STAND TO YOUR GUNS.
"It is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes."
--R. L. S.
Wyndham, returning to the bungalow soon after ten o'clock, found it
readjusted to its new conditions. Frank Olliver had returned to her
empty home; and Desmond, at his own request, had had his camp-bed made
up in the study, that he might in no way disturb his wife. She herself
had retired early, without going in to him again. Honor noted and
wondered at the omission; but since Evelyn had said nothing about her
short interview with Theo, she forbore to question her or press her
unduly at the start.
When Paul arrived Desmond was sound asleep, wearied out with pain of
body and mind; while Honor moved noiselessly to and fro, setting in
readiness all that might be wanted before morning. Paul came armed
with Mackay's permission to remain on duty for the night, taking what
little rest he required on the drawing-room sofa, and Honor could not
withhold a smile at his satisfaction.
"I believe you're jealous!" she said. "You want to oust me, and have
him all to yourself!"
"You are right," he answered frankly; and going over to the bed, stood
looking upon his friend in an unspeakable content, that even anxiety
was powerless to annul.
For all that, it was late before Honor managed to leave her patient,
and slip away into the bare room where Harry Denvil lay awaiting the
dawn.
Save for the long scar across his face, no suggestion of that last
desperate fight was visible; and in the presence of the Great Silence,
her own turmoil of heart and brain was stilled as at the touch of a
reassuring hand. She knelt a long while beside the Boy. It pleased her
to believe that he was in some way aware of her companionship; that
perhaps he was even glad of it--glad that she should feel no lightest
shrinking from the temple that had enshrined the brave jewel of his
soul.
Arrived in her own room, she found Parbutti huddled on the ground, in
a state of damp and voluble distress. She could not bring herself to
dismiss the old woman at once; though her heart cried out for
solitude, and weariness seemed suddenly to dissolve her very bones.
She saw now that her love had deepened and strengthened during
Desmond's absence, as great love is apt to do; and the shock of his
return, coupled with the scant possibility of her own escape, had
tried her fortitude more severely than she knew.
She submitted in silence to the exchanging of her tea-gown for a white
wrapper, and to the loosening of her hair, Parbutti crooning over her
ceaselessly the while.
"Now I will soothe your Honour's head till weariness be forgotten, O
my Miss Sahib, daughter of my heart! Sleep without dreams, my life;
and have no fear for the Captain Sahib, who is surely favoured of the
gods by reason of his great courage."
While her tongue ran on, the wrinkled hands moved skilfully over the
girl's head and neck, fingering each separate nerve, and stilling the
throbbing pulses by that mystery of touch, which we of the West are
just beginning to acquire, but which is a common heritage in the East.
"Go now, Parbutti," Honor commanded at length. "Thy fingers be
miracle-workers. It is enough."
And as Parbutti departed, praising the gods, Honor leaned her chin
upon her hands, and frankly confronted the decision that must be
arrived at before morning.
To her inner consciousness it seemed wrong and impossible to fulfil
her promise and remain; while to all outward appearance it seemed
equally wrong and impossible to go. She could not see clearly. She
could only feel intensely; and her paramount feeling at the moment
was that God asked of her more than human nature could achieve.
The man's weakness and dependence awakened in her the strongest, the
divinest element of a woman's love, and with it the longing to uphold
and help him to the utmost limit of her power. It was this intensity
of longing which convinced her that, at all costs, she must go. Yet at
the first thought of Evelyn her invincible arguments fell back like a
defeated battalion.
If she had sought the Frontier in the hope of coming into touch with
life's stern realities, her hope had been terribly fulfilled.
"Dear God, what _ought_ I to do?" she murmured on a note of passionate
appeal. But no answer came out of the stillness; and sheer human need
was too strong upon her for prayer.
Rising impulsively, she went over to the wide-flung door that led into
the back verandah, and rolled up the "chick," flooding the room with
light; for a full moon rode high in the heavens, eclipsing the fire of
the stars. She stepped out into the verandah, and passed to the far
end, that looked across a strip of rocky desolation to the hills.
The whole world slept in silver, its radiance intensified by patches
of blue-black shadow; and with sudden distinctness her night journey
of a year ago came back to her mind. What an immeasurable way she had
travelled since then! And how far removed was the buoyant-hearted girl
of that March morning from the woman who rebelled with all her soul
against the cup of bitterness, even while she drank it to the dregs!
