Front matter (continued 3)

* * * * *

Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging in the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lying among the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range. Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual to Anglo-Indians in India. Two more Regimental Cup races had been won and lost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been present as a spectator. With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut up their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills. During these three years Lucy's health had gradually declined, till she was now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long in India was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident, and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had little acquaintance before that event.

It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion of foul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary, much sympathy had been expressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling. A letter had also been received from O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, for it appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been a good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share in her son's death. It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, and from where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she herself did.

Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, had absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarette with it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to her room, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours. One consolation was hers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson. When they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more so even than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did not come to the house at odd times, as was his wont. Finally, he had left Riwala for a year's shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though the twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again—not for a long time, at any rate—for shortly she too would be gone, leaving the hateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few months hence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he could accompany her. At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield had agreed to Captain Graeme's going in October, three months ahead, not a day before.

A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, in addition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid—one for which she had always longed, but which in her present feeble condition threatened to overwhelm her. To all the doctors' entreaties, to go home in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused to listen, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata, instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originally intended.

Here he would be able to run up for the very few days' leave he could hope to obtain. They would be in the same country, at any rate, and if he were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him to come to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be between them, and anything might happen to him even without her knowing—things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.

Hector, on his part, had done his best. He had rented one of the best, though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personally superintended every detail for her comfort. He even accompanied her on the long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special comfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, instead of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to that place. This was a most unwonted attention on Hector's part, who had hitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be dealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed a consideration and affection of which even she would never have believed him capable. Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor did Hector himself know exactly. Remorse for O'Hagan's death was certainly not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife; nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself—the memory of which troubled him not at all—but by the revelation within him of some tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his fellows. The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his callous soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feel as they felt, to live as they lived.

With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please Lucy, anticipating her every want and devoting himself to her to an extent that caused Graeme's uxoriousness, as it was called, to become a byword, especially in Chillata, where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusual thing. Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the world's sneers; they didn't know what his object was, how should they? He redoubled his efforts, and now that a child was to be born to them strove with all his might to interest himself in the baby's coming—little liking as he had for children—for in the cultivation of such purely natural feelings as affection for wife and child, he realised dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existence he alone was aware.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew nothing of all this. She was too sane and healthy-minded to be able to comprehend such a nature as her husband's, and with the curious fatality that had always marked her dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, rather frustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own undoing. It was not want of tact on her part, for of that quality Lucy had more than most, but simply that, being so normal herself, the comprehension of the abnormal was beyond her understanding; and, though touched and pleased with her husband's constant wish to be always with her, she yet fought against it, believing that he stayed solely to please her. With this idea in her mind, she was constantly urging him to leave her, and mix more with his kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man to wish to remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour's walk as his sole exercise. Of course, it was sweet of him to wish to be with her, and she appreciated the thought, but she would much rather he didn't; she could get on very well by herself, and he would always be home before dark.

Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long solitary rides—the worst thing for him—leaving Lucy happy in the consciousness of an unselfish action. How well she understood him, she thought, and what a dear he was. True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting—to which she owed the present state of her nerves—but even for that she had by now come to account. It had been an accident after all, she was certain, and Hector, to gratify his vanity, had made out it was intentional, and was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, which she and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him. Callous? Not he, why, every action of his since then had shown him to be the very reverse.

Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the prospect of a speedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble, had somewhat recovered, and with the arrival of her husband, on a quite unexpected two months' leave, was now almost happy. For the first two weeks after his coming she had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was almost exclusively of war, and the place thronged with applicants to be sent out to South Africa. Only too well did she realise Hector's vanity, and feared that he also, solely from a morbid disinclination to be left in the background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would certainly succeed, as he always did, when those dreadful sudden fits of determination came upon him. It was therefore with a feeling of heartfelt relief that she saw him, apparently, in no way interested in the matter, though, had she known his mind, it is possible she would not have been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been more than ever touched by a further proof of his devotion. For exactly what she had feared was in her husband's mind, and for that reason Hector avoided Chillata assemblies like the plague, refused to attend the theatre, despite Lucy's urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried by the Military Offices without a glance.

He was now, on this September morning, brooding over the subject, a crumpled copy of the Pioneer in his hand, detailing some fresh disaster, which he felt bitterly, had he been in command, would have been no defeat, but a brilliant success. For a week without intermission it had rained steadily, rendering even the short morning and evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after night, the rain had poured drearily down, rattling on the corrugated iron of the roof, turning Lucy's small garden into a quagmire, and shrouding the surrounding hills and valleys with a pall of white vapour. Small streams had become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while from weeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip of water on dank fern and rotting vegetation. As Hector looked and heard, a feeling of depression came over him, and with it that other self began to make itself heard. The longing came over him to be off at once to the Military Offices, send in his application, and go, for despite the constant refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he to apply.

"Three weeks more of this," he reflected, "then two months' idling in the plains, and after that home, a year's loafing again, while others are making names and passing me. It's that which galls me, being out of it, I who could leave them all if I chose. Oh, curse my folly of five years ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it easily too, if only they hadn't opposed me. If they'd made it easy, I don't think somehow I'd have persisted. Oh, damnation take it, here am I, with the best wife in the world, regretting. Apply? Not I. Oh, thank God, here she is. Lucy dear," throwing down the paper, and hurrying forward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, "it's good to see you down so early. Here's your chair, I've got the cushions and everything ready for you. There," settling her comfortably and tucking the shawl round her feet, "now tell me how you feel, better?"

"Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way you cheer me up. I'm afraid I'm rather a burden to you now, and so very plain and unattractive. You can't call me pretty, as you used to."

"Nonsense, Lucy, you're prettier than ever, and far more attractive to me now, naturally."

"Oh no, I'm not, Hector. You only say that because, because ... you're the best husband in the world, so different from most men to their wives. But isn't that the Pioneer, any news of the war?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Lucy; the war, as you know, doesn't interest me."

"But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we know fighting out there. Oh, Hector, how thankful I am you're not one of those who volunteered. It would have broken my heart had you done so."

Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window remained for a moment staring out into the mist.

"Lucy," he said suddenly, "why did you always oppose my retiring? I could have done so before the war started, now I can't."

"Because I didn't want to spoil your life, Hector. I want you to command your regiment, not settle down yet; you're too young. It was for your sake I refused. I should have loved it myself."

"And at the same time you don't want me to see active service," said Hector, with a somewhat justifiable show of irritation. "Can't you see, Lucy, that not being in this war will certainly prove a bar to my own or anybody else's chance of future command?"

"But you have seen active service, Hector. Surely once is enough for any man, besides, you did so well then, everyone knows you ought to have got the V.C. Oh, by the way, I have meant to ask you for some time, do you know a—— Oh, bother, there's a caller, don't go. Hector, it's only Mrs. Swaine. How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?" to the lady who was ushered in by the bearer.

"So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme," said the new-comer. "I came round to ask whether you and your husband would care to come round to lunch to-day. Rather short notice, I'm afraid, but my nephew has just received orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I'm inviting a few friends to give him a send-off."

"Your nephew? oh, how dreadful for you, Mrs. Swaine, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, I don't know, after all, it's what soldiers are for, and Tom's really very fortunate to be selected. Everyone's applying nowadays, you know, and nearly all are refused. They only take the best men, and Tom, though he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters."

"They'd like my husband to go, I know," said Lucy, up in arms at once, "he only has to apply."

"Oh, really? I didn't know they'd take married men. Sir Henry told me the other day they wouldn't. Anyway, I'm sure Captain Graeme wouldn't think of leaving you ... now," with an arch smile at the frowning Hector, "the thing's quite unthinkable. But about lunch, will you come?"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Swaine, I should like to, but I'm afraid my husband——"

"Oh, I'll come," said Hector.

"Capital," said the lady. "Well, I must be off, I've got all sorts of things to see about. Good-bye, you two, so glad," and away trotted Mrs. Swaine, leaving silence behind her.

"Hector dear," said Lucy, after a pause, "you didn't mind what that woman said? She's a good soul really, only tactless."

"Not I," said Hector, "but you were saying something when she came in. You asked me if I knew——"

"Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector. They call him Golliwog here, and I should say he has about as much intelligence. Really, I don't think I ever met such a dull person in my life before."

"He's one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion I respect. Also, he's the only fellow in the army from whom I ever learnt anything."

"Good gracious, Hector," said Lucy, surprised, for such commendation of a military superior was something very novel. "I didn't know you'd ever seen the man. Tell me about it."

"Oh, it was after that Mortlock affair, he spoke to me then, snubbed Schofield too—did it jolly well."

"That was nice of him, Hector, and of course I only saw him for a few minutes; he didn't even know my name. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll invite him to dinner."

"Certainly not, Lucy," was the unexpected answer, "why, he's Adjutant-General."

