Part 36 (1/2)

”Thank you for owning that much!--Now I must write my note, and see about packing. Come up soon, dear. There's an endless deal to do before we can think of going to bed.”

On his way up to join her twenty minutes later, Desmond looked into Lenox's small room. Zyarulla had strewn the floor with books, boots, clothes, and a couple of boxes, preparatory to going into action. His master, enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke, sat afar off directing the plan of campaign. A great peace pervaded his aspect, and the unmistakable fragrance that filled the room brought two deep lines into Desmond's forehead.

”Just looked in to find out how you were getting on,” said he. ”Not seen O'Malley already, have you?”

”No. But his verdict is a foregone conclusion, so we're going ahead with things. Your wife's not really coming, is she?”

”Yes. I did my best to prevent it; but there's no gainsaying her.”

”Great Scott, she's a plucky woman! You must have plenty to see to both of you. Don't let me keep you, old chap, I'm all right.”

”Glad to hear it. You'll sleep. That's certain. But I wish to goodness you'd given Nature a chance.”

”Nature wouldn't have given _me_ a chance,” the other answered with sudden heat. ”And there's a limit to what a man can stand. By the way,” he added in an altered tone, ”I can't tell you how sorry I am about Wyndham. But you must hope for the best.”

”Thanks,” Desmond answered quietly. ”Good-night.”

The door of his wife's room stood ajar, and in pa.s.sing it to go to his dressing-room, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a m.u.f.fled sob. Treading softly, he pushed the door open, and looked in.

A night-light in the basin, and one candle on the dressing-table showed him a tall white figure bending over the rail of the cot where his son lay asleep. Honor had discarded her dinner dress for a light wrapper, and her loosened hair fell in a dusky ma.s.s almost to her knees.

For a few seconds Desmond stood watching her, uncertain whether to intrude upon her grief or no. He knew her peculiar dread of separation from those she loved, knew that throughout the sixteen mouths of her child's life she had never left him for more than a few hours except to go to Chumba, and then not without remonstrance. Yet she was leaving him now of her own free will, for an indefinite time, and in the full knowledge of the grim possibilities ahead. It is in such rare moments of revelation that a man realises dimly what it may mean for a woman dowered with the real courage and dignity of self-surrender to give herself to him; that he is vouch-safed a glimpse into that mystery of love, which cynics of the decadent school dismiss as ”amoristic sentiment,” a fict.i.tious glorification of mere natural instinct. But Desmond took a simpler, more reverential view of a quality which he believed to be the most direct touch of the Divine in man, and which he had proved to be the corner-stone of his wife's character.

He went forward at length, but so noiselessly that Honor had no idea of his presence till his arms came round her from behind, and drew her up so close against him that her wet cheek touched his own.

”Theo . . . that wasn't fair!” she protested with a little broken laugh.

”Not quite. But I couldn't resist it.”

Then they stood silent, looking down at the sleeping child.

He lay on his back, one half-opened hand flung high above his head, and the fair soft face, in its halo of red-gold hair, bore the impress of the angelic, that only comes with sleep, and vanishes like magic at the lifting of the eyelids.

Suddenly Desmond tightened his hold of her, and by a mutual impulse their lips met.

[1] Headman.

CHAPTER XVII.

”Our frailties are invincible, our virtues barren; and the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun.”--R.L.S.

The rain, which had set in with such quiet determination at sunset, fulfilled its promise of continuing through the night: and the pattering on the slates that had mingled with Quita's latest thoughts greeted her, with derisive iteration, when she opened her eyes next morning. But its power to thwart her was at an end. Now that daylight was come, nothing short of a landslip could withhold her from the thing she craved. The thought leaped in her brain before she was fully awake. ”And after all, why should I wait till the afternoon,” was her practical conclusion. ”I'll go down at eleven.”

With that she sprang out of bed, and slipping on a dull blue dressing-gown, hurried into the dining-room, where she and Michael always met for _chota hazri_.

Here she found him, in j.a.panese smoking suit and slippers, smiling contentedly over an item of his early post.