THE DEVIL'S PECULIARITY?
"This is the devil's peculiarity,
he attacks us through our softest places."
--SUDERMANN.
After the departure of the troops, life settled down gradually into
its normal groove.
Frank Olliver had moved into the blue bungalow, at Desmond's request,
an arrangement more satisfying to Honor than to his wife; and the
Pioneer Regiment from Pindi had added a couple of ladies to the
station. These were made welcome with the prompt friendliness which is
India's distinctive charm; and the bachelors, in due course, made the
circuit of Kohat's handful of bungalows. The station was a few degrees
less cheerful, owing to the absence of its own particular men; but in
India spirits must be kept up at all costs, if only as an antidote to
the moral microbes of the land; and the usual small sociabilities
flourished accordingly.
Evelyn took part in these at first with a chastened air. Not that she
assumed what she did not feel; but that her grief, when it reached a
less acute stage, gave her a soothing sense of importance; a kind of
dismal distinction, such as a child feels in the possession of a badly
cut finger or a loose tooth. The wind bloweth where it listeth; and
such thistledown natures are entirely at its mercy. They cannot take
deep root, even where they would. For them the near triumphs over the
far. Like Esau, they will sell their birthright cheerfully for a mess
of pottage; and they are the raw material of half the tragedies in the
world.
Thus, with the passing of uneventful days, Evelyn began to find it
rather uninteresting to be quietly and comfortably unhappy; and the
aspect of subdued plaintiveness which she half consciously adopted
was, in truth, singularly becoming. She was one of those favoured
women who have the good fortune to do most things becomingly. Her very
tears became her, as dewdrops do a rose.
Frank commented on the fact to Honor, in characteristic fashion.
"Sure, 'tis a thousand pities we can't all of us look so pretty when
we put on a melancholy face! It makes me look such a scarecrow meself,
that I'm bound to keep on smiling, out o' sheer vanity, even if me
heart's in two!"
"That's one way of putting it," Honor answered, with a very soft light
in her eyes. She had begun to understand lately that this brave woman
was by no means so inured to the hardship and danger of the men she
loved as she would fain have them and the world believe: and the two
drew very near to one another in these weeks of eager looking for news
from the hills.
It is not to be supposed that Kresney failed to observe the gradual
change in Evelyn's bearing. The man displayed remarkable tact and
skill in detecting the psychological moment for advance. He contented
himself at first with conversations in the Club Gardens and an air of
deferential sympathy, which was in itself a subtle form of flattery.
But on a certain afternoon of regimental sports, when Evelyn appeared,
radiant and smiling, in one of her most irresistible Simla frocks,
with an obviously appreciative Pioneer subaltern in attendance,
Kresney perceived that the time to assert himself had arrived.
After a short but decisive engagement, he routed that indignant
subaltern; and with a quiet assurance which by no means displeased
her, took and kept possession of Mrs Desmond for the remainder of the
afternoon.
That evening he enjoyed his after-dinner cigar as he had not enjoyed
it for many weeks. Mrs Desmond was obviously tired of her pretty
pathetic pose; and he intended to avail himself to the utmost of her
rebound towards lightheartedness. He flattered himself that he read
her like an open book; that she would be as wax in his hands if he
chose to push his advantage. But for all his acuteness, he failed to
detect the one good grain hid in a bushel of chaff; or to perceive
that it was not indifference, but the very burden of her anxiety, that
drove Evelyn to seek distraction in the form of any amusement lying
near to her hand.
Letters from the Samana were few and brief. The last ones had brought
news that the expedition seemed likely to prove a more serious affair
than had been anticipated. Unknown to Honor, Evelyn cried herself to
sleep that night, and awoke to the decision that she would not be so
foolishly unhappy any more. She would shut her eyes to the haunting
horrors, and forget. Theo had forbidden her to make herself too
miserable. Why should she not obey him? And she proceeded to do so in
her own equivocal fashion.
After the first effort it was fatally easy to slip back into the old
habit of accepting Kresney's companionship, and his frequent
invitations to the house;--fatally easy to slip even a few degrees
farther without the smallest suspicion of his hand on the reins. She
took to riding with him--sometimes in the early mornings, sometimes in
the evenings; and these leisurely rides--for Evelyn was no
horsewoman--suited Kresney's taste infinitely better than tennis. By
cautious degrees they increased in frequency and duration; till it
became evident to the least observant that little Mrs Desmond was
consoling herself to good purpose.
