The Great Amulet

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"You are really pleased with it--tell me?" he said eagerly as their
hands met, for he saw the question in her eyes.

"Pleased? You know I am. It is _much_ too good of you to give me such
a splendid present; and father is simply delighted. But why are you
going away? I thought you would stay to tea."

He still held her hand, in defiance of a gentle attempt to withdraw it,
and now he pressed it closer.

"Unhappily I must go," he said, without looking at her. "Your mother
will tell you why, better than I can do. Good-bye---_petite amis_.
Think well of me, if you can."

He bent over her hand, kissed it lingeringly, and was gone before she
could find words to express her bewilderment.

CHAPTER XVI.

"What we love we'll serve, aye, and suffer for too."
--W. Penn.

After sunset the mist came down again, thick as cotton-wool. Heaven
and earth were obliterated, and a quietly determined downpour set in
for the night.

Quita was still at her easel, trying bravely to disregard the collapse
of her happy omen; Michael lounging in a cane chair, with Shelley and a
cigarette. He had returned from Jundraghat in a mood of skin-deep
nonchalance, beneath which irritation smouldered, and Quita's news had
set the sparks flying. Behold him, therefore, doubly a martyr; ready,
as always, to make capital out of his crown of thorns. A renewed
pattering on the verandah slates roused him from the raptures of the
Epipsychidion.

"Well, at least you can't think of going _now_," he said, flinging the
book aside with a gesture of impatience. "That's one blessing, if the
rest's a blank."

Quita, who was washing out her brushes, looked round quickly.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone in a bad mood, Michael; but I mean to go,
whatever the weather chooses to say about it."

"_Parbleu_! But what has come to you, Quita? You are infatuated with
that granite-natured Scotchman!"

"And if I am . . . I have every right to be."

Her gaze had returned to the vigorous outline on the easel, and her
voice softened to an unconscious tenderness, peculiarly exasperating to
a man in Michael's mixed frame of mind.

"_Naturellement_!" he answered with a shrug. "Being a woman, you have
divine right to monopolise a man,--if the man is fool enough to submit
to it. Nature is determined that you women shall not escape your real
trade. That is why she takes care to make every one of you a bourgeois
at heart. And all these years I have cherished the delusion that you,
at least, were a genuine artist!"

"So I am. Every whit as much as yourself."

"And also--a genuine woman?"

"I hope so."

Michael smiled--a smile of superior knowledge.

"One cannot serve two masters, _ma chere_. That's where the
complication comes in, when an artist happens also to be a woman. The
creative force, mental or physical, is a master-force. Only a
superhuman vitality can accomplish both with any hope of success.
Succumb to your womanhood, and there's an end of your Art--_voila
tout_."

"But no, Michel. I won't believe that." She spoke stoutly, though
cold fear was upon her that a germ of truth lurked in his statement.

"Believe it or not, as you please. You are on the high-road to make
the discovery for yourself, and you will find it a case of no
compromise. One of the two must predominate. You will either become
an amateur artist or an amateur wife and mother. Which do you suppose
it will be?"

She shut her paint-box with an impatient snap.

"I really don't know. I am not in the mood for abstract speculation."

"No. You are in the mood for concrete love-making; and in pursuit of
it, you're ready to face a drenching, to leave me is the worst possible
company, without a sisterly qualm, and without even troubling to put my
razor in your pocket."

"Don't talk melodramatic nonsense," she rebuked him sharply. Then pity
and tenderness prevailed. "If it's really as bad as that, _mon cher_,
why on earth didn't you take yesterday's chance, and ask Elsie to be
your wife? I believe she would have said 'Yes.'"

"So do I. Therefore I preferred not to ask her. Still--it's none the
less maddening that because you women have this incurable mania for
marriage, one should be cut off from her sweet companionship, from the
inspiration that is to be found in that delectable borderland between
friendship and love; and insulted into the bargain by a chit of a
mother-woman, with no more brains and imagination than a sparrow! But
for me, at any rate, there can be no compromise. I do not choose to
profane the sanctuary of my soul, to corrupt my Art, by becoming a mere
breadwinner, a slave of the hearth-rug, and the tea-cup--in fact, the
property of a woman. That's what it amounts to. And I doubt if any of
us relish the position when it comes to the point. Even that devoted
husband of yours, after waiting five years upon your imperial pleasure,
seems in no hurry to tie himself up again; or you would hear less about
his conscientious scruples, I assure you. They would be swept aside,
like straws before a flood."

