"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 Darkót. 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.