; who were as flies on
the wheels of its complex mechanism; and who heartily loved or hated
it, as the case might be.
At last, after a week of devoted nursing, Honor was allowed to make her
first appearance in the drawing-room; and Desmond invited a 'select
few' to tea for the occasion. Wyndham stood alone on the hearth-rug
when she entered, her husband supporting her with his arm. She was
visibly thinner; and her face was almost as colourless as the sweeping
folds of her tea-gown. Otherwise her beauty had reasserted itself
triumphantly; and Wyndham caught his breath as he came towards her.
She gave him both her hands; and he held them closely for a long
moment. Then, obeying a rare and imperative impulse, he bent down and
touched them with his lips. A faint colour tinged Honor's cheeks.
"Dear Paul," she said under her breath: and Desmond, leading her to the
sofa, established her in a nest of cushions, with a light covering for
her feet, just as Quita and Lenox came in, closely followed by Max
Richardson in uniform.
He had come in from camp not an hour ago; and had ridden over without
changing, in his zeal to shake hands with Lenox and his wife. The
former had endured his congratulations and delight at the news with the
best grace he could muster; and had avoided a word with him alone. Now
he drew up a chair and sat down by Honor: while Quita, pricked to a
passing jealousy by his instant gravitation to her, moved off with Max
Richardson, talking and laughing as if she had known him for years. It
was not her habit to waste time in preliminaries.
"They'll get on splendidly, those two," Honor said, smiling as she
watched them.
"I'll be glad if they do," Lenox answered without enthusiasm; and her
eyes scanned his face.
"You aren't getting on splendidly, though. You look worn to a shadow.
I'm afraid it's been difficult."
"Hideously difficult."
"And you ought both to be so happy, now of all times . . ."
"Yes. That's the exquisitely refined torment of it."
"You haven't been sleeping?"
"No . . . nothing to speak of. But don't give yourself a headache on
my account, dear lady. Desmond would never forgive me! I'm a tough
customer. I shall pull through somehow."
"If you could only bring yourself to talk it over with Theo," she urged
in a lower tone, as he came towards them with Mrs Peters, who flung
shyness to the winds, and fairly took Honor's breath away by kissing
her on both cheeks.
Desmond's 'select few' amounted to less than a dozen. Honor's sofa was
the centre of attraction; and her sympathetic spirit thrilled in
response to the friendliness that glowed, like a jewel, at the heart of
everyday talk and laughter. For the past fortnight of pain and stress
seemed to have drawn them all indefinably closer to one another: which
is the true mission of pain and stress in this very human world.
Later in the evening there were light sports on the Cavalry
parade-ground, which Meredith, Desmond, and Olliver were bound to
attend; Wyndham and half a dozen others remaining behind.
Courtenay, on his way to the door, remarked to Lenox that a short
outing would do him no harm; and Quita, who chanced to be standing at
his elbow, pressed lightly against him.
"Drive me down, dear," she said softly. "I should love it." And since
he had avoided her for the greater part of the morning, he could not
well refuse.
"I like your 'Dick,' Eldred," she informed him, as they bowled along
the wide straight road. "He is _bon garcon_, through and through. Not
brilliant, perhaps: but quick, appreciative, and he can talk."
"Yes: Dick's a real good sort. Glad you approve of him. And as for
talking . . . _you_ could draw conversation out of a stone wall!"
"I don't always succeed with the one I am leaning against just now!"
"Well, I'll swear it's not your fault if you fail," he answered,
smiling down upon her with such unfathomable sadness in his eyes, that
she cried out involuntarily, between vexation and despair--
"Oh, _mon Dieu_, is it always going to be like this between us? Is
there nothing I can do to make you happy again?"
"Nothing just at present, worse luck," he said grimly, looking straight
ahead: for in the face of such an appeal he could hardly confess his
desperate need to be left alone. "It's a question of time, as I told
you, and my own strength of will. But if the situation becomes too
intolerable for you, there is always the last resort of overstepping
the limit, and setting you free for good."
Quita could not know how cruelly ill he had slept since her coming, nor
how little a man tortured by insomnia can be held responsible for his
utterances; and the significance of his last words so startled her that
she clutched his arm.
"Eldred . . . Eldred, promise me you'll never even think of such a
thing . . . never!"
He winced under her touch. "Quita, remember where we are," he said
sharply; and she dropped her hand.
"But all the same, promise me . . what I asked; or I shall never have
an easy moment."
"It might come to seem the kindest thing one could do for you," he
persisted, still without looking at her. But fear gave her courage to
strike deep while the chance of speech was hers.
"It would never be anything less than an act of cruelty and cowardice.
Remember that. I am ready to put up with everything . . . everything
rather than lose you, now."
"If that's the truth, lass," he said with sudden gentleness, "you may
set your mind at rest. I promise."
"Thank you, _mon cher_."
Then they fell silent till the parade-ground came in sight.
This, their first appearance together in public, was something of an
ordeal to both; and at the last minute Quita's courage evaporated.
