A low sun was gilding the hill-tops when two doolies, borne by sturdy kahars and escorted by Wyndham and Mackay, passed between the gate-posts of Desmond's bungalow. Honor stood with Evelyn at the head of the verandah steps; but as the kahars halted, and the officers prepared to dismount, she moved back a space, leaving her to welcome her husband alone.

The blood ebbed from Evelyn's face as she watched Theo mount the steps, slowly, uncertainly, supported on either side by Wyndham and the doctor—he who, in normal circumstances, would have cleared them at a bound and taken her in his arms. His appearance alone struck terror into her heart. Was this the splendid-looking husband who had ridden away full of life and energy,—this strange seeming man, whose face was disfigured and more than half-hidden by an unsightly bandage and a broad green shade; whose empty coat-sleeve, slashed and blood-stained, suggested too vividly the condition of the arm strapped into place beneath?

It was all she could do not to shrink back instinctively when the men moved aside, as Honor had done, to afford husband and wife some small measure of privacy, and Theo held out his hand.

"They've sent me back rather the worse for wear, Ladybird," he said, with a smile; "but Mackay will put the pieces together in good time."

"Oh, Theo—I hope so!—It's dreadful to see you—like that."

The hand she surrendered to him was cold as ice; and the attempt at welcome in her voice was checked by a paralysing fear and constraint. Thirty-six hours of severe pain in body and mind had failed to break his spirit; but the thing was achieved by a dozen words from his wife. He knew now what to expect from her; and for the moment he was stricken speechless.

"I am so—sorry," she murmured, "about——"

"Yes—yes, I know," he took her up quickly; and there was an awkward silence.

"Who—what—is in that other doolie?" she asked, in a hurried whisper.

"The Boy."

"But, Theo—you're not going to——"

"For God's sake shut up!"

He swayed a little in speaking, and promptly Paul was at his side. No one had heard what passed; and when Mackay, returning to his post by the wounded arm, gently urged Desmond forward, Paul signalled to Evelyn to take his place, while he went back to the doolie.

"Just a minute, Mrs Desmond," he said in a low tone.

Evelyn, startled by the request, stood irresolute; and since there was no time for hesitancy, Honor came forward and put her hand under Theo's elbow. She felt a jar go all through him at her touch, and knew that he had heard Wyndham's request.

"Ah, Honor," he said, by way of greeting, "I'm afraid I've come back a mere log on your hands."

An undernote of bitterness in his tone gave her courage to speak the thought in her mind. "We are only too thankful to have got you back safe—in any condition," she murmured.

He did not answer at once; and she moved away to make place for Paul, whose face was set in very rigid lines.

"Take me to the duftur," Desmond commanded curtly. "I'll not be put to bed."

"No, no, man; we'll settle you up in your long chair," Mackay answered soothingly. He perceived that by some means Mrs Desmond had jarred his patient, and was in high ill-humour with her accordingly.

At the study door, Amar Singh almost laid his head at Desmond's feet. Within the room they found Frank Olliver arranging pillows and a rug on the deck-chair, and on a table beside it a light meal awaited him.

The meal ended, they all left him with one accord, instinctively making way for his wife—who was crying her heart out in the next room.

Paul was the last to leave. He remained standing by Desmond, resting a hand on his sound shoulder. But there are silences more illuminating than speech; and Theo Desmond knew all that was in his friend's heart at that moment—all that could never be spoken between them, because they were Englishmen, born into a heritage of incurable reserve.

"You're going to pull through this," Paul said quietly.

"Am I? Ask Mackay."

"No need for that—I'm sure of it; and—in the mean while——" A tightening of his grasp supplied the rest.

"Thanks, old man. I know what you mean."

Then Paul went reluctantly out, and on into the drawing-room, where he found Mackay and Honor Meredith in close conference. The little doctor was laying down the law in respect of his patient with characteristic bluntness.

"Now, Miss Meredith," he had said, as he met her in the hall, and drew her aside into the empty room, "I'm a plain man, and you must put up with plain speaking for the next few minutes. It's no light matter to be responsible for a chap like Desmond. Not a morsel of use talking to his wife! She seems to have upset him already. The Lord alone knows how women do these things. Fools men are to care! But Desmond is what you call finely organised; and you can't handle a violin as you would a big drum. Frankly, now, his eyesight's in danger; and that wound in his cheek is an ugly one in any case. He wants careful nursing, and I refuse to put him into Mrs Desmond's hands. I'd deserve hanging for murder if I did! Remains Mrs Olliver, or yourself. 'Twould be awkward for Mrs Olliver to take his wife's place when there is a capable woman on the spot. So now, will you take charge of Desmond for me, and put yourself under my orders?—that's the real mutlub [28] of the whole matter. You're welcome to say I don't think Mrs Desmond strong enough, if you feel bound to tell a polite lie on the subject."

