The Great Amulet

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"It's good. Don't you think so?" she asked on a tentative note of
conciliation.

"Of course it is. Damned good," he answered gruffly.

"Eldred! Even if you _are_ in a bad mood, you might control your
language."

"I beg your pardon. It's exceedingly good. But you've had it long
enough on hand. Shall you finish it to-day?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Because, though Dick isn't quite up to duty yet, he's fit to be back
at mess again and in his own bungalow."

"Has he said anything about it?"

"No."

"And do you propose to tell him outright that he has been here long
enough?"

"What I propose to say to him is my own affair. You needn't distress
yourself on his account. Dick and I understand one another perfectly."

"No doubt you do. But after all, I am his hostess, and though you may
not object to being flagrantly inhospitable, _I_ do--very strongly.
Besides, why should you be in such a hurry to turn him out? Are you
annoyed again because we happen to be good friends and enjoy one
another's society? I thought you were above that sort of thing."

The suggestion of scorn in her tone pricked him past endurance. He
turned upon her sharply; and his eyes took on their blue of steel.

"I am not above the natural passions of the natural man. You may as
well know it first as last. And I do not choose that Dick and half the
men of the station shall practically live in my house because I happen
to possess a very attractive wife."

"In fact, you imply that the attractive wife is bound over not to go
beyond correct platitudes with any of them but you. Is that it?" she
demanded, the red of rebellion staining her cheeks.

The man was sore rather than angry; and the least touch of tenderness
or hesitancy would have melted him to generous contrition. But her
manner hardened him, and he set his teeth.

"I imply nothing of the sort; and you know it. It would never occur to
me to set limits, general or particular, on your conduct with other
men; and as for your intimacy with Dick, if I didn't believe in you
both absolutely I wouldn't live with you another week. But I want to
make it clear to you that, having accepted the fact of marriage, you
cannot in reason be as independent and daringly unconventional in your
dealings with men as you were when you had no one to consider but
yourself. I know India better than you do. We live in glass houses
out here: and I know the sort of remarks that are made about a young
married woman who is never seen without half a dozen men at her
heels . . ."

"But, my dear man," she broke out impatiently, "who cares one grain of
dust what their remarks may be? Men are my natural-born companions.
Always have been. Always will be. And it's no use asking me to cramp
and distort my whole nature because bourgeois people take a low view of
the matter."

"No use, is it? That's pretty strong, Quita. Not that I _am_ asking
anything of the kind: only that you should show some small
consideration for my point of view; that you should make some effort to
adapt yourself to a new relation."

"I _do_ make an effort, Eldred," she answered unappeased. "But
individuality and temperament are stubborn things, even in a woman; and
I can't sacrifice mine because I happen to be your wife. Marriage
doesn't change one into an invertebrate creature of wax and pack-thread
to be moulded or pushed into any shape a man pleases; especially if one
happens to be an artist as well as a woman. We have our own devils
inside us; our own minds and bodies as well as you. It wouldn't be the
least use my promising to walk discreetly and weigh my words and
actions; because I shouldn't keep the promise for five minutes.
Besides . . ." Returning steps sounded without, and Lenox held up his
hand.

"That's enough," he said decisively. "Here's Dick. You're simply
telling me, in roundabout language, that you intend to take the bit
between your teeth. Well, I intend to keep a firm hold on the reins
for your sake as much as my own."

She flushed hotly.

"_Mon Dieu_, what a detestable similie!"

"Quite so. But it expresses the position. If you will make it a case
of mastery, what else can a man do?"

And as Richardson entered from the dining-room, Lenox went out; by way
of the verandah into his study.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"When the fight begins within himself,
The man's worth something."
--Browning.

Lenox, back at his writing-table, automatically took up his pen. But
five minutes later he still sat thus, looking straight ahead of him
into a future darkened by the encroaching shadow of opium, and
complicated by this new factor of open discord, which--apart from the
pain of finding division, where he had looked for unity--set all his
nerves on edge.

