Captain Desmond, V.C.

"Why did you have everything different to-night just because of Mr Denvil?" she demanded in a note of challenge.

"Because I preferred it so."

Desmond's tone was polite, but final. He sat down and opened a book in self-defence. But Evelyn was not to be baulked by a policy of masterly inactivity. She remained standing before him.

"Is it going to be like that every time he comes?"

"Yes."

"Theo – it's perfectly ridiculous the way you put yourself out for that boy!" she protested with unusual heat, kindled by a hidden spark of jealousy. "It's bad enough to have you giving up everything, and making Honor and me thoroughly uncomfortable, without this sort of nonsense on the top of it all."

Honor glanced up in quick remonstrance; but Desmond caught the look in her eyes, and it was enough. "Haven't you the sense to see that just because he is so fond of you he ought to be allowed to know how much trouble he has given you. It's the only way to make him more careful, now he's back again; and if you will go on in this way, I shall end in speaking to him myself."

She had overshot the mark.

Desmond shut the book with a snap; flung it on the table, and sprang up with such anger in his eyes that his wife shrank back instinctively. Her movement, slight as it was, checked the impetuous speech upon his lips.

"You will do nothing of the sort," he said in a restrained voice. "It is a matter entirely between him and me; and that's an end of the subject, once for all."

Evelyn, startled into silence, stood motionless till the study door closed behind her husband; then, with a sigh of exasperation, hurried out of the room, leaving Honor to her own disturbing thoughts.

Each month was forcing upon the girl a clearer revelation of the clash of temperament, which threatened to bring about serious disunion between these two, whose happiness had become a vital part of her life; and her spirit was troubled beyond measure. The strongest passion of Honor Meredith's heart was the true woman's passion – to protect and help. But worldly wisdom warned her that her hands were tied; that man and wife must work out their own salvation, or the reverse, without help or hindrance from her.

Since their return from Murree such flashes of dissension had become increasingly frequent between them. It is astonishing how quickly two people can fall into a habit of discord. Abstinence from tobacco was not without its effect upon Desmond's nerves and temper, tried as they were by Evelyn's pin-prick methods of warfare; while she herself was often strung into irritability by her own unacknowledged troubles.

The passing relief wrought by Miss Kresney's loan had evaporated with the realisation that she had only contracted a debt in another direction – a debt more embarrassing than all the rest put together; for she knew that she would never have the courage to speak of it to her husband. Miss Kresney had told her to take her time in the matter of repayment, and she had taken it in generous measure. Not a fraction of the three hundred rupees had been repaid as yet; and, by way of atonement, Evelyn felt constrained to a more decisive friendliness with both brother and sister – a fact which Owen Kresney noted with satisfaction; and which did not improve matters between herself and Theo.

As the weeks wore on he devoted his spare time more exclusively to polo and Persian; continuing his lessons to Honor; and rarely spending his evenings in the drawing-room, unless the girl's music held him spellbound, and ensured the avoidance of dangerous topics. Evelyn retorted by a renewed zest for tennis and tea-parties; an increasing tendency to follow the line of least resistance, regardless of results. Thus Honor found herself thrown more and more upon the companionship of Mrs Olliver, Mrs Conolly, and Paul Wyndham, whose anxiety for Theo she guessed at, even as they guessed her own, though never a word on the subject passed between them.

Evelyn's anxiety was reserved exclusively for herself. She had sense enough to perceive that nothing could defer the day of reckoning much longer; and on a certain afternoon in early December she exhumed her detested sheaf of bills and sat down at her bureau to a reconsideration of the hopelessness of things in general.

A panel of winter sunshine, flung across the room from the verandah door, enveloped her in a glow of light and warmth. The drowsiness of an Indian noon brooded over the compound. Honor was out riding with Paul Wyndham; Theo busy in the next room, and very unlikely to interrupt her, she reflected with a pang of regret. In an hour's time she was going over to tea and tennis with the Kresneys; and had decided that, after six months of silence, some mention must be made of a fixed scale of repayment, to begin with the New Year. But in that event, what hope of meeting any of those other demands, that were again being urgently brought to her notice? What possibility of ordering the two new gowns – bare necessities, in her esteem – to grace the coming Christmas week at Lahore?

