The Great Amulet

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"_Mon pauvre Michel_!" she said softly. "What a tragedy! You make me
wish I was twins!"

But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved him
dearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that the
picture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the moment
through the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him was
genuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores and
broken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief part
of her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, still
had the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsively
towards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes resting
in his.

"It is not true that I leave you lightly, _mon cher_; nor that I love
you less because I have given myself to another--body and soul.
Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love go
deeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that to
love means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole nature
revolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel by
instinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished
_ego_; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine our
art. But that is not true;--oh, believe me it's not."

Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. But
behind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He had
been aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpse
into the depths.

"Possibly not, _cherie_--for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "But
for a man----"

"Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, setting
her two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman's
horizon; but it goes deeper with men,--of the right sort, even if they
are artists! Look at Browning. _He_ knew. A big brain may set you on
a pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulses
beating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world."

A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, and
sat upright.

"_Tiens_! But I am preaching! A new vice, _n'est ce pas_?"

"New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?"

"Need you ask? The first remark ever made upon the subject: 'It is not
good that the man should be alone.'"

A dull flush showed under Michael's sallow akin.

"_C'est a dire, il faut se ranger_!" he said with an embarrassed laugh.
"Well . . . find me a woman who understands and inspires me like
yourself, and it is possible,--I do not say probable,--that I may yet
fulfil the whole duty of man. If one could only suggest a five years'
contract . . !"

"Michel! You are incorrigible; and I have preached in vain! Besides,
it is not a wife of my sort you need, I thought you found that out last
year; and . . . I think so still. If not, why have you stayed on
here? And why did you make that exquisite pastel of her portrait?"

Michael's eyes seemed to demand an answer from the accusing picture;
and there was an instant of silence.

"I stayed on here," he said at length, "chiefly because, lacking you, I
seem to lack initiative; and I painted that . . well, as a memento of
my best bit of work, and of a dream, more delectable than most . . .
while it lasted; but none the less . . a dream."

"Yet you have seen a good deal of her this season, one way and another."

"Yes. In spite of the Button Quail!"

"And it would hurt you it she were to marry another man?"

Michael frowned. "There _is_ no other man, since Malcolm went home."

"Is there any man at all, I wonder?"

Michael rose abruptly, and going over to Elsie's portrait stood before
it, his hands clasped behind him.

"I have wondered also," he said on a rare note of gravity. "But you
women are enigmas; even the simplest of you."

"Ask her, Michel; ask her. Wondering is waste of time: and time is
life. People so often forget that."

Maurice did not answer. But Quita was well content: for she saw how
Elsie's violet-blue eyes were holding him, drawing him irresistibly
back to the old allegiance. Yet, had she known it, Elsie's eyes had
less to do with the matter than her own stimulating personality. The
subtle development in her had not been without its effect on him. He
saw her transfigured by the exquisite, self-effacing passion of the
woman; and found himself envying the man; though the eloquence of her
appeal had, as usual, fired his imagination rather than his heart.

Suddenly he swung round upon her, his face alight.

"_Parbleu_, Quita, but you are right! You always are. And as there's
no time like now, I'll ask her to-day . . I have scarcely seen her this
last fortnight. But that shall be atoned for . . later. Give me your
blessing, _ma belle_!"

Half-seriously, half in joke, he knelt beside her chair. But the
entrance of the kitmutgar with a note brought him swiftly to his feet.

"Talk of an angel! It is herself," he exclaimed as he broke the seal.
"My demure little Puritan meets me half-way after all!"

He scanned the first page at a glance, then, with a sound between a
laugh and a curse, crumpled up the paper in his hand.

"_Mon Dieu_ . . a pretty bit of comedy!"

"What is it now, _mon cher_?" Quita asked anxiously, guessing his
answer.

"It is Malcolm; no less. He reaps the reward of constancy; like the
good boy in a Sunday-school book! And she . . _eh bien_, she is quite
certain I shall be delighted to hear of her great good fortune. Very
charming! Very correct!"

"And you, Michel . . _you_?"

He shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the note into the fender.

