Читать книгу: «Captain Desmond, V.C.», страница 6

"Here you are, Colonel!" Geoff Olliver thrust a long tumbler into his senior's hand. "We're going to let off steam by drinking Miss Meredith's health before we go back."

Honor looked round hastily, in hopes of effecting an escape, and was confronted by Desmond's eyes looking straight into her own. He lifted his glass with a smile of the frankest friendliness; and the rest followed his example.

"Miss Meredith, your very good health."

The words went round the room in a deep disjointed murmur; and Frank Olliver, stepping impulsively forward, held out her glass to the girl.

"Here's to your health and good luck, with all my heart, Honor, … the Honor o' the regiment!" she added, with a flash of her white teeth.

Uproarious shouts greeted the spontaneous sally.

"Hear, hear! Well played, indeed, Mrs Olliver! Pity Meredith couldn't have heard that."

Olliver laid a heavy hand on Desmond's shoulder.

"Tell you what, old chap," he said. "You must come back with us; and, by Jove, we'll make a night of it. Finest possible thing for you after a week's moping on the sick list; and we'll just keep Mackay hanging round in case you get knocked out of shape. I'll slip into uniform myself and follow on. That suit you, Colonel?"

"Down to the ground; if Mackay has no objection."

But Mackay knew his men too well to have anything of the sort; and Desmond's eyes gleamed.

"How about uniform for me, sir?" he asked. "I could manage it after a fashion."

Colonel Buchanan smiled.

"No doubt you could! But I'll overlook it to-night. The fellows want you. Won't do to keep them waiting!"

Followed a babel of talk and laughter, in the midst of which Honor, who had moved a little apart, became aware that Desmond was at her side.

"Never mind them, Honor," he said in a low voice. "They mean it very well, and they don't realise that it's a little overwhelming for us both. I won't pile it on by saying any more on my own account. Wait till I get a chance to repay you in kind – that's all!"

His words spurred her to a sudden resolve.

"You have the chance now, if it doesn't seem like taking a mean advantage of – things."

"Mean advantages are not in your line. You've only to say the word."

"Then stick to the Frontier!" she answered, an imperative ring in her low voice. "Doesn't to-night convince you that you've no right to leave them all?"

His face grew suddenly grave.

"The only right is to stand by Ladybird – at all costs."

"Yes, yes – I know. But remember what I said about her side of it. Give her the chance to find herself, Theo; and give me your word now to think no more about leaving the Border. Will you?"

He did not answer at once, nor did he remove his eyes from her face.

"Do you care so much what I do with the rest of my life?" he said at last very quietly.

"Yes – I do; for Ladybird's sake."

"I see. Well, there's no denying your privilege – now to have some voice in the matter. I give you my word, and if it turns out a mistake, the blame be on my own head. The fellows are making a move now. I must go. Good-night."

The men departed accordingly with much clatter of footsteps and jingling of spurs; and only Mrs Olliver remained behind.

Evelyn Desmond had succeeded in slipping away unnoticed a few minutes earlier. She alone, among them all, had spoken no word of gratitude to her friend.

CHAPTER IX.
WE'LL JUST FORGET

"Les petites choses ont leur importance; c'est par elles toujours qu'on se perde."

– Dostoievsky.

"So the picnic was a success?"

"Yes, quite. Mrs Rivers was so clever. She paired us off beautifully. My pair was Captain Winthrop of the Ghurkas; an awfully nice man. He talked to me the whole time. He knows Theo. Says he's the finest fellow in Asia! Rather nice to be married to the 'finest fellow in Asia,' isn't it?"

"Decidedly. But I don't think we needed him to tell us that sort of thing." A touch of the girl's incurable pride flashed in her eyes.

"Well, I was pleased all the same. He said he was never so surprised in his life as when he heard Theo had married; but now he had seen me, he didn't feel surprised any more."

"That was impertinence."

"Not a bit! I thought it was rather nice."

A trifling difference of opinion; but, in point of character, it served to set the two women miles apart.

Evelyn's remark scarcely needed a reply; and Honor fell into a thoughtful silence.