This same "week" is the central social event of the Punjab cold weather, when most officers on the Border are certain of their fifteen days' leave; when from all corners of the Province men and women gravitate towards its dusty capital – women with dress baskets of formidable size; men armed with polo-sticks, and with ponies, beloved cricket-bats and saddles!

Through all the dismal coil of things, this one hour of festivity gleamed on Evelyn Desmond's horizon like a light in a dark room. For one brief blessed week she would be in her element, would escape from the galling restraint of economy; and, more than all, in the background of her mind there lurked a hope that by some means she might recapture that vigorous, self-poised husband of hers, whose love was, after all, the one real necessity of her life; and whom she now saw slipping slowly, surely out of reach. But to recapture she must recaptivate; and to that end faultless frocks were indispensable.

She leaned her head upon her hands, and fell to building extravagant air-castles that eclipsed all practical considerations whatsoever.

So complete was her abstraction, that she failed to hear the study door open, and was rudely startled back to reality by her husband's voice at her elbow, sharp and stern, as she had never heard it till now.

"What is the meaning of this, Evelyn?" he demanded, bringing his hand down on the desk beside her; and one glance at the half sheet lying beneath it was enough. That particular bill had grown painfully familiar during the last few months. It was from Lahore, and its total was no less than three hundred rupees. Her husband's waiting silence was more disconcerting than speech.

"It's mine," she murmured breathlessly; and snatched at the offending scrap of paper, tearing it in two.

"The bill is mine now," Desmond rebuked her with studied equanimity. "You can't cancel it by destroying it. No doubt you've got another copy. Will you let me have it and any others you happen to have by you?"

"Where's the use of that?.. You can't pay off anything now."

"I can and will pay off every penny. But I must know exactly how you stand."

For all his coldness, the assurance fell on her heart like rain on thirsty soil. Where the money was to come from she could not guess. But she knew enough of the man to feel sure that his words would be fulfilled to the letter.

One consideration only withheld her from reply. How much did she dare confess to him even now? Not Miss Kresney's transaction; nor the need of new dresses for Lahore. But the rest!.. What an unspeakable comfort it would be to fling all the rest on to his shoulders, that seemed broad and strong enough to carry her burdens and his own.

Her hesitancy pricked him to impatience.

"Well, Evelyn, I am waiting for your answer. Are there other bills besides that one? – Yes or No. I want the truth. Don't stop to embroider it."

At that the blood flew to her cheeks. She sprang up and faced him, tremulous, but defiant.

"If you say things like that to me, I won't tell you anything at all … ever." And turning sharply away, to hide her tears, she went over to the mantelpiece and leaned upon it, keeping her back towards him.

Desmond followed her.

"I am sorry if I hurt you," he said, a touch of bitterness in his tone. "But the fact that I can speak so without doing you a gross injustice hurts me more than you are ever likely to understand."

"You make it all seem much worse – than it really is," she answered without looking round. "I haven't done anything dreadful, after all. Heaps of people get into debt. You weren't so angry with Mr Denvil; and – and – if you hadn't been in such a hurry to help him, you'd have found it easier to help me now."

"No need to fling that in my teeth, or drag the Boy into the discussion. The cases are not parallel, and you have only yourself to thank that my money went to him instead of you. In my anxiety to avoid anything of this sort, I have questioned you several times, and each time you have told me a lie. The whole pile of bills are nothing to me in comparison with that. I suppose I ought to have known that you could hardly dress as you do on the little I can spare. But I was fool enough to trust you implicitly." He paused, and added with greater gentleness: "What's more, I shall trust you again, unless you make that quite impossible. But I warn you – Ladybird, that if ever you do kill my trust in you, you will kill – everything else along with it."

"Theo!"

There was sharp pain in the cry, and she swung round, flinging out her hands with a pathetic gesture of entreaty. He did not take them as she half hoped he would; but stood looking at her in a thoughtful silence. Then, "If you care as much as that," he said slowly, "it lies with you not to fling away the thing you care for. Will you please let me see those bills."

"They are on the bureau. You can take them."

