Captain Desmond, V.C.

Meantime, with inexhaustible patience, he continued to try one place after another, one distraction after another, with small result. It was a costly prescription, and though Desmond imagined he contributed his share, the chief of it was paid by his friend. During those first months he read little, talked little, and rarely expressed a definite wish. He would go anywhere, do anything in reason, so long as no mental effort was required of him; but music – to Paul's utter mystification – he decisively refused to hear. For the time being the man's whole nature seemed awry, and there were moments when Paul's heart contracted with dread of the worst.

Christmas found them at Le Trayas, on the Esterelles coast, an isolated paradise unprofaned by sight or sound of the noisy, restless life of the French Riviera. Here Theo Desmond had spent whole hours at a stretch, basking in the temperate December sunshine, under feathery mimosa bushes, that glorify the foothills, – silent as ever, yet seemingly content.

Still he wrote no line to the Regiment, that for thirteen years had stood second only to his God, and very rarely asked for news of it or his friends. By now their letters betrayed hints and more than hints of increasing anxiety. The men wrote tentatively; but Frank Olliver, nothing if not direct, poured forth her loving, unreasoning Irish heart on closely-written sheets of foreign paper, to Wyndham's alternate distraction and delight.

"Is there no manner of wild tale you could invent now to rouse the blessed man?" she wrote about this time. "Sure it's past believing that his pretty doll of a wife – who went near to ruin him living – should stand between him and us that love him, worse than ever now she's dead. The fear of it haunts me like a bogey and makes me go red hot inside."

The selfsame fear made Paul Wyndham go cold in the small hours; but he could not bring himself to write of it, even to Frank.

At last, in the second week of the New Year, there came news that wrought a change in Desmond; news from John Meredith of his father's broken health and his sister's immediate departure for England. She would sail in a week, he wrote, and would travel overland.

Paul, reading the letter to his friend, had a sudden inspiration.

"Theo, let's go and meet her at Marseilles!" he said eagerly, "and see her safe into the express. It would please Meredith – and her too."

For the fraction of a second, an answering eagerness glowed in Desmond's eyes; then vanished, leaving his face a politely interested mask. But Paul had seen the flash and pressed his point accordingly.

"Of course you'll come, Theo. A sight of her will do us both good. I'm glad I thought of it."

"So am I," Desmond agreed, without a particle of gladness in his level tone. "But – you can leave me out of the programme. One of us is enough – for all that is needed; and it's only right it should be you."

"I don't quite follow the logic of that."

Desmond's set face softened to a smile. "Don't you, old man? Then you must take my word for it."

In spite of that smile Paul heard the note of finality in his friend's voice and said no more.

On the appointed morning he set out alone to meet the ship, pain and elation contending in his heart. But when, at last, he set eyes on Honor Meredith, and saw her whole face lighten at sight of him, complexities were submerged in a flood-tide of simple, human joy.

But the exalted moment was short-lived. He could not fail to see how, instinctively, her glance travelled beyond him; how her lower lip was indrawn for the space of a heart-beat; and when their hands met, he, as instinctively, answered her thought.

"I couldn't persuade Theo to come. He is still difficult to rouse or move. The news of your father did seem to stir him and I am hoping he will write."

She let out her breath unsteadily. "Oh, if he only would! This interminable silence seems – so inhuman. In a way, I understand it; but the others, out there, are getting terribly unhappy over it; John and Frank more than all. You don't think – do you – that there is really any fear – ?"

The look in her eyes recalled that terrible night of March when they two had watched over Theo in turn; and Paul knew that now – as then – she craved no cheap consolation, but the truth.

"There have been bad moments," he admitted, "when one was afraid – But now I honestly believe that he will fight again and live again with his old zest; and I want you to believe it too, with all your heart."

"I will believe it – with all my heart," she answered very low and steadily. "Have you any plans – beyond Le Trayas?"

"Nothing definite. I just keep my eye on him and act accordingly. In April, I think Bellagio would be a sound move. There, if anywhere, the call of the spring should prove irresistible. At least it's a prescription worth trying."

She smiled; and, even in smiling, he noted the pathetic droop of her eyelids and the corners of her lips.