Honor watched the new trend of events with suppressed wrath and
disgust. That a woman who had won the love of Theo Desmond should
descend, even for passing amusement, upon such a travesty of manhood,
roused in her a bitterness of rebellion which she had no right to
feel; but which, being only human, she could not altogether banish
from her heart. Nor were matters made easier by Frank Olliver's
periodical outbursts on the subject. The hot-headed Irishwoman had a
large share of the unreasoning prejudice of her race. She hated as she
loved, wholesale, and without reason. She could make no shadow of
excuse for Evelyn Desmond; and was only restrained from speaking out
her mind by a wholesome fear of her own temper, and a desire to avoid
a serious breach with Theo Desmond's wife. But with Honor it was
otherwise. Honor, she maintained, had a right to speak, and no right
to be silent; and goaded thus, the girl did at length make a tentative
effort at remonstrance.
But upon her first words Evelyn flushed hotly.
"For goodness' sake, Honor, don't start interfering again!" she said,
in a tone which effectually quenched further discussion.
Thus, without definite intention, they drifted a little apart. Honor,
haunted by a sense of having failed Theo at a time of need, found what
consolation she might in her growing intimacy with Paul Wyndham; while
Evelyn went on her way unchallenged, blind to every consideration but
the need of escape from the haunting dread that she would never see
her husband again. The dissonance between her feelings and her actions
troubled her no whit. Her notions of loyalty were peculiar and
inconsistent, like herself; and it is probable that she never gave a
thought to Kresney's interpretation of her conduct, or to the
dangerous nature of the game she was playing.
The man himself was well content, and increasingly self-satisfied. He
could be an intelligent and mildly amusing companion, when it served
his turn; and he was beginning to lose sight of Desmond in keen
enjoyment of the oldest pastime in the world. They fell into
occasional spells of silence now as they rode--silence such as
familiarity breeds, and which is not without a degree of danger at a
certain stage of intimacy between a man and a woman.
They had been riding thus, for some time, on an afternoon of early
March. Their horses' heads had been turned homeward; for the sun was
near to setting, and on the Frontier it is unsafe to be out after
dusk. Evelyn's reins lay loose upon the grey mare's neck and her long
lashes shadowed her cheek. She seemed to have forgotten her
companion's presence. Kresney's eyes rested speculatively on her
finely chiselled profile. He found her, on close acquaintance, more
charming than he had expected. She possessed an elusiveness that
captivates more surely than beauty. A man could never feel quite
certain of her. She had not been in a very "coming-on disposition"
that afternoon. His interest was piqued in consequence, and he was in
the mood to dare a good deal.
He would have given much to know what she was thinking of; and the
knowledge would have administered a wholesome shock to his vanity. He
decided to surprise her with the question, and read the answer in her
too expressive face.
"What _is_ the absorbing subject?" he demanded suddenly. His tone was
a sufficient index of his progress during the past fortnight.
She flushed and laughed softly, without looking up; and he drew his
own conclusions.
"I don't tell my thoughts! But I'm sorry if I was rude. I was
thinking, for one thing," she added lightly and mendaciously, "that I
wish it was nearer time to go up to the Hills."
"I don't wonder at that. You're wasted in a place like Kohat."
"That's rubbish!" she rebuked him. But her pleasure in the words was
self-evident.
"And that's modesty!" he capped her promptly, enjoying the deepening
carnation of the cheek turned towards him. "Will it be Murree again
this year?"
"Yes; I suppose so." She spoke without enthusiasm.
"Wouldn't you prefer Simla?"
"Well, naturally--a thousand times."
"Then why not go there? I would come up too, like a shot. I can get a
couple of months this year, and we'd have a ripping time of it. Shall
we call it settled--eh?"
She sighed and shook her head.
"It's too expensive. Besides, there seems to be something wrong with
Simla. My husband doesn't like it much; nor does Honor."
The implication in Kresney's laugh was lost upon Evelyn Desmond.
"Oh, well, of course Simla isn't much of a place for husbands," he
explained loftily, "or for girls. It's the bachelors who have a good
time there,--_and_ the married women."
"Is it? How odd! I should think anybody who cared about dancing and
acting, and all that sort of thing, would be bound to have a lovely
time in Simla."
She looked him so simply and straightly in the face that he felt
unaccountably ashamed of his questionable remark, and the laugh that
had preceded it--a sensation to which he was little accustomed.
"Yes, yes; daresay you're right," he agreed airily. "But if you're so
keen about the place, why not insist upon going? Wives don't trouble
overmuch about obedience nowadays; most of them seem to do whatever
they please."
"Do they? Well, then, I suppose it pleases me to go where my husband
likes best."
"Very dutiful, indeed!" A shadow of a sneer lurked beneath his
bantering tone, and she reddened again.
"It's not dutiful at all. It's simply because----" She broke off
short. "Oh, I think you're horrid this afternoon. I expect people to
make themselves pleasant when I let them come out with me."
"Well, I'm sure I do my best. But one can never tell where to have
you. Goodness knows I've shown you plainly that I'm ready to be your
friend--to any extent; and you've seemed to accept it readily
enough----"
"Well, of course. I like men to like me. I always did----"
"_Men?_"
"Yes, men," she nodded, smiling. "I don't trouble much about
women--except Honor; and _she's_ worth all the men in creation put
together."