She had allowed herself the rare indulgence of a day "off duty." Instead of accompanying Evelyn to the picnic, she had enjoyed a scrambling excursion with Mrs Conolly – whose friendship was fast becoming a real possession – and her two big babies; exploring hillsides and ravines; hunting up the rarer wild flowers and ferns; and lunching off sandwiches on a granite boulder overhanging infinity. This was her idea of enjoying life in the Himalayas; but the June sun proved a little exhausting; and she was aware of an unusual weariness as she lay back in her canvas chair in the verandah of "The Deodars," – a woodland cottage, owing its pretentious name to the magnificent cedars that stood sentinel on either side of it.

Her eyes turned for comfort and refreshment to the stainless wonder of the snows, that were already beginning to don their evening jewels – coral and amethyst, opal and pearl. The railed verandah, and its sweeping sprays of honeysuckle, were delicately etched upon a sky of warm amber, shading through gradations of nameless colour into blue, where cloud-films lay like fairy islands in an enchanted sea. Faint whiffs of rose and honeysuckle hovered in the still air, like spirits of the coming twilight, entangling sense and soul in a sweetness that entices rather than uplifts.

Evelyn Desmond, perched lightly on the railings, showed ethereal as a large white butterfly, in the daintiness of her summer finery against a background of glowing sky. She swung a lace parasol aimlessly to and fro, and her gaze was concentrated on the buckle of an irreproachable shoe.

Honor, withdrawing her eyes reluctantly from the brooding peace of mountain and sky, wondered a little at her pensiveness; wondered also where her thoughts – if mere flittings of the mind are entitled to be so called – had carried her.

As a matter of fact, she was thinking of unpaid bills; since human lilies of the field, though they neither toil nor spin, must pay for irreproachable shoes and unlimited summer raiment.

The girl's own thoughts, as they were apt to do in leisure moments, had wandered to Kohat: to the men who were working with cheerful, matter-of-fact courage in the glare of the little desert-station; and to the one brave woman, who remained in their midst to hearten them by her own indomitable gladness of soul.

The beauty of the evening bred a longing – natural in one so sympathetic – that they also could be up on this green hill-top, under the shade of the deodars, enjoying the exquisite repose of it all.

"Have you heard from Theo this week, Ladybird?" she asked suddenly. It was the first time she had used the name, for habit is strong; and Evelyn looked up quickly, the colour deepening in her cheeks.

"Don't call me Ladybird!" she commanded, with unusual decision. "It belongs to Theo."

Honor noted her rising colour with a smile of approval.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said gently. "I quite understand. But – have you heard lately?"

Evelyn's face cleared as readily as a child's.

"Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you. I had quite a long letter this morning. Perhaps you would like to read it."

And drawing an envelope from her pocket she tossed it into Honor's lap.

The girl glanced down at it quickly; but allowed it to lie there untouched. She knew that Desmond wrote good letters, and she would have dearly liked to read this one. But a certain manly strain in her forbade her to trespass on the privacy of a letter written to his wife.

"Thank you," she said; "I think I won't read it, though. I don't suppose Theo would care about his letters being passed on to me. I only want to know if things are going on all right."

"Oh, yes; in the usual sort of way. They've had trouble with those wretched Waziris. Two sentries murdered last week; and some horses stolen. Oh! and Mrs Olliver has had a bad touch of fever; and there's cholera in the city, but they don't think it'll spread. What a gruesome place it is! And what a mercy we're not there now. By the way," she added, working her parasol into a crack between two boards, "I met the Kresneys as I was coming home."

"The Kresneys! Here?"

Honor sat suddenly upright, all trace of weariness gone from her face.

"Yes. They're up for six weeks, and they seemed so pleased to see me that – I asked them in to dinner to-night."

"Evelyn!"

"Well – why not?" A spark of defiance glinted through the dark curves of her lashes.

"You know Theo would hate it."

"I daresay. But he isn't here; so it can't matter to him. And he need not know anything about it."

"My dear! That would be worse than all!"

Evelyn frowned.

"Really, Honor, for a clever person, you're rather stupid. It would be simply idiotic to tell him what is sure to annoy him, when the thing's done and he can't prevent it."

The girl leaned back with an impatient sigh.

"If you feel so sure it will annoy him, why on earth do you do it? He is so good to you in every possible way."

A great longing came upon her to disclose all that he had been ready to relinquish five weeks ago.