"What does that matter? He'll come, and you must have somebody to talk to besides me, we'll ask him for to-morrow night; it's your birthday, you know, though I suppose you've forgotten that. Had you, Hector?"

"I had. I'm a fool about dates, as you know; but, Lucy, please don't ask Quentin."

"No, I won't please, I'm going to; you like him, and that's enough. Oh, look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains at last. Now I'll write the note, and you shall take it; the ride will do you good, and you can meet me at the Swaines."

"Lucy, I'd much sooner stay here with you."

"No, I've got things to do, I must get on with my sewing, and I can't do that while you're here."

"Why not? I'm interested in that sewing. Oh, I do wish, Lucy, you'd let me know a little more about—about the infant. I really want to, and you never will talk about it."

"Of course not, such things are not for a man to know about. I intend to keep everything of that sort from you, dear. When he or she comes it will be different, but till then you mustn't ask questions."

"But, Lucy, can't you understand——?" began Hector.

"Perfectly, and it's sweet of you to be interested, or rather appear to be, for of course you're not really; no man could be in such details, and a woman would be a fool to expect it. Now go, like a good boy, and order the pony while I write the note."

She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk, leaving Hector standing looking at her, with a baffled expression on his face. For a moment he remained irresolute, then walked slowly away to order the pony, and presently returned to Lucy.

"Here's the letter, Hector," handing it to him. "You'd better go to the Military Offices, you'll find him there now; and I wonder, would you mind getting me some ribbons at Lace's when you pass?"

"Yes, I'll do that for you gladly, Lucy, but not the other."

Lucy looked at him, and then suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

"Very well, Hector. It's only a little thing I ask of you, but of course if you won't; and I understand, you—you'd rather your friend didn't see me like this. I—I know I'm dull and plain, but—but——"

"Give me the note, Lucy," said Hector quietly. "I'll take it, and enter the Military Offices for the first time since I've been here." He went out, and, mounting the pony, departed on his mission.

* * * * *

As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for a while the dense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay in sullen banked-up masses girdling the horizon. A blue sky glared overhead, from which shone a bright sun, its rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground, forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth, reeking fern, and rotting leaves.

The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint murmur of tiny rills, threading their way through emerald moss and tangled undergrowth, to the roar of swollen torrents thundering down the hillside on their way to parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing at intervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the valley depths. Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer parched and bare as three weeks before, but clad in velvet green, veined with silver threads glittering in the sunlight, as they too danced on their way to the river below.

Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression of the morning had now deepened to heavy gloom, and with it had come a sense of foreboding, the feeling of being driven on by destiny, which, struggle as he might, he was powerless to resist.

Two or three times, in obedience to a faint far-off and in some way strangely reproachful voice, he reined in his pony and paused, the inclination to return strong upon him, but then, cursing himself for an irresolute fool, he rode on. As he passed through the Mall, crowded with folk, who, like butterflies, had emerged from seclusion to desport themselves in the welcome sunshine, the feeling of foreboding grew, till, on reaching the Military Offices, so loud had the voice become that he then and there determined to obey it and return. Arriving at this decision, he experienced a sense of great relief; the cloud of gloom lifted from his mind, and, feeling strangely light-hearted, he was turning his horse about, when the animal suddenly stumbled, recovered himself, and then went on; but he was dead lame. "Picked up a stone," muttered his rider, and, dismounting, was proceeding to extract a sharp, three-cornered flint wedged between the frog and shoe, when a voice hailed him.

"Good morning, Graeme, what are you doing here?"

"Nothing," answered Hector, "a ride, that's all. Just going back. Curse this stone."

Captain Pushful, for that person it was, winked solemnly.

"'Nothing,'" he said, "'only a ride,' just so, that's what I'm here for, that's what we all come to the Offices for; it's no use, though, Golliwog won't see you, none of 'em will. I ought to know, for I've tried most of 'em. Going to have a go at his Excellency, though, this afternoon; we'll see what that will do. Another choking off, I suppose, but no matter."

"What on earth for?"

"Same old thing, to get out to South Africa. I'll do it yet, though, in spite of 'em all."—It may here be remarked that Captain Pushful was eventually sent out; De Boudoir, indeed, offered to pay his passage to get rid of him—"But surely you're not having a shot? It's no earthly use for you, believe me, you're married. He won't see you, I tell you," as, the stone extracted, Hector moved away.

"He certainly would, if I wanted him to," said Graeme, stopping; "but, as it happens, I don't."

"I'll bet you he doesn't."

"Oh, all right then, we'll see," and Hector, tying up his pony to the rails, mounted the steps leading to the Offices.

"Which way?" he asked; "d'you know?"

"Do I know," answered Pushful, with some scorn, "couldn't I draw a plan of the whole rotten place by now? You come with me; I'll have another try too. I'll ask him if he's got my application."

"Hang it, we can't both go."

"Oh yes, we can," and, regardless of Graeme's protests, Pushful led the way to the door of De Boudoir's room, and, without knocking, entered.

"Can I see——" began both simultaneously.

"No, you can't. Oh Lord, it's you again," said De Boudoir wrathfully, seeing Pushful, who had thrust himself ahead of Graeme. "By the Poker, but I'll have you out of this double quick," and, springing up, he seized Pushful, who was stealing past to the Adjutant-General's door, by the collar, and after a short but sharp struggle succeeded in putting him outside.

"And now for you," he began, turning to the other visitant. "It's no use, I tell you beforehand; the Chief won't see anyone. Oh, it's you, Graeme; I beg your pardon. I was just writing a note to you, asking you to come round. The General wants to see you. That door; go in quietly; he's a bit upset this morning."

Upon which Graeme knocked, and a testy "Come in" answering him, entered.

CHAPTER IX

"Well, what is it now," said Quentin, not looking up from his papers as Graeme entered, "and what the devil's all that row about? Damn it, De Boudoir, if you want to play 'Box and Cox,' you must find another.... Oh, good morning, Graeme; I didn't see it was you. Glad to meet you again. How are you?"

"All right, thank you, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you; I only came to——"

"Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you. Wait a minute, will you, till I've finished this letter, I've something to say to you. Sit down; smoke if you like; there are cigarettes."

Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and lighting it sat back in his chair and waited till the other had finished. What on earth, he wondered, could the Adjutant-General have to say to him? Surely it didn't mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted his application for leave home, and it had arrived at Headquarters, only to be refused? Yes, that must be it, and Quentin had now sent for him to inform him of the fact. At the thought, Graeme was seized with anger, and he braced himself for fight. He wouldn't stand it, not he; he would speak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office, Adjutant-General though he was, that he had made up his mind ...

Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen had ceased, and that Quentin was regarding him with the same unwinking stare with which he had favoured him three years before at Fort Hussein.

"Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme," he asked abruptly, "now commanding at Gurrumbad?"

"I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last manoeuvres," answered Graeme, his anger giving way to surprise at the unexpectedness of the question. What was the man driving at, he wondered.

"Does he know you?" was the next and equally abrupt query.

"I don't think so, sir, by sight possibly, but that's all."

"Hum ... pity."

A pause, then Quentin went on.

"He's one of the rising men, Graeme, one of the cleverest they ever had at the Staff College, they tell me; did well, too at last cold weather manoeuvres."

"Indeed, sir," muttered Graeme, his perplexity increasing.

"They've just given him the command of a brigade in South Africa, and he has written to me asking if I know of a"—a pause—"a suitable A.D.C."

Enlightenment at last, and with it the blood rushed to Hector's face. His forehead grew wet, and the room reeled before him. Far off he heard Quentin's voice continuing:

"It's a great chance, Graeme, for any soldier, and after consideration I've determined to offer the post to you."

"But, but ... sir, I'd give my soul to go, but——"

"You're thinking about the recommendation, I suppose, from your Colonel. He won't give it; is that what you mean?"

"No, he would not, sir," said Graeme, snatching at a straw.

"Hum, that's a pity, a very great pity. A Colonel's word, you know, Graeme, goes for a lot in these matters. Still, this is a purely personal appointment, and if I choose to take the risk of recommending you in spite of unfavourable reports, well, that's my lookout. And I'm prepared to take it, Graeme."

Silence.

"I'm prepared to take it, Captain Graeme," repeated Quentin, his eyes now like lamps. "What's the matter, aren't you well?"

"Yes, sir, only—only rather taken by surprise, sir."

"I hope you'll do me credit, Graeme."

"I—I'll try, sir. Thank you."

"I'm sure you will, and now I must ask you to leave me, I've got a good three hours' work here," laying his hand on the papers before him. "I'll wire to Bradford at once, and let you know his answer this afternoon; but I think I can tell you beforehand it will be all right. You'd better go home now and pack. Good-day."

"Good-day, sir," and Graeme stumbled out of the office and along the stone-flagged passage leading from it, till he found himself once more at the steps, on the top of which was seated Pushful, pensively smoking a pipe.

