The Lamp in the Desert, Ethel May Dell [the gingerbread man read aloud .TXT] 📗

shone across the verandah when Bernard Monck returned late in the night. It drew his steps though it did not come from any of the sitting-rooms. With the light tread often characteristic of heavy men, he approached it, realizing only at the last moment that it came from the window of his brother's room.
Then for a second he hesitated. He was angry with Everard, more angry than he could remember that he had ever been before. He questioned with himself as to the wisdom of seeing him again that night. He doubted if he could be ordinarily civil to him at present, and a quarrel would help no one.
Still why was the fellow burning a light at that hour? An unacknowledged uneasiness took possession of him and drove him forward. People seemed to do all manner of extravagant things in this fantastic country that they would never have dreamed of doing in homely old England. There must be something electric in the atmosphere that penetrated the veins. Even he had been aware of it now and then, a strange and potent influence that drove a man to passionate deeds.
He reached the window without sound just as Stella had reached it on that night of rain long ago. With no consciousness of spying, driven by an urgent impulse he could not stop to question, he looked in.
The window was ajar, as if it had been pushed to negligently by someone entering, and in a flash Bernard had it wide. He went in as though he had been propelled.
A man--Everard--was standing half-dressed in the middle of the room. He was facing the window, and the light shone with ghastly distinctness upon his face. But he did not look up. He was gazing fixedly into a glass of water he held in his hand, apparently watching some minute substance melting there.
It was not the thing he held, but the look upon his face, that sent Bernard forward with a spring. "Man!" he burst forth. "What are you doing?"
Everard gave utterance to a fierce oath that was more like the cry of a savage animal than the articulate speech of a man. He stepped back sharply, and put the glass to his lips. But no drop that it contained did he swallow, for in the same instant Bernard flung it violently aside. The glass spun across the room, and they grappled together for the mastery. For a few seconds the battle was hot; then very suddenly the elder man threw up his hands.
"All right," he said, between short gasps for breath. "You can hammer me--if you want someone to hammer. Perhaps--it'll do you good."
He was free on the instant. Everard flung round and turned his back. He did not speak, but crossed the room and picked up the glass which lay unbroken on the floor.
Bernard followed him, still gasping for breath, "Give that to me!" he said.
His soft voice was oddly stern. Everard looked at him. His hand, shaking a little, was extended. After a very definite pause, he placed the glass within it. There was a little white sediment left with a drain of water at the bottom. With his blue eyes full upon his brother's face, Bernard lifted it to his own lips.
But the next instant it was dashed away, and the glass shivered to atoms against the wall. "You--fool!" Everard said.
A faint, faint smile that very strangely proclaimed a resemblance between them which was very seldom perceptible crossed Bernard's face. "I--thought so," he said. "Now look here, boy! Let's stop being melodramatic for a bit! Take a dose of quinine instead! It seems to be the panacea for all evils in this curious country."
His voice was perfectly kind, even persusaive, but it carried a hint of authority as well, and Everard gave him a keen look as if aware of it.
He was very pale but absolutely steady as he made reply. "I don't think quinine will meet the case on this occasion."
"You prefer another kind of medicine," Bernard suggested. And then with sudden feeling he held out his hand. "Everard, old chap, never do that while you've a single friend left in the world! Do you want to break my heart? I only ask to stand by you. I'll stand by you to the very gates of hell. Don't you know that?"
His voice trembled slightly. Everard turned and gripped the proffered hand hard in his own.
"I suppose I--might have known," he said. "But it's a bit rash of you all the same."
His own voice quivered though he forced a smile. He would have turned away, but Bernard restrained him.
"I don't care a tinker's damn what you've done," he said forcibly. "Remember that! We're brothers, and I'll stick to you. If there's anything in life that I can do to help, I'll do it. If there isn't, well, I won't worry you, but you know you can count on me just the same. You'll never stand alone while I live."
It was generously spoken. The words came straight from his soul. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder as he uttered them. His eyes were as tender as the eyes of a woman.
And suddenly, without warning, Everard's strength failed him. It was like the snapping of a stretched wire. "Oh, man!" he said, and covered his face.
Bernard's arm was round him in a moment, a staunch, upholding arm. "Everard--dear old chap--can't you tell me what it is?" he said. "God knows I'll die sooner than let you down."
Everard did not answer. His breathing was hard, spasmodic, intensely painful to hear. He had the look of a man stricken in his pride.
For a space Bernard stood dumbly supporting him. Then at length very quietly he moved and guided him to a chair.
"Take your time!" he said gently. "Sit down!"
Mutely Everard submitted. The agony of that night had stripped his manhood of its reserve. He sat crouched, his head bowed upon his clenched hands.
"Wait while I fetch you a drink!" Bernard said.
He was gone barely two minutes. Returning, he fastened the window and drew the curtain across. Then he bent again over the huddled figure in the chair.
