Captain Desmond, V.C. Part 48

His prompt penitence caught at her heart.

"Forgive me, Honor," he said. "I was an ungrateful brute, and you're a long way too good to me. I'll obey orders in future, without kicking against the p.r.i.c.ks. The music will be no end of a comfort. Just like you to think of it!"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE MOONLIGHT SONATA.

"The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest, who hast made the Fire, Thou knowest, who hast made the Clay."

--KIPLING.

When the bedroom door opened, Desmond lifted his head, in a distracted attempt to see more of his wife than the shade would permit, and held out his hand.

"Come, Ladybird. I want you."

She came at his bidding, and put her hand in his. But, unwittingly, she stood no nearer than the action demanded; and in her bewildered misery she forgot that he would expect her to stoop and kiss him. It was a fatal omission--how fatal she did not realise till later.

He drew her closer with quiet decision; and she submitted, as she would have submitted to anything he might have chosen to do just then.

"Am I so very dreadful that you can't bear to come near me?" he asked, with a brave attempt at lightness.

"Oh, Theo, don't say that," she pleaded. It came too painfully near the truth. "Only--I can't seem able to believe that--it is really you."

"Well, I give you my word it _is_ really me--the very same Theo who won the Punjab Cup, and danced with you at Lah.o.r.e three months ago."

Then he bit his lip sharply; for the thought smote him that he might never sit a pony or dance with her again.

The sob that had been clutching at her throat escaped, in spite of herself. "Lah.o.r.e!" she murmured. "It was all so beautiful at Lah.o.r.e!"

"Don't cry about it, darling. It will be just as beautiful again, in time. Sit down on the floor--here, close to me. I can't get a sight of you any other way."

She sat down, but in such a position that he had only a scant view of her tear-disfigured face. He pushed the damp ringlets back from her forehead. In his eyes it was her misfortune, rather than her fault, that she should be so inexorably chained to her own trouble.

Her spirit and her love revived under the magic of his touch. She caught his hand and pressed it against her burning cheek. It was cool and steady and sustaining--the hand of a brave man.

"Poor child," he said gently. "I'm an uncomfortable sort of husband for you. But little accidents of this kind will happen to soldiers.

Don't say you wish you hadn't married this one!" And he smiled.

"No--no. But, Theo, did you get all these wounds and things trying to save the Boy?"

"Yes; more or less."

"And it wasn't a sc.r.a.p of use?"

"No. One had the satisfaction of killing the men who did for him. That was all!"

"And you might just as well have come back strong and splendid, like you went away?"

"No use thinking of what might have been, darling. We've got to set our teeth and face what _is_."

"Oh, Theo--you are very brave."

"Needs must, Ladybird. If a man fails in that, he had better not have been born. And you are going to be brave too,--my wife."

"Yes,--I hope so. But--it's much more horrible than I ever imagined; and if it's going on for weeks and weeks----"

The prospect so unnerved her that she leaned her head against him, sobbing bitterly.

"Oh, I can't--I can't----!"

The low cry came straight from her heart; and Desmond understood its broken protest to the full. The effort to uphold her was to be useless after all. He compressed his lips and gently released her hand.

"If it's as bad as that, my dear, and you really feel it will be too much for you," he said in a changed tone, "I might arrange for Honor to take you away in a day or two, till I am well enough to follow on.

They all know here that you are not strong. One need not degrade you by telling--the whole truth."

"But, Theo, I couldn't leave you like that--just now, could I?"

His smile had a hint of scorn.

"Goodness knows! There is nothing to prevent you----"

"Yes--there is!" she spoke hurriedly, with downcast eyes. "Honor would never take me. She thinks it's dreadful that I should go. I never saw her so angry before. She--she said--terrible things----"

"Good G.o.d! What do--you--mean?"

Desmond spoke slowly. Anger and amazement sounded in his deep voice; and his wife saw what she had done.

"Theo!--Theo!" she cried, clasping her hands, and wringing them in distraction at her own foolishness, "I never meant to say that.

I--I----"

"No--but you meant to do it," he said, breathing hard and speaking with an effort. "You actually thought of--going--before I came? You would have simply--bolted, and left me to come back to an empty house, if Honor had not prevented you? Great heavens! I can well believe she said terrible things."

His wife knelt upright now and caught at his hand. But he withdrew it hastily.

"Theo--will you listen to me and not be so angry? You are very unkind!"

"Am I? Don't you think it is the other way about? I confess I'm in no humour to listen to you just now. I've had about as much as I can stand to-night; and Mackay told me I must not upset myself about things." He laughed harshly--a sound that chilled her blood. "But no mere man could antic.i.p.ate _this_!"

"Well, I never _meant_ to say it, and I think you're horrid, you don't understand----"

"No; thank G.o.d, I don't understand--cowardice and desertion. Get up now and leave me alone, please. It's the greatest kindness you can do me; and yourself also, I imagine."

"Oh, don't say that. It's not true; and I'm not going to dream of leaving you. Won't you let me explain?"

"To-morrow, Evelyn, to-morrow," he answered wearily. "I shall be able to give you a fairer hearing by then; and I pray G.o.d I may have misjudged you. Now--go."