She turned again to the mantelpiece, for her lips were not quite steady.

"You were going to tell me about them, perhaps?"

"N – no. I wasn't."

He sighed; and taking up the papers, looked through them absently, too deeply troubled to grasp their contents.

"Are these all?" he asked quietly.

"Nearly all."

"Have you any idea of the total?"

"About six hundred rupees."

A short silence followed, during which she again heard the rustle of paper behind her, and longed for a sight of his face.

"I am afraid this knocks the Lahore week on the head," he said at length. "I am bound to run down for the Polo Tournament, of course; but I can come straight back, and we must do without the rest of it this year."

The incredible words roused Evelyn to open mutiny. Once more she faced him, her head flung backward, a ring of resolve in her voice.

"No, Theo, … I won't do without the rest of it. You don't care, I daresay! So long as you can win the Punjab Cup, nothing else matters. But Christmas week is my only bit of real pleasure in all the cold weather, and I will go down for it, … whatever you say."

Theo Desmond was completely taken aback; and when surprise gave place to speech, his tone suggested the iron hand under the velvet glove.

"My dear little woman, you are talking nonsense. If I find it impossible to manage Lahore, you will remain here. There can be no question about that."

But Evelyn persisted with the courage of despair.

"Then you mustn't find it impossible, … that's all! There has been nothing but giving up ever since we came from Murree. I'm sick of it; and I won't give up Christmas week, too. It's quite hard enough for me as it is, being stranded in the most hopeless part of India because of you, without your grudging my few little pleasures as well." And sinking into a chair, she hid her face in her hands.

The victory is more often to the unscrupulous than to the strong. His wife's injustice cut Desmond to the quick. Impulsive renunciation sprang to his lips; and was only checked by the remembrance that he had given Honor his word.

"Evelyn – Evelyn," he pleaded with sudden vehemence, "for Heaven's sake have a little consideration for facts – if you have none for me. I grudge you nothing – I have never done so – and you know it. But – if you really find Frontier life intolerable, I can only give you free leave to go home, directly I scrape together the money for your passage."

"Go home – ?" she echoed in blank bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

"What I say."

"But – wouldn't you come too?"

"No. I have no leave due now; and if I had, I couldn't afford to take it."

"You want me to go?" she flashed out in a tremor of apprehension. "I'm only a hindrance to you here. That's the real truth, I suppose?"

"I never said that, and I have given you no grounds for thinking it."

"But do you, Theo —do you?"

Her eyes searched his face for confirmation of her suspicion, and found none.

"What I want or don't want is beside the mark," he said. "I naturally wish to see you happy; and as that evidently can't be managed here, I am willing to let you go and be happy elsewhere."

Her eyes fell and her answer came almost in a whisper.

"But I couldn't be happy anywhere else – without you."

"Is that the truth?"

"Yes."

"You'd prefer to stay here – with me?"

"Yes."

He laid his hand for an instant on her bent head.

"Stay then, Ladybird, by all means. Only, for pity's sake, spare me any more of the sort of things you said just now."

"And you won't stop me from going to Lahore, Theo? – Promise."

A swift change of expression crossed his face.

"I can't promise that. I'll do my best not to disappoint you, but I must get all these cleared off before I think of anything else."

"How can you manage to clear them off – now?"

"Why trouble your head about side issues? They will all be paid before Christmas; that ought to be enough for you."

"But it's not enough. Tell me what you are going to do – tell me. I won't be pushed on one side like a child."

Desmond frowned.

"Well – if you insist on having it, I am going to sell Diamond."

She started and caught at his arm. For all his matter-of-fact coolness, she knew what those half-dozen words meant to her husband.

"No, – no Theo. Not Diamond! He's the best of them all."

"Exactly. He'll sell quicker and fetch a longer price than any of the others; that's why – he must go."

"But the tournament? Captain Olliver's mad about winning the Cup this year."

"I know that. So am I. I shall manage about a third pony, no fear. Time enough to think of that later. I must go and make out those advertisements."

He set his teeth upon the word and turned to leave her, but her voice arrested him half-way to the door.

"Theo!"

"Well?"

"Are you sure there's nothing else that can be done? It – it isn't fair for you to lose the pony you love best, just because of a few dressmakers' bills."