"How wise you are for him, Paul! And you will come home for a little before going back?"

"I hope so, devoutly, if Bellagio proves a success."

The crowd about them, surging chaotically to and fro, recalled them to prosaic considerations of luggage and a corner seat in the express, which Paul – unhurried yet singularly efficient – did not fail to secure. That done, Honor was confided to the care of an assiduous guard, and was supplied with fruit, chocolate, and more newspapers than she could possibly digest; – trifling services which the girl, in her great loneliness, rated at their true value.

By that time the platform had emptied its contents into the high, dingy-looking carriages of the Paris-Lyons Express. A gong clanged. Honor put out an ungloved hand and had some ado not to wince before it was released.

"Thank you – for everything," she murmured, sudden tears starting to her eyes. "I only wish Theo could have come too!"

"I'll tell him that. It may do him good!"

In spite of herself the blood flew to her cheeks. But before she could answer, the train jolted forward – and she was gone.

Paul Wyndham stood a long while motionless, looking into empty space; then, with a sensible jar, he came very completely back to earth.

It was near sunset when he reached their haven of refuge, a small hotel set in a rocky garden overlooking the sea. No sign of Theo within doors, – and Paul strolled down the narrow pathway that led to his friend's favourite seat. There, at the far end, leaning upon the balustrade, he sighted an unmistakable figure black against a blazing heaven rippled with light clouds that gave promise of greater glory to come.

Footsteps behind him roused Desmond. He started and turned about with a new eagerness that was balm to the heart of his friend.

"Ah —there you are! It's been a long day." His eyes scanned Wyndham's face. "You've seen her?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes – I have seen her."

"How did she look? Well?"

"She looked very beautiful," Paul answered simply, an odd thrill in his voice. "But not – not like her old self. One can see – she has suffered."

Desmond bit his lip and turned away again. A sudden mist blurred the sunset splendour, the bronze and purple iridescence of the sea. Paul went on speaking.

"She sent you a message, Theo – she wished you had come too."

"Did she? That was kind of her. – Sir John no worse?"

"Apparently not. She will write from Mavins."

"Good."

He leaned on the balustrade as before and tacitly dismissed the subject; but Wyndham, regarding him thoughtfully, and remembering Honor's tell-tale blush, fell to dreaming of a golden future for these two who were dearer to him than his own soul.

Suddenly Desmond spoke again in an altered tone.

"Paul – I've been thinking – "

"Have you, indeed! You do very little else these days. What's the outcome?"

"Nothing brilliant. Quite the reverse. I'm a coward at heart. That's all about it."

Paul smiled as a mother might smile at the vagaries of a beloved child.

"Can't say I've seen any symptoms of the disease myself."

"Well – you're going to, old man, plain as daylight. It's like this – " he squared his shoulders with a jerk and thrust both hands into his pockets. "I can't face – going back to Kohat. I've suspected it for some time. Now I know it. There's too much – that is to say – there are reasons. Pretty big ones. But they don't bear talking of. Think me a broken-backed cornstalk if you must. It'll hurt. But it can't be helped."

For an instant Paul's heart stood still. Then: "Don't talk that brand of nonsense to me, old man," he said gently. "But if you really can't go back – what then?"

"I said – to Kohat. The reliefs will take us to Dera in the autumn. Well – I want to work another six months on urgent private affairs – " he tried to smile. "Do you think the Colonel will come within a hundred miles of understanding and be persuaded to back me up?"

"I think, just at present, he would be loth to refuse you anything, Theo. But still – "

"Well —what?"

His tone had a touch of defiance, almost of temper, purely refreshing to hear.

"Well, naturally – I was thinking of the Regiment – "

"Damn the Regiment!" Desmond flashed out, and turning on his heel strode off toward a wooded headland, whose red rocks took an almost unearthly glow from the setting sun.

For several seconds Paul looked after him, scarcely able to believe his ears. If Theo had arrived at damning the Regiment, Frank's fear might not prove to be chimerical after all; and yet the flash of temper, the renewed energy of speech and movement were symptoms of the best.