"Desmond included?" Again the covert sneer lurked in his tone, and she
drew herself up with a pretty air of dignity.
"That's not any concern of yours."
"But I tell you it is!" He pressed closer. "More than you've chosen to
realise so far. D'you suppose you can go on indefinitely blowing hot
and cold with a man; snubbing him one minute and drawing him on the
next?"
"Oh dear! Oh dear! I never bother to suppose things! Haven't I said
that if you want me to be nice, you mustn't plague me with stupid
questions? At any rate, you're seeing a lot of me now. And you're
riding a lot with me now--isn't that enough?"
"No. It's not enough, Mrs Desmond--Evelyn----"
"Oh, hush--hush! You mustn't say that!" she murmured ineffectually;
but he paid no heed.
"You find this sort of thing pleasant enough while Desmond's away; but
_will_ you keep it up when he comes back? Tell me that----" He leaned
closer; but she turned her head away, avoiding his gaze.
"Oh, I don't know. How can I possibly tell?" she answered, half
plaintively, half petulantly. "Why _are_ men so tiresome? They never
seem able to enjoy things peaceably without making tragedies and
getting too much in earnest----"
"But how if I am in earnest--in desperate earnest?"
He spoke with sudden vehemence. Something in his tone startled her
into a recollection of the incident at Lahore. And there was no Theo
at hand to protect her now.
Forgetful of the loosened rein, and of her insecure hold on the
stirrup, she struck the mare more sharply than she knew. The
astonished animal bounded forward, stumbled on a round stone, and came
down on her knees, pitching Evelyn over her head into the dust of the
metalled road.
Kresney stifled an oath. "What the devil did the little fool do that
for?" he muttered between his teeth.
Springing to the ground, he shouted to a passing native child to hold
the two horses, and hurried to Evelyn's side, reflecting as he went
that, if she were not seriously injured, the accident might have its
advantages. She was on her knees when he reached her, and was pressing
both hands to her temples.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, anger banished by real anxiety.
"I don't--know. Oh--my head--my head!"
The words ended in a sob; she swayed as if she would fall, and quick
as thought his arm went round her, pressing her close. But at his
touch she recovered herself as if by magic; and pushing him fiercely
aside, staggered panting to her feet.
Kresney stood regarding her for a moment, an evil expression in his
eyes.
"Well, I'm damned!" he broke out at length. "I'm not a disease that
you should shake me off in that fashion."
"I'm sorry," she said with quick-coming breaths. "You meant to be
kind, I know, but--don't touch me again, please."
"I only wanted to keep you from falling in the dust," he retorted
huffily.
"I know. But--I would rather fall in the dust."
She spoke almost in a whisper, yet with such obvious sincerity that he
set his teeth viciously and answered nothing.
She remained standing before him, helpless, tantalising,
unapproachable, in her childlike dignity. Her head was dazed and
throbbing. Her knees shook under her so persistently that she gave it
up at last, and sank down in the road, covering her face with her
hands.
"Oh, how _am_ I going to get home?" she moaned, more to herself than
to him.
He came and stood near her again. He was surprised to find how keenly
her distress hurt him, and now that his anger was past, her flash of
independence made her more alluring than ever.
"If you won't let me lay a finger on you," he said in an altered tone,
"I don't see how I can be any use. But if you will condescend to use
me as a prop, I'll put you up on the mare, and walk beside you; then
you can hold on to me if you feel shaky. We are not far off now, and
the boy can take my pony on. Will that suit you?"
She looked up gratefully through a mist of tears.
"Thank you. It is nice of you to be so kind to me after--what I said."
"No man in his senses could be anything but kind to _you_." And
bending down he once more encircled her with his arm, raising her to
her feet, and taking his time over the proceeding. For an instant, in
mere weakness, she leaned her light weight upon him; and his sense of
triumph was complete.
"No hurry," he assured her gently. "You're very shaky still, you
know."
But she stiffened at the cautious tightening of his arm, and stumbled
forward, so that he had some ado to repress his irritation.
He lifted her to the saddle; and, seemingly oblivious that he had
offered himself as a mere prop, took such full advantage of the
permission to support her till they reached the bungalow, that she was
vaguely troubled, though too dazed and shaken to attempt further
remonstrance.
"May I come in?" he asked, as he set her on the ground.
"Yes, please come. Won't you stay to dinner?"
"I should like to, awfully."
"Very well then, do."
She managed to walk into the drawing-room; but as he laid her on the
sofa, her head fell limply backward, and she fainted.
He stood watching her intently for a few seconds. Then he bent over
her, low and lower, till his lips almost rested upon hers. But at this
point something checked his despicable impulse--perhaps the purity of
her face, or merely its unresisting stillness. Perhaps he chose to
defer the pleasure till a more acceptable moment. He straightened
himself with a jerk; and hastening into the hall, shouted for brandy
and soda-water.