At that his pent-up bitterness slipped from leash.

"Upon my soul, Evelyn, you're right. But there's no other way out of the difficulty, so let's have no more words about it: they don't make things easier to bear."

CHAPTER XIV.

I SIMPLY INSIST

"The fountains of my hidden life,Are, through thy friendship, fair."– Emerson.

Not many days later Desmond's advertisements appeared simultaneously in the only two newspapers of Upper India; and he set his face like a flint in anticipation of the universal remonstrance in store for him, when the desperate step he had taken became known to the regiment.

He was captain of the finest polo team on the frontier; the one great tournament of the year – open to every Punjab regiment, horse and foot – would begin in less than a fortnight; and he, who had never parted with a polo pony in his life, was advertising the pick of his stable for sale. A proceeding so unprecedented, so perplexing to all who knew him, could not, in the nature of things, be passed over in silence. Desmond knew – none better – that victory or defeat may hang on the turn of a hair; that, skilled player though he was, the introduction of a borrowed pony, almost at the last moment, into a team trained for months to play in perfect accord was unwise, to say the least of it; knew also that he would be called upon to justify his own unwisdom at so critical a juncture, when all hearts were set on winning the coveted Punjab Cup.

And justification was out of the question, – there lay the sting.

Loyalty to Evelyn sealed his lips; and even the loss of his best-loved pony was less hard to bear than the possibility of being misjudged by his brother officers, whose faith in him had come to be an integral part of his life.

In his present cooler frame of mind he saw that his action had been over-hasty; but with men of vehement temperament, to think is to feel, to feel is to act, – reflection comes last, if it ever comes at all. The first heat of vexation, the discovery of his wife's untrustworthiness and the sacrifice it entailed, had blinded him to all minor considerations.

But these were details that could not be put into words. The thing was done. To put a brave face on it, and to shield Evelyn from the result of her own misdoing – there lay his simple duty in a nutshell. The risk must be accepted, and the Punjab Cup carried off in its despite. This man owed more than he knew to the "beholden face of victory"; to his life-long determination that, no matter what happened, he must conquer.

In the meanwhile immediate issues demanded his full attention.

Harry Denvil, as might be expected, sounded the first note of protest.

He invaded the sacred precincts of his senior's study with audacious lack of ceremony.

"Forgive me, Desmond: but there was no one in the verandah, and I couldn't wait. Of course you know what's in the wind. The Colonel came on that advertisement of yours in 'The Pioneer' just before tiffin, and you should have heard him swear! He showed it to Major Wyndham, and asked: 'Was it a practical joke?' But the Major seemed quite cut up; said he knew nothing about it, and you would probably have good reasons to give. The rest didn't take it so quietly; but of course I understood at once. For God's sake, old chap, cancel that confounded advertisement, and take back your eight hundred. I can borrow it again from the shroff, just for the present. Anything's better than letting you in for the loss of Diamond at a time like this."

He broke off more from lack of breath than lack of matter; and Desmond, who had risen to cope with the intruder, put both hands upon the Boy's shoulders, a great kindliness softening his eyes.

"My dear Harry, don't distress yourself," he said. "I appreciate your generosity a good deal more than I care to say. But you are not in any way to blame for the loss of Diamond."

"But, Desmond – I don't understand – "

"There are more things in heaven and earth…!" Desmond quoted, smiling. "It's like your impertinence to understand everything at four-and-twenty."

"Oh, shut up!" the other retorted, laughing in spite of himself. "Can't you see I'm in earnest? You don't mean to tell me – ?"

"No, Harry, I don't mean to tell you anything about it. I'm not responsible to you for my actions. Stay and have a pipe with me to cool you down a bit. Not another word about my affairs, or I take you by the shoulders and put you outside the door."

Thus much for Denvil. But the rest could not be treated in this summary fashion.

Wyndham put in an appearance at polo that afternoon. He played fitfully; and at other times rode out to the ground, which lay a mile or so beyond the station. To-day it chanced – or possibly Paul so contrived it – that he and Desmond rode home together, a little behind the others.