Honor had listened to the doctor's brusquely-delivered speech with a growing sense of helplessness, as of a mouse caught in a trap. His statement of the case was uncomfortably plain. He left her no loophole of escape; and by the time he fired his final question at her, she had decided on present capitulation.

"Yes, I will take charge of him," she said. "Only Mrs Desmond must have some share in the nursing—for his sake and her own."

"Oh, well—well, I suppose she must. The less the better for his sake; and you've got to consider Desmond before every one else at present. I insist on that."

Honor smiled faintly at the superfluous injunction; and it was at this point that Paul entered the room.

Mackay turned on him a face of open jubilation.

"Congratulate me, Wyndham! I've secured Miss Meredith's services for Desmond."

"Thank God," Paul answered fervently; and he thanked Honor also with his eyes.

"I shall move into the bungalow myself after the funeral, and give you what help I can. He will need a good deal of companionship to keep him from chafing at his helplessness. He wished the Boy to be brought here and buried from his house. I am making all arrangements; and we shall be round quite early in the morning. Can I see Desmond again to-night?"

Mackay pursed his lips.

"He'll do best with just the women-folk this evening. Look in after Mess, if you like—last thing."

"Was Evelyn with him when you left?" Honor asked suddenly, a flash of apprehension in her tone.

"No."

"I must go and see what has come to her," she said, visibly disturbed. "I shall see you both after Mess."

She hurried out, and listened intently at the study door. No sound broke the stillness; and with an aching dread at her heart she passed on to the next door.

The brief dusk of India was already almost spent; and finding Evelyn's room in semi-darkness, she paused on the threshold.

"Are you there, dear?" she called softly; and was answered by a stifled sound from the region of the bed, where Evelyn lay prone, her face buried in the pillows. At that Honor came forward, and laid a firm though a not unkindly hand upon her.

"Evelyn, this is childish selfishness. Get up and go to him at once."

The sole answer vouchsafed to her was a vehement shaking of the fair head; a fresh paroxysm of distress.

"My dear—my dear," she urged, bending down and speaking more softly, "you must pull yourself together. This is no time to think of your own trouble. He is wounded, anxious, and terribly unhappy and—he wants you. Do you call this being a loyal wife? Remember, you promised——"

Thus appealed to, Evelyn lifted her head, supporting it on one elbow, and showed a grief-disfigured face.

"Yes, I know. But—couldn't you go to him, just for now, Honor? You're not upset, like I am;—and say I—I'll come when I'm better."

Honor went white to the lips.

"No, Evelyn," she said, her anger rising as she went on. "There are things that even I must refuse to do for you. I have done all that is in my power; but I will not take your place with—your husband."

Astonishment checked Evelyn's sobbing, and a spark of unreasoning jealousy shot through the mist of her tears.

"I don't want you to take my place with him. He's mine!"

"Then don't ask me to go to him now."

The counter-stroke was unanswerable. Evelyn made a genuine attempt to still the uncontrolled quivering of her body, and actually got upon her feet. But abandonment to misery had so shaken her that, even as Honor put out a steadying hand, she fell back among her pillows with a choking sob.

"It's no use," she moaned. "Go, Honor—go now; and say I—I'm coming."

The girl set her teeth hard. A strange light gleamed in the blue of her eyes. She moved across to the washing-stand and poured out a stiff dose of sal volatile.

"Here, Evelyn," she said, all the tenderness gone from her voice, "drink this at once. Then get up as soon as you can, and make yourself presentable. I shall not be gone many minutes, and you must be ready to go to him the instant I come back."

Evelyn choked and spluttered over the burning mixture.

"Oh, thank you, Honor, thank you. Only—don't look so angry about it, please."

"I am angry—I am bitterly angry," Honor answered with sudden vehemence, and went quickly from the room.

Once outside, she paused; her whole soul uplifted in a wordless prayer for strength and self-control. It seemed to her that Evelyn's reception of Theo went far to make her own departure a matter of imperative necessity, cruelly hard though it was to risk being misjudged at such a crisis.

With heart and spirit braced for her ordeal, she entered the room.