Hitherto, his distaste for friction, coupled with an almost unlimited
power of endurance, had inclined him to let matters slide. But now his
conscience--the accusing, spiritual thing that was himself--warned him
that if marriage meant compromise, it also meant responsibility; that
having been goaded into decisive speech, he stood pledged to decisive
action, for her sake, even more than for his own. Yet, at the moment,
he felt physically and mentally unfit to grapple with the complex
situation, hampered as he was by the experience of all that may spring
from one false move, one instant of unguarded speech; and the knowledge
that his insight, his judgment, were clouded by the insomnia, grinding
headache, and renewed wrestling with a power stronger than his will.
For there was no evading the truth, that, in the past weeks, the drug
had gained fresh hold upon him; had resuscitated the old paralysing
pessimism and dread of defeat, so that he asked himself bitterly what
right had he to sit in judgment upon any one, least of all upon the
dear woman who was the core and mainspring of his life?

Yet, fit or unfit, the need for action, for the rightful assertion of
authority, remained. He laid down his pen, planted an elbow on the
table, and covered his eyes; struggling for clear unprejudiced thought;
tormented by the consciousness of a certain small box hidden away in a
locked drawer within easy reach of his hand.

Suddenly he sat upright. The lines of his face hardened; a cold
moisture broke out upon his forehead; and the desperate look in his
eyes was an ill thing to see. Yet his movements had a strange
mechanical deliberation, as he opened the drawer, found the box, helped
himself from its contents, and, locking it up again, leaned back with
the long exhausted sigh of a man released from tension.

For several minutes he sat thus, arms folded, eyes closed; yielding
himself to the luxury of relief that stole over him, while the great
magician plucked the pain from throbbing nerves, unravelled the tangle
of thought and feeling, soothed brain and body like the touch of a
woman's hand.

But relief, as always, brought revulsion; this time sooner than usual;
because for many days he had held his own against the evil thing, and
had almost begun to believe himself on the upward grade.

"Damnation!" he broke out fiercely, and, the key being still in his
hand, flung it haphazard right across the room. It fell between a
heavy bookcase and the wall; and with a savage laugh of satisfaction,
he took up his pen, and began to write rapidly, without pausing to
select words or phrases. He tore it all up next morning, but for the
time being it served to distract his thoughts.

Presently he heard Quita's voice at the door.

"Eldred, aren't you coming to tea?"

"No," he answered, without looking round.

"Shall I bring you some, then?"

"No, thank you."

He turned his head just in time to catch sight of her as she closed the
door; then went on writing with less regard than ever for the matter in
hand.

In less than half an hour, Richardson's uneven footstep, betraying the
slight limp, sounded without. He paused so long on the other side of
the door, that Lenox's brows went up in surprise.

"That you, Dick?" he called out. "Come along in."

Richardson obeyed; and Lenox removed three or four books from an
adjacent chair.

"Sit down, old chap. You've not been in here often enough lately.
Chained to my wife's easel, eh?"

"Partly . . . yes," the other answered, absently fingering some loose
sheets of manuscript and ignoring the proffered chair.

"Wasn't sure, either, if you cared about being interrupted. I came in
now to say I thought of dining at mess to-night, and clearing out into
my own bungalow to-morrow. You've been uncommonly good to me, you and
Mrs Lenox. But I think I've been quartered on you long enough; and I
shall probably get back to duty next week."

He spoke rather rapidly, as if to ward off interruption or dissent; and
Lenox started at finding the initiative thus taken out of his hands.
It was not Quita's doing. He felt sure of that. But Dick's manner
puzzled him, and mere friendliness made acquiescence impossible.

"Well, you seem in a deuce of a hurry to be quit of us," he said, with
a short laugh. "Might as well stop till you do get back to duty; and
you might as well sit down and have a smoke, now you're here, instead
of standing there like a confounded subordinate, making havoc of my
papers!"

At that Richardson sat down rather abruptly, and helped himself from
his friend's cigar-case. He had small talent and less taste for
subterfuge; and, his pulses being in an awkward state of commotion, he
took his time over the beheading and lighting of his cigar. In fact he
took so long that Lenox spoke again.

"What do you suppose my wife will say to your bolting in this way, at a
moment's notice! Have you spoken to her yet?"

"No. I was afraid of seeming . . . ungracious; and one could speak
straighter to you."

"Does that mean you really won't stop on?"

"I think not, thanks. It's awfully good of you to suggest it. I can
look in, of course, if Mrs Lenox wants any more sittings. But I may as
well stick to my arrangement and go before she gets sick of having me
on her hands."

