Front matter (continued 4)

It would be a delight, indeed, he thought, to show to those who now ignored him what manner of man it was they had dared so to treat. How he would crush them, gloat over them, remind them of the despised transport officer and commissariat clerk; and perhaps, if fortune were kind, Bradford might be in command against him, Bradford brought in a prisoner before him. He wouldn't hurt the creature, oh no, he would be rather nice to him, and let him go, asking as a favour that he should continue to lead the opposing forces, so as to make his task the easier.

How mad they would all be, traitor they would call him, and so he would be, and glory in it and their hatred. Even Lucy would turn from him; no, she wouldn't, though. Lucy would be heartbroken, but never turn; and after all she would have had her wish, for she wanted him to retire. She was as bitter as he about the injustice he had received. He took from his pocket her last letter, and read it again, and as he did so his face assumed the puzzled expression it always wore on the perusal of her letters. "Again no mention of the child," he muttered; "nothing but the postscript, 'Ruby, poor mite, is well enough.' Well, it's mail-day to-day, perhaps she will say more. There is the mail too," watching a small cloud of dust rapidly approaching along the sandy track. "Here, you," to the orderly, who had now reached the blockhouse, and was handing a bundle of papers and letters to the Sergeant, "bring mine out here. Hum! three; one I don't know, one from Lucy, and a London paper, addressed to me in her handwriting. I wonder what for, home news does not interest me at all."

Faintly curious, he stripped off the wrapper, and, unfolding the newspaper, ran his eye over the pages, till at length he found the marked paragraph he expected. For a moment he stood staring; then his face grew suddenly scarlet, and a shout of jubilation burst forth from his lips. Sergeant Newcome and the men, running out to ascertain the cause, beheld their erstwhile apathetic officer throw his helmet into the air, rush at it as it reached the ground, and dance upon the headpiece till it lay a mangled mass of khaki and cardboard. "Orderly," he shouted to the retreating figure of the postman, "come here, take this fiver, and order up beer from the commissariat, gallons of it; we'll make a night of it, Newcome, my friend, or rather you and the men shall, while I do sentry go."

"Sir?" said the astonished Sergeant, while the men stared vacantly at the transformed figure before them.

"Read that," shouted Hector, handing him the paper; "not there, you fool, oh, give it to me then, and listen." He read:

"'To be Brevet Lieut. Colonel.

"'Hector Archibald Graeme, Major'"—Hector's majority was but two months old—"'1st Lancers.'"

"A bloody Colonel, d'ye hear that, Newcome? Now go. I'm off to that kopje, and if you come near me I'll brain you!"

Hector, the paper in his hand, hurried away, and, reaching the kopje, flung himself down, his heart singing and pulses leaping with exultation. Gone, dispelled in one brief moment were the rancour and bitterness of the last twelve months; and in their place, though but ephemeral, was a feeling of kindliness towards those very military authorities, schemes for whose downfall had so recently been occupying his mind. They had made amends, tardy, it was true, but nevertheless they had made them; they had recognised his merit at last, and that in no unsubstantial way.

Colonel Graeme—he a Colonel, snap his fingers now he could and would at all, Peter Carson amongst the number, Peter, who had always been so damned superior over his seniority to him, and yes, by the Lord, he would be senior to Royle, now a fortnight old Colonel. No, he wouldn't though; Royle's promotion had been antedated, which brought him on top by a few months. "Swindle, that antedating is," he muttered, a cloud coming over the shining sky of his happiness; "takes half the pleasure away. They might have given me a D.S.O. too while they were about it; three ribbons is a beggarly show for a Colonel, must have five or six at least. I ought to have five too, if I'd had my rights: the V.C. for that Mortlock business; the Jubilee, which would have gone with it; the frontier and the two they are certain to give over this. Never mind, I'll soon add to my three. I'll volunteer for every blessed show; they won't refuse me; they daren't now I'm known.

"Lucy ought to be pleased too; it's a lift for her as well, and, oho, won't her old uncle, the General, be furious? Thought me a waster, did he? Well, it will show her that what I always said, and she refused to believe, was right, that he's a prejudiced old fool. Hang it, I think I'm more pleased at scoring off him than anything else. By the way, my other letters, I'd forgotten them, let's see what Lucy says first.

"Hum, hum, 'So glad, so very pleased. I always knew it would come in time, and how much nicer to retire as a Colonel.' What, I retire, and settle down like a cabbage in a field, now that I've just begun? No, Lucy, not for the wide world; that idea is dead; you had your chance, and wouldn't take it. Funny to think how I might have missed it though; one word from her that night at Chillata, or even the next morning, and I'd have stayed, I wanted to, too, I wished to sink myself in husband and father, though I'm hanged if I can understand it now. Ah, Lucy, there are bigger things in store for me, now. A Colonel, what's a Colonel, after all? But, to go on ...