At that Quita's eyes flashed.

"Michel, you _shall_ not speak so of him," she cried imperiously.
"I've said already that I won't have the subject discussed. How should
_you_ understand a man like Eldred,--you, who hardly know the meaning
of the word 'conscience'?"

"_Dieu merci_; since its chief function seems to be to make oneself and
every one else uncomfortable.--Hark at the rain! I wish you joy of
your journey."

He spoke the last words to an empty room. Quita was already changing
her dress hurriedly, defiantly, shutting her ears to the discouraging
sounds without. Michael's half-jesting insinuation had hit her harder
than he guessed; had deepened her determination to extricate herself,
without loss of time, from a position that justified a suggestion so
galling to her pride.

But the mere getting down from the top of Bakrota, and climbing
half-way up the neighbouring hill, through a desolating world of mist
and rain, was, in itself, a prospect that would have daunted a less
headstrong woman. Michael returned her hasty "good-night" in a voice
of resigned martyrdom, and out in the verandah, four drenched
_jhampannis_ cowering round a hurricane-lantern, had passed beyond
martyrdom to the verge of open rebellion.

They were poor men, and the Miss Sahib's slaves, they protested in
chorus; but it was a very bad rain. Even with the lantern, it would be
impossible to keep the path; and if harm should come to the Protector
of the Poor, the Sahib would smite them without mercy. Also the "mate"
[1] was even now shivering with ague; in proof whereof he so vigorously
shook the lantern that it almost fell out of his hand.

But Quita was adamant. She bade them set out at once, or the Sahib
would smite them there and then. Awed by a threat that would never
have been executed, they hastened to assure her that she was,
collectively and individually, their "father and mother," that their
worthless lives were at her service, and that they would start
forthwith.

Three minutes later, they were swinging cautiously along the four-foot
track that corkscrews down to the level of the Mall, the foremost man
thrusting the lantern well ahead, with the sole result that a great
white circle showed weirdly upon the curtain of mist, through which
they journeyed by faith, and not by sight. With every step of the way
Quita's conviction grew that she had pushed persistence to the verge of
folly; and the thought of Michael, alone and dejected, tugged at her
heart. The rain formed miniature canals in the waterproof sheet that
covered her; and more than once a jerk of the dandy emptied these into
her lap; while the mist itself was so dense that she seemed to be
breathing water instead of air. There was no denying that to-morrow
would do as well as to-night. But her impatient spirit fretted against
delay; and this senseless obtrusion of inanimate things,--angering her,
as only the inanimate can,--drowned the still small voice of
common-sense.

Nevertheless, human will and endeavour have small chance in a duel with
that invisible Force, which men call Fate. In the language of the
East, "it was written" that she should not get down the hill that
night; and before they reached the Mall, Quita was compelled to own
herself beaten.

A jerk, a crash, followed by darkness, and a thud that brought her
half-overturned dandy into violent contact with the ground, fairly
settled the matter. The "mate" had missed the path; and, but for an
instantaneous counter-jerk on the part of the men behind, Quita would
have been shot down the _khud_, instead of on to the stony roadway. As
it was, she thrust out both hands to save herself, while the rain
pattered through the light lace scarf on to her head and neck. The
lantern glass was broken, and the "mate," lamenting volubly, declared
that his arm appeared to be broken also. Quita herself was
ignominiously damp and bedraggled; and vanity apart, going on was out
of the question. Even getting back, minus the lantern, would be a
difficult matter. With tears in her eyes, and fierce disappointment at
her heart, she submitted to the inevitable.

Michael greeted her with lifted eyebrows, and an exasperating chuckle.

"Thought ten minutes of it would be enough for you," he remarked
coolly; and her wrath against things in general vented itself on him.

"Really, Michel, you are _detestable_! It was not enough. The 'mate'
lost his footing, and the lantern broke. Oh, it's cruel . . . after
nearly three weeks . . ."

Her voice broke, and Michael, thankful to see her again, took one of
her hands and drew her towards him.

"_Pauvre cherie_," he said more gently. "Don't break your heart over
it. Send a note to say you'll come to-morrow, and cheer me up a bit
now, like the sweet sister you are."

There was nothing else to be done. Arming an adventurous _sais_ with
Maurice's lantern, an alpenstock, and two notes tied up in a scrap of
oiled silk, Quita choked down her misery, and did her utmost to comply
with his request. But the meal was only a partial success, for the
rebellious heart of her was out there in the rain, following the notes
to their destination.