Paul sat down on the bench, folded his arms, and proceeded to consider, in practical fashion, how they could secure the desired extension of leave. Theo might dub himself coward if he would. Paul knew better. He had long ago guessed that stronger forces were at work in his friend than mere sorrow for the loss of a wife, however dear – and he had guessed right. It was Desmond's sensitive conscience that had been his arch tormentor throughout those months of silence and strangeness that had brought him near to madness and Paul near to despair.

Tragedy on tragedy – loss of the Boy, dread of blindness, the shock of his own discovery of Evelyn's defection, and the awful fashion of her death – had so unsteadied and overwrought his strong brain that, even now, he could neither see nor think clearly in respect of those most terrible weeks of his life. Obsessed by an exaggerated sense of his own disloyalty to the wife who should never have been transplanted to such stony soil, he saw himself virtually her murderer, in the eyes of that God who was, for him, no vague abstraction but the most commanding reality of his consciousness.

Day after day, week after week, he had lived over and over again the events of that fateful month, from the moment of his return, to the last bewildering, unforgettable scene with his wife. Always he discovered fresh excuses for her. Always he lashed himself unsparingly for his own failings; – the initial folly of bringing her to the Frontier, his promise to Honor that had delayed his determination to exchange, and more than all, that final straight speaking – wrung from him by pain and shame – that had made fear of him outweigh even her childish terror of the dark. In the hidden depth of his heart he had been untrue to her, and his passionate attempt at reparation had come too late. There had even been fevered moments when he told himself that he, Theo Desmond, not the crazy fanatic in quest of sainthood – should by rights have been hanged and burned on the day of her death.

The whole tragical tangle, blurred and distorted by incessant repetition, had come at last to seem almost a separate entity; a horror, outside his own control, that now shrank to a pin-point and now loomed gigantic, oppressive, till all true sense of proportion was lost. The silence that he could not force himself to break, infallibly made matters worse. And now came Honor, re-awakening the great love he had wrestled with and trampled on to very small purpose; a love beside which his chivalrous tenderness for Evelyn showed like the flame of a candle in the blaze of noon.

Her sudden return, the perturbing sense of her nearness, had for the first time wrenched him away from the obsession of the past. But even now he dared not frankly face the future; dared not let his mind dwell on the colourless emptiness of life without her. Neither could he, as yet, face the only alternative – to tell her, of all women, that he had loved her before his wife's death. Besides, there was Paul, who obviously cared, in his own repressed fashion, and who must not be baulked of his chance.

Yet to-night, as he tramped the whole round of that rocky headland – in the glow of a sky rippled by now with feathers of flame – his blood was in a fever for sheer desire of her, and he cursed the folly that had impelled him to refuse the morning's golden opportunity.

Returning later, in a more chastened mood, he found Wyndham sitting still as a statue, seemingly forgetful of his existence; and of a sudden his heart contracted at thought of his friend's inexhaustible patience, his unquestioning acceptance of moods to which he did not hold the key. Stepping lightly, Desmond came up behind him and laid both hands on his shoulders.

"Forgive me, old man. I didn't precisely mean all that – "

Wyndham scarcely started.

"I thought as much! Don't apologise!" he said, looking up with his slow smile. "It was a pure pleasure to hear you swear again!"

Desmond laughed abruptly. "You'll get more than enough of that kind of pleasure if they refuse me my six months! – But look here, I'm thinking I can't keep you away from them any longer – "

"My dear Theo," Paul interposed with gentle decision. "So long as you stay – I stay. That goes without saying. Meredith will fix it up for us – no fear. Come on now. It's time we went indoors."

They sauntered back up the gravel path together without further speech, yet with thoughts more closely linked than either guessed; thoughts that flew instinctively as homing doves to the one beloved woman – Honor Meredith.

II

A late April evening on Lake Como: – for the initiated there is magic in the very words; magic of light and warmth and colour; glory of roses and wistaria, that everywhere renew the youth of ancient ruins and walls and weave a spring garment even for the sombre cypress who has none of his own. Love-song of birds, laughter of men and women, the passionate blue above, the sun-warmed cobblestones underfoot – in these also there is magic, unseizable, irresistible as the happiness of a child. There is nothing great about Como, nothing in the measured beauty of her encircling hills to uplift or strike awe into the soul of a man. She is exquisite, finished; a garden enclosed, a garden of enchantment that speaks straight to the heart; and the banner over her is peace.