On seeing Hector he sprang up, with inquiry in his eye, but the other passed by unheeding. Declining an offer of his company in a manner that even Pushful recognised as final, he unhitched his pony from the rails, and rode off—Lucy, ribbons, and the Swaines' luncheon party completely forgotten. Arrived at home, he entered the house, and deaf to the bearer's offers of lunch went off to his room, where, locking the door, he flung himself down on the bed and tried to grasp the reality of what had happened. "I am going out to South Africa; to-morrow at this time I shall be gone," he repeated to himself for the hundredth time. But in vain—the words conveyed no meaning, and his thoughts wandered off into a confused labyrinth of trivial matters.

Finally, in desperation, he sprang up and hurried out to the garden, where for a time he walked up and down the sodden paths, and then gradually realisation came, and with it an intense feeling of remorse and unavailing regret. Oh, cursed unstable fool that he'd been, thus to allow himself to be driven into the very thing he had vowed to avoid. Where was his boasted strength, where the resolutions of the last three years? Gone, all gone. At a word from a stranger, he had betrayed the only being who loved him. From a weak-minded inability to refuse, he had accepted a thing for which he had not only no wish, but actual loathing, and brought misery on one whose only thought and wish were for his happiness. To leave her now, alone here amongst strangers, to get home as best she might, oh God! And, thoughts crowding thick upon Hector, he clenched his hands and cursed.

Then suddenly through the darkness shone a gleam, one of those that always come when the hour is blackest: the hope of the coup that haunts the ruined gambler; the dream of reprieve to the criminal on his way to the scaffold—false, always false, mere Will-o'-the-wisps, but clung to and believed in always. Perhaps he might not be sent after all, Quentin must have seen his disinclination, he had thought his manner cold when he said good-bye. No, he would choose someone else, someone who wanted to go, like that fool who was sitting on the Office steps—not him. Why, two hours had already elapsed since he left; if a wire had been coming it would have been here by this time, and Lucy ought to be back by now from the Swaines—good heavens, he had forgotten all about the luncheon party. Never mind, he would make it up to her, he would show her a devotion that would surprise even her, would make her so happy, and this time there should be no mistake. He had had his last lesson, and, once home, in would go his papers and ...

"Chitthi sahib, Faujdari dufta say aya,"[#] said a voice at his elbow, and looking round he saw his bearer holding out a salver on which lay a letter.

[#] "Letter from the Military Offices, sir."

"Jao,[#]" said Graeme, and snatching up the document strode away with it, the man looking curiously after him.

[#] Go.

At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at the envelope, with dread in his heart; then, suddenly clenching his teeth, tore it open, and seizing the paper within, read at a glance:

"DEAR GRAEME,

"It's all right. Colonel Bradford agrees. Report yourself to him at Gurnimbad to-morrow night. You needn't wait for official orders. Good luck.

"Yours,

"C. QUENTIN."

As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw wheels was heard coming along the road towards the house. It was Lucy returning from the Swaines'. For a moment he remained listening. Then, crushing the letter into his pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuary just as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.

"Where is the sahib," he heard from where he stood hovering within, "and what has he had for lunch?" much outspoken indignation greeting the bearer's answer that the master had not deigned to eat the meal provided.

"Of course he'd eat, it's your fault and the cook's if he didn't. Hector, where are you? Oh, there you are, why didn't you come out to meet me as you always do? Oh, Hector, I'm so sorry about your lunch, those stupid servants; and there was a guinea-fowl and the ham and——"

"It—it wasn't their fault, Lucy. They had the—the things ready, but I refused; I didn't feel like eating."

"Hector, you're ill; your voice is different somehow; come into the light, dear, and let me see," but Hector hung back.

"I'm all right, Lucy," he said hurriedly. "I've got rather a fit of the blues, that's all."

"And no wonder, being without food all this time. We'll have tea at once. Abdul, bring tea and two eggs for the sahib. And now sit down, and I'll tell you about the Swaines. Oh, Hector, why didn't you come? I was so disappointed."

"I—I was rather late getting back, Lucy. I—I—who was there?"

"Lots of people, and we'd such fun, not a bit like a farewell party. Captain Dance was there, you know, the man who does the comic parts at the theatre. And he was really most amusing, quite cheered me up, and—and oh, Hector, dear, he's given us a box for the theatre to-morrow night; you will come just for once, won't you? He's got a new song about Kruger, and I believe it's too funny. Oh, heavens, though, I forgot, General Quentin, don't say he's coming, please, Hector."

"He's—he's not, Lucy; he's rather busy just now, and——"

"Thank goodness, I should have been so disappointed, and we'll have a nice little dinner here together, just you and I, and go on to the play afterwards. Oh dear, I feel quite excited about it, I hope you do too, Hector."

"Lucy, my dearest."

"And Omar shall have a blue ribbon. Oh bother——"

"Omar?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, dear, not till to-morrow; but I've got a cat for you, my birthday present, Hector. He's a Persian, that's why I call him Omar, not very brilliant I fear, but I'm not clever, as you know only too well."

"Clever, you're the dearest——"

"But not clever, Hector, don't say so, because I know. Oh, I'd love to be clever like you."

"Me? Good heavens!"

"Yes, but about Omar. I know how you missed poor Fop, and I've meant to get you another in his place for a long time, but couldn't find one good enough. He's white, Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspect him."

"Lucy, wait. I—I've something to tell you, something terrible, dear, has happened, and—and—oh, my God, how can I say it?"

"Hector, what do you mean?" the smile dying away.

"I ... they ... I'm ordered to South Africa, Lucy."

For a moment she stood staring at him, with no comprehension in her eyes.

"South Africa," she repeated; "you—are going to—South Africa," and then suddenly she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees before him. "Hector, Hector," she said wildly, "it's not true, tell me it isn't. You can't leave me, you can't, do you hear?" She tried to drag his hands from his face, but in vain. Then her mood changed, and she rose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her white face.

"So—so you've volunteered like the rest, you whom I called only this morning 'the best husband in the world.' You'll go off and leave me as I am, helpless and alone, oh, what are men made of to do these things?"

"Lucy, I did not volunteer. I was weak, criminally weak, if you like, but that I did not do; the thing was forced upon me. Will you listen?"

"Go on."

Hector told her, and, as is usual with such recitals, suppressed the evidences of his own weakness, insisting on the fact that, as Quentin had put the matter, he had no choice but to accept, that it had been less an offer than an order. He didn't want to go, he repeated again and again, he never had had any wish to go, and let Lucy but say the word, he would wire to Bradford this minute to refuse. He would say he was ill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his medicine-chest upstairs. And then he stopped bewildered, for Lucy was smiling at him, a smile oddly in contrast with her white face and despairing eyes.

"No, Hector," she said, "you mustn't do that; you must go, dear."

"I won't, Lucy, what do I care for what they say?"

"But I do, dear; and—and, Hector, I was wrong in what I said just now, but I thought it was your own doing, and that you had volunteered. It was that which hurt me, dear, and made me say what I did; and—and I know you despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they taught me a lesson this afternoon. She felt her nephew's going—I know that, because I found her crying afterwards in her room—but she never showed it to him. She was all smiles before him and the others, as I shall be when—when the time comes, Hector. When is it, dear?"

"To-morrow morning, but——"

"To-morrow? Then—then we've very little time; I must go and see to your things; and we'll keep your birthday to-night, dear, instead of ... and Omar shall have his blue ribbon."

"Lucy, for God's sake listen to me before we decide. I have a feeling about this. I know somehow I ought not to go, that if I do, it will be an irrevocable step. Oh, I can't explain, but—but I feel that—that this is my last chance. Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am being driven, God knows where! I have felt it before, I felt it only this morning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too that you and the baby alone can save me. Oh, Lucy, if you love me, tell me to stay."

"It's because I love you, Hector, that I now ask you to go. It's everything to me your wanting to remain; but, dearest, I cannot let you—I should be wickedly selfish if I did; and what you say about that feeling is wrong too, dear; it is morbid and unhealthy. Fight it down, Hector; it is nothing, and—and soon you will come back to me, and there will be the baby, and we—we shall be so happy, and we couldn't be if we were to shirk our duty when it's come. But I must leave you now, no, you stay here, dear; you—you would only hinder me," and she went.

* * * * *

Next morning, with the rain pouring down upon him, Hector rode away, and, as he reached the gate opening on to the main road, he stopped and looked back at the still figure watching him from the dripping verandah. For a moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to return, and then, mastering it once and for ever, galloped away through the downpour.

BOOK II

CHAPTER X

Many thousands of miles away from high-perched fir-clad Chillata—now no longer rain-drenched and sad, but a white fairy-land of glistening ice and snow—a large column of mounted men was slowly toiling its way through a waste of rocky mountains. A weary-looking column it was, the men silent and sullen-faced; the animals dull-eyed, with their ribs showing through tightly-stretched coats. On they crawled, mile after mile, now breasting the side of some stony mountain, now sinking into the airless depths of gloomy gorge or desolate valley. Lower and lower dropped the sun, and then, with one last blinding flash of light, was gone, leaving the western sky aflame with specks of burning cloud.

