Part 47 (1/2)

”What sort of a tiffin did you have?” he asked with rough kindliness.

”Oh, I don't know. Nothing much.”

”I thought so. Eat a good dinner, man. Starvation's no use to any one, and I don't want to have you back on my hands.”

With that he departed, and Wyndham had just decided on filling another pipe, since some pretence at occupation was imperative, when Meredith entered unannounced.

A glance at his face showed Paul that he knew, and believed the worst; and for a moment they confronted one another in mute dismay. The Englishman's inability to put his heart into words has its pathetic aspect at times. These two men were linked by years of mutual work, and immediate mutual pain: yet Wyndham merely laid down his pipe and asked; ”Have you seen Mackay?”

”Yes. Met him on my way here. I'm going in to her at once.”

And Paul, picking up the discarded pipe, looked after him with envy and hunger in his eyes.

Meredith knocked at the bedroom door.

”Who's there?” Desmond's voice came sharp as a challenge.

”John.”

”Come in, then.”

And he went in.

The room was large, lofty, and very simply furnished. With the leisurely swaying of the punkah, light and shadow flitted across the wide, low bed, on one side of which Honor lay, warmly covered with blankets, her breath coming in laboured gasps. Desmond knelt by her; and, on Meredith's entrance, set down the feeding-cup, but because her hand was on his coat-sleeve, he did not change his position, or rise from his knees. She held out the other to Meredith, But it fell limply before he could reach her.

”John . . dear,” she greeted him in a husky whisper. ”I'm so glad.

Sit near me . . here.”

He obeyed, seating himself on the unoccupied part of the bed; and taking up her hand, cherished it between both his own. It was cold and clammy, the finger-tips wrinkled like a washerwoman's, and at sight of her face his self-control deserted him, so that he dared not risk speech. For cholera does its work swiftly and efficaciously, and in eight hours Honor Desmond's beauty had been ruthlessly wiped out. In the grey, pinched features and sunken eyes--already dimmed by a creeping film that blurred the two faces she so loved--it was hard to trace any likeness to the radiant woman of twenty-four hours ago. Only the burnished bronze of her hair, encircling her head in a large loose plait, remained untouched by the finger of death.

When Meredith could command his voice, he spoke quietly and cheerfully of the day's work, and of the certainty that she would pull through.

Then the hand in his stirred uneasily.

”What is it, dear?” he asked.

”John, I want you to remember,”--the voice was still husky, and she spoke with difficulty--”whatever happens, . . and tell father, please . . it wasn't Theo's fault. It was mine.”

The hand on her husband's coat-sleeve felt its way up uncertainly, till it rested in a lingering caress on the dark bowed head. For Desmond, leaning on his elbow, had covered his eyes with one hand.

Meredith frowned.

”Dearest girl, it was no one's fault. Besides, you are going to get well. But talking is a strain on you now, I'll look in later.”

He stooped and kissed her forehead.

”Good-bye,” she whispered.

”No, not good-bye,” he contradicted her steadily. ”I shall see you again after mess.”

She sighed, and her lids fell. The terrible apathy of cholera was crus.h.i.+ng the soldier spirit out of her by inches.