Here Paul Wyndham – with the instinctive understanding that belongs to a great love – had chosen to round off the wander-year devoted to his friend. Throughout that year he had done all that one man may do for another in his dark hour; and each week his conviction grew stronger that Honor – and none but Honor – could do the rest. Let them only meet again, in fresh surroundings, and Theo – already so very much her friend – could not fail to come under her spell. His present seeming disposition to avoid her Paul set down to her intimate association with his wife. Six months' extension of leave had been granted to both, and Paul looked to a summer in England to establish what Italy had already begun.

Since that night at Le Trayas, when Theo had damned the Regiment and confessed his dread of returning to Kohat, Paul had begun to be aware of a change in his friend. Apathy had given place to restlessness, to a craving for distraction that neither Nature nor Art could satisfy. From place to place he had shifted like a man pursued. He fled as an animal flies from a gadfly securely fastened into his flesh. Go where he would, the passionate voice of his own heart spoke louder than books and pictures, mountains and the sea, urging him always in the one direction that his will was set to avoid.

Wyndham – aware of some inner struggle, while far from suspecting its nature – reckoned it all to the good, since it implied that the real man was astir at last. His suggestion of the Hotel Serbelloni at Bellagio – diplomatically broached – had been hailed almost with enthusiasm; and a month of Italy's April at its radiant best had proven, past question, the wisdom of the move.

In those four weeks they had explored the length and breadth of the lake with the restless energy of their race; had tramped the stony roads of North Italy and climbed every height within reach.

Better than all, it was now Theo who planned their expeditions, studied guide books and discussed local legends with his very good friend the Head Waiter. Flashes of temper had become more frequent. He could even be lured into argument again and grow hot over a game of chess. Trivial details – but for Wyndham each was a jewel beyond price. And Desmond was writing again now; fitfully but spontaneously, as of old. He had written to Sir John, and to the Colonel; and there had been two thick envelopes addressed to Frank; but never a one to Honor Meredith.

It had needed only this to fill Paul's cup of content; but Desmond – though he talked more openly of other matters – seldom mentioned the girl.

As on his return from the Samana, so now, he had fought his hidden fight and come off conqueror. All things conspired to convince him that Paul was the man – the infinitely worthier man – of her choice; and their steady correspondence seemed proof conclusive. At that rate there was nothing for it but to stand aside, leaving Paul to go in and win; only – he could not bring himself to be present at the process.

So these two friends, united by one of the closest ties on earth, lived and thought at cross purposes, for the simple reason that even of so fine a quality as reserve it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

And now an end of peaceful isolation. To-morrow they would cross to Menaggio homeward bound; and on this their last evening they climbed the cobblestoned, corkscrew of a path that winds to the ruins of Torre di Vezio above Varenna. The fine outlook from the summit was Desmond's favourite view of the lake. He himself had planned the outing, and now strode briskly ahead of his friend, with more of the old vigour and elasticity in his bearing than Paul had yet seen. To-day, too, for the first time, he had discarded the crepe band from the sleeve of his grey flannel suit; a silent admission that the spirit of resurrection had not called to him in vain.

Paul, noting these significant trifles, decided that he could have chosen no time more propitious for the thing he had to say. That morning's post had brought a letter from Sir John Meredith begging them both to come straight to his country house in Surrey for a week. Paul saw that invitation as Theo's God-given chance to discover the treasure that was his for the asking; and all day he had patiently awaited the given moment for speech. Now he recognised it, and did not intend to let it slip through his fingers.

The grey stone walls and towers of the Torre di Vezio stood four-square and rugged in the last of the sun; their battlements jewelled with fine mosaic work of lichens, their feet in the young grass of April starred with cowslips and late primroses. Near the old wooden door two cypresses stood sentinel, and the gnarled olives in the foreground loomed ancient and unresponsive as the walls themselves. The light wind of the morning had dropped with the sun; and the lake, far below them, showed delicately blurred mirages of townlets, hills, and sky. Southward, toward Como and Lecco, all was saturated in the magical blue atmosphere, the aura of Italy. Northward, toward Gravedona, the lesser Alps gloomed grey-violet under a mass of indigo cloud that blotted out the snows.