Rapidly the light began to fade, a veil of hazy blue blurred the mountains, a few stars twinkled feebly overhead; and then at last came the welcome order to halt. The men clambered wearily down, and led the horses away to where a staff officer was standing, looking dubiously down at a few pools of muddy water, the remains of a sometime rushing torrent. Directing and objurgating the sullen men, he remained till the last beast had drunk and gone; and then he too turned away in search of such cheer as he might hope to find in the Headquarter Mess.

For weeks past the present day's work had been but a repetition of its predecessor: the rise before the dawn; the eventless trek through veldt and mountain; the bivouac in some hot valley, where alone water could be hoped for; the dreamless sleep, hard upon the unappetising meal; and then once more the awakening and profitless resumption of the march. For profitless it seemed, this pursuit of the elusive Dutchman, Van der Tann, rebel and murderer, whose capture many had attempted, but all, so far, failed to achieve.

Six weeks before, full of hope and confidence in their leader, despite the gloomy prophecies of those who had attempted the task before, this column had started on its quest, and so far not one man of the hostile commando had they seen; apparently at its ease, it kept just one march ahead, which distance, strive as he might, Colonel Bradford found himself powerless to lessen.

Gradually, in the column, hope had died out, and with its death came the longing for the comforts of civilisation: hot baths, whiskey and cigarettes for the officers, beer and tobacco for the men—luxuries that for the past three weeks they had been without. The former grew slack and dispirited; the latter sullen, in the last few days, indeed, almost openly mutinous, a state of things of which their leader was only too well aware, and which in his heart, secretly as hopeless as theirs, he knew himself powerless to combat. He was thinking of these things, and even meditating the abandonment of his quest, as he sat on the hillside overlooking the bivouac, and gloomily noted the air of unwillingness pervading the men below.

Surely it was justifiable to give up now, he thought; he had done all that a man could, but the task set was beyond him or anyone else; better to accept the inevitable and go back. He was but wearing out men and horses in a vain quest, and to force the march on was to risk the catastrophe of mutiny and consequent ruin of his career. His authority, he knew well, only hung by a hair, and the mere writing out of orders for the next day had become a torment, so fearful was he of a flat refusal to obey; only, last night their issue had been received with "booing"—a sound that had filled him with nervous dread. Despite his present despondency, Colonel Bradford's reputation was that of a good and able commander; and since landing in the country five months before his career had been one of unbroken success. Cool in action, ready of resource, and deeply read in military lore, he had, as a brigade commander in the main body, won high opinions from superiors and subordinates alike, and it had been in the full hope of a successful issue that to him had been entrusted the capture of the notorious and hitherto undefeated Van der Tann.

Unsuspected by all, however, in Bradford's character there was a weak spot, which events so far had failed to discover, and that was the inability to hold on his way, unmoved by the opinions of those around him. Give him a willing army to lead and all was well, but, let the men become discouraged and show hostility to authority, he also, only too soon, came to share the one feeling and fear the other. The double task of overcoming them as well as the enemy was beyond him—as it is to all save the Marlboroughs and Wellingtons of history—and in the present crisis, instead of rooting up the sprouting weeds of insubordination, his sole desire, and that the most fatal of all, was to conciliate the malcontents, with the inevitable result that the murmuring grew daily louder.

There was one, and, probably the only one in the column, who was not only unaffected by the general depression, but rather stimulated by it, and that was Captain Hector Graeme. So far, in his novel rôle of A.D.C., he had failed to justify his selection for the post by General Quentin; indeed, Bradford had many times thought hard things of the Adjutant-General to the Indian Forces, for providing him with a staff officer so negligent and ignorant of his work.

On more than one occasion he had had just reason for complaint, Hector's arrangements as to messing and the transport of his chief's baggage having only too often proved defective, while his cavalier treatment of senior officers had brought more than one rebuke on his careless head. His sartorial eccentricities, too, were a source of constant irritation to Colonel Bradford, for now that he was no longer a regimental officer he had given free rein to his taste for original garments; and, bizarre as were many of the uniforms worn at that time in South Africa, Hector, in unconventionality and strangeness of attire, eclipsed them all.

Several times Bradford, stung by the remarks of distinguished visitors to his Mess, had debated the advisability of sending Graeme about his business, or at any rate palming him off on some unwary new-comer, but somehow he had never done so; and in the last fortnight had come to be glad of his forbearance. For during that time a surprising change had come over his A.D.C. In proportion as the spirits of the rest went down, his went up, and no matter how long or profitless the day Hector never seemed tired or depressed, but, on the contrary, cheerful and full of fight. And gradually Bradford, harassed by doubts and the unresponsiveness of his followers, began to turn to his erstwhile obnoxious A.D.C., whose confidence in ultimate success seemed to increase daily, and who alone amongst his fellows appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the present expedition.

He looked at him now as he lay on his back close by, calm and content, the end of a "Pinhead" cigarette—given him a the rate of one daily by his servant from the latter's scanty store—between his teeth, and, as he looked, he sighed. He wished that he too could feel like that. Hector heard the sigh, and, instantly opening his eyes, sat up and gazed meditatively at the mob of men and horses below.

"Hard as nails, those horses," he observed cheerfully, "do their thirty miles a day easy now; never so fit in their lives before."

"I don't know what you call fit, Graeme," was the moody answer, "they're all skin and bone. Worn out, that's what they are; look at the way they're standing."

"Only healthily tired, they'll be bucking after a night's rest. The men seem a bit sullen though, the brutes. What the dickens do they want, I wonder? Fine weather, grand country, and quite enough to eat. Damn it, they've not fed those mules yet. I'll soon see about that," rising as he spoke.

"Better leave the men alone, Graeme; poor devils, they're tired too. For heaven's sake don't hustle them, they'll only lose their temper and answer back."

"Lose their temper, will they? So will I, then, and I'll warrant mine's worse than theirs."

"There's a time, Graeme, you know, when it's better to shut one's eyes—the velvet glove, you know;" but Hector had gone, and was now making his way to where a group of men were sitting in a circle, at some distance from the famished mules.

"Velvet glove be hanged," he muttered as he went; "that's all right when the steel hand's inside, not the flabby digits your gloves contain. Damn, you may be a devilish fine tactician or strategist, but you don't understand men. I do, and always have," and he strode on, the light of battle in his eyes.

Sick with nervous apprehension, Bradford watched him approach the group, and, as he reached it, say something to one of its members. The man, turning his head, looked up without rising, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, was resuming his conversation when Hector rushed at him, seized him by the collar, and dragged him to his feet. The others jumped up and gazed in astonishment at the intruder; a murmur of anger arose, but was almost instantaneously silenced, quelled by a fury such as staggered their dull souls. For a few minutes the winged words flew, and then Bradford saw Hector wheel round on the first man and point to the mules. Slowly the fellow was slouching off, when for the second time Graeme was on him, and, whirling him round, again spoke, when the man's hand went to his cap in a salute, and he stood stiffly at attention. Another order was given, on which the rest ranged themselves into line, were numbered off by fours—the proving being repeated three times before the requisite smartness was attained—and the men were marched briskly away to the waiting mules, which they proceeded to feed, Hector supervising. This operation completed, he rejoined his chief.

"Bit and spur, not sugar, for a tired horse," he observed, resuming his seat on the ground. "It's not the men's fault, though; they'd be all right if properly managed."

"What did you say to them, Graeme? It seems to have been pretty effective, whatever it was."

"Cursed them well, sir, called them every name I could lay my tongue to. That big fellow I promised to shoot if he spoke again. I'd have done it too, devilish near thing as it was."

"What?"

"Certainly I would, it was him or me. Obedience I meant having, and if he wasn't going to give it, he'd have got hurt, that's all."

"This is not the German Army, Graeme."

"No, if it were we shouldn't keep the useless devils we do in command. Old Carthew, for instance; I wish you'd let me have a go at him, sir."

"Kindly remember, Graeme, you're speaking of a senior officer."

"Well, if I am, sir, I'm only saying what every one in the column knows. Why, last night at dinner, before his officers, he said that our present expedition was hopeless, and that he had reason to believe you thought so too."

Bradford was silent.

"Of course, he ought not to have said that, Graeme," he answered after a pause, "but I'm afraid he's only expressing the general feeling."

"What does that matter, sir, if it's not yours?"

"But ... perhaps it is mine, Graeme; it's certainly that of my staff officer, Major Godwin."

"Godwin? An old woman."

"Graeme!"

"So he is, if he advises giving up; and it's all very well for him, he won't get the blame—you will. He'll probably say afterwards too, he was all for going on, but you wouldn't."

Again Bradford was silent. From what he knew of staff officers, he thought that this was more than likely to be true, and the idea was unpleasant. And then a fatal and ever-to-be-regretted moment of weakness came over him, and he turned to Graeme.