"I know that without your telling me," Evelyn retorted sharply. "But I think I might do as I like just while I'm up here. And I mean to – whatever you say. The Kresneys came here, instead of going to Mussoorie, chiefly to see me. I can't ignore them; and I won't."

"Well, for goodness' sake, don't ask them to the house again, that's all." Then, because she could scarcely trust herself to say more on the subject, and because she had no wish to risk a quarrel, she added quickly: "A parcel came while we were out. Perhaps you'd like to open it before dinner."

Evelyn was on her feet at once – the Kresneys forgotten as though they were not.

"It must be my new dress for the General's garden-party. How lovely!"

"Another dress? Your almirah's choked with them already."

"Those are only what I got at Simla last year."

"You seem to have gone in rather extensively for dresses last year," Honor remarked, a trifle critically. Since their arrival in Murree she had become better acquainted with the details of Evelyn's wardrobe; and the knowledge had troubled her not a little. "How about your trousseau?"

"Mother gave me hardly any dresses. She said I wouldn't need them on the Frontier. But I must have decent clothes, even in the wilderness."

"Yes, I suppose so. Still you will find continual dresses from Simla a terrible drain on a limited allowance."

A delicate flush crept into Evelyn's cheeks, and her eyes had an odd glitter that came to them when she felt herself hard-pressed, yet did not intend to give in.

"What do you know about my allowance?"

"I happen to know the amount of it," Honor answered quietly. "I also know the cost of clothes such as you have been getting in Simla, and – I am puzzled to see how the two can be made to fit. You do pay for your things, I suppose?" she added, with a flash of apprehension. She herself had never been allowed to indulge in bills.

Evelyn's colour ebbed at the direct question; and she took instant refuge in anger and matrimonial dignity, as being safer than truth.

"Really, Honor, you're getting rather a nuisance just lately. Scolding and preaching never does me a scrap of good – and you know it. What I do with my allowance isn't anybody's business but my own, and I won't be treated as if I were a child. After all" – with a fine mingling of dignity and scorn – "I'm the married woman. You're only a girl – staying with me; and I think I might be allowed to manage my own affairs, without you always criticising and interfering."

By this time Honor had risen also; a line of sternness hardening her beautiful mouth. Beneath her sustained cheerfulness lay a passionate temper; and Evelyn's unexpected attack stung it fiercely into life. Several seconds passed before she could trust herself to speak.

"Very well, Evelyn," she said, at length, "from to-day there shall be an end of my criticism and interference. You seem to forget that you asked for my help. But as you don't need it any longer I will hand over the account books to you to-morrow morning; and you had better give Nazar Khan some orders about dinner. There isn't very much in the house."

Only once before had Evelyn seen her friend roused to real indignation; and she was fairly frightened at the effect of her own hasty words.

"Oh, Honor, don't be so angry as that!" she pleaded brokenly. "You know I simply can't – "

But with a decisive gesture Honor set her aside, and walking straight past her, mounted the steep staircase to her own room.

Arrived there, she stood still as one dazed, her hands pressed against her temples. There were times when this girl felt a little afraid of her own vehemence; which, but for the heritage of a strong will, and her unfailing reliance on a Higher Judgment, might indeed have proved disastrous for herself and others.

With controlled deliberation of movement, she drew a chair to the hired dressing-table, which served as davenport, and began to write.

She set down date and address and the words, "My dear Theo," – no more. What was it she meant to say to him? That from to-day Evelyn must be left to manage her affairs alone; that she could no longer be responsible for her friend's doings, social or domestic; but that she was willing to remain with her for the season, if he wished it? How were such things to be worded? Was it even possible to say them at all?

Her eye fell upon the envelope containing his last letter. Mechanically she drew it out and read it through again very slowly. It was a long letter, full of their mutual interests; of the music and the Persian, – which she was now studying under his tuition; – of Wyndham, Denvil, Mrs Olliver, and his men; very little about himself. But it was written as simply and directly as he spoke, – the only form of letter that annihilates space; and it was signed, "Always your friend, Theo Desmond."

Before she reached the signature the fire had faded from her eyes. She returned it to the envelope, took up the sheet on which three lines were written, and tearing it across and across, dropped it into the cane basket at her side.

