SHE SHALL UNDERSTAND.
"The light of every soul burns upward;
but we are all candles in a wind;
and due allowance must be made for atmospheric disturbances."
--GEO. MEREDITH.
Certain souls, like certain bodies, cannot breathe for long at a
stretch the rarefied atmosphere of the heights; and towards the end of
the second week Evelyn's zeal began to wear thin. Dr Mackay had at
last spoken hopefully as to the fate of Desmond's eyes. Night-nursing
was no longer a necessity; and with the relief from anxiety, from the
effort to meet the demands upon her small stock of strength, came the
inevitable drop to the comfortable commonplaces of everyday life.
Nor was she alone in her sensations. In varying degrees they affected
every inmate of the blue bungalow during that last week of Desmond's
imprisonment; and it is probable that Honor unconsciously relaxed her
mental concentration upon Evelyn which had been responsible for more
than either knew. Her midnight talk with Desmond, and the knowledge
that a second contest lay before her, gave her food for much troubled
reflection; while the comparative lightness of sick-room duties left
her free to grapple with arrears of letters, work, and household
accounts. Thus, being only human, and very much absorbed in matters
practical, she made the fatal mistake of relaxing her vigilance at the
very moment when Evelyn needed it most. But it is written that "no man
may redeem his brother"; and, soon or late the relapse must have come.
Honor could not hope to lay permanent hold upon the volatile spirit of
her friend.
Desmond himself, whose patience under the burden of illness and of a
nerve-shattering fear had amazed even those who knew him best, was
approaching the irritable stage of convalescence,--the strong man's
rebellion against Nature's unhurried methods; against enforced
restriction and imprisonment, when renewed life is pulsing through
every artery, renewed vigour stirring the reawakened brain.
Nor were matters enlivened by Mackay's decree that, if risk were to be
avoided, the detested shade must be worn for three full weeks or a
month. Thus to imprisonment was added the gall and wormwood of total
dependence upon others; the unthinkable prospect of parting with Paul,
with the Border itself--with everything that had hitherto made life
worth living; and, worse than all, the undercurrent of striving to
ignore that veiled danger, which he refused to name, even in his
thoughts, and which lay like a millstone upon his heart.
Thus there were inevitable moments when his spirit kicked against the
pricks; when his return to life and health seemed a parody of a
blessing, a husk emptied of the life-giving grain. In these moods
Evelyn found herself powerless to cope with him; and was not a little
aggrieved when she discovered that his unvarying need, on black days,
was the companionship of Paul Wyndham, whose insight detected some
hidden trouble, and who, as a matter of course, devoted every spare
moment to his friend.
One thing Desmond missed beyond all else--the sound of music in the
house. Since the terrible evening of his home-coming, the piano had
not been opened; and his recent experience of the effect Honor's music
could produce on him made him chary of asking her to play.
He saw very little of her in these days. Now and then she would come
and read to him; but their former open-hearted intercourse seemed
irrevocably a thing of the past. With the return of the troops,
however, interests multiplied. Desmond's hold on the hearts of all who
knew him had seldom been so practically proven; and the man was moved
beyond measure at that which he could not fail to perceive. His small
study was rarely empty, and often overcrowded with men--Sikhs,
Gunners, Sappers, and, above all, his own brother officers, who
filled the place with tobacco-smoke, the cheerful clink of ice against
long tumblers, and frequent explosions of deep-chested laughter; while
Desmond threw himself whole-heartedly into the good minute and enjoyed
it to the full.
To Evelyn this new state of things was a little disconcerting. During
Theo's illness she, as his wife, had enjoyed special attention and
consideration; and since her incomprehensible refusal of his offer to
throw up the Frontier, had even regarded herself as something of a
heroine, if an unwilling one. Now, all of a sudden, she felt deserted,
unimportant, and more or less "out of it all." The past fortnight
seemed an uplifted dream, from which she had awakened to find herself
sitting among the dust and stones of prose and hard facts. Yet she
could not complain definitely of anything or any one. Honor and Theo
were kind and tender, as always; but the one was temporarily busy, and
the other very naturally enjoying a reversion to masculine society.
Nobody seemed to want her. There seemed no particular use for her any
more.
To make matters worse, the whole station wore a subdued air. The Club
compound was practically deserted; and Evelyn's first outing in that
direction left her with no desire to repeat the experiment for the
present. The Sikhs had lost a popular captain; while a Gunner
subaltern, who had returned seriously wounded, was being nursed by Mrs
Conolly and the only woman in the battery.
