Captain Desmond, V.C.

It is not to be supposed that Kresney failed to observe the gradual change in Evelyn's bearing. The man displayed remarkable tact and skill in detecting the psychological moment for advance. He contented himself at first with conversations in the Club Gardens and an air of deferential sympathy, which was in itself a subtle form of flattery. But on a certain afternoon of regimental sports, when Evelyn appeared, radiant and smiling, in one of her most irresistible Simla frocks, with an obviously appreciative Pioneer subaltern in attendance, Kresney perceived that the time to assert himself had arrived.

After a short but decisive engagement, he routed that indignant subaltern; and with a quiet assurance which by no means displeased her, took and kept possession of Mrs Desmond for the remainder of the afternoon.

That evening he enjoyed his after-dinner cigar as he had not enjoyed it for many weeks. Mrs Desmond was obviously tired of her pretty pathetic pose; and he intended to avail himself to the utmost of her rebound towards lightheartedness. He flattered himself that he read her like an open book; that she would be as wax in his hands if he chose to push his advantage. But for all his acuteness, he failed to detect the one good grain hid in a bushel of chaff; or to perceive that it was not indifference, but the very burden of her anxiety, that drove Evelyn to seek distraction in the form of any amusement lying near to her hand.

Letters from the Samana were few and brief. The last ones had brought news that the expedition seemed likely to prove a more serious affair than had been anticipated. Unknown to Honor, Evelyn cried herself to sleep that night, and awoke to the decision that she would not be so foolishly unhappy any more. She would shut her eyes to the haunting horrors, and forget. Theo had forbidden her to make herself too miserable. Why should she not obey him? And she proceeded to do so in her own equivocal fashion.

After the first effort it was fatally easy to slip back into the old habit of accepting Kresney's companionship, and his frequent invitations to the house; – fatally easy to slip even a few degrees farther without the smallest suspicion of his hand on the reins. She took to riding with him – sometimes in the early mornings, sometimes in the evenings; and these leisurely rides – for Evelyn was no horsewoman – suited Kresney's taste infinitely better than tennis. By cautious degrees they increased in frequency and duration; till it became evident to the least observant that little Mrs Desmond was consoling herself to good purpose.

Honor watched the new trend of events with suppressed wrath and disgust. That a woman who had won the love of Theo Desmond should descend, even for passing amusement, upon such a travesty of manhood, roused in her a bitterness of rebellion which she had no right to feel; but which, being only human, she could not altogether banish from her heart. Nor were matters made easier by Frank Olliver's periodical outbursts on the subject. The hot-headed Irishwoman had a large share of the unreasoning prejudice of her race. She hated as she loved, wholesale, and without reason. She could make no shadow of excuse for Evelyn Desmond; and was only restrained from speaking out her mind by a wholesome fear of her own temper, and a desire to avoid a serious breach with Theo Desmond's wife. But with Honor it was otherwise. Honor, she maintained, had a right to speak, and no right to be silent; and goaded thus, the girl did at length make a tentative effort at remonstrance.

But upon her first words Evelyn flushed hotly.

"For goodness' sake, Honor, don't start interfering again!" she said, in a tone which effectually quenched further discussion.

Thus, without definite intention, they drifted a little apart. Honor, haunted by a sense of having failed Theo at a time of need, found what consolation she might in her growing intimacy with Paul Wyndham; while Evelyn went on her way unchallenged, blind to every consideration but the need of escape from the haunting dread that she would never see her husband again. The dissonance between her feelings and her actions troubled her no whit. Her notions of loyalty were peculiar and inconsistent, like herself; and it is probable that she never gave a thought to Kresney's interpretation of her conduct, or to the dangerous nature of the game she was playing.

The man himself was well content, and increasingly self-satisfied. He could be an intelligent and mildly amusing companion, when it served his turn; and he was beginning to lose sight of Desmond in keen enjoyment of the oldest pastime in the world. They fell into occasional spells of silence now as they rode – silence such as familiarity breeds, and which is not without a degree of danger at a certain stage of intimacy between a man and a woman.

