EVEN TO THE UTMOST.
"How can Love lose, doing of its kind,
Even to the utmost?"
--EDWIN ARNOLD.
When Evelyn Desmond stumbled out of her husband's presence, stunned,
bewildered, blinded with tears, the one coherent thought left in her
mind was--Honor. Amid all that was terrifying and heart-breaking,
Honor's love stood sure; a rock in mid-ocean--the one certainty that
would never fail her, though the world went to pieces under her feet.
But Honor was not in the drawing-room; and Evelyn knocked timidly at
her door.
"Come in," the low voice sounded from the other side. The girl was
standing before the looking-glass, pinning on her hat.
"I was going across to ask after Mr Bradley," she explained,
completing the operation before looking round. But at sight of
Evelyn's face she hurried forward, holding out her arms.
"Dearest, what _has_ happened to make you look like that?"
"Everything's happened! It's all finished between Theo and me. Broken
up. He said so--and--I'm going away. There are--other people who care.
I won't stay with a man who doesn't love me--or trust me----"
But Honor, holding her closer, looked searchingly into her face.
"Evelyn, that is _not true!_"
"Well, he said so. And _he_ doesn't tell lies!"
"Oh, you poor, poor child!" Honor murmured, kissing her with a strange
fervour of sympathy. "But tell me--what's the reason of all this? If
Theo did say such terrible things, he must have been cruelly hurt or
very angry----"
"He was--very angry. I'm sure he won't forgive me this time; and I do
believe it would be better all round if I went right away and left him
in peace with his polo and his squadron and his precious Frontier
Force----"
Honor's hand closed her lips. "My dear! Are you _quite_ mad?"
"No. But I think I will be--very soon."
She spoke with such tragic certainty that the girl smiled in spite of
herself. "Why? What have you done? Tell me--quick!"
"Oh! It's not _me_ that's done," Evelyn declared with her engaging air
of injured innocence. "It's other people--Major Wyndham, I
believe--making remarks to him about me and--Mr Kresney."
"You've been _there_ again. I was half afraid----"
"Why on earth shouldn't I? But now Theo's simply ordered me to drop
them. It's quite impossible. I--I told him so."
"And you did not tell him why?"
"No. That would have been worse than all."
"But you will tell _me_. You must--if I am to help you."
Evelyn regarded her with a misty smile. "You're very wonderful, Honor.
But even _you_ can't help now. You see--it's money----"
"Money? How? What?"
"Promise you won't stop loving me and be angry--like Theo was," Evelyn
pleaded, the incurable child flashing out in the midst of her
distress. "I've had enough for to-day."
"I promise, dear. Go on."
Then the small sordid tragedy came out in broken snatches, to the last
particle. For once in her life Evelyn Desmond spoke the unvarnished
truth, adorning nothing, extenuating nothing; and Honour listened in
an enigmatical silence--a silence which held even after the last word
had been spoken. Evelyn looked up at her nervously.
"Honour, you _are_ angry inside. I can see you are."
"No,--I am not angry," Honor answered slowly. "Where would be the use?
I am simply--astounded that you could _dare_ to run such risks with
the love of a man who is one among a thousand."
She spoke the last words with unguarded enthusiasm; not perceiving,
till they were out, the intent look on Evelyn's face.
"I knew you were friends with Theo, Honor," she said, "but I never
thought you admired him as much--as all _that_."
The girl caught the note of jealousy, and coloured to the roots of her
hair.
"I am not alone in my opinion," she said with an uneasy laugh. "There
are dozens of others who would say no less. It is only that I want you
to realise your good fortune before it is too late."
"But it _is_ too late. If he's angry now he'll be furious when he
knows. And unless I go away he will _have_ to know."
"You shall not go away. And he must never know. He has suffered enough
as it is----"
"Haven't _I_ suffered just as much? You always think of him----"
"I am thinking of you both. How much is it that you still owe these
Kresneys?"
"A hundred and fifty--no, two hundred. And I can't possibly pay it for
months and months."
By this time Honor had crossed to the chest of drawers near her bed
and had taken out a small japanned cash-box. Evelyn watched her
movements with ecstatic enlightenment.