Theo Desmond, standing very erect, with the sun in his eyes, felt the peace and beauty of it all flow through his veins like wine.

"It's good to be up here. Very good. Sit down, old man."

Paul obeyed. They settled themselves on a green ledge near a bold outcrop of rock. Desmond, leaning forward, sunk his chin on his hand and fell into one of his brooding silences that had grown rarer of late.

So long it lasted that Paul began to fear he might lose the given moment after all. Yet every line of his friend's face and figure spelled peace; and he was loth to break the silence. Taking the letter from his pocket he opened it with ostentatious cracklings. He read it through twice, very leisurely; and still Desmond sat motionless, absorbed in the changing lights on the water and the hills. Then Paul gave it up and spoke.

"Theo – I've had a letter from Sir John. They're delighted to hear we're coming home."

Desmond started and frowned without changing his position. Only his stillness took on a more rigid quality. It had been natural; now it was forced.

"The old man going on well?" he asked, feeling that some remark was expected of him.

"Yes. He's almost himself again. He and Lady Meredith want us to go straight to Mavins for a week. What do you think?"

This time an answer was imperative; but it stuck in Desmond's throat.

"Very good of them. All the same – I think not," he said slowly; then made a clumsy attempt to modify the blank refusal. "You see, though I've taken this extra leave, I don't mean to spend it in loafing. We've had our fill of that. As soon as I get to town, I shall start reading in earnest for my promotion."

Paul, puzzled and dismayed as he was, could not lightly relinquish his castle in the air.

"I'm glad you feel up to work again, Theo," he said. "But a week in the country wouldn't seriously delay matters; and, in the circumstances, it seems ungracious to refuse. It would cheer the old man up. And it goes without saying that Honor would be glad to see us again."

The last appeal roused Desmond effectually. He jerked himself upright and faced his friend; faced also the ordeal of open speech after months of evasion.

"Yes – yes. You're always right, old man," he said, eyes and voice superbly under control. "I'm a selfish brute to monopolise you and – er – stand in your light. A sight of you will do them all good; and you'll be glad to see – Honor again. I used to wonder – long ago – what hindered you from fixing things up – you two."

It was Paul's turn now to start and change colour.

"You wondered?" he echoed blankly; then his voice dropped a tone. "Well, Theo, since you've touched on the subject, I'd as soon you knew the truth. I – spoke to Honor last March, while you were away; and – she refused."

"Refused —you?"

In that flash of amazement and sympathy with his friend's pain, Desmond escaped, if only for a moment, from the tyranny of his own tormented soul. His gaze travelled back to the hills.

"I'd have given her credit for more perception," he said quietly; and Paul, regarding him with a whimsical tenderness: "Has love anything to do with that sort of thing?"

"No – no. I'm a blatant fool. But still – a man like you – !" He broke off short, and there was a moment of strained silence. But the real Desmond was awake at last, and he forced himself to add: "Women change sometimes – once they know. Have you never been tempted to try again?"

"No; and never shall be, for a very good reason. There's some one in the way – some other man – "

Desmond drew in his breath sharply.

"Good Lord!" he muttered in a low dazed voice, as if thinking aloud. "But where the deuce is he? Why hasn't he come forward? He must be a rotten sort of chap – "

Paul caressed his moustache to hide a smile. "Not necessarily Theo. I gather, from what she said that – there were difficulties – "

"Difficulties – ?" Again he broke off, stunned by the coincidence, yet incapable of suspecting the truth. Then, pulling himself together, his spoke in his natural voice: "Well, anyway, Paul, you'd better accept Sir John's invitation, since you can still manage to be friends with her in spite of that infernal chap in the background."

This time Paul smiled outright; but Desmond saw nothing. His chin sunk in his hand, he sat still as a rock, raging inwardly – as he had not raged for a full year – at thought of that same "infernal chap" whose difficulties might not be permanent; who might even now —