"'The very loveliest place in Norfolk, an old hall, just what you've always wanted—' yes, but not now, Lucy—'2,000 acres rough shooting, partridges, ducks, and a golf-links close by. Oh, do please make haste to retire and come home.'—Partridges ... ducks ... a golf-links ... Bah!—'Ruby, poor mite, is anxious for your coming...'"

Again the puzzled look came into his eyes. "Why always 'poor'?" he muttered, "it irritates me rather; I've no doubt she's the same as other children, fat and bouncing. 'Daddy' I suppose she'll call me, want me to play bears, tree at Christmas, and all the rest of it. Doesn't appeal to me at all, I'm afraid, though, in my folly, I thought it would at one time. Now for the other letter, hullo," turning it over, and looking at the signature, "it's from Godwin, what on earth can he have to write to me about?" He began to read:

"MY DEAR GRAEME.

"It's come at last you see—congratulations. I, regret to have heard of your recent successive misfortunes, but, as they are entirely your own fault, I confess to feeling no pity for you. If a man not only refuses to learn the rudiments of his profession, but, in addition, takes a curious pleasure in putting up his superiors' backs, he must expect to go to the wall. I hope, however, that eight months in a blockhouse may have been beneficial, and now that you have been so unexpectedly fortunate you will change your ways, and also read. 'If I had only read, Gneisenau, what a general I should have been!' Write these words out and, stick them up on your looking-glass, where, I should say, they run the best chance of being seen.

"Yours, EDWIN GOODWIN.

"On reflection it may occur to you that the tardiness of recognition in your case may not be without its advantages."

Hector sat staring at the postscript and then suddenly a light broke in upon him. "Kept it back, I see," he muttered, "till I was a Major, thus giving me double promotion. Lord, but they must think something of me to do that, I wonder who it was? Godwin, I suppose. He wasn't quite such a fool as the rest; he could see what they couldn't. How the old fellow, though, hammers on about reading. I've done pretty well without it, so far, and yet I don't know—he might be right. Hang it, I've a good mind to give the thing a trial; there's nothing else to do here, and the War may go on for months. I'll send for some books to Cape Town. I'll do it now, by Jove!" And, one of those sudden imperative desires coming over him, he left the kopje, and, hurrying back to the blockhouse, wrote out an order for all the military books he could think of, sending it off by mounted orderly the same afternoon, special messengers being daily despatched to the post-office till the literature ordered arrived.

From that time the transformation of Hector's blockhouse apartment into a library, and himself into a book-worm, proceeded apace; weekly consignments of military works thenceforth arrived, and, the heart having been torn out of them, were thrown aside and looked at no more.

In his youth Graeme had been sickly, and on that account had not been sent to a public, or even a private, school, his mental training having been entrusted to governesses and tutors, whose instructions were on no account to force the lad's inclinations, with the result that he grew up practically uneducated. He had managed to scrape through the necessary army examinations, but this was due rather to a certain "crammer's" uncanny knowledge of his art than to any proficiency on the part of the pupil, and a few months after the undergoing of his ordeal Hector's mind had once more relapsed into its former happy state of ignorance, in which condition it had remained till the present time.

Fortunately for him, the mental ground thus left fallow had never been weakened by the rank growth springing from the assiduous reading of novels, and the soil was ready and hungry for such seeds as he might choose to sow. In a very few months—though yawning at times over their dulness—he had easily mastered the contents of the dry and unimaginative text-books. This done and duty satisfied, he thereupon indulged to the full his own peculiar bent for character study, as exemplified in the biographies of the world's great commanders.

These he read from cover to cover, no longer yawning, but eagerly taking in the smallest details; indeed, it was chiefly on the trivial incidents of childish life—revealing, nevertheless, the true unalterable character of the subject—that Hector would dwell, marking as he went the paragraphs in which these particulars were described.

Now, to read with the object of acquiring information is one thing; but to read in order to discover a resemblance between yourself and the subject of a biography is quite another, and a most dangerous one, especially for those to whose nature the abnormal appeals, the inevitable result being an unconscious desire to make the resemblance complete, even to the smallest and most objectionable details.

This is what Graeme now began to do. Since he had received recognition, and with it the birth of ambition, he had become firmly convinced that he was destined to join the ranks of the great, and the more he read about them the surer and more exultant he grew, for in the story of their lives he recognised a hundred traits of character similar to his own, particularly in their oddities and eccentricities, on which his mind eagerly seized.