Deliberately she tried to gather into herself something of the night's
colossal calm, to wrest from the starved scrub of the desert a portion
of its patience, its astounding perseverance; to stifle her craving
for clear unprejudiced human counsel.
By a natural impulse her thought turned to Mrs Conolly, who alone
possessed both will and power to satisfy her need. To speak of her own
trouble was a thing outside the pale of possibility. Death itself were
preferable. But to consult her friend as to what would really be best
for Evelyn was quite another matter. She would go and see Mrs Conolly
before breakfast and be ruled by her unfailing wisdom.
Having arrived at one practical decision, her mind grew calmer. She
went back to her room, lowered the "chick" and knelt for a long while
beside her bed--a white, gracious figure, half-veiled by a dusky
curtain of hair.
Habit woke her before seven; and she dressed briskly, heartened by a
sense of something definite to be done. A sound of many feet and
hushed voices told her that Wyndham and the Pioneer officers had
arrived. Chaplains were rare on the Border in those days; and Wyndham
was to read the service, as he did on most occasions, Sundays
included.
When Honor came out into the hall she found the chick rolled up and
the verandah a blaze of full-dress uniforms. No man plays out his last
act with more of pomp and circumstance than a soldier; and there is a
singular fitness in this emphasis on the dignity rather than the
tragedy of death.
The girl remained standing afar off, watching the scene, whose
brilliance was heightened by an untempered April sun.
A group of officers, moving aside, revealed two scarlet rows of
Pioneers; and beyond them Paul's squadron, striking a deeper note of
blue and gold. The band was drawn up ready to start. Slanting rays
flashed cheerfully from the brass of trumpets, cornets, bassoons; from
the silver fittings of flutes; from the gold on scarlet tunics. And in
the midst of this ordered brilliance stood the gun-carriage, grey and
austere, its human burden hidden under the folds of the English flag.
Behind the gun-carriage the Boy's charger waited, with an air of
uncomplaining weariness, the boots hanging reversed over the empty
saddle.
With an aching lump in her throat Honor turned away. At that moment
the shuddering vibrations of muffled drums ushered in the "Dead March"
and each note fell on her heart like a blow.
In passing the study door she paused irresolute, battling with that
refractory heart of hers, which refused to sit quiet in its chains. It
argued now that, after all, she was his nurse; she had every right to
go in and see that all was well with him. But conscience and the
hammering of her pulses warned her that the greater right was--to
refrain; and straightening herself briskly, she went out through the
back verandah to Mrs Conolly's bungalow.
She had not been gone twenty minutes when Evelyn crept into the study,
so softly that her husband was not aware of her presence till her
fingers rested upon his hand.
He started, and took hold of them.
"That you?" he said gently. "Good-morning."
There was no life in his tone; and its apathy--so incredible a quality
in him--gave her courage.
"Theo," she whispered, kneeling down by him, "is it any good trying to
speak to you now? Will you believe that--I am ever so sorry? I have
been miserable all night; and I am not frightened any more,--see!" In
token of sincerity she caressed his empty coat-sleeve. "Will you
please--forgive me? Will you?"
"With all my heart, Ladybird," he answered quietly. "But it's no use
speaking. A thing like that can't be explained away. It is simply
wiped off the slate--you understand?" And almost before the words were
out she had kissed him.
Then she slid down into a sitting position, one arm flung lightly
across the rug that covered him.
In that instant the thunder of three successive volleys shook the
house; and heart-stirring trumpet-notes sounded the Last Post. With a
small shudder Evelyn shrank closer to her husband, resting her head
against his chair; and Desmond lay watching her in silent wonderment
at the tangle of moods and graces which, for lack of a truer word,
must needs be called her character. He wondered also how much might
have been averted if she had come to him thus yesterday instead of
to-day. Impossible to guess. He could only wrench his thoughts away
from the forbidden subject; and try to beat down the strong new
yearning that possessed him, by occasionally stroking his wife's hair.
It is when we most crave for bread that life has this ironical trick
of presenting us with a stone.
* * * * *
Honor, in the meanwhile, had reached Mrs Conolly's bungalow. She
found her in the drawing-room arranging flower-vases, and equipped for
her morning ride.
"Honor? You? How delightful!" Then catching a clearer view of the
girl's face: "My dear--what is it?"