"Honor--what _are_ you going to do?" she asked breathlessly.
But the girl neither answered nor turned her head. She took out a
small sheaf of notes, locked the cash-box, and put it away. Then
taking an envelope from her rack, she sealed and addressed it, while
Evelyn leaned against the dressing-table, white and speechless from
the shock of relief.
"The whole amount is in there," Honor said, handing her the envelope,
and speaking in a repressed voice. "Luckily I had hardly touched my
month's money. This makes you free to do as Theo wishes. I don't want
a penny of it back--ever. And Theo is never to know anything about
the whole transaction. Promise me that; and don't _dare_ to break your
word."
"I promise faithfully. Oh, Honor, you are my good angel! Shall I take
it now--at once?"
"No. Not you. I must go myself. It ought to be delivered to him in
person, and I must have a stamped receipt."
"Honor, how horrid! Just as if he were a shop! Besides--nobody but
_me_ can give it--or explain----"
"How can you explain? What will you say?"
"Just whatever comes into my head. Married women understand these sort
of things. I shall know what to say--at the time."
"So will he. And then----"
"There you go!" Tears threatened again and her voice shook. "You talk
about loving me and you don't trust me any more than Theo does. If I
mayn't do this my own way I won't take the money at all."
"Don't talk nonsense, child," Honor cried desperately, her own
self-control almost at an end. "You _must_ take it. And if you insist
on running risks with your eyes open, there's no more to be said
except make haste and get the wretched thing done with. Go at once, in
your jhampan--and _don't_ leave it. Ask for Miss Kresney; and--shop or
no shop--mind you get a proper receipt. Then come straight home and
tell Theo you will do what he wishes. He will have had time to think
things over and it will be all right. I know it will. Perhaps you
would like me to speak of it to him, if I get the chance?"
"Yes--yes. Do, please! You dear, wonderful Honor! I don't know how to
say thank you enough----"
But Honor disengaged herself something hurriedly. The ache of
rebellion at her heart made Evelyn's effusiveness unendurable.
"Don't thank me at all," she said. "I don't want your thanks. I
don't--deserve them. Take care of that envelope; it is worth more than
two hundred rupees to you--and to me. Now go!"
And taking her by the shoulders, she put her gently outside the door.
Then, drawing a deep breath of relief, stood alone with the
realisation of all that had passed.
It seemed that she was not to be spared one drop of the cup of
bitterness; that to her had been assigned the task of Sisyphus, the
ceaseless rolling upward of a stone that as ceaselessly rolled down;
the continual re-establishment of Evelyn in the shrine of her
husband's heart. And there would be no end to it, even after John's
return. So long as these two had need of her, heart and brain and
hands would be at their service. She did not definitely think this,
because true heroism is unaware of itself. "It feels, and never
reasons; and therefore is always right."
Honor was aware of nothing just then, but the keen pang of
self-reproach. "God forgive me!" she murmured, forming the words with
her lips. "I did it for _him_."
Then she started, and the blood flew to her face. For Desmond's voice,
imperious, entreating, rang clear through the quiet of the house.
"Ladybird, where _are_ you? Come back!"
And without a thought of what she intended to say, Honor went out to
the completion of her day's work. That was her practical way of
looking at the matter.
"It will be easy enough," she reflected as she went. The entreaty in
Desmond's voice assured her of that.
But in the drawing-room doorway she stood still, extraordinarily
still. For Desmond himself confronted her; and she had not anticipated
the ordeal of a face-to-face encounter.
Involuntarily, inevitably, their eyes met, and lingered in each
other's depths. It was their first real greeting since his return; and
they felt it as such. It was the first time also that Desmond had seen
her completely since his lightning-flash of self-knowledge; and in the
same instant the same thought sprang to both their minds--that, in the
past three weeks, the detested shade had served them better than they
knew.
For a full minute it seemed as if these two, whose courage was above
proof, did not dare risk movement or speech. But it was no more than a
minute. Each was incapable of suspecting the other's hidden fear; and
now, as always, Evelyn was the foremost thought in the minds of both.