They had been riding thus, for some time, on an afternoon of early March. Their horses' heads had been turned homeward; for the sun was near to setting, and on the Frontier it is unsafe to be out after dusk. Evelyn's reins lay loose upon the grey mare's neck and her long lashes shadowed her cheek. She seemed to have forgotten her companion's presence. Kresney's eyes rested speculatively on her finely chiselled profile. He found her, on close acquaintance, more charming than he had expected. She possessed an elusiveness that captivates more surely than beauty. A man could never feel quite certain of her. She had not been in a very "coming-on disposition" that afternoon. His interest was piqued in consequence, and he was in the mood to dare a good deal.

He would have given much to know what she was thinking of; and the knowledge would have administered a wholesome shock to his vanity. He decided to surprise her with the question, and read the answer in her too expressive face.

"What is the absorbing subject?" he demanded suddenly. His tone was a sufficient index of his progress during the past fortnight.

She flushed and laughed softly, without looking up; and he drew his own conclusions.

"I don't tell my thoughts! But I'm sorry if I was rude. I was thinking, for one thing," she added lightly and mendaciously, "that I wish it was nearer time to go up to the Hills."

"I don't wonder at that. You're wasted in a place like Kohat."

"That's rubbish!" she rebuked him. But her pleasure in the words was self-evident.

"And that's modesty!" he capped her promptly, enjoying the deepening carnation of the cheek turned towards him. "Will it be Murree again this year?"

"Yes; I suppose so." She spoke without enthusiasm.

"Wouldn't you prefer Simla?"

"Well, naturally – a thousand times."

"Then why not go there? I would come up too, like a shot. I can get a couple of months this year, and we'd have a ripping time of it. Shall we call it settled – eh?"

She sighed and shook her head.

"It's too expensive. Besides, there seems to be something wrong with Simla. My husband doesn't like it much; nor does Honor."

The implication in Kresney's laugh was lost upon Evelyn Desmond.

"Oh, well, of course Simla isn't much of a place for husbands," he explained loftily, "or for girls. It's the bachelors who have a good time there, —and the married women."

"Is it? How odd! I should think anybody who cared about dancing and acting, and all that sort of thing, would be bound to have a lovely time in Simla."

She looked him so simply and straightly in the face that he felt unaccountably ashamed of his questionable remark, and the laugh that had preceded it – a sensation to which he was little accustomed.

"Yes, yes; daresay you're right," he agreed airily. "But if you're so keen about the place, why not insist upon going? Wives don't trouble overmuch about obedience nowadays; most of them seem to do whatever they please."

"Do they? Well, then, I suppose it pleases me to go where my husband likes best."

"Very dutiful, indeed!" A shadow of a sneer lurked beneath his bantering tone, and she reddened again.

"It's not dutiful at all. It's simply because – " She broke off short. "Oh, I think you're horrid this afternoon. I expect people to make themselves pleasant when I let them come out with me."

"Well, I'm sure I do my best. But one can never tell where to have you. Goodness knows I've shown you plainly that I'm ready to be your friend – to any extent; and you've seemed to accept it readily enough – "

"Well, of course. I like men to like me. I always did – "

"Men?"

"Yes, men," she nodded, smiling. "I don't trouble much about women – except Honor; and she's worth all the men in creation put together."

"Desmond included?" Again the covert sneer lurked in his tone, and she drew herself up with a pretty air of dignity.

"That's not any concern of yours."

"But I tell you it is!" He pressed closer. "More than you've chosen to realise so far. D'you suppose you can go on indefinitely blowing hot and cold with a man; snubbing him one minute and drawing him on the next?"

"Oh dear! Oh dear! I never bother to suppose things! Haven't I said that if you want me to be nice, you mustn't plague me with stupid questions? At any rate, you're seeing a lot of me now. And you're riding a lot with me now – isn't that enough?"

"No. It's not enough, Mrs Desmond – Evelyn – "

"Oh, hush – hush! You mustn't say that!" she murmured ineffectually; but he paid no heed.

"You find this sort of thing pleasant enough while Desmond's away; but will you keep it up when he comes back? Tell me that – " He leaned closer; but she turned her head away, avoiding his gaze.