This sort of thing was, as Theo had said, "part and parcel" of life on
the Frontier; it was to this that she had condemned herself for the
next twenty years at least; by which time she supposed she would be
far too old to care for the frivolities of life at all! If only Theo
would be generous and give her a second chance, she would not let it
slip this time--she would not indeed!
Altogether the aspect of things in general was sufficiently
depressing. Then one afternoon she met Owen Kresney; and all at once
life seemed to take on a new complexion. Here, at least, was some one
who wanted her, when every one else seemed only to want Theo; some one
who was really glad to see her--rather too emphatically glad,
perhaps; but the eagerness of his greeting flattered her, and she had
overlooked the rest. She had been returning in her jhampan from her
melancholy outing to the Club, when he had caught sight of her in the
distance, and cantering up to her side, had dismounted, and shaken
hands as though they had not met for a year.
"How awfully white and pulled down you look!" he had said with
low-toned sympathy. "They must have been working you too hard. They
forget that you are not a strapping woman like Miss Meredith."
"No one has worked me too hard," she answered, flushing at the veiled
implication against her husband. "I wanted to do as much as the
others."
"Of course you did. But you are too delicate to work like that, and it
isn't fair to take advantage of your unselfishness. I hope you're
going off to the Hills very soon, now that Desmond is better?"
"Yes, I hope so too."
Her voice had an unconscious weariness, and he bent a little closer,
scanning her face with a concern that bordered on tenderness. "We have
thought of you a great deal these two weeks, Mrs Desmond," he said.
"We hardly cared to go out to tennis, or anything, while you were in
such trouble. But now it has all come out right, you must be
dreadfully in want of cheering up. Won't you come home with me and
have a talk, like old times? Linda would be awfully pleased to see you
again."
The temptation was irresistible. It emphasised her vague sense of
loneliness, of being left out in the cold. The longing to be comforted
and made much of was strong upon her.
"It is very nice of you to want me," she had said, as simply as a
child. To which he had replied with prompt, if somewhat cheap,
gallantry that no one could possibly help wanting her; and his reward
had been a flush, as delicate in tint as the inner surface of a shell.
This man had one strong point in his favour--he invariably talked to
her about herself; a trick Desmond had never learnt, nor ever would.
She had spent more than an hour in Miss Kresney's stuffy, dusty
drawing-room, and had left it with a pleasantly revived sense of her
own importance; had left Kresney himself in a state of carefully
repressed triumph; for she had promised him an early morning ride in
two days' time.
It was all harmless enough so far as she was concerned--merely a case
of flattered vanity and idle hands. But the strong nature, the large
purpose, lies eternally at the mercy of life's little things.
She said nothing to Honor or Theo of her meeting with Kresney, or of
the coming ride. A fortnight of submission to the former had evoked a
passing gleam of independence. They would probably make a fuss; and
since they neither of them needed her, she was surely at liberty to
amuse herself as she pleased.
On her return a buzz of deep voices greeted her from the study, and it
transpired that Honor had gone over to Mrs Conolly's. Thus she had
leisure before dinner to argue the matter out in her mind to her own
complete justification. If Mr Kresney chose to be polite to her, why
should she rebuff him and hurt his feelings, just because Theo had
some stupid prejudice against him? On the other hand, where was the
use of vexing Theo, when every one was doing their best to shield him
from needless irritation? As soon as his eyes were right they would go
to the Hills together. She would have him all to herself; and Kresney
sank into immediate insignificance at the thought.
Meanwhile the man's assiduity and thinly veiled admiration formed a
welcome relief in a desert of dulness. Besides, one was bound to be
pleasant to a man when one practically owed him two hundred rupees.
Unwittingly she shelved the fact that Kresney was beginning to
exercise a disturbing fascination over her; that the insistence
underlying his humility alternately pleased and frightened her; the
lurking fear of what he might say next gave a distinct flavour of
excitement to their every meeting.
The slippery path that lies between truth and direct falsehood had
always been fatally easy for her to follow; and she followed it now
more from natural instinct, and from the child's dread of making
people "cross," than from any deliberate intent to deceive. It was so
much easier to say nothing. Therefore she said nothing; and left the
future to look after itself.
On returning from her first ride with Kresney, she found Honor in the
verandah giving orders to a sais. The girl lifted her out of the
saddle, and kissed her on both cheeks.
"Such a very early Ladybird!" she said, laughing. "You might have let
me come too."