"_Comme ca_! It seems I am a negligible quantity. Possibly have been
all along. The notion does not comfort a man's natural vanity. But on
the whole . ." he paused; smiling at the concern in Quita's eyes, "on
the whole, _petite soeur_ . . . I am profoundly relieved! I should
have proposed . . yes; and enjoyed a few weeks of Elysium. But it is
certain I should never have delivered myself permanently into the hands
of a woman! After that, it u useless to ask for your blessing, _n'est
ce pas_?"

"Quite useless!"

But the hands stretched out to him belied her words; and as he knelt
beside her once more, she set them upon his shoulders and kissed his
forehead.

"This time I give you up for good, Michel!" she said, smiling. "At
least I have done my level best for you; so my conscience is clear.
But it is written that 'no man may redeem his brother'; and I might
have known that Providence was not likely to make an exception in
favour of a woman!"

"Is it perhaps a step towards redemption if, on your account, I give up
playing with the _feu sacre_ of the heart, and confine myself to the
only form of it that the gods appear to have granted me?"

"_Dieu vous garde_," she whispered, and kissed him again.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"I have my lesson; understand
The worth of flesh and blood at last."
--Browning.

"Oh, Theo--it is too cruel. Too terrible! What on earth is one to
tell her?"

"Anything but the truth," Desmond answered decisively, his gaze
reverting to the telegram in his hand. It was from the Resident of
Kashmir; bald and brief, yet full of grim possibilities.

"Captain Lenox dangerously ill at Darkot. Rheumatic fever. Doctor
sent out. Will wire further news. Writing."

Desmond read and re-read the words mechanically, an anxious frown
between his brows. Then, looking up again, he encountered his wife's
eyes, heavy with tears; and his arm enfolded her on the instant.

"Bear up, my darling, like the plucky woman you are," he commanded
gently, his lips against her cheek. "It's not the worst. By God's
mercy we may get him back yet. You must keep on upholding her a little
longer; that's all. I know it has been a strain for you,--this last
fortnight; so soon after your own affair too."

For they themselves had been enriched by a new life, a new link in the
chain that bound them--a bright-haired daughter not yet four months old.

Honor did not answer at once; but leaned upon him, choking back her
sobs, soothed by the magnetism of his hand and voice, that seemed
always to leave things better than they found them.

When her tears were under control, she drew herself up, brushing them
from her cheeks and lashes.

"Yes, it has been a strain," she admitted. "And I did so hope this had
brought news I could give her, at last. You don't see her as I do,
Theo, lying there day after day, so frail and white and patient. Quita
patient! Can you picture it? I quite long for a flash of her old
perversity. She has almost left off speaking of him. But the eternal
question in her eyes haunts me; and I feel half ashamed of my golden
time with you, when I see her going through it alone, poor darling; her
natural joy in the child shadowed and broken by the anxiety and longing
that are eating her heart out, and holding her back from health. Is
there nothing I can tell her, that would be truth, yet not all the
truth?"

Desmond knitted his brows again, pondering.

"Go to her now," he said. "Tell her we've heard by wire that he is
safely over the Darkot, but he may be delayed in getting on to Kashmir,
and we hope for more news within the week. If she asks to see the
wire, say you're sorry, but I tore it up."

He did so on the spot, dropping the shreds of paper reflectively among
the smouldering logs upon the hearth; while Honor hurried to the
sick-room, with her fragment of news: the room in which Lenox had
almost died of cholera, and in which Quita's ring had been restored to
her finger sixteen months before.

She lay in it now, propped up among frilled pillows, an etherealised
edition of herself; her hair divided into two plaits, one lying over
each shoulder; the sweeping curve of her lashes shadowing her cheek;
her eyes resting on a small dark head that nestled in the hollow of her
arm. For, to Quita's intense satisfaction, the child had Eldred's
black hair, and the clear Northern eyes that held all she knew, or as
yet cared to know, of heaven.

Her delight at the inadequate tidings of her husband was greater than
Honor had dared to expect. For she could not know how the wakeful
night watches, and the hours of enforced quiet, had been haunted by
that nightmare dread of the mountains, which Eldred's expurgated
accounts of certain vicissitudes had justified rather than dispelled.
But now--now he was through the worst of them, within easy distance of
Kashmir; and she felt as a prisoner may feel when the doors swing wide,
and he finds himself once more lord of light and space.

