THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.
"We then that are strong ..."
--ST PAUL.
To say that Owen Kresney was annoyed would be to do him an injustice.
He was furious at the unlooked-for interruption, which bade fair to
cancel all that he had been at such pains to achieve. Pure spite so
mastered him, that even the news of Desmond's critical condition--which
stirred the whole station the morning after the funeral--awakened no
spark of pity in that region of concentrated egotism which must needs
be called his heart.
The "counter-check quarrelsome" would have been welcome enough. But
this impersonal method of knocking the ground from under his feet
goaded him to exasperation. He had not even the satisfaction of
knowing that he had wrought jealousy or friction between husband and
wife. Desmond had practically ignored his existence. There lay the
sting that roused all the devil in Kresney; and the devil is a light
sleeper in some men's souls. But the Oriental strain in the man made
him an adept at a waiting game; and finding himself cavalierly thrust
aside, he could do no otherwise than remain in the background for the
present, alert, vigilant, cursing his luck.
* * * * *
In the blue bungalow a strained calmness prevailed. The work that must
be done could only be carried through by living from hour to hour, as
Paul had said; and Evelyn could now no longer be shielded from the
pain of knowledge.
On the morning after her first night of vigil, Honor came to her; and,
keeping firm hold of both her hands, told her, simply and straightly,
that the coming week would make the utmost demands upon her strength
and courage.
Evelyn listened with wide eyes and blanching cheeks.
"Did--did _I_ make him bad?" she asked in an awe-struck whisper, for
she had not been able to keep her own counsel in regard to her fatal
interview with Theo.
"I think not--I hope not," Honor answered gravely. "But you did wound
him cruelly; and whatever happens, you _must_ not fail him now."
Evelyn looked up with a distressed puckering of her forehead.
"I don't want to--fail him, Honor. But you know I'm not a bit of use
with sick people; and I can't all of a sudden turn brave and strong,
like you."
Honor's smile expressed an infinite deal, but she did not answer at
once. She wanted to be very sure of saying the right word; and it is
only when we try to grapple with another's intimate need that we find
ourselves baffled by the elusive, intangible spirits of those with
whom we share sunlight and food and the bewildering gift of speech.
Honor was wondering now whether, by a supreme concentration of will,
she could possibly infuse some measure of the soldier spirit into Theo
Desmond's wife; and the extravagant idea impelled her to a sudden
decision.
She drew Evelyn nearer.
"Listen to me, darling," she said. "We have _got_ to pull Theo through
this between us, you and I; and you always say I can help you to do
difficult things. Very well. I am quite determined that you _shall_ be
a brave wife to him, for the next two weeks at least. And when I make
up my mind about a thing, it is as good as done, isn't it?"
She spoke very low, and her eyes had a misty softness. But behind the
softness lay an invincible assurance, which Evelyn felt without being
able to analyse or understand.
"I don't know how you are going to manage it, Honor," she murmured.
"But I believe you could make _any_body do _any_thing--especially me!"
Honor's eyes twinkled at the incoherent compliment. The visionary
moment had passed, and she was her practical self again, the richer by
a fixed resolve.
"At that rate we shall work wonders," she said cheerfully; "and I
promise not to make you do anything alarming. You shall begin by
taking Theo's breakfast to him at once."
* * * * *
The ill news brought Frank Olliver round later in the morning. She did
not stay long; and the look in her eyes as she parted from Paul in the
verandah touched him to the heart.
"You'll send me word how he goes on, won't you?" she said. "I'll not
be coming round much meself. There's plenty of you to look after him,
and you'll not be needing any help from me. 'Tis the first time I
could say so with truth," she added, smiling through moist lashes.
"An', no doubt, 'tis a wholesome set-down for me self-conceit!"
"I don't believe you can say it with truth yet," Paul answered
promptly. "I shall get a chance to talk things over with Honor this
morning, and you shall hear the result. May I invite myself to tea,
please?"
"Ah, God bless you, Major Wyndham!" she exclaimed, with something of
her natural heartiness. "It's a pity there's not more o' your sort in
the world."
A compliment, even from Mrs Olliver, invariably struck Paul dumb; and
before any answer occurred to him she had cantered away.
The first time he could secure a few minutes alone with Honor he put
in an urgent plea for Mrs Olliver's services, and had the satisfaction
of going round to her bungalow at tea-time, armed with a special
request from the girl herself.