"You're a long way ahead of that, I fancy," Lenox remarked, with an odd
change of tone.

For a statement of that kind Richardson had no answer. He could only
acknowledge it with a rueful smile that did not lift the shadow from
his eyes. There were no sunbeams caught in Quita's 'bits of sea water'
just then; and for a while silence and tobacco-smoke reigned in the
room. Richardson, who appeared to be reading the closely written sheet
of foolscap at his elbow, was casting about in his mind for the best
means of saying that which must be said; while Lenox, watching him
keenly, arrived at the masculine conclusion that Dick had 'come a
cropper' over something, and possibly needed his help.

"Anything on your mind, old chap?" he asked bluntly, when the silence
had lasted nearly five minutes. And Richardson, taking his resolution
in both hands, looked up from the meaningless page.

"Yes, that's about it. Don't misunderstand me, Lenox. I'd sooner
work with you than with any man in creation; but--there are
difficulties . . . I can't put it plainer--and I'm thinking of
applying for a Staff appointment. My uncle in the Secretariat would
give me a helping hand, if you'd forward the thing with a decent
recommendation. But if you think me too much of a duffer for Staff
work, I must try--for an exchange----"

He could get no further; and Lenox, leaning across the corner of the
table, scrutinised his face with eyes that penetrated like a
searchlight.

"Well . . . I'm damned!" he said slowly. "Am I to understand that
after all we've pulled through together, you want to get away from the
Battery at any price?"

"It's not a question of what I want to do; it's what I've got to do,"
the other answered, averting his eyes.

"My good Dick, you're talking in riddles. Have you taken temporary
leave of your senses? Or is it a case of 'urgent private affairs'?"

Lenox's tone had an edge to it. Of course the man was free to go where
he chose. But it had grown to be an understood thing between them that
they would work together as long as might be, and he could not conceal
his disappointment. Richardson knew this, and looked up quickly. It
was the worst quarter of an hour he had ever known. Facing Waziri
bullets was a small matter compared with this despicable business of
disappointing and deceiving his friend.

"It's urgent enough, God knows!" he answered desperately. "I can't say
more than that, Lenox. I swear I can't."

He looked straight at Lenox in speaking. And this time the older man's
gaze held him, in spite of himself, till the blood burned under his
fair skin; till he perceived, between shame and relief, that his secret
was his no longer; that Lenox had seen, and understood. His first
instinct was--to escape. Such knowledge shared was enough to strike
any man dumb.

"You _will_ recommend me, won't you, old chap?" he asked all in a
breath, with a forward movement, as if to rise and depart.

But Lenox reached across the table, and a heavy hand on his shoulder
pressed him back into his seat.

"No need to hurry away, Max. We've settled nothing yet."

The assurance of unshaken friendship in his altered manner, and in the
sudden use of Richardson's first name, automatically readjusted the
situation, without need of so much as a glance of mutual understanding,
which neither could have endured.

"I'm afraid I can't recommend you for Staff work," Lenox went on
quietly, as though dealing with a mere official detail, submitted for
his approval. "Not because you are a duffer, but because I can't spare
my right-hand man. I'm not an easy chap to work with, as you know.
But we've learnt one another's ways by now, and, unless political work
claims me, we can't do better than run the Battery together till you
get a command--and that's not far off now. As for your urgent need of
a change, if six months at home would suit you, I'll do my best to
square it. We might manage sick-leave, on the strength of your leg,
eh?"

Richardson breathed deeply.

"Thank you, Lenox. It's splendid of you. I'd be awfully glad of the
change."

"That's all right. And I tell you what, Dick," he paused, and smiled
upon his friend. "Hope I'm not taking an infernal liberty! But if you
can afford it--and if you can hit on the right girl--you might do worse
than bring a wife back with you. You're the sort that's bound to marry
some time, and you may take my word for it, thirty's a better age to
start than thirty-five."

Richardson laughed, and coloured again, hotly.

"It takes two to make that sort of start," he said, "And if a fellow
hits on the wrong one, it must be the very devil."