"Oh, Baby, think of it!" she whispered in ecstasy to the unheeding
morsel of life in her arms. "He is coming--actually coming! Nothing
can delay him very long now."

But the slow days multiplied into weeks; and still he did not come; and
the scanty news from Kashmir was not hopeful enough to be passed on to
her--yet. Then, as she grew stronger, and more openly bewildered at
the silence and delay, Desmond decided to speak to her himself. And
while the tale was still upon his lips, while Quita sat listening to
it, white and tearless, his hand grasping her own, a merciful fate
brought her an envelope quaveringly addressed in pencil, containing
word of definite progress at last, and an assurance that once he could
set foot to ground nothing should hold him back.

Ten days later the message, "Starting this morning," flashed through
space to Dera Ishmael from Kashmir; and after that each hour brought
him nearer. A second flash from Lahore; a third from Jhung; and
Desmond, sending on a spare horse, rode down to the Indus to meet his
friend, in Oriental fashion, 'at the edge of the carpet.'

It was a gaunt, weather-beaten figure of a man that stepped out of the
ferry-boat and grasped his hand; but there was that in his bearing and
in his unshadowed eyes that told Desmond the chief of what he wished to
know. For the rest, the greeting between them was of their race and
kind.

"Well, old chap, how are you?"

"Deuced glad to see you back again."

"And--Quita?"

"Deuced glad also, I suspect."

"Uncommonly kind of you both keeping her all this while."

"Kind? It's been a privilege seeing so much of her. We shall grudge
giving her up."

And Desmond bestowed a reflective glance on the man who guessed nothing
of the revelation in store for him.

Their talk riding back to the station was fitful and fragmentary. All
that remained to be said--and there was a good deal of it--would come
out bit by bit, at odd moments, mainly under the influence of tobacco.
In the meantime, their mutual satisfaction went deeper than speech; and
it was enough.

At the drawing-room door they parted.

"You'll find all you need in there, I think," Desmond said, on a note
of profound understanding; and Lenox, putting a strong hand upon
himself, pushed aside the heavy curtain and stood, at last, before his
wife.

With a low cry, and arms outflung, she came to him; and that first
rapture of reunion, of the heart's passionate upheaval and
revealing--the more intense for the muteness of it--was a rapture
sacred to themselves alone; not to be pried upon or set down. Such
moments--come they but once in a lifetime, to one among a hundred--are
God's reiterate answers to the problem of creation. The man or woman
who has passed that way will never ask the soul's most withering
question: To what end was I born? 'The rest may reason and welcome.'
They are of the few who know.

Lenox and Quita swept headlong, as it were, to the crest of a wave,
dropped presently back to earth. Then he set her a little away from
him, almost at arm's-length, the better to feast his eyes upon the
sight of her; and so became aware of the subtle change perceptible in
her letters:--some exquisite quality, the fruit of long waiting,
crowned by the miracle of motherhood; an appreciable softening of the
lips; a triumph of the essential woman over mere line and curve that
brought her near to actual beauty. But it was the new depth and
tenderness in her eyes that drew and held him; eyes luminous, as never
before, with the pride, the exaltation, of a consummate
self-surrender,--not of necessity, but of free choice, the woman's
utmost gift to her own one lover and compeer in all the world; if so be
that she is privileged to find him, and if so be that he himself
aspires to the larger claim. Eldred Lenox had so aspired; and, in
consequence, had attained. Her mute confession of it stirred him to
speech.

"I believe I _have_ won the whole of you at last--you very woman," he
said almost under his breath.

"And I know it," she answered in the same tone. "Do you remember
saying that day you were angry: 'If you _will_ make it a case of
mastery----!' Well, it is a case of mastery--absolute and permanent."

She spoke truth. At that moment, and indeed for many years after, she
would have walked, at his bidding, into the heart of a furnace. He
drew her close again.

"No, no, lass. I hope it's a case of love and comradeship on an equal
footing,--as you have seen it in this house; the rarest thing in the
world between a man and woman."

Her smile brought into play the dimple that he loved.

"How one needs you at every turn, to keep the balance of things! But
come over to my easel. I have something to show you."

