"But all the same, promise me . . what I asked; or I shall never have an easy moment."

"It might come to seem the kindest thing one could do for you," he persisted, still without looking at her. But fear gave her courage to strike deep while the chance of speech was hers.

"It would never be anything less than an act of cruelty and cowardice.

Remember that. I am ready to put up with everything . . . everything rather than lose you, now."

"If that's the truth, la.s.s," he said with sudden gentleness, "you may set your mind at rest. I promise."

"Thank you, _mon cher_."

Then they fell silent till the parade-ground came in sight.

This, their first appearance together in public, was something of an ordeal to both; and at the last minute Quita's courage evaporated.

"Eldred . . . stop, please," she said suddenly. "I'm shy of them all; and I don't want to talk to them just now."

"Thank the Lord for that!" he answered so fervently, that they both laughed aloud; and there is nothing like laughter for clearing the air.

"Take me for a drive," she suggested. "Show me your bungalow . . . our bungalow, will you?"

He hesitated. It seemed he was only to exchange one ordeal for another. "It's a ramshackle, comfortless place, Quita," he objected.

"Wouldn't it be better to wait till . . till I can have it decently fitted up for you? Or you might like to pick another one."

"But no. I want that one; and I want to see it first just as you lived in it, please."

"Very well. If you wish it."

An officious chowkidar opened doors for them with a great clatter of bolts, and an elaborate air of being very much on the spot; and they stepped straight from the verandah into the one room Lenox had furnished besides the bedroom. It looked desolate, and smelt uninhabited; but Quita inspected the horns, the rugs, the sketches, even the handful of books left on the writing-table, with eager interest; and Eldred, stationed on the hearth-rug, answered her running fire of questions a little vaguely, because he was listening more intently to her voice than to what it said!

Suddenly his thoughts were checked by a vivid sense of having lived through this identical scene before; of standing near a fireplace watching her light-hearted explorations. But where? When? Then, like a dash of cold water, came enlightenment. It was at the Kiffel Alp Hotel, on the day of their wedding; and the bitterness of the lost years between, with their final heritage of evil, flowed over him like the sluggish waters of a dead sea.

Quita was hesitating on the threshold of the bedroom now; and an insane conviction came upon him that if she went in there he would lose her again, as on that earlier day. It was all sheer brain-sickness, and lack of sleep, but at the moment it was horribly real.

"May one look at the other rooms too?" she asked. "I want to see which would do best for my studio!"

"Look into every hole and corner, if it amuses you, dearest," he answered; but made no attempt to accompany her.

When at last she reappeared, the nightmare feeling took him afresh. He felt certain she would come straight up to him, and lay hold of the lapels of his coat. And this she actually did; lifting a glowing face to his.

"Eldred," she began, exactly as before . . . and it was more than he could stand. The oppression of her nearness set the blood rushing in his ears; and taking her hands from their resting-place he put her from him, almost an arm's-length, as though the better to look into her eyes.

"Well?" he asked, with an attempt at lightness that rang false. "Is your Highness quite satisfied with it all?"

But she was not to be deceived. Her cheeks flamed; and she almost s.n.a.t.c.hed away her hands.

"Yes. I am quite satisfied," she said, in a changed voice. "And I think it's high time we went back."

Then she left him, a shade too rapidly for dignity, and sprang into the cart, before he could get near enough to help her up.

"Quita . . . why did you do that? What's wrong?" he asked, lamely enough as he gathered up the reins.

"Need you add insult to injury by asking that?" she flashed out, angry tears p.r.i.c.king her eyeb.a.l.l.s. "I'm wrong. You're wrong. Everything's wrong. I ought never to have come here . . . before I was wanted."

He made no comment on that. It was not a question to be discussed in the open road, with a _sais_ jogging on the tail-board behind; and no more was said till they reached home.

Then, as Eldred pressed the reins under the clip, he said in a quiet tone of command: "Stay where you are, please, till I can get round."

And for all the rebellion in her blood, she obeyed.

He lifted her out bodily, and drew her into the hall. It was empty and almost dark: and before she guessed his intent, his lips had touched hers lightly, with a quick sigh that told of pa.s.sion held in check.

But she broke away from him, unappeased, and shut herself into her room.

She was relieved to find that a sprinkling of the tea party--the Ollivers, Norton, and Richardson--had stayed to dinner. Olliver was her partner; and evinced his appreciation of the fact by chaffing her laboriously throughout the meal; the one form of conversation she frankly detested.

But Richardson sat on her right, and, in Olliver's phraseology, "made the running with her all the time." For good, single-hearted Max frankly admired her. His conscience p.r.i.c.ked him more acutely than it had yet done at thought of his own responsibility for the wasted years; and he longed for a chance to say as much to his friend. But Lenox was not in a mood to talk about his wife; and Richardson got no word in private with him throughout the evening.

Frank Olliver left early; and as Desmond half-lifted his wife from the sofa, Quita came up and said good-night also. She had been watching these two with reawakened interest throughout the afternoon and evening, and wondering whether she and Eldred could ever arrive at such perfect community of heart and mind.

In pa.s.sing her husband, she laid b.u.t.terfly finger-tips upon his coat-sleeve. "Good-night, _mon ami_," she said, just framing the words with her lips: and before he could get a square look at her, she was gone.

When the three men were left alone, Wyndham drank his 'peg' standing, and departed; but Desmond took Lenox by the arm.

"Come into the dufta[1] for half an hour," he said. "I've hardly spoken to you since Monday; and I think we have a thing or two to talk over."

Lenox submitted with a smile of resigned amus.e.m.e.nt, and the study door closed behind them.

[1] Study.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"I dare not swerve From my soul's rights; a slave, though serving thee.

I but forbear more n.o.bly to deserve; The free gift only cometh of the free."

--O. Meredith.

"Well, old chap?"

Lenox tried to speak carelessly; to evade the inevitable; for he was sore, with the twofold soreness of insomnia and thwarted pa.s.sion; and when all a man's nerves are laid bare, he naturally dreads a touch in the wrong place:--hence irascibility. To any one else he would have presented an impenetrable curtain of reserve, of ironical refusal to admit that anything was wrong. But Desmond had the man's tenderness, which is sometimes greater than the woman's: and, as Quita had once said, he was privileged, simply by being what he was.

Having set gla.s.ses and spirit-decanter within reach of their two chairs, he came over to Lenox, and set both hands on his shoulders.

"My dear fellow, it's no use shirking facts," he said straightly.

"You're only flesh and blood; and the strain of all this is just knocking you to pieces again. No reflection on your wife. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. I know very well what you mean." Lenox spoke with repressed bitterness. "I once heard h.e.l.l defined as disqualification in the face of opportunity."