Accordingly they went out together the next morning, but on future
occasions Evelyn returned more cautiously, and changed her habit
before appearing at the breakfast-table. She went out once or twice in
the afternoons also, and Honor's thoughts flew to the Kresneys as a
matter of course; but remembering a certain incident at Murree, she
held her peace. She was disheartened, and very far from satisfied,
nevertheless.
* * * * *
In this fashion ten days slipped uneventfully past. Then, on a certain
afternoon, Kresney again met Evelyn by chance,--and begged her to come
back with him to tea before going home. Her consent was a foregone
conclusion; and as they neared Kresney's whitewashed gate-posts,
Captain Olliver trotted past. He had already met Miss Kresney jogging
out to tea on a long-tailed pony of uncertain age; and glancing
casually back over his shoulder, he saw Mrs Desmond's jhampan entering
the gateway. Whereat he swore vigorously under his breath, and urged
his pony to a brisker pace.
But of these facts Evelyn was blissfully unaware. Her uppermost
thought was a happy consciousness of looking her best. From the
forget-me-nots in her hat to the last frill of her India muslin gown
all was blue--the fragile blue of the far horizon at dawn. And Kresney
had an eye for such things.
She started slightly on discovering that the drawing-room was empty.
"Where's Miss Kresney?" she asked, stopping dead upon the threshold.
"Why, what a fool I am!" the man exclaimed with a creditable air of
frankness. "I clean forgot she had gone out to tea. But you're not
going to desert me on that account! You wouldn't be so unkind!"
Evelyn felt herself trapped. It would seem foolish and pointed to go;
yet she had sense enough to know that it would be very unwise to stay.
She compromised matters by saying sweetly that she would come in just
for ten minutes, to have a cup of tea before going back in the sun.
Kresney looked his gratification--looked it so eloquently that she
lowered her eyes, and went forwards hurriedly, as if fearing that
something more definite might follow the look.
But the man, though inwardly exultant, was well on his guard. If he
startled her this first time, he could not hope to repeat the
experiment. He chose the most comfortable chair for her; insisted on
an elaborate arrangement of cushions at her back; poured out her tea;
and plied her assiduously with stale sponge-cake and mixed biscuits.
Then drawing up his own chair very close, he settled himself to the
congenial task of amusing and flattering her, with such success that
her ten minutes had stretched to an hour before she even thought of
rising to go.
Captain Olliver, meanwhile, had ridden on to the blue bungalow, which
chanced to be his destination; and had spent half an hour in desultory
talk with Desmond, Wyndham, and the Colonel, who had fallen into a
habit of dropping in almost daily.
As he rose to take his leave, a glance at Wyndham brought the latter
out into the hall with him.
"What is it?" he asked. "Want to speak to me about something?"
"Yes. Can we have a few words alone anywhere? It concerns Desmond, and
I can't speak to him myself."
Paul frowned.
"Nothing serious, I hope. Come in here a minute." And he led the way
into his own Spartan-looking room.
"Now let me hear it," he said quietly.
But Olliver balanced himself on the edge of the table, tapped his pipe
against it, and loosened the contents scientifically with his penknife
before complying with the request.
"The truth is," he began at length, "that it's about Mrs Desmond and
that confounded cad Kresney."
"Ah!" The note of pain in Wyndham's voice made the other look at him
questioningly.
"You've noticed it, then?"
"Well,--it was rather marked while Desmond was away. Nothing to
trouble about, though, if it had been any other man than Kresney."
Olliver brought his fist down on the table.
"That's precisely what my wife says. You know what a lot she thinks of
Desmond; and I believe she's capable of tackling the little woman
herself, which I couldn't stand at any price. That's why I promised to
speak to you to-day. Hope it doesn't seem infernal cheek on my part."
"Not at all. Go on."
Each instinctively avoided the other's eyes; while Olliver, in a few
curt sentences, spoke his mind on the subject in hand.
The bond that links the inhabitants of small isolated Indian stations
is a thing that only the Anglo-Indian can quite understand. Desmond's
illness, and the possible tragedy overhanging him, had roused such
strong feeling in Kohat, that his wife's conduct--which at another
time would merely have supplied material for a little mild gossip--had
awakened the general sense of indignation, more especially among the
men. But men are not free of speech on these matters, and it was
certain pungent remarks made by little Mrs Riley of the Sikhs which
had set Frank Olliver's Irish temper in a blaze. The recollection of
what she had seen during Desmond's absence still rankled in her mind;
and her husband, with a masculine dread of an open quarrel between the
only two ladies in the Regiment, had accepted the lesser evil of
speaking to Wyndham himself.
