The Great Amulet Part 42

Directly the meal was over, she rose, murmuring that she had 'things to see to,' and went out, leaving the men with their cigars. But instead of going to the store cupboard, where the old Khansamah awaited her, armed with his daily _hissab_,[1] she slipped into the drawing-room, sat down at her bureau, and leaned her head on her hand; honestly hoping that Theo might leave the house without coming to her. For all that, the sound of his elastic step brought a light into her eyes. She did not rise, or look round; and he came and stood beside her.

"Not quite yourself this morning, old lady?" he asked. "Anything really wrong? Fever? Headache?"

She caught the note of anxiety, and with a quick turn of her head kissed the fingers resting on her shoulder.

"No, darling, neither. Don't worry yourself. I'm perfectly well."

"Sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Good." And he departed, whistling softly; clear sign that all was well with his world.

But twenty minutes later when Paul came in to look for a strayed pipe, he found Honor, quite oblivious of 'things,' crying quietly behind her hands. He retreated hastily; but she heard him and looked up.

"Don't go, Paul. I want you."

No three words in the language could have pierced him with so keen a thrust of happiness.

"Do you mean . . . can I help you?" he asked eagerly. "I felt sure something was wrong."

"Did you? I'm a bad actress! But . . it's about Baby,--the other Paul," she added, smiling through wet lashes. "I have just had a letter from Mrs Rivers that makes me want to pack my boxes and go straight back to Dalhousie."

"And shall you? Is it serious enough for that?"

"Oh, how _can_ one tell?" she cried desperately, her voice breaking on the words. "It mightn't seem serious to you. He has fever, and a touch of dysentery, and terrible fits of crying with his double teeth.

Mrs Rivers seems anxious; and of course one thinks . . . of convulsions. It all sounds rather a molehill, doesn't it, after the horrors we have been living in here? And perhaps only a mother would make a mountain out of it. But I think mothers must have G.o.d's leave to be foolish . . . sometimes!"

Fresh tears welled up, and she hid her face again. Paul could only wait beside her tongue-tied, half-sitting on the edge of the writing-table, wondering what dear, unfathomable impulse had led her to admit him to the sanctuary of her sorrow; realising, so far as a masculine brain can realise, something of the struggle involved in woman's twofold responsibility--to the man, and to the gift of the man.

It is the eternally old, eternally new tragedy of Anglo-Indian marriage; none the less poignant because it is repeated _ad infinitum_.

Love him as she may, it costs more for a wife, and still more for a mother, to stand loyally by her husband in India than the sheltered women of England can conceive. For to read of such contingencies in print, is by no means the same thing as having one's heart of flesh pierced by the sword of division.

"Has Theo heard all this?" Paul hazarded gently. "He went off in such good spirits."

She dried her eyes, and looked up,

"I couldn't spoil it all by telling him. But I thought it might seem less of a nightmare, if I could tell some one . . . and . . ."

"And I happened to come handy?" he suggested with a rather pathetic smile.

"Oh, Paul, how horrid! It wasn't that," she contradicted him hotly.

"It was because you are . . you, my boy's G.o.dfather, and my very dear friend. Do you suppose I would have shown my mother-foolishness to any other man of my acquaintance?"

"No. I don't suppose it," he answered, looking steadily down into the anxious beauty of her face. "Forgive my much less pardonable foolishness, and let me help you, if that's possible. Are you really thinking of going?"

"N . . no. I don't believe I am. Only . . for one mad moment, I felt as if _nothing_ could hold me back. But children are such elastic creatures; and if I arrived to find him quite frisky and well, think how ashamed I should feel at having deserted Theo, and put him to so much expense for nothing. But I do want to wire at once; though I hardly like sending Theo's orderly . . ."

"Let me write it for you, and send my man," he volunteered, catching gratefully at something definite to be done; and taking up a form he prepared to write at her dictation.

"Reply prepaid, please; and addressed to Frank. I shall go straight over there, and stay till I get the answer, I could never keep it up with Theo all day. You saw how badly I did it at breakfast!--What's that? Some one come?"

Sounds of arrival were followed by an unmistakable Irish voice in the hall; and Honor hurriedly dabbed her eyes.

"Dear Frank, how clever of her! She can drive me over."