Very deliberately she lifted the draperies that hid the picture, and a
low sound broke from him. Then he stood gazing upon it,--absorbed,
captivated; and whereas, a moment since, the woman had triumphed, now
all the artist in her thrilled at his tribute of silence, knowing it
for the highest praise.

"A bit of pure inspiration," he said at last. "It lives and breathes!"

"That is your doing, more than mine. And I am glad it pleases you; for
it is a present, and--a confession!"

"You did it simply for me?"

"For who else, in earth or heaven, dear and dense one?" she demanded,
laughing; and was effectually put to silence. "Wasn't it just like me
to throw all my heart into a portrait of myself?" she added, as he
released her.

"It was enchanting of you; that's all _I_ know. But see here, lass,
there must be no question of murdering half your personality on my
account. I am grasping. I want both of you,--artist and woman."

"Dear heart, you've taken arbitrary possession of as many of me as
there are! And indeed, I'd be puzzled to swear to the exact number. I
seem to have let you in for three sorts of wives already! But
seriously, Eldred, I have come to one conclusion in the long months I
have had for thinking things over. I believe you were right in saying
it might be best for me to give up painting men's portraits. Not
altogether: I don't think I could, unless you insisted! But I won't
make it a speciality, as I have done; and I'll be more circumspect in
my methods, and in my choice of subjects. Will that do?"

He looked full at her for a moment; his keen eyes melting into wells of
tenderness.

"My darling--what's come to you?" was all he said.

"A spirit of understanding, I hope," she answered sweetly. "But you'll
find plenty of the old unreasonable Quita effervescing underneath!
_Par exemple_--on the heels of my great renunciation, the first thing I
want to do is a portrait of Major Desmond for my dear Honor,--if I may?"

"If you may! What next?" But being a man and human, he was obviously
gratified. "You could suggest nothing that would please me better.
You'll make a fine thing of it; and as for your methods, 'get inside'
Desmond for all you're worth. You'll do no harm in _that_ quarter!"

"Harm?" she flashed out, half indignant. "Has it ever, in all of your
knowledge of me, gone as far as that?"

He could not lie to her; neither would he betray Dick.

"Did such a possibility never occur to you?" he suggested, evading
direct reply.

But she was not to be thwarted.

"I asked you a question, _mon cher_."

"And that is my answer."

"A question is not an answer." Then intuition, and his evident
discomfiture, enlightened her. "_Mon Dieu_, Eldred! Yon are never
thinking--of Dick?"

He frowned. "What put that into your head?"

"Your manner; and something he wrote to me while he was away. You
heard, of course? He said he had told you the good news."

"What good news? When?"

"Weeks ago. Before he came back off leave."

"I had no letter. Must have been mislaid while I was ill. What's up?
Has he got a command?"

"Yes. And better than that. He is going to be married."

"By Jove! That's first-rate. Good old Dick! But what was it he said
to you?"

"I'll show you the letter. Such a charming one. He began, 'Dear
Friend,' which wasn't like him. It puzzled me. And he ended by saying
he felt sure I should be glad to know how much of his present happiness
he owed to his intimacy with me. So you see, dearest, I did no
irretrievable harm."

"No, mercifully not, thanks to Dick's uprightness, and his happy
temperament. But he might have been quite another sort; like myself,
for instance. By the time I had known you two weeks, Quita, the damage
was permanent. Even if there had been no word of love between us, I
should never have given a thought to another woman--after that."

The quietness of his tone carried conviction, and her arms went out to
him.

"Bless you, bless you, my own man," she murmured into the lapel of his
coat. "I can never thank God enough that I came out to India and won
you back."

Weak as he still was from the pain and prostration of his terrible
illness, the exquisite completeness of her surrender almost unmanned
him; and she felt him tremble through all his big frame. That roused
the mother in her.

"Darling, how thoughtless of me! You are not strong enough yet for
this sort of thing. Let me get you some wine--please."

"Wine? Nonsense, I'm all right. Desmond gave me a peg."

"Come to a chair, then."

She drew him towards one; but he gently forced her into it, sinking on
one knee beside her, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"That's good. I begin to realise that I am actually home!"

"And I begin to realise what a wreck of yourself you are, _mon pauvre_.
Wait till I've tyrannised over you for a month or so! Then we must get
long leave."