"Mind, I give Mrs Desmond credit for being more passive than active in
the whole affair," he concluded, since Paul seemed disinclined to
volunteer a remark. "But the deuce of it is, that I feel sure Desmond
knows less about the thing than any one else. Can you see him putting
up with it under any circumstances?"
Wyndham shook his head; and for a while they smoked in silence
thinking their own thoughts.
"You want me," Paul asked at length, "to pass all this on to Desmond?
Is that it?"
"Yes; that's it. Unless you think he knows it already."
"No,--frankly, I don't. But is it our business to enlighten him?"
"That's a ticklish question. But I'm inclined to think it is. We can't
be expected to stand a bounder like Kresney hanging round one of our
ladies. Why, I met him as I came here, taking her into his bungalow;
and I had only just passed the sister on that old patriarch she rides.
I call that going a bit too far; and I fancy Desmond would agree with
me."
Wyndham looked up decisively.
"I wouldn't repeat _that_ to him, if my life depended on it."
"No, no. Of course not. You can make things clear without saying too
much. Beastly unpleasant job, and I'm sorry to be forcing it on you.
But you must know that you're the only chap in the Regiment who could
dream of speaking two words to Desmond on such a delicate subject."
Paul acknowledged the statement with a wry smile under his moustache.
"I doubt if he will stand it, even from me; and I'd a deal sooner
wring Kresney's neck. But I'll do the best I can, and take my chance
of the consequences to myself."
Thus reassured, Olliver departed, and Wyndham, watching him go,
wondered what he intended to say.
There are few things more distasteful to a well-bred man than the
necessity of speaking to a friend, however intimate, on the subject of
his wife's conduct or character; because there are few things a man
respects more intimately than his fellow-man's reserve. Wyndham knew,
moreover, that the real sting of his communication would lie less in
the facts themselves than in Mrs Desmond's probable concealment of
them; and his natural kindliness prompted him to a passing pity for
Evelyn, who, in all likelihood, had not yet penetrated beyond the
outer shell of her husband's strongly marked character.
The only means of tempering the wind to the shorn lamb lay in speaking
first to Honor; and on that idea Wyndham unconditionally turned his
back. Mrs Desmond had brought this thing upon herself. She must face
the consequences as best she might.
But on entering the study, the words he had come to say were checked
upon his lips.
Desmond stood beside the writing-table, where the green shade lay
discarded; and a noticeable scar on his right cheek was all that now
remained of the wound which had threatened such serious results. His
whole attention was centred upon Rob, who pranced at his feet with
ungainly caperings, flinging dignity to the winds, and testifying,
with heart and voice and eloquent tail, to the joy that was in him.
Paul's sensitive soul revolted from the necessity of imparting ill
news at such a moment; and it was Desmond who spoke first.
"Mackay's been here this minute making a final examination of my eyes.
Gave me leave, thank God, to discard _that_ abomination; and Rob
hasn't left off congratulating me since I flung it on the table. The
little beggar seems to understand what's happened just as well as I
do." He turned on Wyndham with a short satisfied laugh. "By Jove,
Paul, it's thundering good to look _you_ squarely in the face again!
But why,--what's the trouble, old man? Have you heard bad news?"
"Not very bad, but certainly--unpleasant."
"And you came to tell me?"
"Yes, I came to tell you."
Desmond motioned him to a chair; and, as he seated himself with
unhurried deliberation, laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
"What is it?" he asked. "The Regiment or yourself?"
"Neither."
"Well, then----?"
"It concerns _you_, my dear Theo," Paul answered slowly. "And it is
about--your wife."
Desmond frowned sharply, and Wyndham saw the defensive look spring
into his eyes.
"Do you mean----? Has there been an accident?"
"No--no; nothing of that sort. I'm sorry to have been so clumsy."
"She is quite safe? Nothing wrong with her?"
"Nothing whatever."
Desmond's mouth took an expression Wyndham knew well. An enemy might
have called it pig-headed.
"At that rate, there can be no more to say about her."
And he went leisurely over to the mantelpiece, where he remained,
leaning on one elbow, his back towards his companion. Paul saw plainly
that he was ill at ease, and cursed the contingency which compelled
him to further speech.
"Forgive me if I seem intrusive, Theo," he began, "but I am afraid
there is more to be said. This afternoon Olliver spoke to me----"
Desmond swung round again, with blazing eyes.
"What the hell has Olliver got to do with _my wife_? I have never
interfered with his."
