Part 39 (1/2)
”Anything ready for you over there?” said he.
”Not that I know of. But Zyarulla will shake things down in no time.”
”All the same, as your luggage is handy, why not stop on here? You'd be uncommonly welcome; and I know Honor would be glad to keep an eye on you for a while longer.”
The invitation, given on the spur of the moment, took Lenox aback.
”But, my good chap, . . . you've got Wyndham coming over.”
”Yes. Thank G.o.d. To-morrow or next day. No distaste for Paul's company, have you?”
Lenox smiled, and shook his head.
”Hang it all, Desmond, you know what I mean. You and your wife have done too much for me already. There _are_ limits to a man's capacity for sponging on other folks' generosity.”
”Well, if that's your only objection, we'll consider the matter settled!
Wyndham goes into my dressing-room; so the boy's nursery is at your service. My wife is never so happy as when she has her hands full; and it'll be less trying for you here, than in your own empty bungalow.”
The last words flashed a suspicion into Lenox's mind.
”Look here, man,” he broke out hotly, his eyes searching Desmond's face.
”Isn't it you yourself who would be glad to keep an eye on me? You're half afraid I shall knock under to this infernal thing if I'm too much alone. Is that it?”
Desmond met question and glance four-square.
”You gave me leave just now not to mince matters, and I take you at your word,” said he. ”To acknowledge that living alone may make the fight harder for you is no reflection on your powers of resistance. It is simple fact; and no earthly good can come of disregarding it. In your case discretion is the better part of valour.--Now, will you be reasonable, and accept my suggestion in the spirit in which it was made?”
He held out his hand. Lenox grasped, and wrung it hard.
”Thanks, old chap,” he said. ”I'll stay for the present. There's no withstanding you two.”
That night he excused himself from mess: and long after the house and compound had fallen asleep, he and Desmond sat together in the _dufta_, with pipes and pegs, and softly snoring dogs at their feet, talking intermittently of all things in earth and heaven, with the rare unreserve bred of tobacco, and the communicative influence of midnight. Talk of this kind draws men very close together; and in the course of it Lenox discovered--as others had done before him--that this man who had become so intimately linked with the vital issues of his life was no mere good comrade, but a dynamic force, challenging and evoking the manhood of his friends.
When they parted Lenox felt more hopeful than he had done since the arrival of Quita's note; and honest sleep hung heavy on his eyelids.
”Don't believe you need the dose we spoke of after all,” Desmond remarked on a note of satisfaction.
”Not a bit of it. Thanks to you, I believe I shall sleep like a top.”
Nor was he disappointed.
For the first time in fifty-six hours he took his fill of natural dreamless sleep: and, on waking next morning, the first sight that greeted him was a letter from Dalhousie, propped against the milk-jug on his early tea tray.
[1] Duster.
[2] It is an order--you understand!
CHAPTER XIX.