Evelyn accepted, with a slight lift of her brows, Honor's announcement
that Mrs Olliver would be only too glad to help in nursing Theo. These
odd people, who seemed to enjoy long nights of watching, the uncanny
mutterings of delirium, and the incessant doling out of food and
medicine, puzzled her beyond measure. She had a hazy idea that she
ought to enjoy it in the same way, and a very clear knowledge that she
did no such thing. She regarded it as a sort of penance, imposed by
Honor, not altogether unfairly. She had just conscience enough to
recognise that. And as the hushed monotone of nights and days dragged
by, with little relief from the dead weight of anxiety, it did indeed
seem as if Honor had succeeded in willing a portion of her brave
spirit into her friend. What had passed in secret between God and her
own soul resulted in a breaking down of the bounds of self--an
unconscious spiritual bestowal of the best that was in her, with that
splendid lack of economy in giving which is the hall-mark of a great
nature. And Evelyn took colour from the new atmosphere enveloping her
with the curious readiness of her type.
Desmond himself, in moments of wakefulness, or passing freedom from
delirium, was surprised and profoundly moved to find his wife
constantly in attendance on him. At the time he was too ill to express
his appreciation. But a vision of her dwelt continually in his mind;
and the frequency of her name on his lips brought tears of real
self-reproach to her eyes as she sat alone with him through the dread
small hours, not daring to glance into the darkest corners or to stir
unless necessity compelled her; overpowered by those vague terrors
that evaporate like mist in the cold light of definition.
In this fashion an interminable week slipped past, bringing the
patient to that critical "corner" with which too many of us are
familiar. Neither Paul nor Mackay left the study for twenty-four
hours; while the women sat with folded hands and waited--a more
arduous task than it sounds.
With the coming of morning, and of the first hopeful word from the
sick-room, an audible sigh of relief seemed to pass through the house
and compound. It was as if they had all been holding their breath till
the worst was over. It became possible at last to achieve smiles that
were not mere dutiful distortions of the lips. James Mackay grew one
degree less irritable; Wyndham one degree less monosyllabic; Amar
Singh condescended to arise and resume his neglected duties; while
Rob--becoming aware, in his own fashion, of a stir in the air--emerged
from his basket, and shook himself with such energy and thoroughness
that Mackay whisked him unceremoniously into the hall, where he sat
nursing his injured dignity, quietly determined to slip back, on the
first chance, into the room that was his by right, though temporarily
in the hands of the enemy.
It was some five days later that Desmond, waking towards morning,
found his wife standing beside him in expectant watchfulness.
The low camp-bed lent her a fictitious air of height, as did also the
unbroken line of her blue dressing-gown, with its cloud of misty
whiteness at the throat. A shaded lamp in a far corner clashed with
the first glimmer of dawn; and in the dimness Evelyn's face showed
pale and indistinct, save for two dusky semicircles where her lashes
rested on her cheek. Desmond saw all this, because at night the shade
was discarded, though the rakish bandage still eclipsed his right eye.
He lay lapped in a pleasant sense of the unreality of outward things,
and his wife--dimly seen and motionless--had the air of a dream-figure
in a dream.
Suddenly she leaned down, and caressed his damp hair with a familiar
lightness of touch.
"I heard you move, darling," she whispered. "I've been sitting such a
long, long while alone; and I badly wanted you to wake up."
"Such a brave Ladybird!" he said, imprisoning her fingers. "You seem
to be on duty all the time. They haven't been letting you do too much,
have they?"
"Oh no; I'm not clever enough to do much," she answered, a little
wistfully. "It is Honor who really does everything."
Desmond frowned. Mention of Honor effectually dispelled the dream. "I
choose to believe that everything _isn't_ her doing," he said with
unnecessary emphasis.
But for once Evelyn was disposed to extol Honor at her own expense.
She had been lifted, for the time being, higher than she knew.
"It _is_, Theo--truly," she persisted, perching lightly on the edge of
the bed, though she had been reminded half a dozen times that the
"patient's" bed must not be treated as a chair. "I don't know anything
about nursing people. Honor just told me that I was going to do it
beautifully, that I wasn't really frightened or stupid at all; and
somehow, she has made it all come true. She's been ever so kind and
patient; and I'm not half so nervous now when I'm left alone all
night. She writes out every little thing I have to do, and sits up
herself in her own room. She's sitting there now, reading or writing,
so I can go to her any minute if I really want help. She knows it
comforts me to feel there's some one else awake; and she does her own
nights of nursing just the same. I often wonder how she stands it
all."
Desmond drew in his breath with a sharp sound. The infinitely much
that he owed to this girl, at every turn, threatened to become a
torment beyond endurance.
Evelyn caught the sound and misunderstood it.