Paul Wyndham looked very steadily into the disturbed face of his
friend. Then he brought his hand down on the green baize of the table
before him.
"Theo--my dear fellow," he said, "it is hard enough for me, in any
case, to say what I must. Is it quite generous of you to make it
harder?"
The fire died slowly out of Desmond's eyes, giving place to a look of
stubborn resignation.
"Forgive me, Paul. Sorry I lost my temper. Let me have the bare facts,
please. Though I probably know them already."
And he returned to his former attitude, the fingers of his left hand
caressing mechanically the stem of a tall vase.
His last remark made Paul watch him anxiously. He was wondering
whether Theo's determination to shield his wife would possibly goad
him into a direct lie; and he devoutly hoped not.
"Well," he began at length, "Olliver spoke to me because there seems
to be rather a strong feeling in the Regiment about Mrs Desmond
and--Kresney being so constantly together again just now----"
The vase Desmond was handling fell with a crash on the concrete
hearth, and the blood spurted from a surface cut on his finger. But
beyond thrusting the scarred hand into his coat pocket, he made no
movement.
"Go on," he said doggedly; and Paul obediently went on, addressing his
unresponsive back and shoulders.
"You see, it was rather--noticeable while you were away. Perhaps the
fact that we all dislike Kresney made it more so; and it naturally
strikes one as very bad taste on his part to be forcing himself on
your wife at a time like this. It seems there was some slight talk at
the Club too--not worth noticing, of course. But you know Mrs Olliver
takes fire easily, where any of us are concerned; and Olliver seemed
afraid she might speak to Mrs Desmond, unless I came to you. He met
them again this afternoon; and he felt you ought at least to know
exactly how matters stand----"
"He might have taken it for granted that I should do that without
_his_ interference."
Desmond's temper was flaring up again; and his words brought the
anxious look back to Paul's eyes. Theo was sailing very near the wind.
"We all know you too well to believe that you would--tolerate such a
state of things--_if_ you were aware of them," he answered slowly,
choosing his words with care. "Please understand, Theo, that it is
Kresney who is criticised; and that Olliver put the whole thing before
me as nicely as possible. I feel I have been clumsy enough myself. But
it goes against the grain to say anything at all, you understand?"
Desmond's sole answer was a decisive nod of the head. Then silence
fell--a strained silence, difficult to break. Yet it was he himself
who broke it.
"I can do no less than thank you," he said stiffly. "It was a hateful
thing to have thrust upon you; but Frank's intrusion would have been
unendurable. The truth is--" he paused, for the words were hard to
bring out--"I have known--all along that my wife was more friendly
with--these Kresneys than I quite cared about. One could make no valid
objections without seeming uncharitable, and she is still too new here
to understand our point of view. But I must see to it now that she
_shall_ understand, once and for all. It is intolerable to have one's
brother officers--making remarks, even with the best intentions. Will
you ask Honor to tell my wife, when she comes in, that I want to see
her?"
Silence again; and Paul rose to his feet. It hurt him to leave his
friend without a word. But the attitude Desmond had adopted precluded
the lightest touch of sympathy, and Wyndham could not choose but
admire him the more.
"By the way"--Desmond turned upon him as he went with startling
abruptness--"_Honor_ isn't in any way mixed up with all this, is she?"
Something in his look and tone made Wyndham glance at him intently
before replying. "Of course she saw how things were while you were
away. But she has been out very little lately; and as far as I can
judge, she knows nothing about the talk that is going on now."
"Thank Heaven!" Desmond muttered into his moustache; but Paul's ear
failed to catch the words.
"Won't you have a 'peg' or a cup of tea, Theo?" he asked gently.
"No, thanks."
"I think you ought to have one or the other."
"Very well, whichever you please. Only, bring it yourself, there's a
good chap."
Paul's eyes rested thoughtfully upon his friend, who, absorbed in his
own reflections, seemed to have forgotten his presence. Then he went
slowly away, revolving the matter in his mind.
While avoiding the least shadow of false statement, Desmond had
succeeded in shielding his wife from the one serious implication
suggested by her conduct, or at least would have so succeeded, but for
the tell-tale crash of glass upon the hearth-stone. Yet the most vivid
impression left on Paul by their short interview was the look in
Theo's eyes when he had asked that one abrupt question about Honor
Meredith.
Was it possible----? Was it even remotely possible----?
Wyndham reined in the involuntary thought, as a man reins in his horse
on the brink of a precipice. Common loyalty to the friend he loved,
with the unspoken love of half a lifetime, forbade him to look that
shrouded possibility frankly in the face.