"I can't do it," she murmured. "What right have I to let him call himself my friend, if I fail him the first time things take an unpleasant turn?"

She decided, nevertheless, that Evelyn might well be allowed to realise her own helplessness a little before the reins were again taken out of her hands. Then she went downstairs and out into the golden evening, to cool her cheeks and quiet her pulses by half an hour of communing with the imperturbable peace of the hills.

Evelyn, standing alone in the drawing-room, bewildered and helpless as a starfish stranded by the tide, heard Honor's footsteps pass the door and die away in the distance. An unreasoning fear seized her that she might be going over to Mrs Conolly to stay there for good; and at the thought a sob rose in her throat. Flinging aside her parasol, which fell rattling to the floor, she sank into the nearest chair and buried her face in the cushion.

She knew right well that her words had been ungrateful and unjust; yet in her heart she was more vexed with Honor for having pushed her into a corner than with herself for her defensive flash of resentment. More than all was she overwhelmed by a sense of utter helplessness, of not knowing where to turn or what to do next.

"Oh, if only Theo were here!" she lamented. "He would never be unkind to me, I know." Yet the ground of her woe reminded her sharply that if her husband had knowledge of the bills lying at that moment in her davenport, he might possibly be so unkind to her – as she phrased it – that she did not dare tell him the truth. He had spoken to her once on the subject of debt in no uncertain terms; and she had resolved thenceforth to deal with her inevitable muddles in her own way, – the simple fatal way of letting things slide, and hoping that they would somehow come right in the end. But there seemed no present prospect of such a consummation; and for a while she gave herself up to a luxury of self-pity. Tides in her mind ebbed and flowed aimlessly as seaweed. Everything was hopeless and miserable. It was useless trying to be good; and she supposed Honor would never help her again.

Then her thoughts stumbled on the Kresneys. It must be nearly half-past six, and dinner was at a quarter past eight. But, as things now stood, their coming was impossible. She must send them a note to say Honor was not well; for who could tell how this new, angry Honor might choose to behave if they arrived in spite of all?

The need for action roused her, and she went over to her davenport. But on lifting the lid her eyes fell upon the little sheaf of bills – and again the Kresneys faded into insignificance. She took up the detested slips of paper; laid them out one by one on the table; and, sitting down before them, contemplated them with knitted brows and a hopeless droop of her lips.

No need to look into them in detail. She knew their contents, and the sum of them by heart. She knew that they amounted in all to more than six hundred rupees; and that another four hundred, possibly more, was still owing in different directions.

Where in all the world was such a sum to be found without Theo's help? An appeal to Honor would be worse than useless. Honor was so stupid about such things. Her one idea would be immediate confession. A hazy notion haunted Evelyn that people who were in straits borrowed money from somewhere, or some one. But her knowledge of this mysterious transaction went no further; and even she was able to perceive that from so nebulous a starting-point no definite advance could be made. She had also heard of women selling their jewels, and wondered vaguely who were the convenient people who bought them; though this alternative did not commend itself to her in any case.

Yet by some means the money must be found. Her earliest creditors were beginning to assert themselves; to thank her in advance for sums which she saw no hope of sending them; and, worse than all, she lived in daily dread lest any of them should be inspired to apply to Theo himself. Look where she would a blank wall confronted her; and in the midst of the blankness she sat, a dainty, dejected figure, with her pitiless pile of bills.

"Krizney, Miss Sahib, argya."¹⁹

The kitmutgar's voice jerked her back to the necessities of the moment.

Well, mercifully, Honor was out. It would be a comfort to see any one, and get away from her own thoughts. Also she could explain about the dinner; and, hastily gathering up her papers, she sent out the customary "salaam."

"Oh, Mrs Desmond, I do hope I am not disturbing you." Miss Kresney came forward with a rather too effusive warmth of manner. "But you forgot to mention if you dine at a quarter to eight or a quarter past; and I was not certain if you meant us to dress or not."

Miss Kresney would probably have been amazed could she have seen these two Englishwomen dining together.

"Why, yes," Evelyn answered simply, "we always dress in the evening, Honor and I. But – please don't think me very rude – I'm afraid I must ask you and your brother to put off coming till – some other night. I was just going to send you a note; because Honor is – not at all well. She has been out in the sun all day, and her head is bad. She must keep quiet to-night. You see, don't you, that I can't help it? It isn't my fault."