"What would you advise, then?" he said. "I don't mind owning I'm done."

"Try for a bit longer, anyway," was the instant response. "Look here, Colonel, I, as you know, am not much of a tactician, but this is not a question of tactics; it's a question of our will against Van der Tann's and my—ours is stronger than his; I know it."

"I don't follow you, Graeme," said Bradford, looking puzzled, for to him psychology was an unknown region.

"Simply this, we've been after this fellow now for six weeks and one of us must give, and that soon. The strain is too great to last. Our lot may be bad, but think what his must be, with us always hanging on to his heels, and never knowing when we're going to pounce on them. I know he goes as fast as we do, faster perhaps, but so does the rabbit than the stoat, yet the stoat gets him in the end, because the rabbit's nerve goes and he chucks it."

"Yes, but the rabbit can't turn round and fight the stoat. Van der Tann can; a nice plight we should be in if he were to attack us to-night. Regular cul-de-sac this place we're in."

"Not much attack left in men who've been pursued for six weeks; besides, they're probably thinking the same about us."

"Hum, can't say I think much of your argument, Graeme. Let's go and have tea. I suppose we've not run out of that, have we? Coming? No? Well, don't go beyond the sentry line, these Dutchmen are always prowling about;" and Bradford rose and walked slowly away, leaving Hector seated on the ground.

For a few minutes he remained there, and then, his Chief out of sight, sprang up, and, evading the none too alert sentries, made his way across country till he struck a rough sheep-track leading into the heart of the mountains. "I'll think this out," he muttered. "I'll get him on somehow, the faint-hearted fool, only another day or two, and we'll have this fellow Van der Tann. He's close by somewhere. I don't know why I think so, but I'm sure of it. I wish to heaven I was in charge; give me a day only, and you wouldn't know that column. I'd..." And here his thoughts wandered off, as Hector's were wont to do, into a picture of personal achievements.

He had just worked out the capture of the Dutchman, having seen every detail of the march and subsequent fight vividly before him, and was proceeding to give orders for the disposal of the prisoners, speaking—a habit to which he had of late become prone—half-aloud as he did so, when, striking his foot violently against a stone, the pain brought him straightway back to earth. With a sudden shock, he became aware of the darkness and deep silence around him, and hurriedly striking a match looked at his watch, which by good luck he had not forgotten to wind the previous night. It was close on eight, and at six he had started, which meant that he was now, at the pace he had come, well-nigh seven miles from the bivouac.

By this time dinner would be over, and a search-party probably out after him; he must get back at once, that is, if he could find his way, which he rather doubted, for he had been too deeply engrossed with mental visions to take much note of the road he had come by. He looked behind him, in the hope of seeing the bivouac lights, but in vain—a wall of mountains lay between. He turned off the track, and clambered up on to a peak of rock, thinking he could possibly see better from it.

For a few minutes he stood there, straining his eyes into the darkness, but no fires were visible, only the shadowy shapes of mountains on three sides, and on the fourth a black abyss, falling sheer from his feet. Suddenly he started, a thrill of excitement running through him, for far down below him a faint spark of light was visible; it flickered, disappeared, and then shone out once more.

In a flash, Hector's imagination had rent the veil of darkness. The light stood revealed as a camp-fire, its disappearance caused by the figures of passing Dutchmen, and a faint far-away sound from the depths the neighing of a horse. It—it was—it could only be—Van der Tann's bivouac. Quivering, he stood staring down, but all was black once more; the glimmer had gone, and the sound, whatever it was, had ceased.

Visionary as the glimpse of the light had been, it was enough for Hector. He had asked for a lever to move Bradford, and here was the handle thrust out for him to seize. He then and there determined to work it. After all, he was the sole witness, and what he said no one could dispute. It would force his Chief on, that was all that mattered; and if, afterwards, he should be proved wrong, and no commando was to be found, well, what of it? Bradford would possibly say hard things, might even dismiss him from his staff in disgrace, but that could not hurt him much.

He was obscure enough now, and were his Chief allowed to carry out his present intention of returning, a failure self-confessed, the cloud that, in the future, would assuredly overhang Bradford's name, would also serve to blot out altogether that of the failure's personal staff officer. No, this was his chance, the last he would have, and take it he would. His eyes shone, his jaw set, and, clambering down from the rock, he regained the sheep-track, and set off at a run for the bivouac.

* * * * *

"Where the dickens has the fellow got to, d'you think, Godwin?" said Bradford, laying down the battered-looking novel he was reading by the light of a camp-lantern.

Dinner was long since over in the Headquarter Mess, and the two were sitting there alone, the rest of the party having retired to bed.

"Goodness knows, sir," answered the other, a long-nosed individual with a high forehead, who was generally supposed to be the ugliest man in South Africa: "he's nowhere in camp, for I've sent all round to see. Must have got through the sentries and been captured, or shot, or something. That jacket of his would be rather a prize for a Dutch lady, make her a nice combing-jacket."

"I particularly ordered him to keep within the boundaries," said Bradford irritably. "Damn the fellow, he's been more trouble to me than the whole of the rest of the column. But never mind about him now; about those orders, you understand, that we remain here to-morrow to rest, and the next day start back?"

"You think it's no further use, sir?"

"None, I—— Hullo, who's this? Why it's—where the dickens have you been, Graeme? We've been hunting all over the bivouac for you, disobeying my orders again, I suppose, and——"

"I've found Van der Tann, Colonel," panted Graeme.

"What!"

"He's in a valley about seven miles away; his whole commando's there, I saw it."

"North, south, east, or west?" asked Godwin, his green eyes fixed on Hector's face.

"Oh, over there," pointing into the darkness.

"That's west," said the Chief of the Staff, "in which case we passed within a few miles of him to-day. Sure you saw him, Graeme?"

"Positive. I was quite close, crept down the mountain-side—almost a precipice it was, too—and got within a hundred yards of them; there were about five hundred, I should say."

"That coat of yours make you invisible, Graeme?" resumed Godwin, glancing at Bradford. "You must have gone through their sentries as you did ours. Van der Tann's commando, sir," to Bradford, "is, as you know, a thousand strong, at least."

"Major Godwin, do you mean that I'm a liar?"

"Oh, be quiet, Graeme," said Bradford wearily. "remember to whom you're talking. Do you mean seriously to tell me you have seen Van der Tann's commando?"

"I do."

"You're quite sure you weren't deceived by the darkness, didn't mistake cattle for horses, for instance? It's a thing anybody might do, you know."

"I'm quite sure, sir."

Bradford stared hard at him for a moment, and then looked towards his Chief of the Staff.

"What do you make of it, Godwin?" he said.

For a few seconds the long-nosed man made no answer; his green eyes were fixed upon Hector.

"I think, sir," he said after a pause, and a rather curious quaver was in his voice, "I think it might be worth trying."

Another pause followed, and Bradford rose, and taking a map from his haversack spread it on the table.

"Now, Graeme," he said, "show us as nearly as you can where this fellow lies."

"There," said Graeme, putting his finger on the map.

"Could you guide a column to the place, do you think?"

"Yes, blindfold."

Another pause, then Bradford spoke, with restored confidence in his voice—here was something tangible to fight, not an atmosphere—"Send to commanding officers at once, please, Major Godwin," he said, "and tell them to come here."

Godwin left, returning a few minutes afterwards.

"We shall want three columns," continued Bradford, "one here, one there, and another where Graeme was standing. You'll take one, Godwin, I another, and—and Carthew, I suppose, the third."

"For heaven's sake not him, sir," put in Graeme quickly.

"Kindly hold your tongue, sir, and don't interfere," answered Bradford, his assurance growing.

"But he won't get there, sir; it's a beast of a road, and he'll turn back for certain. It's courting failure to send him. Let me have the third column, sir, I found the man."

"You, a Captain, utterly impossible," Bradford was beginning, when Hector received quite unlooked-for support.

"With all respect, sir," said Godwin, "I think, if it could be managed, Graeme's wish should be indulged. As he says, sir, he found the man, and——" but here once more the odd quaver sounded in the speaker's voice; he paused, and then continued, "Apart from everything else, he alone knows the track."

"But how the dickens can I? He'd be junior to the leader."

"I think I could arrange that, sir. Keep Colonel Carthew with you, and give Graeme the Colonial troops. There are less than a hundred of them, quite enough for the third column, if what he says is right about the ground. He said, didn't you, Graeme?" turning to the latter, "that you were standing on the edge of a precipice, so they're hardly likely to break that way. Let him have Rufford's lot, sir; he's only a Captain too, and won't mind, I know."

"He's a Major by now, though his name is not in the 'Gazette' yet; besides, even as a Captain, he's senior to Graeme."

Godwin, however, stuck to his point.

"Send him a note, sir, telling him to act under Major Graeme's orders to-night. You can rectify the mistake to-morrow."