They did not reach it till well after eight o'clock, when those who
awaited her had given up all hope, and were just sitting down to dinner.

Lenox still wore his arm in a sling, and the lines in his face looked
deeper than usual. Otherwise he was quite himself again. The anxiety
in his eyes gave place to dejection as Honor handed him Quita's note.

"Shall I open it for you?" she added gently.

He frowned, and thanked her. There are few things more galling to a
man than helplessness over trifles. He laid the open note beside his
plate, and its half-dozen lines of love took him an amazingly long
while to read: for Quita, like many spontaneous natures, had the gift
of making herself almost seen and heard by means of a few written
words. He tried to win comfort from the thought that it was only a
matter of getting through eighteen hours, after all, and roused himself
resolutely to a fair semblance of cheerfulness. But both husband and
wife were too keenly sympathetic to be quite successful in their
attempts to change the current of his thoughts; and their own hearts
were heavy with a great anxiety for Desmond's life-long friend, Paul
Wyndham. A phenomenal downpour at Dera Ishmael had produced a prolific
crop of fever cases, and Wyndham's had taken a serious turn. The last
two days had brought such disquieting news that Desmond was already
half-inclined to throw up the rest of his leave and go straight down to
Paul's bedside. The possibility of broaching the subject to his wife
that night so absorbed his mind that surface conversation was an
effort; and all three were thankful when the meal was over.

"Bring your coffee and cigars into the drawing-room, and we'll have
some music," Honor said, as they rose from the table, and Lenox looked
his gratitude. Intimate speech of any kind, even with Desmond, was
anathema to him just then, and his full heart went out to this woman,
whose genius for divining others' needs was so unerring, because her
sympathies were so deep and true.

He determined to put Quita out of his head for the evening, if she
would consent to stay there; and less than five minutes after this
triumph of common-sense, a slight stir in the verandah roused him to
unreasoning hope that it might be she after all. But it was only Amar
Singh, the bearer, with a telegram for Desmond.

His heart stood still as he tore it open; then a stifled sound of
dismay brought Honor instantly to his side.

"Dearest--what is it?" she asked under her breath.

For answer he handed her the flimsy scrap of paper, and went quickly
into the next room. Honor's eyes took in the curt statement at a
glance.

"Leave cancelled. Return at once. Infantry for cholera camp. None of
ours yet. Wyndham worse. High temperature persists. Condition
critical."

A low sound escaped her, and she passed the telegram to Lenox. It was
from her brother, Colonel Meredith, now in command of the regiment.

"A double blow," she murmured mechanically. "By this time it may
be--all over!"

Her lips quivered, but she did not follow her husband, knowing that in
the first bewilderment of grief he would prefer to be alone. And Lenox
had no answer for her; had, in fact, scarcely heard what she said.
Then, as his brain grasped the latter half of the telegram, he glanced
at her. He had never seen her look less like herself.

"I'm afraid this has hit you hard," he said, with more of feeling in
his eyes than he knew how to put into his tone. "But you mustn't take
the worst for granted. Desmond won't, if I know anything of him."

"I hope not. But this is . . . Paul; and you don't know what that
means to us both. Besides . . . the saints of the earth are always
taken too soon."

"No, not always. Fate does sometimes make mistakes on the right
side . . . by accident," he added grimly. "I suppose one of these has
gone to the Strawberry Bank. I must send Zyarulla off at once to get
my traps together. It means starting first thing."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Yes. But not you, surely. You're hardly fit for duty yet."

"Nonsense. Barring my arm, I'm fit for anything. And if we're in for
cholera, I don't see myself leaving Dick to handle the Battery without
me."

"You're bound to ask Dr O'Malley's permission, though."

"Yes, worse luck. But I fancy I shall square him. At the same
time--it's hard lines----"

He broke off short. The thing did not bear speaking of.

"It _is_ bitterly hard lines, for you both," Honor answered, looking
away from him. But she knew the best men of her service too well to
suggest that, without straining a point, he might honestly be declared
unfit for duty.

"At least it will be a comfort to her having _you_ here," he went on
mechanically, because the thing had to be said somehow. "I'll leave a
note, of course, but I'd be grateful if you'd take it for me some time
in the morning. She may not understand how impossible it is for a man
to hold back--on any pretext, at a time like this, and I know I can
trust _you_ to make things clear to her. You're more than half a
soldier yourself."

"So I ought to be!" Honor answered, inexpressibly touched by his
confidence in her. "And of course I would go to her if I were here.
But to-morrow I shall be on my way back to Dera with you both."

