British -- India -- Fiction; India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction
Paul took a couple of hours' rest at midnight, on the condition that
Honor should do the same towards morning; and since she was obviously
reluctant when the unwelcome hour arrived, he smilingly conducted her
in person to the threshold of her room.
"Good-night to you,--Miss Meredith! Or should it be good-morning?" he
said lightly, in the hope of chasing the strained look from her face.
"Good-morning, for preference," she retorted, with an attempt at a
laugh. "You can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him
drink! I shan't sleep even for five minutes."
"You think so; but Nature will probably have her way with you all the
same."
He moved as if to go, but she came suddenly nearer; and the hidden
fear leaped to her lips.
"Paul--is there any real danger because of this fever? One is so
afraid of erysipelas with a wound of that kind; and it would
be--fatal. Has Dr Mackay said anything definite? Tell me--please. I
must know the truth."
In the urgency of the moment she laid a light hand upon him; and
Wyndham, bracing the muscles of his arm, tried not to be aware of her
finger-tips through his coat-sleeve.
"You evidently know too much for your own peace of mind," he said.
"But Mackay is as inscrutable as the Sphinx. One could see he was
anxious, because he was ready to snap one's head off on the least
provocation; but beyond that I know no more than you do. We can only
do our poor utmost for him every hour, you and I, and leave the
outcome--to God."
"Yes, yes,--you are right. Oh, Paul, what a rock you are at a bad time
like this!"
Unconsciously her fingers tightened upon his arm, and a thrill like a
current of electricity passed through him. Lifting her hand from its
resting-place, he put it aside, gently but decisively.
"I may be a rock," he remarked with his slow smile, "but I also happen
to be--a man. Don't make our compact harder for me than you can help.
Good-night again; and sleep soundly--for Theo's sake!"
Before she could find words in which to plead forgiveness, he had
almost reached the study door; and she stood motionless, watching him
go, her face aflame with anger at her own unwitting thoughtlessness,
and humiliation at the exquisite gentleness of his rebuke.
Surely there were few men on earth comparable to this man, whose heart
and soul were hers for the taking. A cold fear came upon her lest in
the end she should be driven to retract her decision; to forego all,
and endure all, rather than withhold from him a happiness he so
abundantly deserved.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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