Honor smiled.
"I am afraid you were going out," she said, evading the question.
"Certainly I was; but I am not going now. It is evident that you want
me."
"Yes--I want you."
Mrs Jim called out an order to the waiting _sais_; and followed Honor,
who had gone over to the mantelpiece, and buried her face in the cool
fragrance of a cluster of Gloire de Dijons.
Mrs Conolly took her gently by the arm.
"I can't have you looking like that, my child," she said. "Your eyes
are like saucers, with indigo shadows under them. Did you sleep a wink
last night?"
"Not many winks; that's why I am here."
"I see. You must be cruelly anxious about Captain Desmond, as we all
are; but I _will not_ believe that the worst can happen."
"No--oh no!" Honor spoke as if she were beating off an enemy. "But the
trouble that kept me awake was--Evelyn."
"Ah! Is the strain going to be too much for her? Come to the sofa,
dear, and tell me the whole difficulty."
Honor hesitated. She had her own reasons for wishing to avoid Mrs
Conolly's too sympathetic scrutiny.
"You sit down," she said. "I feel too restless. I would rather speak
first." And with a hint of inward perplexity Mrs Conolly obeyed.
"It's like this," Honor began, resting an arm on the mantelpiece and
not looking directly at her friend, "Dr Mackay has asked me to take
entire charge of Theo for the present. He spoke rather strongly,--rather
cruelly, about not leaving him in Evelyn's hands. I think he wanted to
force my consent; and for the moment I could not refuse. But this is
Evelyn's first big chance of rising above herself; and if I step in
and do everything I take it right out of her hands. This seems to me
so unfair that I have been seriously wondering whether I ought not
to--go right away till the worst is over." And she reiterated the
arguments she had already put before Theo, as much in the hope of
convincing herself as her friend.
Mrs Conolly, watching her with an increasing thoughtfulness, divined
some deeper complication beneath her unusual insistence on the wrong
point of view; and awaited the sure revelation that would come when it
would come.
"You see, don't you," Honor concluded, in a beseeching tone, "that it
is not easy to make out what is really best, what is right to be done?
And Evelyn's uncertainty makes things still more difficult. One moment
I feel almost sure she would 'find herself' if I were not always at
her elbow; and the next I feel as if it would be criminal to leave her
unsupported for five minutes at a time like this."
"That last comes nearer the truth than anything you have said yet,"
was Mrs Jim's unhesitating verdict. "Frankly, Honor, I agree with Dr
Mackay; and I must really plead with you to leave off splitting straws
about your 'Evelyn,' and to think of Captain Desmond--and Captain
Desmond only. Surely you care more for him, and for what comes to him,
than your line of argument seems to imply?"
Honor drew herself up as if she had been struck. The appeal was so
unlooked for, the implication so unendurable, that for an instant she
lost her balance. A slow colour crept into her cheeks, a colour drawn
from the deepest wells of feeling; and while she stood blankly
wondering how she might best remedy her mistake, Mrs Conolly's voice
again came to her ears.
"Indeed, my child, you spoke truth just now," she said slowly, a fresh
significance in her tone. "It must be _very_ hard for you to make out
what is right."
Honor threw up her head with a gesture of defiance.
"Why should you suddenly say that?" she demanded, almost angrily. But
the instant her eyes met those of her friend the unnameable truth
flashed between them clear as speech and with a stifled sound Honor
hid her face in her hands.
Followed a tense silence; then Mrs Conolly came to her and put an arm
round her. But the girl stiffened under the touch of sympathy
implying mutual knowledge of that which belonged only to herself and
God.
"How could I dream that you would guess?" she murmured, without
uncovering her face--"that you would even imagine such a thing to be
possible?"
"My dearest," the other answered gently, "I am old enough to know
that, where the human heart is concerned, all things are possible."
"But I can't endure that you should know; that you should--think ill
of me."
"You know me very little, Honor, if you can dream of that for a
moment. Come and sit down. No need to hold aloof from me now."
Honor submitted to be led to the sofa, and drawn down close beside her
friend. The whole thing seemed to have become an incredible nightmare.
"Listen to me, my child," Mrs Conolly began, the inexpressible note of
mother-love sounding in her voice. "I want you to realise, once for
all, how I regard this matter. I think you know how much I have loved
and admired you, and I do so now--more than ever. An overwhelming
trouble has come upon you, by no will of your own; and you are
evidently going to meet it with a high-minded courage altogether
worthy of your father's daughter."