A minute later she was in the room; an angular workmanlike figure, in sun helmet, and the unvarying coat and skirt. It was her one idea of a dress,--drill in summer, tweed in winter. "An' be all that's sensible, what more should an ugly woman want?" had been her challenge to a misguided friend, who had suggested higher aspirations. "'Tis no manner o' use to dress up a collection of limbs and features without symmetry; an' it saves no end of mental wear and tear, to say nothing of rupees, that's badly wanted for polo ponies."

She entered talking; and shook hands talking still.

"The top o' the morning to you both! 'Tis an unholy hour for a visit.

But I'm after the loan of a feeding-cup, knowing you've two. That murdering villain of a _messalchi_[2] broke me only one this morning; an' I'm afraid I used 'language' when I saw the corpse, besides threatening to cut the price of a new one out of his pay! '_Memsahib ke kus.h.i.+_,'[3] he answers, salaaming like a sainted martyr, and taking the wind clean out o' me sails. But I'll wash yours meself; so you needn't fear to lend it." Then, becoming aware of Honor's red eyelids, she broke off short. "Why, Honor, me dear, it's the born fool I am to be chattering like a parrot when you're in trouble, by the looks of it." A glance from one to the other revealed the telegram in Paul's hand. "Great goodness, it's never the child, is it?" she asked with a swift change of tone.

"Yes. Honor has had disturbing news," he answered for her. "She'll tell you about it while I send off this wire."

Honor, who had risen, sank into her chair again as he left the room.

"Read that, dear," she said simply: and while Frank Olliver read, a strange softness stole over her face, blanched and lined by many Frontier hot weathers. Outsiders, who wondered how any man had ever come to fall in love with her, might have wondered less had they chanced to see her then. On reaching the signature, she awkwardly patted Honor's shoulder.

"'Tis just one o' the bad minutes there's no evading, me darlint. The price you've to pay for the high privilege of carrying on the race."

"It seems a big price sometimes . . in India," Honor answered, not quite steadily. "And it's your one bit of compensation, Frank, that you're spared the wrench of having to live with your heart in two places at once."

At that Frank bit her lip, and stinging tears--an unusual phenomenon--blinded her eyes. But she was overstrung by a week of hard nursing; and some childless women never loss the tragic sense of incompleteness, the unacknowledged ache of empty arms.

"Spared? Ah, me dear, you ought to know me better by now," she protested reproachfully. "I've no use at all for cheap comforts o'

that kind. What's the sharpest pangs, after all, balanced against . . . the other thing? Lighter than vanity itself; an' you know it. None better. But there . . . I'm clean daft to be talking so at this stage o' the proceedings. It's the happy woman I am, sure enough. Geoff and I are rare good friends. Always have been. But don't you talk to me again about being spared. It's one more than I can stand; an' that's the truth."

Honor took possession of the hand that patted her shoulder,--a square hand; rough with much riding and exposure,--and laid it against her cheek.

"Bless you, Frank," she said softly. "You make me feel quite ashamed of myself. Come and get the feeding-cup; and take me home with you.

I've wired to Mrs Rivers; and the answer will come to you. I couldn't tell Theo, till . . I must."

Frank's smile had the effect of suns.h.i.+ne striking through a shower.

"Saints alive, how you spoil the dear man! But indeed an' I wonder who could help it? Not meself, I'll swear."

Desmond came in very late for tiffin. At Paul's announcement that Honor had gone to Mrs Olliver's till tea-time, he raised his eyebrows without question or comment: then, going over to the mantelpiece, stood contemplating a recent photo of her and the child.

"Did you happen to notice her at breakfast?" he asked abruptly, his eyes on the picture. "She didn't seem to me quite up to the mark. And of course . . bringing her into this . . . one feels responsible . . ."

There was more in the tone than in the broken sentence; and Wyndham, coming up behind him, grasped his shoulders.

"My dear Theo," he said soothingly, "I can't let you be hag-ridden by your favourite nightmare! Honor is woman enough to be responsible for her own actions. Besides, she is perfectly well. I had a talk with her before she went. As to her coming down into this, you couldn't have held her back. She has every right to stand by you, if she chooses; and you must know, even better than I do, that in the good future ahead of you, wherever you may be, unless it's active service, Honor will be there too, . . as sure as my name's Wyndham."

This was quite a long speech for Paul; one that it cost him an effort to make; and Desmond, fully realising the fact, turned upon his friend with impulsive warmth.