Desmond broke the spell by one step forward.
"I want Ladybird," he said abruptly. "Where is she?"
"I'm sorry. She has just gone out; but she won't be long."
Honor knew what must come next; knew also that she could neither lie
to him nor tell him the truth.
"What possessed her to go out again? Do you know where she went?"
"Yes, Theo, I do know," she answered, coming into the room, and
speaking with a noble directness that was like a light thrown across
tortuous ways. "It was unavoidable. I would rather not say any more.
You can trust me, can't you?"
"As I trust God and my own soul," he replied with profound conviction.
"Did she seem--much upset?"
"Yes,--terribly upset. Not without reason. She told me everything. May
I speak of it, Theo? You won't think me--intrusive?"
He gave her a quick, reproachful glance.
"_You?_ Say what you please. I was a brute to her; and I know it. But
I swear I wasn't hard on her till she refused to break with Kresney.
Did she give you any sort of reason for that?"
"Yes; and I have quite cleared up the difficulty; though I'm afraid
you mustn't ask me how."
"You seem hedged about with mysteries this evening," he remarked, a
trifle curtly. "I confess I like daylight, and straight roads."
"Not more than I do, Theo. But you have said you can trust me; and at
least I can assure you that there was no question of personal
reluctance. Whatever Evelyn's failings may be, I know that _you_ are
the one big thing in her life."
Desmond compressed his lips, and looked down thoughtfully at the
bearskin under his feet; while Honor allowed her eyes to dwell on the
goodly lines of his face. Then he squared his shoulders and looked up
at her.
"Honor--if that is true--and I think it is--you are bound to let me
help her by the only means in my power. Give me back that promise of
mine. I am strong enough now to tackle the subject; and I warn you
fairly that I mean to have my own way. So don't waste time by beating
about the bush."
The unexpected attack unbalanced her, and the blood left her face; but
there was no hint of yielding in her eyes. They were equally matched
these two--strength for strength; will for will. The ultimate victory
might rest with either.
"Theo!" she protested, "you can ask that of me--to-day?"
"Yes, precisely--to-day. My mistake--my selfishness, has been very
painfully brought home to me in the last hour; and I don't ask it of
you--I demand it."
Honor drew herself up to her full height.
"You cannot command it, though," she said quietly. "And--I refuse."
The hot blood mounted to his temples, but he shut his teeth to keep
back hasty speech. Then, as the silence grew and deepened between
them, anger gave place to an unbounded admiration.
They were standing now face to face, beside the mantelpiece, exactly
as they had stood on that eventful April afternoon a year ago. The
memory came to them simultaneously; and each saw the light of it
spring into the other's eyes. Honor's face softened.
"You remember," she urged. "I see that you remember; and the arguments
you admitted then hold even more strongly now. Besides--you said I had
earned the right----"
"So you have--ten times over since then. But to-day I see my duty to
Ladybird so clearly, that no one--not even you--must stand in the way
of it. You would realise better how I feel, if you had heard her
pitiful excuses. She was 'dull.' She was 'lonely.' I had 'all those
men,'--so I had. She was right, poor child! Truth is, my life is so
richly filled with 'all those men,' that I sometimes wonder if I was
justified in bringing a woman into it at all. But having done so, I'm
bound to take her where she won't be tempted to entangle herself with
cads like Kresney, just because she feels dull and lonely. That's the
source of half the catastrophes one hears of in this country; and in
nine cases out of ten I blame the husband more than the wife. You see,
I happen to believe that when a man takes a woman's life into his
hands, he makes himself responsible not only for her honour, but for
her happiness and well-being. I'm not setting up a standard for other
fellows, remember. I am simply stating my own by way of explanation."
Honor's eyes shone with a very tender light.
"I can only say that Evelyn is--a singularly fortunate woman. If most
men held such views there would be ninety per cent fewer marriages in
the world."
"Possibly. But that doesn't put me in the wrong. Now, I have set the
picture before you as I see it----"
"Yes, with the core of it left out,--the loss to you and to the
Regiment."