"Oh, damn it, Godwin, what for?"

"Because," burst in Hector, "Major Godwin knows that I can carry this thing through. I'll have my lot in position, sir, at any hour you like, if I have to carry them there. I don't think you know me, sir," he added quietly, and Godwin, watching his face, suddenly realised that this statement was possibly correct.

Between the two, Colonel Bradford gave way.

"Very well," he said slowly, "I'll write the order, though I don't like doing it. You give it, Godwin, or, better still, as he might ask questions, you take it yourself, Graeme, to Rufford. If you like to lie about it you can, I won't, nor shall my staff officer."

"Here's the order," writing it out as he spoke and handing it to Hector. "Now be off and make your arrangements. You must be in position overlooking that valley before dawn. Understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered Graeme, and hurried away through the darkness to where the Colonial troops were lying. Here he found Rufford, and to him handed the order.

"What's the game now?" said the latter, opening the envelope and reading its contents. "Oh, command my beggars, is it? All right, you're welcome to, if you can, though it's pretty hard cases you'll find 'em. Sit down, and tell us about it. Have a fill," handing him his pouch; "got no whiskey to offer you, only baccy, and that mostly dust."

"Call up your officers at once, please, Captain Rufford, and rout out the men."

"Oho! coming the old soldier, are you? Can't be done, old chap; you'll hear something if you try it. They're all dossed down and asleep by now."

"Rout 'em out, I say. Oh, damn it, man, don't sit gaping there, here, give me that lantern, now, where are they? The officers first, please," and, followed by the grinning Rufford, Hector hurried away to where a row of blanket-covered figures were lying close by, and thereupon proceeded to rouse the slumberers, with an energy and flow of words, which speedily changed their feelings of wrath at the awakening into respect and desire to be up and doing. This achieved, he flew down the men's line, cursing, exhorting, joking as he went, till all were astir and busy with bridle and saddle. Then, leaving them to their work, he hurried away to Headquarters, where his own horse was now waiting. This he mounted, galloped back, and, quickly marshalling his small force, was away, at their head, on his mission, a good half-hour before the other two columns had begun to turn out.

Through the black night he drove them on; now dismounting to lead up some steep boulder-strewn hillock, now plunging down into the depths at a pace which made even the careless Colonials hold their breath.

"The devil's in the fellow," muttered Rufford, from his post in rear, whither he had been despatched to whip up stragglers. "Slack, casual beggar I always thought him, and here he is hustling my crowd along as I'd never dare, well as I know 'em. Damme. They seem to like it too, rum thing. Wonder what he's after? Choked me off to rights when I asked him, thought for a moment he meant braining me with that old knobkerrie of his. Well, I don't care, let him run his own show; he seem to know all about it. Now then, close up, will you, what the hell are you hanging back for? Oh, 'halt,' is it? What's that? Pass it on, confound you—oh, 'officers.'" And thereupon Rufford hurried up to the front, where he found Graeme surrounded by the rest of the officers.

"Keep back from me, will you," he was saying, "now then, listen," whereupon, in quick sharp sentences, clear as daylight, though couched in somewhat unmilitary phraseology, Hector proceeded to give out his orders. "Now, be off," he concluded, and the group broke up and hurried away.

The tramp of feet followed soon after, and then, in single file, up came the men, rifle at the trail; two columns of them, one on each side of the track. Arrived at where Hector was standing, the leading files of each column wheeled off to the right and left respectively, followed by those in rear, till all were gone, swallowed up in the darkness. Now and again the clatter of loose stones was heard, a stifled oath in answer, and then these sounds, too, ceased, and all was still and silent as before.

For a few minutes Hector stood, his heart swelling with exultation at the good work accomplished. In less than two hours he had brought his force eight miles through the heart of the mountains—and this on a pitch-dark night—exactly to the spot desired.

They were not men of his own regiment either, but Colonials, who were notoriously independent and difficult to manage, and yet without the slightest difficulty he had managed them. From the time when, in face of their own commander's warnings, he had roused them from their beds, there had not only been no murmuring, but, on the contrary, a willing obedience and confidence in his leadership. And to-morrow, or rather to-day, when the fighting began...

Suddenly realisation came to Hector, and from the heights he fell headlong to the depths, the certainty of disappointment upon him. Fool that he was to have forgotten; fighting, there would be no fighting; there was, there could be, no one in that valley below. No, the darkness would lift, the emptiness be revealed, and all his labour would be gone or nothing—worse still, unrecognised.

Hector did not fear the consequences to himself once the fraud was discovered, for that was the gamble, and if he lost, he was prepared to pay, but to know himself a leader of men, and for that knowledge to go unshared by all save him, that to Graeme was bitterer than death. A dreary laugh broke from his lips as the realisation of the giant hoax he had played upon all, himself included, came home to him. He pictured Bradford and the long-nosed Godwin struggling over the mountains; their cautious injunctions for silence in the ranks, the eager anticipation of the officers as they posted their men, and impressed upon them the necessity of straight-shooting. God! how absurd it all was, how damnably absurd.

Then, as hope never dies in human hearts, a thrill of excitement ran through him, as he became aware that the solid blackness was loosening and the hour of revelation close at hand. With heart wildly beating, he watched the shapeless masses around him take form and become the tops of mountains, blurred at first, and then sharply defined against a sky fading from violet to green. And suddenly it was light, and a still grey world stood revealed.

Straining his eyes downwards, he lay till the last patch of shadow clothing the valley below had melted away, when, with a sudden cry of exultation, Graeme flung his helmet into the air, and rolled over and over on the grass, laughing hysterically at what he had seen. In the centre of the valley, or, rather, horseshoe-shaped indentation in the mountains, stood a rough farmhouse, with a cluster of large cattle kraals close by, and around the house and filling the kraals were dark masses of horses. It was Van der Tann's commando beyond a doubt.

No sooner had one hope been realised, and anxiety relieved, than another equally insistent took its place—the fear of the escape of the quarry lying so unsuspectingly below. True, the main entrance, that on the side farthest away from him, and leading into the open veldt beyond, would be certainly held and barred by now; nor was flight possible up the mountains on either side, for these rose sheer from the valley's level. No, it was not there that the danger lay, but at his end; for Graeme had made a mistake, and a bad one, the previous night. He was not standing at the edge of a precipice, as he had imagined, but on a neck or depression between two hilltops, whence the ground sloped gently to the farmhouse, forming a natural causeway at least two hundred yards across, and easily accessible to Boer ponies and horsemen, who, finding other exit barred, would assuredly turn about and make straight for where he stood. And to stop them, to block that two hundred yards, he had but seventy-five men all told—a weak obstacle, truly, to the rush of desperate fugitives.

Thinking hard, he lay there, but no solution of the problem came, and then through the still morning air a shot rang out from the far end of the valley, and at the sound the dark figures below awoke to instant life. From the ground they sprang up, out of farmhouse and kraal they poured, swarming in and among the crowd of horses some few fevered minutes, and then, mounting, streamed off at a gallop, heading for the entrance to the open veldt.

Immediately the roar of musketry arose in greeting, and from the rocks on either side a sleet of lead beat in their faces, but for a moment they held on, till, recognising the impossible, they rushed headlong back the way they had come, straight to where Graeme, with his seventy-five men, was lying.

"Bang!" went a rifle close beside him, and at the sound seventy-four others also began to speak, disjointedly; and then were suddenly silent, for their leader was up and running down the line, shouting for the fire to cease and the men to rise and fix bayonets.

"The fellow's mad," muttered Rufford, "never mind, I'll follow you, old chap, and, God! see, the men, after him like hounds," and Rufford sprang up and ran, wildly shouting, after Hector, who was bounding over the stones, swinging his knobkerrie as he went.

Onward rushed the opposing forces, the one a galloping mass of horsemen a thousand strong, the other a weak ragged line of khaki and steel. And well ahead of the advancing commando a man on a white horse led the way, a big, bearded man, white-faced and shifty-eyed; and on those shifty eyes Hector's own were fixed unwaveringly, his pace increasing as the distance between them lessened. Either he or the Dutchman must give in a moment, he knew, and the giving of the one meant the giving of his followers. They were nothing: it was between the leaders the issue lay.

Not twenty-five yards divided them, and still the big man came thundering on, his followers and Hector's checking themselves involuntarily to watch—and then suddenly the end came. The white horse, obeying his rider's mind, and not the merciless lash, swerved, reared and then began to rein back. Up went the big man's hands, "I surrender," he said, his shifty eyes roving from side to side. "I surr——" And then with a choked scream he fell forward, his face a red, featureless mask from the smash of the knobkerrie; a second time the club rose and fell, a dull crushing sound was heard, and Cornelius Van der Tann rolled sideways from his horse and fell on the ground dead.