Linda Kresney's face had fallen very blank; but she pulled herself together, and called up a cold little smile.

"Of course not, Mrs Desmond. How could I think it is your fault, when you have always been so veree kind to us? We often say it is a pity every one is not so kind as you are. I am sorry Miss Meredith is not well." An acid note invaded her voice. She had her own suspicions of Honor, as being too obviously Captain Desmond's friend. "My brother will be terribly disappointed. No doubt we can come some day veree soon instead."

But Evelyn was too self-absorbed to detect the obvious hint.

"Yes – I hope so," she agreed, without enthusiasm; then, seeing puzzled dissatisfaction in Linda Kresney's eyes, made haste to add: "Perhaps you'll stay a little now, as you are not coming to-night. It's quite early still, and I'm all alone."

Miss Kresney sat down with unconcealed alacrity, and Evelyn followed her example, laying her hand on the tell-tale papers. The trouble of her mind showed so clearly in her eyes and lips, that the girl, who had begun to grow really fond of her, was emboldened to risk a vague proffer of sympathy. She had never as yet found the opportunity her brother so desired of making herself useful; and she was quick-witted enough to perceive that Fate might be favouring her at last.

"I am afraid you have been worried about something, Mrs Desmond," she began warily. "Perhaps after all I had better not stay here, bothering you to make talk. Unless perhaps – I can help you in any way. I should be very glad to, if you will not think me officious to say so. I cannot bear to see you look so unhappee. It is not bad news from Kohat, I hope?"

Evelyn's smile was a very misty affair.

"Oh, no – it's not that," she said, and broke off short.

Miss Kresney waited for more – her face and figure one fervent note of interrogation. She had tact enough to realise that she could not press verbal inquiry further.

But her air of interested expectation was not lost on Evelyn Desmond. A pressing need was urging her to unburden her mind through the comforting channels of speech. Cut off, by her own act, from the two strong natures on whom she leaned for sympathy and help, there remained only this girl, who would certainly give her the one, and might possibly give her the other, in the form of practical information. It was this last thought that turned the scale in Miss Kresney's favour; and Evelyn spoke.

"I think it's very nice of you to mind that I am unhappy, and to want to help me. But I don't know whether you can; because it's – it's about money."

The merest shadow of astonishment flittered across Miss Kresney's face. But she said no word, and Evelyn went on – her nervousness giving way rapidly before the relief of speech.

"I have a whole heap of bills here, for dresses and things, that I simply can't pay for out of my allowance. It's not because my husband doesn't give me enough," she added, with a pathetic flash of loyalty. "He gives me all he can possibly spare. But I'm stupid and unpractical. I just order clothes when I want them, and never think about the price till the bill comes in, and then it's too late! My mother did it all before I married. I wish to goodness she had taught me to manage for myself; but it's no use thinking of that now. The question is – where can I get money to pay these bills without troubling my husband about them. I must find some way to do it, only – I don't the least know how. Aren't there natives out here who buy people's jewels, or – or lend them money when they want it in a hurry? I thought – perhaps – you might know whether I could manage to do it – up here?"

The surprise in Miss Kresney's face deepened to alarm.

"Oh, but indeed, Mrs Desmond, you cannot do anything like that. The native money-lenders are veree bad people to deal with; and they ask such big interest, that if you once start with them it is almost impossible to get free again. You say you are inexperienced about money, and that would make it far worse. You cannot do anything of that kind – reallee."

Evelyn rose in an access of helpless impatience.

"But if I can't do that, what can I do?" she cried. "I've got to do something – somehow, don't you see? Some of them are beginning to bother me already, and – it frightens me."

A long silence followed upon her simple, impassioned statement of the case. Miss Kresney was meditating a startling possibility.

"There is only one thing that I can suggest," she ventured at length, "and that is I could lend you some money myself. I haven't a great deal. But if three hundred rupees would help you to settle some of the bills, I would feel only too proud if you would take it. There will be no interest to pay; and you could let me have it back in small sums just whenever you could manage it."

With a gasp of incredulity Evelyn sank back into her chair.