"Oh, I don't know. How can I possibly tell?" she answered, half plaintively, half petulantly. "Why are men so tiresome? They never seem able to enjoy things peaceably without making tragedies and getting too much in earnest – "

"But how if I am in earnest – in desperate earnest?"

He spoke with sudden vehemence. Something in his tone startled her into a recollection of the incident at Lahore. And there was no Theo at hand to protect her now.

Forgetful of the loosened rein, and of her insecure hold on the stirrup, she struck the mare more sharply than she knew. The astonished animal bounded forward, stumbled on a round stone, and came down on her knees, pitching Evelyn over her head into the dust of the metalled road.

Kresney stifled an oath. "What the devil did the little fool do that for?" he muttered between his teeth.

Springing to the ground, he shouted to a passing native child to hold the two horses, and hurried to Evelyn's side, reflecting as he went that, if she were not seriously injured, the accident might have its advantages. She was on her knees when he reached her, and was pressing both hands to her temples.

"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, anger banished by real anxiety.

"I don't – know. Oh – my head – my head!"

The words ended in a sob; she swayed as if she would fall, and quick as thought his arm went round her, pressing her close. But at his touch she recovered herself as if by magic; and pushing him fiercely aside, staggered panting to her feet.

Kresney stood regarding her for a moment, an evil expression in his eyes.

"Well, I'm damned!" he broke out at length. "I'm not a disease that you should shake me off in that fashion."

"I'm sorry," she said with quick-coming breaths. "You meant to be kind, I know, but – don't touch me again, please."

"I only wanted to keep you from falling in the dust," he retorted huffily.

"I know. But – I would rather fall in the dust."

She spoke almost in a whisper, yet with such obvious sincerity that he set his teeth viciously and answered nothing.

She remained standing before him, helpless, tantalising, unapproachable, in her childlike dignity. Her head was dazed and throbbing. Her knees shook under her so persistently that she gave it up at last, and sank down in the road, covering her face with her hands.

"Oh, how am I going to get home?" she moaned, more to herself than to him.

He came and stood near her again. He was surprised to find how keenly her distress hurt him, and now that his anger was past, her flash of independence made her more alluring than ever.

"If you won't let me lay a finger on you," he said in an altered tone, "I don't see how I can be any use. But if you will condescend to use me as a prop, I'll put you up on the mare, and walk beside you; then you can hold on to me if you feel shaky. We are not far off now, and the boy can take my pony on. Will that suit you?"

She looked up gratefully through a mist of tears.

"Thank you. It is nice of you to be so kind to me after – what I said."

"No man in his senses could be anything but kind to you." And bending down he once more encircled her with his arm, raising her to her feet, and taking his time over the proceeding. For an instant, in mere weakness, she leaned her light weight upon him; and his sense of triumph was complete.

"No hurry," he assured her gently. "You're very shaky still, you know."

But she stiffened at the cautious tightening of his arm, and stumbled forward, so that he had some ado to repress his irritation.

He lifted her to the saddle; and, seemingly oblivious that he had offered himself as a mere prop, took such full advantage of the permission to support her till they reached the bungalow, that she was vaguely troubled, though too dazed and shaken to attempt further remonstrance.

"May I come in?" he asked, as he set her on the ground.

"Yes, please come. Won't you stay to dinner?"

"I should like to, awfully."

"Very well then, do."

She managed to walk into the drawing-room; but as he laid her on the sofa, her head fell limply backward, and she fainted.

He stood watching her intently for a few seconds. Then he bent over her, low and lower, till his lips almost rested upon hers. But at this point something checked his despicable impulse – perhaps the purity of her face, or merely its unresisting stillness. Perhaps he chose to defer the pleasure till a more acceptable moment. He straightened himself with a jerk; and hastening into the hall, shouted for brandy and soda-water.

Very soon a faint colour crept back into her cheeks. She opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

"Drink some of this," he said. "It's very weak, and you need it."

She took a few sips and set down the glass.

"Better now?" he asked, and leaned over her again, his hand on the sofa back, his lips perilously close to her hair. At that critical moment, Wyndham's tall figure appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Honor Meredith.