"On, men, on," shouted Hector, "now's the time to drive it home," and he rushed on, waving the bloody knobkerrie as he went, "Ah!" and a shout of exultation burst from his lips, for again the horsemen had turned, and were galloping back to the farmhouse and kraals, where they lay for a while undisturbed.

Only for a time, for, on the mountain overlooking them, figures soon began to appear, cautiously picking their way among the rocks. A burst of firing from the buildings below greeted them, whereupon, crouching low, they came forward at a run, dodging from stone to stone, and then suddenly sank to earth and were gone. A moment's pause followed, and then came the sharp sound of shots directed straight down into the crowded kraals. It swelled to a roar, was answered by a burst of screams, and then up went the white flag. Bugles rang the "Cease fire," and silence once more.

From the far end of the valley a knot of horsemen came galloping, a red triangular flag waving in their midst. At the sight the mountain slopes around awoke to life, and brown figures started up from the ground, their white faces glaring in the morning sunlight. A ripple of movement went through their ranks, helmets flew off, and were raised aloft on rifle-barrels; a murmur arose, which swelled and grew until it merged into a roar of triumphant cheering.

* * * * *

"I have sent for you, gentlemen," said Colonel Bradford, addressing the assembled officers some two hours later, "to thank you all for the loyal support and assistance you have given me this morning. There is one thing, however, I should like to say, there is one great lesson I hope all of you have learnt in the campaign, which has just been so successfully brought to a conclusion, and that, gentlemen, is the necessity of never yielding to despondency. I am aware—I must say it, though I regret to—that amongst both officers and men there has been of late a certain tone of discouragement. That, gentlemen, was wrong and unsoldierlike, where, I ask you, should we be now had I too showed those feelings? Back home, gentlemen, back home, in disgraceful retreat.

"No, gentlemen, a soldier's motto must always be Nil desperandum, for, as you know, 'the blackest hour is always that preceding the dawn.'" He paused, puffing out his chest. "That is all, I think," he added, "except to ask you to convey my thanks to your respective commands, though, of course, I shall publish an order on the subject. And now, Godwin," turning to that officer, "for breakfast. Graeme, where the deuce has that fellow got to? What, breakfast not here? Oh, damn it, man. Ah, I forgot though, you were guiding Rufford's column, and devilish well you did it too. By the way, that was a nasty rush you stopped, killed Van der Tann too, I hear, how did you do it? I couldn't see clearly from where I was."

"Went for them with the bayonet, sir; didn't wait for them to come to us, but attacked. They couldn't stick it, and went."

Bradford whistled, his face grown suddenly disapproving.

"Gad, but that was a risky thing to do, Graeme, why, you had but a hundred men."

"Seventy-five, sir, to be exact."

"And you charged them with that. You're a very lucky officer, Graeme, that's all I can say. Still, it turned out all right, though I'm hanged if I can understand how. And now for breakfast, we'll draw the Rutlands, I think, Godwin," and Bradford, humming a tune, walked gaily away.

"And that's just one of those things you never will understand," muttered Hector, looking after him. "They don't teach that at the Staff College. Oh, Godwin, I didn't see you. Do you want me?"

"I do, rather," answered the long-nosed man, and then was silent, staring at Hector until he grew restive.

"What is it?" he asked sullenly.

"I should like to say, Graeme," replied Godwin, still staring, "that I consider you one of the pluckiest officers I've ever met."

"You—you mean that charge, sir?" said Hector, his face lighting up.

"I don't mean anything of the kind," was the unexpected answer. "I am alluding to the information you brought in last night, and on which we—providentially acted."

"I don't understand you, sir."

"Oh yes, you do, and so did I all the time, and that's what I mean when I say you're the pluckiest man I've ever met. And on that pluck I congratulate you, Graeme, only, if I were you, I shouldn't try it again, it mightn't come off a second time, you see. About that charge of yours, though, that's a different matter, and, speaking unofficially, of course, I say do that again; by that I mean attack whenever and wherever you can." He stopped, looked at Graeme, and burst out laughing. Then suddenly holding out his hand, wrung Hector's in its clammy grasp, and hurried away, leaving the other staring after him.

CHAPTER XI

Laden with trophies, bright-faced and triumphant, the column started on its way back to civilisation, and in ten days' time, to the strains of the local band, sent forward to meet it, was marching proudly through the poplar-lined street of Gethsemane. This town is inhabited mostly by Colonial Dutch, whose loyalty or the reverse rose or fell according as the fortunes of war inclined to one or the other contending party.

The death of Van der Tann and capture of his commando having brought about a fall in Dutch stock, they were now loyal British subjects, and consequently from every hotel, private dwelling-place, and shop the gay bunting streamed. Functionaries, in civic robes, came forward to greet their preservers with hands outstretched in welcome, as they bade them enter and feast themselves on the good things made ready in their honour.

Nor were the prisoners forgotten, a forbidding wire-enclosed zeriba having been prepared in their honour, and here, the whole town turning out to watch the operation, they were speedily deposited, and left till such time as the authorities saw fit to arrange for their removal to Cape Town.

A time of relaxation ensued, the officers revelling in late hours, clean shirts, and the social delights of tennis, croquet party, and dance; the men in unlimited beer, tobacco, and well-nigh nightly "sing-songs."

Colonel Bradford made speeches, roared lion-like at social entertainments, and spoke of the British flag, and the well-known loyalty of Gethsemane inhabitants, sentiments greeted with loud and unanimous applause by his hearers.

On all faces were smiles, in all hearts joy, save in the case of Hector Graeme, who was, as usual, in antagonism with his fellows. "Confound it, man," said Bradford to him one morning, Hector having been more than usually unresponsive to his Chief's good-humour, "what an ungracious fellow you are, one would think, by Gad, you were sorry instead of glad at our recent success, why, last night at dinner you were infernally rude to the Mayor. I tell you I don't like it, Graeme, and, what's more, I won't have it," and Bradford stalked away in dudgeon, another black mark registered in his mind against his unsatisfactory A.D.C.

Had it not been for Major Godwin, events would long before this have come to a head between the two, for, since the capture of the commando, Hector had once more relapsed into his former irritating ways of slackness and inattention; and had, moreover, recently added another fault to the list, that of almost continual absence, passing his days, to the neglect of his Chief, in long solitary rides about the surrounding country.

This in itself was not distasteful to the Colonel, rather was it a relief, for his former feelings of annoyance at Hector's ignorance and casualness had of late become replaced by another—that of dislike, even hatred, for his subordinate. He felt that peculiarly bitter hatred we feel for those to whom, in a moment of expansion, we have revealed some jealously-hidden weakness, and who have responded to the revelation by a counter-display of strength, comforting possibly at the time, but becoming an intolerable and rankling memory once that hour is passed and security attained. To all save Hector—and perhaps one other—Bradford was a hero, one who had accomplished the hitherto impossible, and daily the longing grew, not so much to get rid of this one witness of his hour of humiliation—for that, for reasons of his own, he shrank from doing—as to crush him, stamp on him, and load him with obloquy. This he did to the full extent of his power, depriving Graeme of the smallest show of independence, ruthlessly snubbing him, and countermanding even such orders as in his position he was entitled to give, fearful lest they should be construed by those outside into his management by a subordinate, and that this suspicion would finally culminate in the belief that it was not he, but Hector, who had in reality brought about the recent capture.

If Bradford, on his part, cherished these feelings towards his aide, Hector was even more bitter against his Chief, the main reason for this being the Colonel's refusal to acknowledge or even allude to the services rendered to him by Hector on that momentous occasion. "Damn it," he muttered, watching the hero's gracious acceptation of congratulations on one occasion, "it was I, not you, who caught the beggar; but for me, you would have slunk back with your tail between your legs, and instead of addresses and flags, it's hooting would have met you from this same loyal town of Gethsemane. Lord," yawning and turning away, "how infernal slow that honours' list is in appearing, six weeks, at least, since the names went in. I wonder what they'll do for me? Brevet, I suppose, and probably a D.S.O. as well; can't very well do less, they might give me a column too, and then, Bradford, you ass, you can run your own show, and we'll see what sort of success you'll have. Gad, what a show-up it will be for the impostor, doing all right when I'm there, but coming to grief once I'm gone," and Hector, comforted at the thought, called for his horse and rode away into the mountains.

At last the long looked-for honours' list arrived, in which Bradford's name appeared as a Major-General and C.B., and Godwin's as Lieut.-Colonel and C.M.G. Many others were rewarded with Brevets and D.S.O.'s—amongst the latter being Rufford, of the Veldt Rifles. Of Hector Graeme, however, there was no mention, peruse and reperuse the list as he might; and, incredulity at last giving way to certainty, his face grew suddenly livid, and a look came into his eyes, which caused Godwin, who, with Bradford, was in the room, to spring up, and, seizing Hector by the arm, lead him outside, before the words trembling on his lips were uttered. "I know, I know," he said hastily, "but don't be a fool, Graeme; there's time enough yet. Go for a ride; curse the veldt if you like, but not the..." Hector, obeying him, went, and riding fiercely away into the mountain flung himself down on the ground, where he lay, a prey to one of those secret wild fits of passion, the first he had given way to for four years—in his room at Fort Hussein.

