Part 51 (1/2)
Desmond turned back to the table, and helped himself to a fresh cigar.
”Are you so dead certain about the disqualification?” he asked without looking up: and he heard Lenox grind his teeth.
”Oh Lord, man, if you're going on that tack, I'm off.”
”Indeed you're not. There's a deal more to be said. As far as I understand matters, I imagine that your wife's coming here makes a decided difference in regard to--ultimate possibilities?”
”Yes; that's just it. She has cut away the ground from under my feet on all sides.” He was thinking of his promise that afternoon, and his voice lost its schooled hardness. ”She's set on going through with things, at any price. But then . . she doesn't realise . . .”
”Believe me, it wouldn't make the smallest difference if she did.
Women are made that way, to our eternal good fortune. Their capacity for loving us in spite of what we are is a thing to go down on one's knees for. You'll appreciate it, one of these days, if you haven't done so already.”
”Appreciate it? Great Scott, Desmond, haven't I ten times more cause to do so than _you_ can ever have had? But that doesn't wipe out facts or principles.”
He left the hearth-rug, and paced the room in restless agitation.
Desmond sat down, lit his cigar, and waited. His own suggestion could best be made if Lenox could be induced to unburden himself a little first. Presently he sat on the edge of the writing-table, well out of range of the lamp; stretched out his long legs, and folded his arms.
”By rights, I suppose I ought to have let her go back to Dalhousie at once. She suggested it herself. But it seemed too brutal; and I wasn't up to the wrench of letting her go just then. Besides, there was your wife's illness. It would have been out of the question. And now I'm in a bigger hole than before. We are living at cross purposes.
She sees I'm holding back; and she's puzzled, and unhappy. But how the deuce is a man to tell her plainly that by an act of pure pluck and devotion, at the wrong moment, she has practically pushed me deeper into the pit than I've been yet? In fact, I'm beginning to be afraid that . . . the damage may be permanent.”
Desmond stifled an exclamation of dismay.
”I wonder if you could bring yourself to tell me exactly what you mean by that?” he said quietly. ”Perhaps I have no business to ask; but unless one goes to the root of a thing it's useless to talk of it at all.”
”I know that. If I hadn't meant to tell you, I shouldn't be in here now. The fact is . . it's gone a good bit beyond tobacco this last fortnight.” He hesitated; but Desmond made no sign. ”Did you never miss that bottle of chlorodyne you brought me the day I was bowled over?”
This time Desmond started.
”Good heavens, yes! I had to get a fresh one . . for Honor. But it never occurred to me . . .”
”It wouldn't. You're not the sort. I emptied it, though, in no time.
But it's poor stuff. It didn't half work. Then, one night--I was mad with pain, and want of sleep--I got hold of the raw drug, in pellets--from the bazaar.” He s.h.i.+vered at the recollection: ”I tell you, Desmond, it's appalling to feel the foundations of things giving way. But I've taken it ever since, . . pain or no.--_Now_ do you doubt the disqualification I spoke of? Personally I don't feel fit to touch her hand.”
The bitterness of conviction in his tone made Desmond lean forward to get a better sight of him.
”Lenox, old man,” he said, almost tenderly, ”such exaggerated notions are all a part of your unsettled nerves.--Smash up your devil's box of pills; or . . hand it over to me . . if you will . . . ?”
Lenox hesitated; but his face gave no sign of the short sharp struggle within. ”You shall have the thing, if you wish it,” he said at length.
”It gives me no pleasure to make a beast of myself. But that doesn't touch the heart of the difficulty. So long as she's here, I haven't a chance. If I give up the stuff, I shall go to pieces with headache and insomnia. That's flat.”
”Indeed I think you're mistaken,” Desmond spoke with deliberate lightness. ”At all events, I have a suggestion to make that may help you . . for the moment. I have quite decided that Honor must leave this, directly she is strong enough to stand the short journey to Sheik Budeen; probably in three or four days; and after a week or two there, she must go on to Dalhousie till September. Can you see a c.h.i.n.k of daylight now?”
”Why, naturally. You want Quita to go up with her? A capital notion!”
His eagerness was an unconscious revelation of all that he had endured.
”Yes. I want you to tell her, from me, that she would be doing us both a very real kindness. Honor would break her poor heart alone at Sheik Budeen; and if you put it to Quita that way, I don't think she will take your suggestion amiss.”
”I'm positive she won't. I'll speak to her to-morrow.”