And taking his head between her hands, she cherished it, smiling into
his eyes; the passion of the wife deepened and hallowed by the
protective tenderness of the mother. When and how should she tell him?
That was the question in her mind. A paralysing shyness, for which she
spurned herself, suffused her at the thought; and behind the shyness
lurked a great longing to know how he would receive her culminating
revelation. But in his present state she dreaded a shock for
him,--even a shock of joy. She would wait a little longer for the
given moment; and then . . . .

"The hair on your temples has gone quite silver," she lamented,
caressing it with light finger-tips. "It is all those terrible
mountains; and I hope you've had enough of them now to keep you quiet
for a time. But I begin to dread Sir Henry Forsyth. He hasn't got
another 'mission' up his sleeve, has he?"

She spoke laughingly, but his eyes were grave; and taking her two hands
he prisoned them in his own.

"Quita, my brave lass," he said gently. "After all that has just
passed between us, I can tell you no less than the truth, and leave you
to give the casting vote. I am afraid the mountains are bound to play
a big part in our immediate future, unless you seriously prefer that I
should give up all idea of political work in those parts, and stick to
the Battery."

"And if I _do_ seriously prefer it?"

"Your decision will be mine."

He spoke so steadily that she would fain have believed in his
indifference as to the result. But the art of self-deception was not
one of her accomplishments. She suppressed a sigh.

"Dear, there is only one decision possible. But for me you might never
have put your hand to that plough. It was the one good that came to
you through my crowning act of folly; and I'll not undo it, whatever it
may mean--for me."

He thanked her with his eyes; and the mute homage in them was dearer to
her than a score of kisses. When he tried to speak, she forestalled
him.

"You have said it all, Eldred. I understand. I only want--more facts.
Is it Gilgit? And when?"

"Next year, I'm afraid. They want us to re-establish the
Agency--Travers and myself. I was up there, you see, before I found
you again. We should be quite alone, at the start, with just a doctor
and our Kashmiri soldiers."

"And I--it would be impossible?"

He pressed her hands.

"For the first few years--certainly. Everything would be raw; and the
work incessant and absorbing. But later on, who can tell? We might
see what could be done."

"And the nearest I could get to you, so as to live more or less within
reach?"

"Srinagar. That's about twenty days' march from Gilgit. I could do it
in ten, to get to you!" he added, smiling. "Spare time would be
scarce, though; and in the winter we should be quite cut off by snow."

"Oh, Eldred!"

"I should hate that no less than you, be sure. But when things got a
bit more settled, some sort of arrangement might be possible, at least
for part of the summer; if you could really stand the isolation and the
life."

"Stand it? Of course I could. I should love it."

His eyes lit up.

"You have pluck enough for half a dozen! But you don't look as strong
as you did. There's a fragile air about you that troubles me. I never
saw it before."

The faint colour in her cheeks invaded her temples. It was the given
moment; long enough delayed in all conscience. Yet it found her
palpitating--unprepared.

"You mustn't be troubled." She plunged desperately; unsure of what
would come next. "It will pass. I am growing stronger every day."

"Stronger? Good Lord! You haven't been ill too, and I never knew it?"

"No--oh, no! Not ill--that is . . . not exactly. I mean . . ."

Confusion submerged her. His shoulder--the woman's legitimate
refuge--was conveniently close; and she buried her blushes in it. At
that a suspicion of the truth thrilled through him, like an electric
current.

"Quita--look up--speak to me!" he besought her; his voice low, and not
quite steady. "Is it possible . . ?"

"Darling, of course it is," she whispered back, without stirring.
"Only--will you ever forgive me? I've saddled you with two women now,
as if one wasn't bother enough!"

For answer he strained her closer; and so knelt for the space of many
seconds; stunned, momentarily, by that deep-rooted, elemental joy in
the transmission of life, which, in men of fine fibre, is tempered with
amazement and awe; a sense of poignant, personal contact with the Open
Secret of the world.

At last he spoke; and his words held no suggestion of the emotion that
uplifted him.

"When? How old . . . how long ago?"

"Seven weeks ago. The second of October."

"Great Heaven! The day I was nearly done for; the day I crossed the
Pass. And I never dreamed . . . how it was with you."

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