But at sight of him, who was the incarnation of life, cheerfulness, and vigour, lying stricken in heart and body, her courage deserted her, and she could neither speak nor move. On the lower end of the long chair Rob nestled in an attitude of perplexed watchfulness; satisfaction and bewilderment contending for the mastery over his faithful soul; and Desmond's right arm supported his stunned and aching head.

As Honor paused on the threshold, he stirred uneasily. "That you, Ladybird?" he asked; and his tone, if listless, was unmistakably tender.

"No, Theo. It is I—Honor," the girl answered in a low voice without moving forward.

"Where's Evelyn, then?"

"She's coming soon—very soon."

"What's gone wrong with her? Has she fainted? You might come a little closer to a fellow, Honor. I feel cut off from everything and every one, with this damnable green wall in front of my eyes."

At that cry from the man's tormented heart all thought of her own pain, all doubt as to her own strength, was submerged by a flood-tide of pure human compassion; and she came to him straightway, kneeling close beside his chair, and laying one hand lightly on the rug that covered him.

"There, Theo—there. Can you see me a little now?" she asked tenderly. "You mustn't think hard things of—Ladybird—please. She let herself go so completely after seeing you in the verandah, and it was impossible for her to come to you while she was in such a state of collapse. I have given her a strong dose of sal volatile, and she begged me to explain things to you; so—I came. I can't tell you how sorry I was that it should be—only me."

He raised his head at that.

"You've the grit of all the Merediths in you, Honor," he said, and his changed tone assured her that she had, in some measure, fulfilled her purpose. "I can't have you talking about 'only me' in that deprecating fashion. Goodness knows what Ladybird would have done without you. No doubt she'll pull herself together when she has got more used to the hideousness of it all—myself included——"

"She will—I am sure she will," the girl declared with pardonable insincerity; "and I really believe that if—if I were not here, Evelyn might make more of an effort to stand on her own feet than she does now. Please don't misunderstand me, Theo,"—her brave voice faltered on the words—"please believe that I myself would far rather be here at a time like this. I would not dream of deserting my post if I were not quite sure that there are many others ready to look after you as carefully and willingly as I would do myself. Indeed, I am honestly suggesting what I think would be best for us all round—Evelyn especially. Won't you let me go, Theo, and at least try how it works?"

Desmond shook his head with cautious deliberation, since hasty movements had proved to be dangerous.

"My dear Honor," he objected, "you, who know Ladybird even better than I do, must surely know by now that nothing will force her to stand upon her own feet. To-day gives final proof of it. What's more, Paul will probably establish himself here. I can't have him criticising her, even in his own mind; and who but you can I rely on to prevent it, by keeping her up to the mark? You see, I am taking you at your word, and not misunderstanding you, and I ask you frankly to stand by us till this trouble is over, when you shall both go straight to the Hills."

"Very well, Theo; I will stay."

But her voice had an odd vibration in it. There was no refusing a request so worded; but she knew her decision was only deferred to a more seasonable moment.

"Thank you with all my heart," he said. "You'll not regret it, I feel certain."

During the pause that followed, the wounded man made a futile attempt to change his position. In an instant her hands were at his pillows, shifting them quickly and dexterously, supporting his shoulders with her arm the while.

"There, that's better, isn't it?" she asked; and the mother-note sounded in her voice.

"It's just beautiful, thank you. Now—I want Ladybird."

Honor's colour ebbed at the words, and she may be forgiven if a pang of rebellion stabbed her. All the hard tasks, it seemed, were to be hers; while for Evelyn was reserved the full measure of a love and tenderness which she seemed little able to rate to their true value. But there was no trace of emotion in her voice as she replied, "You shall have her at once; only she mustn't stay long. You have already talked more than is good for you."

"Talked?" he echoed, with a sudden outburst of impatience. "What else is there for me to do? I can neither read, nor write, nor move. Am I to lie here like a log, with my own black thoughts for company? I'm not ill, in spite of all."

"No, Theo, you are not ill now," the girl reasoned with him in all gentleness, "but with a wound like that so near your temple you soon will be ill, if you refuse to be moderately careful. Evelyn shall stay for a quarter of an hour. After that you must please obey me and lie quiet, so as to get a little sleep, if possible, after your cruel journey. Amar Singh shall sit here, and I will leave the drawing-room door open and play to you;—something invigorating—the Pastoral, to start with. Will that do?"

His prompt penitence caught at her heart.

"Forgive me, Honor," he said. "I was an ungrateful brute, and you're a long way too good to me. I'll obey orders in future, without kicking against the pricks. The music will be no end of a comfort. Just like you to think of it!"