"Dera!--But that would be madness. Do you suppose Desmond would ever
hear of such a thing?"

"I haven't supposed anything about it yet," she answered, smiling. "I
only know that I can't let him go down into--all that, alone. Now I
must say good-night, and go to him. We'll make all arrangements for
the journey," she added, as they shook hands, "and Zyarulla will do the
packing for you. So be sure and get some sleep when you have seen Dr
O'Malley."

His face hardened.

"I only know one way to make sure of that," he said, avoiding her eyes.

"Oh, no, no; not that way, please."

"I imagine it'll be that or none," he answered almost roughly, as he
turned away, and with a sigh Honor followed her husband into the
dining-room.

He sat with his back to her, elbows planted on the writing-table, his
head between his hands. But at her approach he looked up, and with a
sharp contraction of heart she saw that tears stood in his eyes. A
woman takes small account of her own wet lashes, but a man's tears are
like drops of blood wrung from the heart.

Honor took his head between her hands, and kissed him, long and
tremulously. After that there seemed no need for words on the subject
nearest their hearts.

"You knew why I didn't come sooner?" was all she said, and Desmond
pressed the hand resting on his shoulder. Then, seating herself
opposite him on the edge of the table, she glanced at the telegraph
form lying before him.

"Are you wiring for more news?"

"Yes. I want an 'urgent,' care of the Station-master, to catch me at
Lahore to-morrow night, and another at Thung dak bungalow next day;
unless . . . of course . . ."

"Hush, hush. You _must_ not think of that."

He frowned, and was silent. The two men loved one another as men
linked by half a lifetime of toil and ambition learn to love,--or hate;
and in the face of a calamity so unthinkable, even Desmond's incurable
hopefulness was shaken.

"Captain Lenox believes he will be allowed to go," Honor went on after
a pause. "But he's hardly fit for it, is he?"

"Not quite, perhaps, though he's made of iron under it all, and if he's
set on going, I don't fancy O'Malley will stand in his way."

"I told him we would make all travelling arrangements, and you'll be
sending Dunni out with this, I suppose?"

"Yes. At once. Why?"

"Because I want him to take a note to Mrs Rivers at the same time."

"Mrs Rivers? Would you sooner go to her than stay on here?"

Honor smiled.

"Do you really imagine I shall stay on here?"

"Why not? It would save the trouble of moving; and you wouldn't feel
lonely with the little chap for company."

"But, you dear, foolish man, can't you see that it's you I want?" And
she leaned forward, speaking quickly to stave off interruption. "Don't
make a fuss about it, please; because I have settled everything in my
mind. I'll ask Mrs Rivers to take baby and Parbutti for me. I know
she gladly will. As for me, of course I go down to Dera to-morrow, and
do what I can for you all."

At that Desmond straightened himself; and Honor foresaw one of those
pitched battles, which, between natures equally imperious and
hot-headed, were unavoidable from time to time; while Desmond, because
he meant to have his own way, dared not let her see how profoundly he
was moved by this culminating proof of her devotion.

"My dear Honor, the thing is out of the question," he said decisively.
"It's splendid of you even to think of coming down. But it would be
unpardonable in me to allow it, so be a sensible woman and put the
notion out of your head, once for all. You know you could never bear
to leave little Paul when it came to the point."

"I could . . . I could. Oh, Theo, don't be unreasonable over this."

"The unreasonableness is yours, my dear. If this is going to be bad,
we may all be off into camp before the week's out."

"Well, then, Frank would take me in . . . and at least I should be on
the spot--in case . . . Oh, Theo, I _must_ come! Why on earth
shouldn't I be there just as much as Frank, and that little missionary
woman, Mrs Peters?"

"Frank" Olliver, a Major's wife, was the only other woman in the
regiment, and hill stations were not (as she would have expressed it)
"in her line." But Desmond was immovable.

"That's quite another matter. Being there already, they naturally
wouldn't desert their post. But you are here, thank God, safe out of
it all; and I must insist on your remaining here, if it's only for my
sake." A half smile dispelled the gravity of his face. "I've a notion
that when you married me you promised, among other things, to obey me!"

"Well, I was driven to. It was the only way to get you. But I'm sure
most of us make that promise with mental reservations. In certain
cases I should not dream of obeying you, Theo, and this is one!"

"But if I flatly refuse to take you with me?"

"I suppose I should have to follow on alone."

