THE EXECRABLE UNKNOWN.
"Doubting things go wrong,
Often hurts more than to be sure they do."
--SHAKESPEARE.
Honor found Evelyn in a state of chastened happiness, buttering toast
for Theo's breakfast, which stood ready on a tray at her side.
"Would you like to take this in yourself?" she said, as she completed
her task. "I think he would be pleased. He was asking where you were."
The suggestion was so graciously proffered that Honor deposited a
light kiss on the coiled floss silk of Evelyn's hair as she bent above
the table. Then she took up the tray, and went on into the study.
She entered, and set it down without speaking; and Desmond, who was
lying back with closed eyes, roused himself at the sound.
"Thank you, little woman," he said. Then, with a start, "Ah,
Honor,--it's you. Very kind of you to trouble. Good-morning."
The contrast in his tone and manner was apparent, even in so few
words; and Honor was puzzled.
"I hope you got some sleep last night," she said, "after that cruel
thirty-six hours."
"More or less, thanks. But I had a good deal to say to Paul. You and
he seem to have become very close friends while I have been away."
"We have; permanently, I am glad to say. I should have come in to you
when I got up, but I was sure he would have done everything you could
want before leaving."
"He did; and he'll be back the minute he's through with his work. He
is an incomparable nurse; and with him at hand, I shall not need
to--trespass on so much of your time, after all."
Honor bit her lip and tingled in every nerve, less at the actual words
than at the manner of their utterance--a mingling of embarrassment and
schooled politeness, which set her at arm's length, checked
spontaneity, and brought her down from the heights with the speed of a
dropped stone.
"It is not a question of trespassing on my time," she said, and in
spite of herself a hint of constraint invaded her voice. "But I have
no wish to deprive Paul of his privilege and right. You can settle it
with Dr Mackay between you. Now, it's time you ate your breakfast. Can
you manage by yourself? Shall I send Evelyn to help you?"
"No, thanks; I can manage all right."
He knew quite well he could do nothing of the sort; but his one need
was to be alone.
"Very well. I shall be busy this morning with mail letters. Evelyn
will sit with you till Paul comes; and Frank is sure to be round
during the day. I pointed out to you yesterday that there were plenty
of--others able and willing to see after you."
Before he could remonstrate she was gone. He drew in his breath
sharply, between set teeth, and struck the arm of his chair with
jarring force.
"I have hurt her--clumsy brute that I am. And I must do worse before
the day's out. But the sooner it's over the better."
It was his invariable attitude towards a distasteful duty; and he
decided not to let slip a second opportunity. Weak and unaided, he
made what shift he could to deal with the intricacies of breakfast,
choking back his irritability when he found himself grasping empty air
in place of the teapot handle, sending the sugar-tongs clattering to
the floor, and deluging his saucer by pouring the milk outside the
cup. For the moment, to this man of independent spirit, these trivial
indignities seemed more unendurable than the loss of his subaltern,
the intrusive shadow threatening his self-respect, or the fear of
blindness, that lay upon his heart cold and heavy as a corpse.
And on the other side of the door, Honor stood alone in the
drawing-room, trying to regain some measure of calmness before
returning to the breakfast-table.
Red-hot resentment fired her from head to foot. Resentment against
what, against whom? she asked herself blankly, and in the same breath
turned her back upon the answer. Chiefly against herself, no doubt,
for her inglorious descent from the pinnacle of stoicism, to which she
had climbed barely an hour ago. It seemed that Love, coming late to
these two, had come as a refiner's fire, to "torment their hearts,
till it should have unfolded the capacities of their spirits." For
Love, like Wisdom, is justified of all her children.
Breakfast, followed by details of housekeeping, reinstated
common-sense. After all, since she had resolved to remain in the
background, Theo had simplified affairs by consigning her to her
destined position. She could quite well keep her promise to Dr Mackay,
and superintend all matters of moment, without spending much time in
the sick-room. Evelyn had agreed to accept her share of the nursing;
and, as she had said, there were others, whose right was beyond her
own.
Shortly after tiffin, Wyndham arrived with Rajinder Singh; and finding
them together in the drawing-room--after the short interview permitted
by Paul--Honor took the opportunity of fulfilling a request made by
Theo on the previous evening.
"I have to write to Mrs Denvil," she said to Paul. "Would the Sirdar
mind giving me a few details about the fighting on the 17th?"
Paul glanced approvingly at the old Sikh, who stood beside him, a
princely figure of a man, in the magnificent mufti affected by the
native cavalry officer--a long coat of peach-coloured brocade, and a
turban of the same tint.
"Mind? He needs very little encouragement to enlarge on Theo's share
in the proceedings."
"I would like to hear all he can tell me about that," she answered on
a low note of fervour.
"You could follow him, I suppose?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"You hear, Ressaldar Sahib." Paul turned to his companion. "The Miss
Sahib desires full news of the attack and engagement on Tuesday
morning, that she may write of it to England."
The man's eyes gleamed under his shaggy brows, and he launched into
the story, nothing loth; his eloquence rising as he warmed to the
congenial theme.