"Yes, by Jove, it must!" Lenox answered feelingly; adding in his own
mind that even with the right one, it could be the very devil, now and
again. "Think of poor Norton. But you'll have better luck, I hope.
About stopping on for the present, of course you must please yourself.
You'd be very welcome; and if you're afraid of taking up too much of my
wife's time, you can easily give me more of your company than you have
done so far. See how you feel about it to-morrow."

"Thanks, I will."

He rose now unhindered; and stood a moment hesitating, fired with a
very human wish to express his gratitude. But Lenox had accepted and
dismissed the whole incident in a fashion at once so impersonal, so
chivalrous, that his aching sense of disloyalty and unworthiness seemed
to have been tacitly wiped out, leaving one only course open to him--to
act as though that culminating hour of madness had never been.

"See you again before I start for mess," he said, as Lenox looked up.
And the dreaded interview--that should have broken up everything, yet
had altered nothing, save his own estimate of life--was over.

Lenox, left alone again, bowed his head upon his hands, and sat a long
time motionless, while the white flame of anger leaped and burned in
his brain; anger such as he had never yet felt towards his wife. The
spirit of his formidable uncle still so far survived in him that
instinctively he blamed the woman; blamed himself also because pride
and a strong distaste for self-assertion had inclined him to an
attitude of masterly inactivity. In this fine fashion, between them,
they had rewarded Dick for an unrecognised act of gallantry that might
well have cost him his life; and nothing now remained but to make such
inadequate atonement as the case admitted. Strange as it may seem, he
had never come so near to loving his friend as at that moment.

As for Quita--was there even the remotest chance that she also . . . ?
His brain refused to complete such a question. The thing was
unthinkable. But in any case his own duty stood out crystal clear.
When he had mastered his anger sufficiently to risk speech, he and she
must come to terms upon this thorny subject once for all. And he must
take his stand upon the bare rock of principle. Let her brand him
bourgeois, Covenanter, what she would. Dick's secret must be kept--at
any cost!

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Love's strength standeth in Love's sacrifice,
And he who suffers most has most to give."
--Hamilton King.

Dinner that evening was an oppressively silent affair. The man's white
Northern anger still smouldered beneath his surface immobility; while
Quita, who could not bring herself to believe in the spontaneity of
Richardson's engagement at mess, was instinctively measuring and
crossing swords with the husband, whose personality held her captive
even while it forced her every moment nearer to the danger-point of
open defiance.

Both were thankful when the solemn farce of eating and drinking came to
an end; and Quita rose with an audible sigh of relief.

"Are you coming into the drawing-room at all?" she asked, addressing
the question to his centre shirt-stud.

"Yes--at once. I have a good deal to say to you."

She raised her eyebrows with a small polite smile, and swept on before
him, her step quickened by the fact that his words had set the blood
rushing through her veins. The dead weight of his silence pulverised
her. Speech, however dangerous, would be pure relief.

Before following, he locked up spirit tantalus and cigar-box with his
wonted deliberation; and on reaching the drawing-room found her
absorbed in contemplation of Dick's portrait, hands clasped behind her,
the unbroken lines of her grey-green dress lending height and dignity
to her natural grace; the glitter of defiance gone out of her eyes.

Lenox set his lips, and confounded the advantages nature and art
conspire to bestow upon some women, more especially when they know
themselves beloved. The mere man in him had one impulse only,--to take
instant possession of her; to conquer her lurking antagonism by sheer
force of passion and of will. But he had sense enough to know that
such primitive methods would not shift, by one hair's-breadth, their
real point of division; would, in fact, be no less than inverted
defeat. The heart of her was secure:--that he knew. It was her
detached, elusive mind and spirit that were still to win; and a man's
arms had small concern with that form of capture.

Quita vouchsafed him a glance as he entered. Then her gaze returned to
the picture.

"One misses him," she said, presumably to the tall figure on the
hearth-rug. "I think I have never known a man so uniformly cheerful
and sweet-tempered. But it is selfish to grudge him a little change of
atmosphere. And no doubt he is having a livelier evening than we are."

She was facing her husband now; but something in his aspect made her
feel suddenly ashamed of using small weapons against a nature too
magnanimous to retaliate. And, without giving him time to answer, she
went on, a little hurriedly, "Eldred, if this intolerable state of
things means that you really imagine I am--how does one put anything so
detestable?--growing . . . too fond of Mr Richardson, you can set your
mind at rest. Morality apart, you are much too masterful, too
large--in every way--to leave room for any one else in a woman's heart,
once she has let you in."