"Oh, hang it all!" Desmond protested with an embarrassed laugh. "One's
bound to leave out something. That's the whole art of making a decent
picture! But it strikes me we've had enough of argument. Whether I
have convinced you or not, Honor, you _must_ let me off that promise."
The girl held her breath, nerving herself for a last desperate stand.
"Forgive me, if you know how, Theo," she said; "but I cannot--I will
not give up my right to save you from yourself."
Desmond simply raised his head and looked at her, as though he could
not believe that he had heard aright; and when at last he spoke, his
voice had the level note of authority which she had been dreading to
hear.
"At the risk of seeming brutal, Honor, I warn you that I'll not give
you one minute's peace till you unsay those words--for Ladybird's
sake."
Then, to his unspeakable consternation, she took a step backward and
sank into the chair behind her, pressing both hands over her eyes.
"Do whatever you think right," she murmured brokenly. "You are too
strong for me altogether."
There are victories more bitter than defeat; and Desmond had no words
in which to answer this girl, who cared so strangely, so intensely,
much what became of him.
When a woman breaks down utterly in the presence of the man who loves
her--whether he dare acknowledge it or no--words are not apt to meet
the exigencies of the case; and Desmond had no other panacea at his
command. He could only stand looking down upon her, his hands thrust
deep into his pockets, as if he feared that they might go out to her
of their own accord; his eyes darkened with such intensity of pain
that it was well for both that hers were shielded from sight of them.
He longed, beyond all things on earth, to kneel down and comfort her.
He knew that three words from him would put an end to her distress,
and cancel his own quixotic plan of action. But the words were not
uttered; and he remained standing on the hearth-rug with his hands in
his pockets. There was no sign in the quiet room that anything
noteworthy had taken place. Yet on those two prosaic details the
future of three lives depended--a man silent when he might have
spoken; planted squarely on his feet when he might have been on his
knees.
Rob got up and stretched himself elaborately, vented his boredom in a
long musical yawn, then settled down to sleep again in a more
expansive attitude; and Evelyn's French clock struck six with cheerful
unconcern.
The silence, which seemed interminable, might possibly have lasted
three minutes, when Honor let fall her hands, and looked up at the man
who had mastered her. He looked what he was--unconquerable; and if she
had not loved him already, she must infallibly have loved him then.
"Please understand," she said, and her voice was not quite steady,
"that I have not _given_ my consent to this. You have simply wrenched
it from me by the sheer force of--your personality. You have not
altered my conviction by a hair's-breadth. What you have set your
heart on is a piece of unjustifiable quixotism; and I have only one
thing to beg of you now. Do nothing decisive till you have spoken to
Paul."
Desmond sighed.
"Very well. I will tackle him to-morrow."
"What a hurry you are in!" And she smiled faintly.
"I believe in striking while the iron's hot."
"And I believe in giving it time to cool. May I--first, say one word
to Paul?"
"No, certainly not." The refusal came out short and sharp. "If you two
combined forces against me I should be done for! Leave me to manage
Paul alone."
With a sigh she rose to her feet.
Then, quite suddenly, her calmness fell away from her.
"Theo--Theo," she protested, "if you really persist in this, and carry
it through, I don't think I shall ever forgive you."
The pain in her voice was more than he could bear.
"For God's sake spare me that!" he pleaded. "I am losing enough as it
is."
And now his hands went out to her irresistibly, in the old impulsive
fashion, that seemed an echo from a former life.
With superlative courage she turned and surrendered both her own. She
wanted to prove herself, at all points, simply his friend; and he gave
her no cause to repent of her courage, or to suspect the strong
restraint he put upon himself during that brief contact, which, at a
moment so charged with emotion, might well have proved fatal to them
both.
"Thank you, Honor," he said quietly.
But for her, speech was impossible. She bowed her head, and left him
standing alone, with the dregs of victory.
On reaching the blessed shelter of her own room she bolted the door;
and for once in her life grief had its way with her unhindered.
She could not guess, while railing against Desmond's tenacity of
purpose, that the same passionate self-reproach which had urged her to
go all lengths for Evelyn, was urging him now to a supreme act of
self-devotion to his wife's happiness.