Paul Wyndham stepped back a few paces into a patch of shadow, the
better to watch Honor Meredith at his ease. She had balanced herself
lightly on the arm of a chair; and now leaned a little forward, her
lips just parted in the eagerness of anticipation. A turquoise
medallion on a fine gold chain made a single incident of colour on the
habitual ivory tint of her gown; threads of burnished copper glinted
among the coils of her hair; and the loyal loving soul of her shone
like a light through the seriousness of her eyes.
And as he watched, hope--that dies harder than any quality of the
heart--rose up in him and prevailed. A day must come when this
execrable unknown would no longer stand between them; when she would
come to him of her own accord, as she had promised;--and he could wait
for years, without impatience, on the bare chance of such a
consummation.
But at this point a growing change in her riveted his attention--a
change such as only the eyes of a lover could detect and interpret
aright. She sat almost facing him; and at the first had looked towards
him, from time to time, certain of his sympathy with the interest that
held her. But before five minutes were out he had been forgotten as
though he were not; and by how all else about her was forgotten also.
Not her spirit only, but her whole heart glowed in her eyes; and Paul
Wyndham, standing watchful and silent in the shadow, became abruptly
aware that the execrable unknown--whom he had been hating for the past
fortnight with all the strength of a strong nature--was the man he
loved better than anything else on earth.
The Ressaldar was nearing the crowning-point of his story now. Honor
listened spellbound as he told her of the breathless rush up that
rugged incline, and of the sight that greeted them after scaling the
mighty staircase of rock.
"None save the fleetest among us could keep pace with the Captain
Sahib, wounded as he was," the Sikh was saying, when Wyndham, with a
hideous jar, came back to reality. "But God gave me strength, though I
have fifty years well told, so that I came not far behind; and even as
Denvil Sahib fell, with his face to the earth, at the Captain Sahib's
feet, he turned upon the Afridi devils like a lion among wolves, and
smote three of them to hell before a man could say, 'It lightens.' Yet
came there one pig of a coward behind him, Miss Sahib. Only, by God's
mercy, I also was there, to give him such greeting as he deserved with
my Persian sword, that hath passed from father to son these hundred
and fifty years, and hath never done better work than in averting the
hand of death from my Captain Sahib Bahadur, whom God will make
Jungi-Lat-Sahib[29] before the end of his days! For myself I am an old
man, and of a truth I covet no higher honour than this that hath
befallen me, in rendering twice, without merit, such good service to
the Border. Nay, but who am I that I should speak thus? Hath not the
Miss Sahib herself rendered a like service? May your honour live long,
and be the mother of heroes!"
[29] Commander-in-Chief.
Rajinder Singh bowed low on the words, which brought the girl to her
feet and crimsoned her clear skin from chin to brow. By a deft
question she turned the tide of talk into a less embarrassing channel;
and Paul Wyndham, pulling himself together with an effort, went
noiselessly out of the room.
Passing through the hall, he sought the comparative privacy of the
back verandah, which was apt to be deserted at this time of day. Here
he confronted the discovery that tortured him--denied it; wrestled
with it; and finally owned himself beaten by it. There was no evading
the witness of his own eyes; and in that moment it seemed to him that
he had reached the limit of endurance. Then a sudden question stabbed
him. How far was Theo responsible for that which had come about? Was
he, even remotely, to blame?
Had any living soul dared to breathe such questions in his hearing
Wyndham would have knocked the words down his throat, and several
teeth along with them, man of peace though he was. But the very depth
of his feeling for Desmond made him the more clear-eyed and stern in
judgment; and the intolerable doubt, uprising like a mist before his
inner vision, held him motionless, forgetful of place and time; till
footsteps roused him, and he turned to find Honor coming towards him.
"Why, Paul," she said, "what brings you here? I have been looking for
you everywhere. I thought you had gone to him. Evelyn says he is
alone, and he wants you."
The unconscious use of the pronoun did not escape Paul's notice, and
he winced at it, as also at the undernote of reproof in her tone.
"Sorry to have kept him waiting," he said quietly, and for the first
time his eyes avoided her face. "I will go to him at once."
But on opening the study door he hesitated, dreading the necessity for
speech; glad--actually glad--that his face was hidden from his friend.
For all the depth of their reserve, the shadow of restraint was a
thing unknown between them. But the world had been turned upside down
for Wyndham since he left the familiar room half an hour ago. A spark
that came very near to anger burned in his heart.
Desmond turned in his chair. Two hours of undiluted Evelyn had left
him craving for mental companionship.
"Paul, old man," he said on a questioning note, "can't you speak to a
fellow? Jove! what wouldn't I give for a good square look at you! It's
poor work consorting with folk who only exist from the waist downward.
You've not got to be running off anywhere else, have you?"
"No; I am quite free."
"Come on then, for Heaven's sake, dear chap! I have been wanting you
all the morning."
The direct appeal, the pathos of his shattered vigour, and the
irresistible friendliness of words and tone dispelled all possibility
of doubt, or of sitting in judgment. Whatever appearances might
suggest, Paul stood ready to swear, through thick and thin, to the
integrity of his friend.
He came forward at once; and Desmond, cavalierly ousting Rob, made
room for him on the lower end of his chair.