Very soon a faint colour crept back into her cheeks. She opened her
eyes and smiled up at him.
"Drink some of this," he said. "It's very weak, and you need it."
She took a few sips and set down the glass.
"Better now?" he asked, and leaned over her again, his hand on the
sofa back, his lips perilously close to her hair. At that critical
moment, Wyndham's tall figure appeared in the doorway, closely
followed by Honor Meredith.
Kresney's back was towards him; and the tableau presented by the pair
was equivocal, to say the least of it. For an instant Paul stood still
in sheer stupefaction; then he turned to the girl, his grey eyes
ablaze with indignation, and she had never liked him better than at
that moment.
As he stepped forward, Kresney started up with a stifled oath; and the
two men confronted one another, in silent, undisguised hostility,
while Honor hurried to Evelyn's side.
"What is wrong with Mrs Desmond?" Paul asked coldly, concealing his
natural anxiety for Theo's wife.
"Oh, she has had a spill. The mare came down with her; and she fainted
when I got her home."
Kresney's pronounced frigidity was more ludicrous than impressive;
and the shadow of a smile lurked beneath Paul's moustache as he
addressed himself to Honor.
"Wouldn't it be well to send for Conolly?" he asked. But Evelyn
interposed.
"No,--no,--I don't want Dr Conolly. I'm all right now."
She raised herself on her elbow in proof of her statement.
"Mr Kresney was very kind to me. I have asked him to dinner. Won't you
stay too?"
"Thanks. I'll go and change, and come back later. You will do the
same, I presume?" And he looked directly at Kresney, who had wit
enough to perceive that the situation was untenable.
"It's very good of you to want me, Mrs Desmond," he said, elaborately
ignoring Wyndham's remark, "but I'd better not stop to-night. You
won't be fit for much talking after that nasty tumble."
"Perhaps not. You must come some other night instead. I won't forget."
She held out her hand with marked graciousness, flashing a defiant
glance at Paul, who, in sublime unconsciousness, followed Kresney out
into the verandah, and remained standing on the steps till he had
ridden out of sight.
No words passed between them except a mutually formal "Good-night."
But Paul succeeded in conveying the impression that he regarded
himself as Desmond's representative; and in making Kresney feel more
acutely uncomfortable than he had felt for many a long day. If he had
done no actual harm, the fault did not lie with him; and his
conscience sprang painfully to life under the lash of Wyndham's
contemptuous silence.
In the drawing-room, conversation fared little better.
"Why on earth was Major Wyndham so dignified and disagreeable?" Evelyn
queried in a tone of frank annoyance. "It isn't _his_ affair."
"You seem to forget that he is Theo's oldest friend."
Restrained anger quivered in the girl's low voice.
"He has news for you--from the Samana," she added. "There has been
sharp fighting. Theo's squadron has done a very dashing bit of
work;--Major Wyndham will tell you about it, _if_ you care to hear.
Now you had better lie quiet till you dress for dinner." And without
waiting for an answer she left the room.
* * * * *
Next morning, while she sat at work, wondering how she could broach
the forbidden subject, Evelyn herself came and stood before her with a
purposeful air of decision.
"Honor," she said, "I don't want anybody to say anything to--Theo
about my accident. Do you see? It is my business to tell him, and not
any one else's. Will you let Mrs Olliver know that, please? I don't
care to speak to her about it myself."
Honor glanced up quickly.
"No, Evelyn; it would be just as well not. She happened to be crossing
this hill yesterday when you and Mr Kresney were on the lower road;
and--she saw you together."
"Just the sort of thing she _would_ do! I hate Mrs Olliver! Always
spying on me; and I dare say she won't believe the truth even now. But
I won't have her talking to _Theo_ about me, whatever she may
imagine."
"You know her very little if you think she could do that," Honor
answered quietly. "She only spoke to me because she fancies I have
influence with you. But that seems to be over now. You have chosen to
go your own way. It is a very dangerous way. However, I can say
nothing more on the subject."
Evelyn choked back her rising tears.
"Honor, can't you _see_ that--that I'm frightened and miserable about
Theo, and I must have something to help me forget? It's no use trying
to make _you_ understand how it feels to have him away up
there--always in danger----"
Honor started and flushed. "Indeed, dear, I do understand," she
answered, not quite steadily.
Evelyn shook her head.
"You think you do, but you can't really. I know you are great friends
with him, and you'd be very sorry if--if anything happened. But it's
ever so much worse for me, because I am--his wife. Now I must go and
write to him about all this."
And Honor, left alone, leaned back in her chair, hiding her face in
her hands.
"God forgive me!" she murmured. "How dare _I_ find fault with her,
blessed child that she is!"