"Eldred . . . stop, please," she said suddenly. "I'm shy of them all;
and I don't want to talk to them just now."
"Thank the Lord for that!" he answered so fervently, that they both
laughed aloud; and there is nothing like laughter for clearing the air.
"Take me for a drive," she suggested. "Show me your bungalow . . . our
bungalow, will you?"
He hesitated. It seemed he was only to exchange one ordeal for
another. "It's a ramshackle, comfortless place, Quita," he objected.
"Wouldn't it be better to wait till . . till I can have it decently
fitted up for you? Or you might like to pick another one."
"But no. I want that one; and I want to see it first just as you lived
in it, please."
"Very well. If you wish it."
An officious chowkidar opened doors for them with a great clatter of
bolts, and an elaborate air of being very much on the spot; and they
stepped straight from the verandah into the one room Lenox had
furnished besides the bedroom. It looked desolate, and smelt
uninhabited; but Quita inspected the horns, the rugs, the sketches,
even the handful of books left on the writing-table, with eager
interest; and Eldred, stationed on the hearth-rug, answered her running
fire of questions a little vaguely, because he was listening more
intently to her voice than to what it said!
Suddenly his thoughts were checked by a vivid sense of having lived
through this identical scene before; of standing near a fireplace
watching her light-hearted explorations. But where? When? Then, like
a dash of cold water, came enlightenment. It was at the Kiffel Alp
Hotel, on the day of their wedding; and the bitterness of the lost
years between, with their final heritage of evil, flowed over him like
the sluggish waters of a dead sea.
Quita was hesitating on the threshold of the bedroom now; and an insane
conviction came upon him that if she went in there he would lose her
again, as on that earlier day. It was all sheer brain-sickness, and
lack of sleep, but at the moment it was horribly real.
"May one look at the other rooms too?" she asked. "I want to see which
would do best for my studio!"
"Look into every hole and corner, if it amuses you, dearest," he
answered; but made no attempt to accompany her.
When at last she reappeared, the nightmare feeling took him afresh. He
felt certain she would come straight up to him, and lay hold of the
lapels of his coat. And this she actually did; lifting a glowing face
to his.
"Eldred," she began, exactly as before . . . and it was more than he
could stand. The oppression of her nearness set the blood rushing in
his ears; and taking her hands from their resting-place he put her from
him, almost an arm's-length, as though the better to look into her eyes.
"Well?" he asked, with an attempt at lightness that rang false. "Is
your Highness quite satisfied with it all?"
But she was not to be deceived. Her cheeks flamed; and she almost
snatched away her hands.
"Yes. I am quite satisfied," she said, in a changed voice. "And I
think it's high time we went back."
Then she left him, a shade too rapidly for dignity, and sprang into the
cart, before he could get near enough to help her up.
"Quita . . . why did you do that? What's wrong?" he asked, lamely
enough as he gathered up the reins.
"Need you add insult to injury by asking that?" she flashed out, angry
tears pricking her eyeballs. "I'm wrong. You're wrong. Everything's
wrong. I ought never to have come here . . . before I was wanted."
He made no comment on that. It was not a question to be discussed in
the open road, with a _sais_ jogging on the tail-board behind; and no
more was said till they reached home.
Then, as Eldred pressed the reins under the clip, he said in a quiet
tone of command: "Stay where you are, please, till I can get round."
And for all the rebellion in her blood, she obeyed.
He lifted her out bodily, and drew her into the hall. It was empty and
almost dark: and before she guessed his intent, his lips had touched
hers lightly, with a quick sigh that told of passion held in check.
But she broke away from him, unappeased, and shut herself into her room.
She was relieved to find that a sprinkling of the tea party--the
Ollivers, Norton, and Richardson--had stayed to dinner. Olliver was
her partner; and evinced his appreciation of the fact by chaffing her
laboriously throughout the meal; the one form of conversation she
frankly detested.
But Richardson sat on her right, and, in Olliver's phraseology, "made
the running with her all the time." For good, single-hearted Max
frankly admired her. His conscience pricked him more acutely than it
had yet done at thought of his own responsibility for the wasted years;
and he longed for a chance to say as much to his friend. But Lenox was
not in a mood to talk about his wife; and Richardson got no word in
private with him throughout the evening.
Frank Olliver left early; and as Desmond half-lifted his wife from the
sofa, Quita came up and said good-night also. She had been watching
these two with reawakened interest throughout the afternoon and
evening, and wondering whether she and Eldred could ever arrive at such
perfect community of heart and mind.
In passing her husband, she laid butterfly finger-tips upon his
coat-sleeve. "Good-night, _mon ami_," she said, just framing the words
with her lips: and before he could get a square look at her, she was
gone.
When the three men were left alone, Wyndham drank his 'peg' standing,
and departed; but Desmond took Lenox by the arm.
"Come into the dufta[1] for half an hour," he said. "I've hardly
spoken to you since Monday; and I think we have a thing or two to talk
over."
Lenox submitted with a smile of resigned amusement, and the study door
closed behind them.
[1] Study.