Limp and white-faced, he returned to his quarters, to find Godwin awaiting him; and a long conversation followed, the first of many, for the long-nosed man had taken a liking to Graeme, one of those occasionally awakened—which are almost invariably strong and lasting—by the universally unpopular. This liking, however, was in no way returned by its object, who considered the other a bore, the more so as he was continually harping upon one subject, that of the necessity of military reading to a soldier, a pursuit for which Hector had no liking, especially for the class of literature recommended by Godwin.

"Two things are necessary to make a leader," his self-appointed counsellor would urge, his pale-green eyes lighting up with enthusiasm as he spoke, "one the natural qualities of character, which cannot be acquired; the other, knowledge of one's profession, which can, by books. The qualities—I may be wrong, of course—I think you have; you're certainly aggressive, the great thing; but the knowledge you have not; indeed, you're one of the most ignorant officers it has ever been my fortune to meet. And you may be the strongest man in the world, Graeme," he concluded, "but, if you can't box, the fellow, with half your strength, who can will knock you out in the first round."

"Not necessarily," was the answer, "the cleverest professors with the gloves are often useless in the ring. Their hearts are wrong, they don't mean smashing their men, and never lead, only wait to be knocked out. And it's just the same, I imagine, in war. Take this last show, for instance; you know as well as I do, Godwin, that——"

"That but for the—information you brought in that night," interrupted the latter hastily, "Van der Tann would probably still be at large. That, of course, is a matter, Graeme, I must decline to discuss, and if you take my earnest advice you'll forget the episode as quickly as you can. Believe me, you'll ruin your career if you don't. But what you say, about the finest boxer being useless in the ring, proves nothing beyond the fact that character is the most essential of the two things I spoke of. Make the two boxers equal, or, as that's impossible, make them nearly equal in that respect, and the victory goes to the one with most science. Take Blücher, for instance, as strong a character as there has ever been, but, because he was ignorant, he lost army after army till Gneisenau took him in hand, and, acting as his brain, told him what to do. He, a general, Graeme, had to rely on another man's knowledge; he admitted it himself when he said, 'Ah, Gneisenau, what a general I should have been had I only read!'"

"I'd read fast enough, Godwin," said Graeme, "if I'd got any incentive to do so. It's recognition I want; give me a start, I'll do the rest."

"Bah!" replied the other, "some men go without recognition all their lives, and still struggle on. And it may come yet, who knows? Be prepared for it when it does, that's my point; don't handicap yourself with ignorance. Now, I've got nothing to do for an hour, and if you like I'll——"

"Oh, thank you very much, Godwin; it's awfully good of you, but I'm afraid I can't stay now. There's my pony waiting outside, another time I shall be delighted," and here the conversation, as such conversations invariably did, ended in nothing.

Then a fresh disaster befell Hector, his one friend being called home to take up an appointment at the War Office, and with his departure the rapid decline of Graeme's fortunes began. With no mediator to intervene between them, Bradford's treatment of his A.D.C. became daily harsher, till at length his animosity began to be remarked on, and to give rise to the very comment he was so morbidly anxious to avoid; the juniors wondered how Hector could put up with his Chief's bullying; the seniors, why the General persisted in retaining on his staff an officer who, by his own showing, was so altogether incompetent and objectionable.

Bradford, accordingly, found himself in a quandary, for were he to dismiss Hector now, he might find his way to the staff of some other column leader, who—jealous as were most at that time of their kind—would be only too ready to listen to a tale belittling Bradford's recent achievements; while, on the other hand, did he keep Hector where he was, the suspicion would certainly arise that he had his reasons for doing so, those reasons being that his A.D.C. knew too much to be allowed to leave.

His whole frame of mind was an instance of the curious childishness that saps the intelligence of men, often deemed the strongest, who, while listening to the admiration expressed by the public for some edifice constructed by their hands, are all the time conscious of a flaw in its foundations, which at any minute may cause the building, and with it its architect's reputation, to crumble before their eyes. None of the spectators know of the flaw—probably never will know—but the architect does, and the alarming, though quite natural, cracking of the new edifice is to his mind the voice of the flaw, shouting its existence to all present. He hears it, they must too; and the slightest word—a careless suggestion uttered without reason or meaning—tells him that all is discovered, and he will be proclaimed an impostor.

Thus it was with Bradford. The most casual observation anent Hector and his doings on the fateful night would throw him into a fever of anxiety, the culminating point being reached on the occasion of a visit from the Commander-in-Chief to Gethsemane, when, in the course of conversation, he remarked that his host's A.D.C. certainly cultivated a somewhat remarkable style of dress, but to which, from what he had heard, other staff officers, notably Gneisenau, were similarly addicted. It was an unfortunate remark, and on hearing it Bradford grew hot with agitation. Gneisenau? He, then, was Blücher, and the Commander-in-Chief knew everything. Someone must have talked; someone in the column—probably Graeme himself. At the last thought a fury of hatred seized him, and, his distinguished guest having departed, he summoned Hector to his room, where he accused him point-blank of gossiping about him, his Chief. Graeme denied it. Bradford called him a liar, upon which Hector's pent-up rage broke loose, and he told Bradford what he thought of him.

With horrid accuracy he dissected his General's mind before his eyes, holding up the pieces for him to see, and concluded with a direct accusation of jealousy of one to whom alone he owed his recent honours and reputation.

"Yes," he said finally, "I lied that night, I own it, I did it to save you, and it did. It was the only way to get you on; you were all for going back, but I made up my mind you should not. Now you have it." He stopped, panting.

"Your ... quarters ... sir ... consider yourself..."

"Only too glad, and I'll tell the court-martial the whole story," answered Hector, going.

"Come back."

"Ah!"

"I said, 'consider yourself dismissed.' Don't come near me again, d'ye hear?"

"Where am I to go?"

"I'll arrange that, go." Hector went, leaving Bradford white and shaken, as he saw in his mind's eye his late A.D.C. hurrying from Mess to Mess, and stripping, as he went, all his new-born reputation from him. Like most mental visions, it was altogether baseless, for, whatever other faults Hector possessed, pettiness was not among the number, and despite his threat to reveal all at the court-martial, he would, nevertheless, had such taken place, kept scornfully silent on the subject.

Bradford, however, had little or no understanding of human nature or character, and consequently sat where he was for hours, fearing to go out lest he should read in men's faces the knowledge of his own undoing. At last, wearily rising, he moved across to the writing-table, and, sitting down, proceeded to indite a letter to Headquarters, in which he stated that, for purely personal reasons, he was desirous of changing his A.D.C., and asked that his present one might be transferred to a post elsewhere.

He suggested the Transport, an unpleasant smile on his face as he wrote, and having finished the letter sealed it, and summoned the orderly, whose face he watched narrowly as he handed him the document. With sinking heart, he noted a cloud on the man's face, the consequence, it may be observed, of a misunderstanding with Martha, the Mayor's parlour-maid.

The result of the letter was Hector's appointment as transport officer to a small column working in the Transvaal, and to that place he departed, after a short leave-taking with his late Chief, who wished him good luck in his new venture, and regretted that the arrival of a nephew from England necessitated Hector's removal. He also regretted any differences they might have had, and—and he hoped that—that ...

"I am not a gossip," answered Graeme coldly, "though you were good enough to accuse me of it once, nor am I small," and, ignoring the outstretched hand, he turned his back on his well-wisher.

Mounting the Cape cart, he drove off, and a few hours afterwards was in the train jolting on his way north. In the novel rôle of transport officer, however, he proved himself even more unsatisfactory than in that of A.D.C.; indeed, thanks to him, the column he served well-nigh starved, and this fact, in the form of a peculiarly damaging report from its leader, having been brought to the notice of the authorities, Hector was relieved of his duties, and relegated to a stool in a commissariat office.

With the decline of his fortunes, his ineptitude seemed to increase. A further and even more damaging report having been received, Hector again started on his travels, and this time for the last and lowest stage of all—a blockhouse on the lines of communication. The months passed, the War slowly dragged to its close, but no further notice from authority did Graeme receive; and with the flitting of the days his sense of grievance and injustice increased, till his whole mind was consumed with bitterness and hatred of his kind.

At times he even meditated, should the chance occur, the throwing in of his lot with the enemy, and taking what revenge he could on his persecutors; but, fortunately for him, the chance did not occur—no enemy showing themselves within a hundred miles of his dreary abode. Day after day he sat staring moodily out on the bare brown hills and monotonous stretch of scrub-clad veldt, praying for the enemy to appear; but in vain, and at last this hope died. Another scheme took its place in his mind, that of leaving the army, once the War was over, and joining that of some other nation, his eventual aim being the leading of that army against his own country-men.