"There now, I'm tiring you, talking too much. I'm sure you ought to be
having something or another, even though you are better."
She consulted her paper; and returning with the medicine-glass half
filled, held it to his lips, raising his head with one hand. But at
the first sip he jerked it back abruptly.
"Tastes queer. Are you sure it's the right stuff?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Better look and see."
She took up the bottle, and examined it close to the light. There was
an ominous silence.
"Well?" he asked in pure amusement.
"It--it was the--lotion for your eyes!"
The last words came out in a desperate rush, and there was tragedy in
her tone. But Desmond laughed as he had not laughed since his parting
with the Boy.
"Come on, then, and square the account by doctoring my eyes with the
medicine."
"Oh, Theo, don't! It isn't a joke!"
"It is, if I choose to take it so, you dear, foolish little woman!"
She handed him the refilled glass; then, to his surprise, collapsed
beside the bed and burst into tears.
"Ladybird, what nonsense!" he rebuked her gently, laying a hand on her
head.
"It's not nonsense. It's horrible to be useless and--idiotic, however
hard you try. It might easily have been--poison, and I might
have--killed you!"
"_Only_ it wasn't--_and_ you didn't!" he retorted, smiling. "You're
upset, and worn out from want of sleep; that's all."
She made a determined effort to swallow down her sobs, and knelt
upright with clasped hands.
"No, Theo, I'm not worn out; I'm simply stupid. And you're the kindest
man that ever lived. But I mustn't cry any more, or you'll get ill
again, and then Honor will be really angry!"
"Oh, shut up about Honor!" he broke out irritably; and set his teeth
directly the words were spoken.
Evelyn started. "I won't shut up about Honor! I love her, and you're
very ungrateful not to love her too, when she's been so good to you."
She spoke almost angrily, and he made haste to rectify his slip.
"No. I'm not ungrateful. I--love her right enough."
He thought the statement would have choked him. But Evelyn noticed
nothing, and for a while neither spoke.
"Look here, Ladybird," he said suddenly, "I can't have you calling
yourself names as you did just now. You only get these notions into
your small head because I have condemned you to a life that makes
demands on you beyond your strength. I ought to have seen from the
start that it was a case of choosing between the Frontier and you. At
all events, I see it clearly now; and--it's not too late. One can
always exchange into a down-country regiment, you know. Or I have
interest enough to get a Staff appointment somewhere--Simla, perhaps.
How would that suit you?"
The suggestion took away her breath.
"You don't _mean_ that, Theo--seriously?" she gasped; and the
repressed eagerness in her tone sounded the death-knell of his dearest
ambitions.
"I was never more serious in my life," he answered steadily.
"You would leave the Frontier--the regiment--and never come back?"
"You have only to say the word, and as soon as I am on my feet again
I'll see what can be done."
But the word was not forthcoming; and in her changed position he could
see nothing of her face but its oval outline of cheek and chin. He
waited; holding his breath. Then, at last, she spoke.
"No, Theo. It wouldn't be fair. You belong to the Frontier. Every one
says so. And--I shall get used to it in time."
She spoke mechanically, without turning her head; and Desmond's arm
went round her on the instant.
"But you haven't got to think of me," he urged. "I want to do what
will make you happy. That's all."
"It--it wouldn't make me happy. And, please, don't talk about it any
more."
At that he drew her down to him.
"God bless you, my darling!" he whispered. But even in speaking he
knew that he could not accept her sacrifice; that her courage--barely
equal to the verbal renunciation--would be crushed to powder in the
crucible of days and years. For the moment, however, it seemed best to
drop the subject, since nothing definite could be done without Honor's
consent.
"Now I ought to be attending to my business!" she said, freeing
herself with a little nervous laugh. "It's getting too light. I must
put out the lamp and dress you up in your shade again, you poor,
patient Theo. Then we'll have _chota hazri_ together."
She moved away from him quickly, and not quite steadily. She had let
slip her one chance of escape, and she did not know why she had done
it. The impulse to refuse had been unreasoning, overpowering; and now
it was all over she only knew that she had done what Honor would
approve, and what she herself would regret to the end of her life. How
far the girl whose soul had been concentrated on Evelyn's uplifting
was responsible for her flash of self-sacrifice, is a problem that
must be left for psychologists to solve.
Desmond had only one thought in his brain that morning--"How in the
world am I going to tackle Honor?" He foresaw a pitched battle, ending
in possible defeat; and decided to defer it till he felt more
physically fit for the strain. For he possessed the rapid recuperative
power of his type; and, the fever once conquered, each day added a
cubit to his returning vigour.
