Part 16 (2/2)
Lenox poured out his tea, and drank it thirstily. But the first mouthful of toast was enough for him. He pushed the plate away; and his hand went out instinctively to the pipe Zyarulla, had laid beside it.
”d.a.m.n!” he muttered between his teeth, almost flinging it from him; and at that instant the door opened.
”_Desmin, Sahib argya_,” [1] the Pathan announced; and with a startled sound, Lenox got upon his feet, and began fastening his waistcoat.
”Good morning,” he said quietly. ”Made a night of it, as you see; and overslept myself.”
But beneath his quiet he was acutely aware of the contrast between his own dishevelled aspect, and Desmond's un.o.btrusive neatness and freshness.
”Hope I don't intrude,” the latter apologised, smiling: but his keen eyes searched the other's face, and read tragedy there. ”As you hadn't turned up by ten-thirty, my wife was afraid something might have gone wrong. So I came over to set her mind at rest!”
”Your wife? Why, of course! And I promised to be round by ten--ill-mannered cur that I am!” He sank wearily into his chair.
”Truth is,” he added in a changed tone, ”I couldn't get a wink of sleep till near dawn; and then it came down on me like a sledge-hammer. You know the sort of thing.”
Desmond nodded, and took a seat on the edge of the table.
”Are you often given that way?” he asked with seeming unconcern.
”Now and again.”
”Ever been really bad with it?”
”Pretty bad. Why d'you ask?”
”Because from the looks of you, I should say it was wearing your nerves to fiddle-strings. Ever take anything for it?”
Lenox frowned; and Desmond made haste to add: ”No call, of course, to answer a question of that sort. But you look downright ill; and it's unwise to let that kind of thing become a habit.”
”d.a.m.ned unwise!” Lenox answered, with a smile that did not lift the shadow from his eyes. ”As I know to my cost. The thing has been a habit with me for longer than I care to reckon.”
Desmond raised his eyebrows. He had noticed the fragments in the fender: the faint suggestion of chlorodyne that still clung in the air.
”My dear Lenox, I am sorry for that. And--the remedy? You must have tried something before now?”
”Yes. Drugged tobacco:--opium, a good strong mixture,” the other answered bluntly. ”You may as well have it straight. You're an understanding fellow; and no Pharisee.”
Then, in a few clipped sentences, he stated the bald facts of the case, culminating in his discovery of the previous night. He leaned forward in speaking; elbows on knees; eyes averted from the other's face.
”You see, it's in the blood,--that's the h.e.l.l of it all,” he concluded fiercely. ”This morning, when I'd had my fill of thinking things out, I took a stiff dose of chlorodyne. Smashed the bottle afterwards, in disgust. But where's the use? The dice are loaded: and no doubt one will be driven back to it again, sooner or later.”
Words and tone betrayed the dread note of fatalism--the moral microbe of the East. But men of Theo Desmond's calibre rarely succ.u.mb to its paralysing influence.
”Look here, Lenox,”--he spoke almost brusquely,--”you must get quit of that notion. No man worth his salt goes to meet failure half-way. I grant you're on the edge of an ugly pit, and if you insist on peering into it, your chance is gone. All you have to do is to shut your eyes, and hang to the reins like the very deuce; if it's only for the sake of--your wife. Honor told me about her,” he added, with more gentleness.
But Lenox threw up his head impatiently. ”My wife?” he repeated on a note of concentrated bitterness. ”The greatest kindness I could do her would be to plunge wholesale into the pit, and give her back the freedom she wants. A man with a taint in his blood has no business to beget children foredoomed to fight--and lose.”
”My good chap,” Desmond broke in hotly. ”I'll never believe that any living soul is foredoomed to lose. The chance of a fight, no matter how heavy the odds, includes the chance of victory. And even if things do look a bit hopeless for a time, our orders are plain and straight; 'No surrender.'”
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