Honor shivered.
"Don't speak of father," she entreated. "Only--now that you
understand, tell me--tell me--what _must_ I do?"
The passionate appeal coming from this girl--apt rather to err in the
direction of independence--stirred Mrs Jim's big heart to its depths.
"You will abide by my decision?" she asked.
"Yes; I am ready to do anything for--either of them."
"Bravely spoken, my dear. In that case I can only say, 'Stand to your
guns.' You have promised to take over charge of Captain Desmond, and a
soldier's daughter should not dream of deserting her post. Mind you, I
would not give such advice to ninety-nine girls out of a hundred in
your position. The risk would be too serious; and I only dare give it
to you because I am _sure_ of you, Honor. I quite realise why you feel
you ought to go. But your own feelings must simply be ignored. Your
one hope lies in starving them to death, if possible. Give Evelyn her
chance by all means, but I can't allow you to desert Captain Desmond
on her account. You must be at hand to protect him, and uphold her, in
case of failure. In plain English, you must consent to be a mere
prop--putting yourself in the background and leaving her to reap the
reward. It is the eternal sacrifice of the strong for the weak. You
are one of the strong; and in your case there is no shirking the
penalty without an imputation that could never be coupled with the
name of Meredith."
Honor looked up at that with a characteristic tilt of her chin, and
Mrs Conolly's face softened to a smile.
"Am I counselling cruelly hard things, dear?" she asked tenderly.
"No, indeed. If you were soft and sympathetic, I should go away at
once. You have shown me quite clearly what is required of me. It will
not be--easy. But one can do no less than go through with it--in
silence."
Mrs Conolly sat looking at the girl for a few seconds. Then:
"My dear, I am very proud of you," she said with quiet sincerity. "I
can see that you have drawn freely on a Strength beyond your own. Just
take victory for granted; and do your simple human duty to a sick man
who is in great need of you, and whose fortune or misfortune is a
matter of real concern to many others besides those near and dear to
him. I know I am not exaggerating when I say that if any serious harm
came to Captain Desmond it would be a calamity felt not only by his
regiment, but by more than half the Frontier Force. He has the 'genius
to be loved,' that is perhaps the highest form of genius----"
"I know--I know. Don't talk about him, please."
"Ah! but that is part of your hard programme, Honor. You must learn to
talk of him, and to let others talk of him. Only you must banish him
altogether _out of your own thoughts_. You see the difference?"
"Yes; I see the difference."
"The essence of danger lies there, and too few people recognise it. I
believe that half the emotional catastrophes of life might be traced
back to want of self-control in the region of thought. The world's
real conquerors are those who 'hold in quietness their land of the
spirit'; and you have the power to be one of them if you choose."
"I do choose," Honor answered in a low level voice, looking straight
before her.
"Then the thing is as good as done." She rose on the words, and drew
Honor to her feet. "There; I think I have said hard things enough for
one day."
Honor looked very straightly into the elder woman's strong plain face.
"I know you don't expect me to thank you," she said; "we understand
each other too well for that. And we will never speak of this again,
please. It is dead and buried from to-day."
"Of course. That is why I have spoken rather fully this morning. But
be sure you will be constantly in my thoughts, and--in my prayers."
Then she took possession of the girl, holding her closely for a long
while; and when they moved apart tears stood in her eyes, though she
was a woman little given to that luxury.
"This has been a great blow to me, dear," she said. "I had such high
hopes for you. I had even thought of Major Wyndham."
Honor smiled wearily.
"It was perverse of me. I suppose it ought to have been--Paul."
"I wish it had been, with all my heart; and I confess I am puzzled
about you two. How has he come to be 'Paul' within this last
fortnight?"
"It is simply that we have made a compact. He knows now that he can
never be anything more than--Paul--the truest friend a woman ever
had."
"Poor fellow! So there are two of you wasted!"
"Is any real love ever wasted?" Honor asked so simply that Mrs Conolly
kissed her again.
"My child, you put me to shame. It is clearly I who must learn from
you. Now, go home; and God be with you as He very surely will."
Then with her head uplifted and her spirit braced to unflinching
endurance, Honor Meredith went out into the blue and gold of the
morning.