"D'you mean that?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh, Miss Kresney, I don't know why you should be so kind to me! How can I take such a lot of money – from you?"

"Why not, if I am glad to give it?"

Indeed the sum seemed to her an inconsiderable trifle beside the certainty of Owen's praise, of Owen's entire satisfaction.

For a clear three minutes Evelyn Desmond sat silent, irresolute; her mind a formless whirl of eagerness and uncertainty, hope and fear. The novelty of the transaction rather than any glimmering of the complications it might engender held her trembling on the brink; and Miss Kresney awaited her decision with downcast eyes, her fingers mechanically plaiting and unplaiting the silken fringe of the table-cloth.

Sounds crept in from without and peopled the waiting stillness. Evelyn Desmond had no faintest forewarning of the grave issues that hung upon her answer, yet she was unaccountably afraid. Her driven heart cried out for the support of her husband's presence; and her voice, when words came at last, was pitifully unsteady.

"It is so difficult not to say Yes."

"Why will you not say it, then? And it would all be comfortably settled."

"Would it? I don't seem able to believe that. Only if I do say Yes, you must promise not to tell – your brother."

"I am afraid that would not be possible. How could I arrange such a thing without letting my brother know about it?"

"Then I can't take the money."

Evelyn's voice was desperate but determined. Some spark of intuition enabled her to see that any intrusion of Kresney set the matter beyond the pale of possible things; and nothing remained for Linda but compromise or retreat.

She unhesitatingly chose the former. A few reassuring words would cost little to utter; and if circumstances should demand a convenient forgetfulness, none but herself need ever be aware of the fact. She leaned across the table, and her tone was a triumph of open-hearted sympathy.

"Mrs Desmond, you know quite well that I cannot leave you unhappy like this. If you are so determined that my brother must not know, I think I could manage without his help. Come to the Hotel to-morrow at half-past ten, and we will send off three hundred rupees to those who are troubling you most for payment."

Miss Kresney was as good as her word. She drew three hundred rupees in notes from her own small bank account, and herself went with Evelyn to the post-office whence they were safely despatched to Simla.

Some three evenings later, Owen Kresney bade his sister good-night with a quite phenomenal display of affection.

"You're a regular little trump, Linda!" he declared. "I never gave you credit for so much good sense. By Jove! I'd give a month's pay for a sight of Desmond's face if he ever finds this out! I expect he stints that poor little woman and splashes all the money on polo ponies. Glad you were able to help her; and whatever you do, don't let her pay you back too soon. If you're short of cash, you've only to ask me."

For the space of a week Honor held inflexibly aloof; and the effort it cost her seemed out of all proportion to the mildness of the punishment inflicted. It is an old story – the inevitable price paid by love that is strong enough to chastise. But this great paradox, the corner-stone of man's salvation, is a stumbling-block to lesser natures. In Evelyn's eyes Honor was merely cruel, and her own week of independence a nightmare of helpless irritation. She made one effort at remonstrance; and its futility crushed her to earth.

During the evening of their talk the matter had been tacitly avoided between them; but when, on the following morning, Honor laid books and bills upon the davenport where Evelyn sat writing, she caught desperately at the girl's hand.

"Honor, it isn't fair. How can you be so unkind?"

Honor drew her hand decisively away.

"Please let the subject alone," she said coolly. "If you persist in talking of it, you will drive me to go and sit in my own room – that's all."

A week later, however, when she returned from a ride to find Evelyn again at the detested davenport, her head bowed upon her arms, like a flower broken with the wind, all the inherent motherhood in her rose up and overflowed. Hastily crossing the room she knelt down beside the small tragic figure and kissed a pearl-white fragment of forehead; the only spot available at the moment. "Poor darling!" she whispered. "Is it really as bad as all that?"

Caresses from Honor were so rare that for an instant Evelyn was taken aback; then she laid her head on the girl's shoulder with a sigh of pure content.

"Oh, Honor! the world seems all broken to pieces when you are unkind to me!"

Honor kissed her again.

"I won't be unkind to you any more; and we'll just forget from this minute that it ever happened at all."

But to forget is not to undo; and during their brief estrangement Evelyn Desmond had added a link to the chain of Fate, whose strongest coils are most often wrought by our own unskilful fingers.