One night, towards the close of the second week of his illness, he
awoke suddenly from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness, a sense of
renewed health and power thrilling through his veins. He passed a hand
across his forehead and eyes, for the pure pleasure of realising their
freedom from the disfiguring bandage, and glanced toward the
writing-table, whence the too familiar screened lamp flung ghostly
lights and shadows up among the bare rafters twenty feet above.
It was Honor who sat beside it now, in a loose white wrapper, her head
resting on her hand, an open book before her. The light fell full upon
her profile, emphasising its nobility of outline--the short straight
nose, the exquisite moulding of mouth and chin; while all about her
shoulders fell the burnished mantle of her hair.
For many moments Desmond lay very still. This amazing girl, in the
fulness of her beauty, and in her superb unconsciousness of its effect
upon himself, had him at a disadvantage; and he knew it. The
disadvantage was only increased by waiting and watching; and at last
he spoke, scarcely above his breath.
"Honor--I am awake."
She started, and instinctively her hand went to her hair, gathering it
deftly together. But he made haste to interpose.
"Please leave it alone!"
His tone had in it more of fervour than he knew, and she dropped the
heavy mass hastily, thankful to screen her face from view. Then,
because silence had in it an element of danger, she forced herself to
break it.
"You were sleeping so soundly that I thought you were safe not to wake
till morning; and it was a relief to let it down."
"Why apologise?" he asked, smiling. "What is it you are reading? Won't
you share it with me? I feel hopelessly wide-awake."
"It would be delightful to read to you again," she said simply. "But
you might prefer something lighter. I was reading--a sermon."
"I have no prejudice against sermons. We get few enough up here.
What's your subject?"
"The Responsibility of Strength."
"Ah!--" There was pain in the low sound. "_You_ must know a good deal
about that form of responsibility,--you who are so superbly strong."
And again she was grateful for her sheltering veil of hair. "The text
is from Romans, I suppose?"
"Yes. 'We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the
weak.'"
"It's a heavy penalty," he mused. "But one is bound to pay it to the
uttermost farthing. Isn't that so?"
"Yes,--to the uttermost farthing."
She was thinking of herself, and his answer amazed her.
"Then, let me off that promise I gave you last April. It was a fatal
mistake, and it's not fair on Ladybird."
She stifled an exclamation of dismay. It had been one thing to plead
with him a year ago; but now it seemed impossible to speak a dozen
words on the subject without risk of self-betrayal.
Her silence pricked Desmond to impatience.
"Well," he said, "what's the difficulty? You'll do what I ask, of
course?"
"No, I can't. It is out of the question."
A suppressed sound of vexation reached her.
"I thought you cared more for Evelyn than that amounts to," he said
reproachfully.
"I _do_ care for her. You know I do."
"Yet you intend to hold out against me?"
"Yes."
"In spite of all it may involve--for Ladybird?"
"Yes."
The brief finality of her answers was curiously discouraging, and for
the moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.
He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distracting
vision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standing
close to him--a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hair
reaching almost to her knees.
"Theo," she said softly, with an eloquent gesture of appeal, "you
don't know how it hurts me to seem hard and unfeeling about Ladybird,
when I understand so much too well the spirit that is prompting you to
do this thing. I frankly confess you are right from your point of
view. But there remains my point of view; and so long as I have the
right to prevent it, you shall not spoil your life and hers."
Desmond would have been more, or less, than man if he could have heard
her unmoved; and as he lay looking up at her he was tempted beyond
measure to take possession of those appealing hands, to draw her down
to him, and thank her from his heart for her brave words. But he
merely shifted uneasily.
"I don't quite understand you, Honor," he said slowly. "It is strange
that you should--care so much about what I do with my life."
The words startled her, yet she met them without flinching.
"Is it? I think it would be far more strange if I had lived with you
for a year without learning--to care. That is why I can never say
'Yes' to your request."
"And I am determined that you shall say 'Yes' to it in the end."
The note of immobility in his low voice made her feel powerless to
resist him; but she steeled herself against the sensation by main
force of will.
"At least I can forbid any further mention of it till you are fitter
to cope with such a disturbing subject. Are you aware that it's only
two o'clock? And you need sleep more than anything else just now. I'll
give you some beef-jelly, and sit in my own room for an hour, or I
believe you will never go off again at all."
But when she returned at the end of an hour she found him still awake.
"Honor,"--he began; but she checked him with smiling decision. "Not
another word to-night, Theo, or I must go altogether."
The threat was more compelling than she knew; and sitting down by the
table, she took up her vigil as before.