Kresney's back was towards him; and the tableau presented by the pair was equivocal, to say the least of it. For an instant Paul stood still in sheer stupefaction; then he turned to the girl, his grey eyes ablaze with indignation, and she had never liked him better than at that moment.

As he stepped forward, Kresney started up with a stifled oath; and the two men confronted one another, in silent, undisguised hostility, while Honor hurried to Evelyn's side.

"What is wrong with Mrs Desmond?" Paul asked coldly, concealing his natural anxiety for Theo's wife.

"Oh, she has had a spill. The mare came down with her; and she fainted when I got her home."

Kresney's pronounced frigidity was more ludicrous than impressive; and the shadow of a smile lurked beneath Paul's moustache as he addressed himself to Honor.

"Wouldn't it be well to send for Conolly?" he asked. But Evelyn interposed.

"No, – no, – I don't want Dr Conolly. I'm all right now."

She raised herself on her elbow in proof of her statement.

"Mr Kresney was very kind to me. I have asked him to dinner. Won't you stay too?"

"Thanks. I'll go and change, and come back later. You will do the same, I presume?" And he looked directly at Kresney, who had wit enough to perceive that the situation was untenable.

"It's very good of you to want me, Mrs Desmond," he said, elaborately ignoring Wyndham's remark, "but I'd better not stop to-night. You won't be fit for much talking after that nasty tumble."

"Perhaps not. You must come some other night instead. I won't forget."

She held out her hand with marked graciousness, flashing a defiant glance at Paul, who, in sublime unconsciousness, followed Kresney out into the verandah, and remained standing on the steps till he had ridden out of sight.

No words passed between them except a mutually formal "Good-night." But Paul succeeded in conveying the impression that he regarded himself as Desmond's representative; and in making Kresney feel more acutely uncomfortable than he had felt for many a long day. If he had done no actual harm, the fault did not lie with him; and his conscience sprang painfully to life under the lash of Wyndham's contemptuous silence.

In the drawing-room, conversation fared little better.

"Why on earth was Major Wyndham so dignified and disagreeable?" Evelyn queried in a tone of frank annoyance. "It isn't his affair."

"You seem to forget that he is Theo's oldest friend."

Restrained anger quivered in the girl's low voice.

"He has news for you – from the Samana," she added. "There has been sharp fighting. Theo's squadron has done a very dashing bit of work; – Major Wyndham will tell you about it, if you care to hear. Now you had better lie quiet till you dress for dinner." And without waiting for an answer she left the room.

Next morning, while she sat at work, wondering how she could broach the forbidden subject, Evelyn herself came and stood before her with a purposeful air of decision.

"Honor," she said, "I don't want anybody to say anything to – Theo about my accident. Do you see? It is my business to tell him, and not any one else's. Will you let Mrs Olliver know that, please? I don't care to speak to her about it myself."

Honor glanced up quickly.

"No, Evelyn; it would be just as well not. She happened to be crossing this hill yesterday when you and Mr Kresney were on the lower road; and – she saw you together."

"Just the sort of thing she would do! I hate Mrs Olliver! Always spying on me; and I dare say she won't believe the truth even now. But I won't have her talking to Theo about me, whatever she may imagine."

"You know her very little if you think she could do that," Honor answered quietly. "She only spoke to me because she fancies I have influence with you. But that seems to be over now. You have chosen to go your own way. It is a very dangerous way. However, I can say nothing more on the subject."

Evelyn choked back her rising tears.

"Honor, can't you see that – that I'm frightened and miserable about Theo, and I must have something to help me forget? It's no use trying to make you understand how it feels to have him away up there – always in danger – "

Honor started and flushed. "Indeed, dear, I do understand," she answered, not quite steadily.

Evelyn shook her head.

"You think you do, but you can't really. I know you are great friends with him, and you'd be very sorry if – if anything happened. But it's ever so much worse for me, because I am – his wife. Now I must go and write to him about all this."

And Honor, left alone, leaned back in her chair, hiding her face in her hands.

"God forgive me!" she murmured. "How dare I find fault with her, blessed child that she is!"

CHAPTER XXI.