"Take a mouthful of this, old fellow! It'll pull you together."
Everard groped outwards with a quivering hand. "Give me strength--to shoot myself," he muttered.
The words were only just audible, but Bernard caught them. "No,--give you strength to play the game," he said, and held the glass he had brought to his brother's lips.
Everard drank with closed eyes and sat forward again motionless. His face was bloodless. "I'm sorry, St. Bernard," he said, after a moment. "Forgive me for manhandling you--and all the rest, if you can!" He drew a long, hard breath. "Thanks for everything! Good-night!"
"But I'm not leaving you," said Bernard, gently. "Not like this."
"Like what?" Everard opened his eyes with an abrupt effort. "Oh, I'm all right. Don't you bother about me!" he said.
Their eyes met. For a second longer Bernard stood over him. Then he went down upon his knees by his side. "I swear I won't leave you," he said, "until you've told me this trouble of yours."
Everard shook his head instantly, but his hand went out and closed upon the arm that had upheld him. He was beginning to recover his habitual self-command. "It's no good, old chap. I can't," he said. And added almost involuntarily, "That's--the hell of it!"
"But you can," Bernard said. He still looked him straight in the eyes. "You can and you will. Call it a confession--I've heard a good many in my time--and tell me everything!"
"Confess to you!" A hint of surprise showed in Everard's heavy eyes. "You'd better not tempt me to do that," he said. "You might be sorry afterwards."
"I will risk it," Bernard said.
"Risk being made an accessory to--what you may regard as a crime?" Everard said. "Forgive me--you're a parson, I know,--but are you sure you can play the part?"
Bernard smiled a little at the question. "Yes, I can," he said. "A confession is sacred--whatever it is. And I swear to you--by God in Heaven--to treat it as such."
Everard was looking at him fixedly, but something of the strain went out of his look at the words. A gleam of relief crossed his face.
"All right. I will--confess to you," he said. "But I warn you beforehand, you'll be horribly shocked. And--you won't feel like absolving me afterwards."
"That's not my job, dear fellow," Bernard answered gently. "Go ahead! You're sure of my sympathy anyway."
"Am I? You're a good chap, St. Bernard. Look here, don't kneel there! It's not suitable for a father confessor," Everard's faint smile showed for a moment.
Bernard's hand closed upon his. "Go ahead!" he said again, "I'm all right."
Everard made an abrupt gesture that had in it something of surrender. "It's soon told," he said, "though I don't know why I should burden you with it. That fellow Ralph Dacre--I didn't murder him. I wish to Heaven I had. So far as I know--he is alive."
"Ah!" Bernard said
Jerkily, with obvious effort, Everard continued. "I'm a murderous brute no doubt. But if I had the chance to kill him now, I'd take it. You see what it means, don't you? It means that Stella--that Stella--" He broke off with a convulsive movement, and dropped back into a tortured silence.
"Yes. I see what it means," Bernard said.
After an interval Everard forced out a few more words. "About a fortnight after their marriage I got your letter telling me he had a wife living. I went straight after them in native disguise, and made him clear out. That's the whole story."
"I see," Bernard said again.
Again there fell a silence between them. Everard sat bowed, his head on his hand. The awful pallor was passing, but the stricken look remained.
Bernard spoke at last. "You have no idea what became of him?"
"Not the faintest. He went. That was all that concerned me." Grimly, without lifting his head, he made answer. "You know the rest--or you can guess. Then you came, and told me that the woman--Dacre's wife--died before his marriage to Stella. I've been in hell ever since."
"I wish to Heaven I'd stopped away!" Bernard exclaimed with sudden vehemence.
Everard shifted his position slightly to glance at him. "Don't wish that!" he said. "After all, it would probably have come out somehow."
"And--Stella?" Bernard spoke with hesitation, as if uncertain of his ground. "What does she think? How much does she know?"
"She thinks like the rest. She thinks I murdered the hound. And I'd rather she thought that," there was dogged suffering in Everard's voice, "than suspected the truth."
"You think--" Bernard still spoke with slight hesitation--"that will hurt her less?"
"Yes." There was stubborn conviction in the reply. Everard slowly straightened himself and faced his brother squarely. "There is--the child," he said.
Bernard shook his head slightly. "You're wrong, old fellow. You're making a mistake. You are choosing the hardest course for her as well as yourself."
Everard's jaw hardened. "I shall find a way out for myself," he said. "She shall be left in peace."
"What do you mean?" Bernard said. Then as he made no reply, he took him firmly by the shoulders. "No--no! You won't. You won't," he said. "That's not you, my boy--not when you've sanely thought it out."
Everard suffered his hold; but his face remained set in grim lines. "There is no other way," he said. "Honestly, I see no other way."
"There is another way." Very steadily, with the utmost confidence, Bernard made the assertion. "There always is. God sees to that. You'll find it presently."
Everard smiled very wearily at the words. "I've given up expecting any light from