A low sun stretched out all the hills; distorted the shadows of the riders; and flung a golden pollen of radiance over the barren land.

The habit of silence was strong between these two men; and for a while it lasted unbroken. Desmond was riding his favourite pony, a spirited chestnut Arab, swift as a swallow, sensitive as a child, bearing on his forehead the white star to which he owed his name. The snaffle hung loose upon his neck, and Desmond's hand rested upon the silken shoulder as if in a mute caress. He knew what was coming, and awaited Paul's pleasure with stoical resignation.

Wyndham considered the strong, straight lines of his friend's profile thoughtfully; then he spoke:

"You gave us all rather a shock this morning, Theo."

"I'm sorry for that. I was afraid there'd be some bother about it. But needs must – when the devil drives."

"The devil that drives you is your own incurable pride," Paul answered with unusual warmth. "You know, without forcing me to put it in words, that every rupee I possess is at your service. You might have given me a chance before going such lengths as this."

Desmond shook his head. The man's fastidious soul revolted from the idea of using Paul's money to pay his wife's bills.

"Not in these circumstances," he said. "It wasn't pride that held me back; but a natural sense of the justice and – fitness of things. You must take that on trust, Paul."

"Why, of course, my dear chap. But how about the fitness of parting with that pony just before the tournament? As captain of the team, do you think you are acting quite fairly by the Regiment?"

The shot told. Among soldiers of the best sort the Regiment is apt to be a fetish, and to Desmond the lightest imputation of disregard for its welfare was intolerable.

"Is that how the other fellows look at it?" he asked, a troubled note in his voice.

"Well, if they do, one can hardly blame them. They naturally want to know what you mean to do about the tournament after you have let your best pony go? I take it for granted that you have some sort of plan in your head."

"Yes. I am counting on you to lend me Esmeralda. It's only the 6th now; and if I train her for all I'm worth between this and the 20th, I can get her up to the scratch."

Paul's answering smile was oddly compact of tenderness and humour.

"So that's your notion? You'll deign to make use of me so far? Upon my soul, Theo, you deserve that I should refuse, since you won't give me the satisfaction of doing what would be far more to the purpose."

Desmond looked his friend steadily in the eyes.

"You'll not refuse, though," he said quietly, and Paul shook his head. By way of thanks, Theo laid his hand impulsively upon Wyndham's arm.

"I'm sure you understand, dear old man, that it's not easy or pleasant for me to part with Diamond, or to shut you out and refuse your help; but I can't endure that the rest of them should think me slack or careless of their interests."

"They know you far too well to think anything of the sort. By the way, what arrangements are you making for Lahore?"

"None at all. Honor will go, I daresay; and I shall run down for the polo. But fifteen days' leave is out of the question."

Paul turned sharply in his saddle.

"Now, look here, Theo – you're going too far. I make no offer this time. I simply insist!"

Desmond hesitated. The thought of Evelyn was knocking at his heart.

"You know I hate accepting that sort of thing," he objected, "even from you."

Wyndham laughed.

"That's your peculiar form of selfishness, my dear chap. You want to keep the monopoly of giving in your own hands. Very wholesome for you to have the tables turned. Besides," urged the diplomatist, boldly laying down his trump card, "it would be a great disappointment to your wife not to go down with us all and see the matches."

"Yes. That's just the difficulty."

"I'm delighted to hear it! The Lahore week shall be my Christmas present to her and you; and there's an end of that dilemma."

"Thank you, Paul," Desmond said simply. "I'll tell her to-night. Come over to dinner," he added as they parted. "The Ollivers will be there; and I may stand in need of protection."

The sound of music greeted him from the hall, and he found Honor playing alone in the dusk.

"Please go on," he said, as she rose to greet him. "It's what I want more than anything at this moment."

The girl flushed softly, and turned back to the instrument. Any one who had heard her playing before Desmond came in, could scarcely have failed to note the subtle change in its quality. She made of her music a voice of sympathy, evolved from the heart of the great German masters; whose satisfying strength and simplicity – so far removed from the restless questioning of our later day – were surely the outcome of a large faith in God; of the certainty that effort, aspiration, and endurance, despite their seeming futility, can never fail to be very much worth while.