I AM YOURS

"I knew thee strong and quiet – like the hills;I knew thee apt to pity, brave to endure."– R. L. S.

Paul Wyndham's hopes were on the ascendant at last. After a full year of waiting, he saw himself drawing steadily nearer to his hour of reward.

He studied Honor Meredith as a man only studies that on which his life's happiness depends; and during the past few weeks he had become aware of a mysterious change in the girl's bearing. Her beauty – which had seemed to him so complete – was now unmistakably enhanced by some transformation within. Her whole nature seemed to have become more highly sensitised. Her colour came and went upon the least provocation; her frank friendliness was veiled by a shy reserve, that had in it no hint of coldness; and, more significant than all, her eyes no longer met his own with that disconcerting directness of gaze which had sealed his lips when they were upon the verge of speech.

For all his modesty, Wyndham could not fail to interpret these signs according to his heart's desire; and when, on the night of Evelyn's accident, Honor promised him an early ride, prefaced by chota hazri26 in the verandah, he told himself that he need wait no longer – that the great moment of his life had come at last.

On the stroke of seven he mounted the verandah steps. A camp table, set with fruit, freshly made toast, and a tea-tray, awaited him in a shadowed corner. Two thick bamboo blinds, let down between the wide arches, converted that end of the verandah into a room, its low-toned coolness broken only by an arrow of sunlight, shooting through a gap in one of the blinds, like a streak of powdered gold. Wyndham's eyes lingered approvingly on every detail of the homely scene; and he caught himself wondering what his sensations would be half an hour hence; what words he should speak to her when the dreaded, longed-for moment arrived.

A light footstep reached his ears; and he turned sharply round to find her standing in the open doorway.

She did not come forward at once, nor did she speak. For the man's face was transfigured. She beheld, in that instant, his unveiled heart and spirit – foresaw the ordeal that awaited her.

Noting her hesitation, he came forward with unconcealed eagerness.

"Good morning," she murmured mechanically. There seemed nothing else that could be said.

Then a wave of colour surged into her face; for he kept the hand she gave him, and drew her towards the privacy of the tea-table. She would have sacrificed much at that moment for the power to speak to prevent the pain she was bound to inflict; but her heart seemed to be beating in her throat; and she endured, as best she might, the controlled intensity of his look and tone.

"You know – surely you know what I find it so hard to say – I love you, – Honor, with all there is of me. I want you – God knows how I want you! And – you – ?"

He bent his head to receive the answer that need not be spoken in words. But all vestige of colour was gone from her face, and the unsteadiness of her beautiful mouth cut him to the heart.

"Oh, forgive me!" she pleaded. "I have been thoughtless, selfish, – blind. But you seemed so entirely my friend – I did not guess. I would have given the world to have spared you —this."

He straightened himself like a man under the lash; but he did not relinquish her hand.

"I can't let you reproach yourself," he said quietly, "because I misunderstood signs that seemed to tell me your heart was awake at last. But now – now you know how it is with me, at least you will let me hope – ?"

"I wish I might," she answered, so low that he could scarcely hear. "But – it's impossible!"

"Am I so entirely unworthy – unlovable?"

"No, oh no. It is not that."

"D'you mean – I was not mistaken. Is there – any one else?"

"Yes."

It was impossible to lie to him, and the blood rushed back into her face at the confession.

"Is he here?" Paul demanded, with sudden energy.

"You mustn't ask any questions about – him – about it, please."

"Only this one. Shall you – marry him?"

"No. Never."

Sheer incredulity held him silent; and when he spoke there was rebellion in his tone.

"Your life and my own are to remain broken, unfulfilled, because of – this incomprehensible thing?"

"There is nothing else possible."

He relinquished her hand at that, giving it back to her, as it were, with a quiet finality of renunciation that shattered her self-control. She sank into a chair and hid her face in a vain attempt to conceal the tears that came in spite of herself.

He stood beside her for several seconds in a heart-broken silence; then gently touched her arm.

"Honor – Honor, is it really so impossible – as you think? I tell you plainly I can't understand – "

She uncovered her face and looked up at him.

"Can any one ever understand – this sort of thing? Isn't it a force outside the control of reason, of even the strongest will?"