"Thank you," Lenox answered, in a non-committal tone. But a shadow
passed from his face, and she saw it.

"Of course I know it has been rather marked this last week. But that
was simply because for the moment he and my picture were the same
thing. Being absorbed in one meant being absorbed in the other. To
produce a living portrait, one needs to get inside the subject of it as
far as possible. At least, I do. And on the whole, I think my method
is justified by the result!"

But Lenox, as he stood listening, experienced fresh proof of man's
innate spirit of perversity. For many days past he had been angered by
the suspicion that in this affair of portrait painting, the subject
counted for too much;--and now, when he ought to have been relieved, he
found his anger rekindled to white heat by Quita's frank confession
that his friend--whose heart had been wrenched from him by her
so-called 'method'--counted for nothing at all. For one ignoble
instant, he was tempted to break through every restraining
consideration and lash her with the truth.

The fact that he did not answer her at once puzzled Quita.

"Do you understand now, _mon ami_?" she asked, coming a step closer.
"I was absorbed in an interesting subject. It is over--_voila tout_."

"No, Quita; I do not understand," he answered, repressed heat hardening
his voice and face more than he knew. "To a mere soldier it all sounds
rather inhuman; and I can only say that if you find it so necessary to
'get inside' your subjects, as you express it, you had better make
women and children your speciality, and let us poor devils alone."

"Women and children? But, my dear--what a suggestion! One does not
choose one's subjects to order. Women and children don't interest me.
I have always preferred to paint men, and always shall."

"Then I'm afraid it may end in your having to drop portrait painting
altogether."

That touched the artist to the quick. With a small gasp--as if he had
struck her--she sank upon the arm of his big chair; her hands clasped,
so that the knuckles stood out sharp and white; two spots of fire
burning in her cheeks.

"Do you seriously mean--what you say?" she asked, pausing between the
words.

"Certainly. I am not given to speaking at random."

"You mean--you would insist?"

"I hope it would never come to that."

"_Mon Dieu_, no. It never would!" She flung up her head with a broken
sound between a laugh and a sob. "Because--if it ever did----"

She hung on the word a moment; and in a flash Lenox saw how near they
were to repeating the initial tragedy of more than six years ago.

"Quita," he broke in sharply, "listen to me before you say unconsidered
things that we may both of us regret. Are we going to make havoc of
everything again at the outset? Tell me that."

"How do I know? It depends on you. I think I told you then, that you
might as well expect me to give up seeing or hearing as to give up my
art. And that is truer--ten times truer--to-day, even though I
am . . . your wife."

He saw her vibrating like a smitten harp-string; saw the quick rise and
fall of the lace at her breast; and it was all a man could do to keep
his hands off her. He had to remind himself that she was no child to
be comforted with empty kisses; but very woman and very artist, torn
between the master-forces of life.

"See here, lass," he said quietly, laying aside his half-smoked cigar.
"As this is a big matter for us both, we may as well get at the root of
it straight away. You said this afternoon that you could not give up
your individuality because you had accepted marriage. Very well.
Neither can I. That still leaves us two alternatives. Either we must
give up the notion of living together; or we must be prepared to make
concessions--both of us. That is why I said that marriage means
compromise. If we go on much longer as we have been doing lately,
seeing next to nothing of one another because the house has been
converted into a surplus club for half the fellows in the station; and
if you are going to spend your time 'getting inside' other men with a
view to painting their portraits, we shall simply drift apart as the
Nortons did. Conditions of life out here make that sort of thing
fatally easy to fall into. But I tell you plainly that if there is to
be no attempt at amalgamation, if we are each to go our own way,
then--we must lead separate lives. I would not even have you in India.
It would be a case of going home."

The two spots of fire had died out of her face, and she turned wide,
startled eyes upon him.

"I don't--quite understand." Her voice was barely audible, "Are you
telling me--to go?"

"My dear--can you ask that? I am only pointing out the conditions that
might make such a catastrophe--inevitable. Looking things in the face
may prevent future friction and misunderstanding, which are the very
devil. What's more, I never realised till lately what a very big
factor your art is in your life. I believe it is the biggest thing of
all. Am I right?"

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