He looked at her straightly for a moment. Then: "I don't think you
would deliberately defy me, Honor," he said in a level tone. "I
couldn't put up with that, even from you."

There was a short silence. She saw that in direct opposition to his
will she could go no further. But the woman who loves, and knows
herself beloved, has subtler weapons at command. Setting her two hands
upon his shoulders, and bringing her beautiful face very close to his,
Honor returned her husband's look with a smile so mutely beseeching,
that his fortitude, already undermined by the news from Dera, began to
waver, and she saw it.

"My very dearest," she said, on a low note of tenderness, "of course I
would never defy you. But don't break my heart by pushing me on one
side, and leaving me up here alone, idle, anxious, when there is real
work--woman's work--waiting to be done down there. I'm as strong as a
church, you know that. And I could help with Paul when he is
convalescent. We could have him in the bungalow. I know separation is
bound to come some day. But not in this terrible fashion, and not yet.
_Please_, Theo, not yet."

Then, because tears threatened, she leaned down till her forehead
rested against his shoulder, and furtively dried her lashes with the
back of her hand. When a strong woman lays aside her strength, and
relies on the inherent power of her womanhood, no man on earth is a
match for her. Desmond could only surrender at discretion, and take
her altogether to himself.

"And you began by saying you would never defy me!" he whispered into
her ear. "What else do you call this, I wonder? You incurable woman!
Is it really because you are so keen to help, or chiefly because you
want to be in my pocket? Which?"

"Chiefly because I want to be in your pocket," she answered without
shame, and he kissed her bowed head.

"But mind you," his tone changed abruptly, "I have no business to give
in to you; and if any harm should come of it, I could never forgive
myself. I believe I should blow my brains out on the spot."

At that she lifted her head and stood up beside him.

"Theo, you _shall_ not say such dreadful things."

"It's no more than the truth," he answered, with a touch of defiance.
"Lord, how you women, and the children you give us, complicate life for
a man! Yet it's not worth a brass farthing without you both."

"Thank you for owning that much!--Now I must write my note, and see
about packing. Come up soon, dear. There's an endless deal to do
before we can think of going to bed."

On his way up to join her twenty minutes later, Desmond looked into
Lenox's small room. Zyarulla had strewn the floor with books, boots,
clothes, and a couple of boxes, preparatory to going into action. His
master, enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke, sat afar off directing the
plan of campaign. A great peace pervaded his aspect, and the
unmistakable fragrance that filled the room brought two deep lines into
Desmond's forehead.

"Just looked in to find out how you were getting on," said he. "Not
seen O'Malley already, have you?"

"No. But his verdict is a foregone conclusion, so we're going ahead
with things. Your wife's not really coming, is she?"

"Yes. I did my best to prevent it; but there's no gainsaying her."

"Great Scott, she's a plucky woman! You must have plenty to see to
both of you. Don't let me keep you, old chap, I'm all right."

"Glad to hear it. You'll sleep. That's certain. But I wish to
goodness you'd given Nature a chance."

"Nature wouldn't have given _me_ a chance," the other answered with
sudden heat. "And there's a limit to what a man can stand. By the
way," he added in an altered tone, "I can't tell you how sorry I am
about Wyndham. But you must hope for the best."

"Thanks," Desmond answered quietly. "Good-night."

The door of his wife's room stood ajar, and in passing it to go to his
dressing-room, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a muffled
sob. Treading softly, he pushed the door open, and looked in.

A night-light in the basin, and one candle on the dressing-table showed
him a tall white figure bending over the rail of the cot where his son
lay asleep. Honor had discarded her dinner dress for a light wrapper,
and her loosened hair fell in a dusky mass almost to her knees.

For a few seconds Desmond stood watching her, uncertain whether to
intrude upon her grief or no. He knew her peculiar dread of separation
from those she loved, knew that throughout the sixteen mouths of her
child's life she had never left him for more than a few hours except to
go to Chumba, and then not without remonstrance. Yet she was leaving
him now of her own free will, for an indefinite time, and in the full
knowledge of the grim possibilities ahead. It is in such rare moments
of revelation that a man realises dimly what it may mean for a woman
dowered with the real courage and dignity of self-surrender to give
herself to him; that he is vouch-safed a glimpse into that mystery of
love, which cynics of the decadent school dismiss as "amoristic
sentiment," a fictitious glorification of mere natural instinct. But
Desmond took a simpler, more reverential view of a quality which he
believed to be the most direct touch of the Divine in man, and which he
had proved to be the corner-stone of his wife's character.

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