Captain Desmond, V.C. Part 56

He thought the statement would have choked him. But Evelyn noticed nothing, and for a while neither spoke.

"Look here, Ladybird," he said suddenly, "I can't have you calling yourself names as you did just now. You only get these notions into your small head because I have condemned you to a life that makes demands on you beyond your strength. I ought to have seen from the start that it was a case of choosing between the Frontier and you. At all events, I see it clearly now; and--it's not too late. One can always exchange into a down-country regiment, you know. Or I have interest enough to get a Staff appointment somewhere--Simla, perhaps.

How would that suit you?"

The suggestion took away her breath.

"You don't _mean_ that, Theo--seriously?" she gasped; and the repressed eagerness in her tone sounded the death-knell of his dearest ambitions.

"I was never more serious in my life," he answered steadily.

"You would leave the Frontier--the regiment--and never come back?"

"You have only to say the word, and as soon as I am on my feet again I'll see what can be done."

But the word was not forthcoming; and in her changed position he could see nothing of her face but its oval outline of cheek and chin. He waited; holding his breath. Then, at last, she spoke.

"No, Theo. It wouldn't be fair. You belong to the Frontier. Every one says so. And--I shall get used to it in time."

She spoke mechanically, without turning her head; and Desmond's arm went round her on the instant.

"But you haven't got to think of me," he urged. "I want to do what will make you happy. That's all."

"It--it wouldn't make me happy. And, please, don't talk about it any more."

At that he drew her down to him.

"G.o.d bless you, my darling!" he whispered. But even in speaking he knew that he could not accept her sacrifice; that her courage--barely equal to the verbal renunciation--would be crushed to powder in the crucible of days and years. For the moment, however, it seemed best to drop the subject, since nothing definite could be done without Honor's consent.

"Now I ought to be attending to my business!" she said, freeing herself with a little nervous laugh. "It's getting too light. I must put out the lamp and dress you up in your shade again, you poor, patient Theo. Then we'll have _chota hazri_ together."

She moved away from him quickly, and not quite steadily. She had let slip her one chance of escape, and she did not know why she had done it. The impulse to refuse had been unreasoning, overpowering; and now it was all over she only knew that she had done what Honor would approve, and what she herself would regret to the end of her life. How far the girl whose soul had been concentrated on Evelyn's uplifting was responsible for her flash of self-sacrifice, is a problem that must be left for psychologists to solve.

Desmond had only one thought in his brain that morning--"How in the world am I going to tackle Honor?" He foresaw a pitched battle, ending in possible defeat; and decided to defer it till he felt more physically fit for the strain. For he possessed the rapid recuperative power of his type; and, the fever once conquered, each day added a cubit to his returning vigour.

One night, towards the close of the second week of his illness, he awoke suddenly from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness, a sense of renewed health and power thrilling through his veins. He pa.s.sed a hand across his forehead and eyes, for the pure pleasure of realising their freedom from the disfiguring bandage, and glanced toward the writing-table, whence the too familiar screened lamp flung ghostly lights and shadows up among the bare rafters twenty feet above.

It was Honor who sat beside it now, in a loose white wrapper, her head resting on her hand, an open book before her. The light fell full upon her profile, emphasising its n.o.bility of outline--the short straight nose, the exquisite moulding of mouth and chin; while all about her shoulders fell the burnished mantle of her hair.

For many moments Desmond lay very still. This amazing girl, in the fulness of her beauty, and in her superb unconsciousness of its effect upon himself, had him at a disadvantage; and he knew it. The disadvantage was only increased by waiting and watching; and at last he spoke, scarcely above his breath.

"Honor--I am awake."

She started, and instinctively her hand went to her hair, gathering it deftly together. But he made haste to interpose.

"Please leave it alone!"

His tone had in it more of fervour than he knew, and she dropped the heavy ma.s.s hastily, thankful to screen her face from view. Then, because silence had in it an element of danger, she forced herself to break it.

"You were sleeping so soundly that I thought you were safe not to wake till morning; and it was a relief to let it down."

"Why apologise?" he asked, smiling. "What is it you are reading? Won't you share it with me? I feel hopelessly wide-awake."

"It would be delightful to read to you again," she said simply. "But you might prefer something lighter. I was reading--a sermon."

"I have no prejudice against sermons. We get few enough up here.

What's your subject?"

"The Responsibility of Strength."

"Ah!--" There was pain in the low sound. "_You_ must know a good deal about that form of responsibility,--you who are so superbly strong."

And again she was grateful for her sheltering veil of hair. "The text is from Romans, I suppose?"

"Yes. 'We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak.'"

"It's a heavy penalty," he mused. "But one is bound to pay it to the uttermost farthing. Isn't that so?"

"Yes,--to the uttermost farthing."

She was thinking of herself, and his answer amazed her.

"Then, let me off that promise I gave you last April. It was a fatal mistake, and it's not fair on Ladybird."

She stifled an exclamation of dismay. It had been one thing to plead with him a year ago; but now it seemed impossible to speak a dozen words on the subject without risk of self-betrayal.

Her silence p.r.i.c.ked Desmond to impatience.

"Well," he said, "what's the difficulty? You'll do what I ask, of course?"

"No, I can't. It is out of the question."

A suppressed sound of vexation reached her.

"I thought you cared more for Evelyn than that amounts to," he said reproachfully.

"I _do_ care for her. You know I do."

"Yet you intend to hold out against me?"

"Yes."

"In spite of all it may involve--for Ladybird?"

"Yes."

The brief finality of her answers was curiously discouraging, and for the moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.

He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distracting vision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standing close to him--a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hair reaching almost to her knees.