Part 55 (1/2)
Hence Quita's revived zeal to finish a picture begun and flung aside months ago; and Eldred's unusually prompt response to a request from an Editor friend in England for a set of articles on Tibet, whose holy of holies had not then been unveiled and described for the benefit of man's insatiable curiosity.
He was in his study now, finis.h.i.+ng the first of them in time for the homeward mail: unconsciously enjoying a return to the familiar occupation. The writing of it had engrossed more of his mind and leisure during the last week than Quita chose to consider quite admissible in those early days. Her own absorption in her picture was quite another matter, be it understood! And, in truth, she would gladly have had him in the studio, ensconced in his own chair, and available for argument or love-making according to her mood. Hitherto she had resisted temptations to invade his study when she knew him to be at work. But this afternoon a vague spirit of unrest had gotten hold of her, making the thought of his diligence, and complacent detachment from her, peculiarly exasperating; and before long exasperation drove her to the door of his sanctum.
It stood ajar: and pus.h.i.+ng it open, she went softly in. His back was towards her, and his concentration so complete that he was not aware of her till she stood at his elbow. Then he started and looked up with a smothered exclamation of doubtful character.
”Hullo, my lady, I thought this was against regulations! What's up?”
She perched lightly on the arm of his chair.
”Nothing's up. I'm rather 'down,' that's all; or I wouldn't have infringed your territorial rights! _Do_ leave off being a model of industry, and come into the studio.”
”But, my dear girl, . . why?”
”Because I want you. Isn't that reason enough? There'll be plenty of time to finish grinding out dry-as-dust facts about Tibet after tea.”
”I'm afraid not. I told Desmond I'd get down to the tent-pegging early. Is it really anything important, la.s.s?” he added, controlling his impatience with an effort.
”Oh dear, no, not the least in the world!” She was on her feet now: head erect: dignity incarnate. ”Unless it is important to do what your wife asks you with good grace. But I believe little illusions of that kind are warranted not to outlast four months of marriage.”
He brought his hand sharply down on the table.
”Quita, you are talking childish nonsense. Why the d.i.c.kens can't you leave me in peace till I'm through? I shan't be much longer now: and you can lecture me on the whole duty of husbands all the evening, if you've a mind to.”
”Indeed I've not. Duty never gets a word in edgeways, while Love is master of the house. If it ever comes to 'duty' between you and me, I shall pack my kit and go, I promise you. It's the reality or nothing for me.--But don't hurry your work on my account, _mon ami_,” she added, on her way to the door. ”I shall probably drive over to Honor's, and leave you in peace till dinner-time. In fact, you have my permission to dine at mess for a change, if it would amuse you.”
And as he turned quickly with remonstrance on his lips, the door closed behind her. With a sigh that ended in a smile, he took up his pen again: wis.h.i.+ng her back the moment she was out of reach. For beneath his surface equanimity, the man in him was still thrilling under the emotion and astonishment of absolute possession; under the hallowing sense of permanence that at once calmed and exalted the fever heat of pa.s.sion.
But Quita returned to her studio feeling more out of tune than ever.
It was her own foolish fault, of course, for interrupting him: a form of knowledge that has never yet made for consolation. And while she stood alone before her picture, wondering whether she really would order the trap and go over to the Desmonds, footsteps in the verandah heralded Honor's appearance in the doorway:--a glowing Honor, looking remarkably young and fresh in a long, loose alpaca coat, and a shady Leghorn in which roses nodded: the peach-bloom of health back in her cheeks, the old buoyant stateliness in her step and carriage.
Quita flew to her with a little cry.
”Honor, you dear woman! How engaging of you to turn up, just when I was wanting you, and feeling too lazy to go and find you.”
The kiss that pa.s.sed between them was a real one; not the perfunctory peck of greeting that usurps its name. For, as flowers most exquisite spring from strangely unpromising soil, so had those two weeks of isolation and heart-hunger on the unloveliest hill-top of Northern India generated an enduring friends.h.i.+p between these two women, so unlike in outward seeming: a deeper thing than the facile feminine interchange of Christian names and kisses.
”Come your ways in, you patent radiator of happiness!” And Quita would have thrust her friend into Eldred's chair: but Honor, catching sight of the picture, went eagerly up to it.
”My dear, how remarkable! When did you begin it?”
”Ages ago, in Dalhousie; and now I want to finish it. But the lamp of inspiration won't burn. I'm afraid the wick's gone mouldy from disuse.”
But Honor was reading the lines above the canvas.
”Ah, I see! Christina Rossetti,” she said. ”Quita, you must finish this. It's going to be very good. I love that little poem.”
”Yes, you would. I've always rebelled against it. But last year when everything seemed such a struggle, the lines haunted me so, that I tried to get rid of them by turning them into a picture; and that's the result. Rather like Eldred and me! He's always dragging me up on to higher ground: yet he's so divinely unconscious of it all the time.”
”Dear fellow!” Honor said softly. ”But _he_ hasn't done all the lifting. You've made a new man of him, Quita.”
”Have I?” Sudden seriousness shadowed her eyes. ”It was the least I could do, . . considering all things. Only . . I wish he wasn't quite so inward; so in love with his own company.”