There were some among them, it is true, in whom no sign of himself was to be met with, these the eminently sane and methodical characters; but such he passed over as lacking in the true fire of genius, and their biographies, once scanned, were thrown aside and looked at no more. Of the others, however, there was one in whose character he especially delighted, that one being Prince Suvarov, the great Russian.

His power over his soldiers, eccentricity of attire, recklessness of consequences, and, above all, the ingrained determination to attack and never wait on the defensive, all these characteristics he felt himself to possess; and inasmuch as Suvarov not only scorned to conceal, but gloried in, the revelation of mental peculiarity, so now did Hector do the same, giving full rein to that passion for difference from his fellows which hitherto, chiefly from the wish to please Lucy—to whom such was anathema—he had to a certain extent concealed.

The immediate result of this was, as usual, in the army, the bestowal of a nickname, Graeme soon becoming known as "Mad Jack," a designation which stuck to him till the day of his death. This, far from annoying its recipient, delighted him, and fired by the sensation he was causing he went further. One of his habits, that of riding down the line of blockhouses in a state of nature save for a towel, having come to the ears of the General commanding the district, the result was a sharp reproof and request that Colonel Graeme would in future comport himself as an officer and a gentleman.

To this Hector replied in rhyme, which so infuriated its recipient that he reported the matter to Headquarters, and for a time Graeme's career was in serious jeopardy. Providentially, at this crisis the enemy at last thought fit to put in an appearance, their assembly at a farmhouse three miles distant, with the avowed object of capturing Hector, who as a colonel was worth something, being reported to the latter by an English farmer living in the district.

Thereupon, without waiting for the expected onslaught, and in defiance of standing orders, Graeme called up the garrison of every blockhouse under his command. Leaving these empty save of scarecrow dummies, he sallied forth the same night, and surprised and captured the sleeping commando at dawn.

The following day happening to be Palm Sunday, he despatched his prisoners to District Headquarters under an escort decorated with long grass and reeds, his despatch, giving an account of the affair, being couched in the form of a hymn. This the escort were forced to practise for an hour before starting on their mission, their Chief conducting their efforts with his knobkerrie, with which he threatened instant death to any man who sang out of tune or laughed. His labours were in vain, however, for, despite the most stringent orders and threats of dire punishment did they disobey his orders, the escort's courage failed them at the eleventh hour, and the prisoners were handed over in silence by a crimson-faced, grass-decorated subaltern.

For this exploit Hector received nothing except a reproof for impertinent levity, and, the War shortly after coming to an end, he was despatched to Blauboschfontein, to await the arrival of his regiment. This took place some few weeks later. Royle was in command, and over him Graeme soon established a complete ascendency. Carson, the one man who might have proved an obstacle in his path, having retired shortly before, disgusted at the regiment's non-participation in the War. Hector thus succeeded to the position of second-in-command—that is, nominally, for to all intents and purposes he reigned supreme.

He conducted the training of the troops; introduced startling innovations; and, in short, did what he liked, his confidence in himself and contempt for superiors growing daily. A constant and, to his fellows, unaccountable sequence of successes in field-days and manoeuvres followed, Hector's methods when confronted by an adversary being so unusual as to render useless the ordinary stereotyped means of defence, and though generals and other superior persons shook their heads and talked of wild schemes, still these plans somehow always came off, despite their gloomy prophecies.

Graeme's schemes were not quite the wild ones they were supposed to be, but, on the contrary, were formed on a perfectly sound basis, namely, on his knowledge of his opponent's peculiar character, and thus proved the safest. Well he knew the process of the ordinary military mind and its adherence to text-book principles. These and the answering moves they understood, and were consequently never confronted with them, being paralysed at the outset by a cut to which no text-book gave the correct parry.

Give him the wild, hairbrained adversary, however—and on one occasion such a foe was put up against him with a view to his discomfiture, by General Banks, officer commanding the district, and his bitter enemy—and straightway Hector's tactics became of the most ordinary and stereotyped description, the result on the occasion in question being the rout of the harebrained one without his opponent having moved from his original position.

Graeme moreover, by now, knew his text-books as well as and probably better than, his most learned adversaries, and was consequently well aware of the risks he ran, and from which quarter danger was likely to come; and, this being so, half the peril he incurred was gone.

Altogether Graeme prospered, and was happier in Blauboschfontein than he had ever been before; and with happiness came physical well-being and health, things that had been practically unknown to him till now.

He loved the country too, spending hours roaming about the veldt till nightfall, when, with cheeks aglow and eyes alert he would return to his quarters and bury himself in his reading till dinner. A most respectable meal consumed—for him—he would seek his room once more, read again for an hour, and then tumble into bed and sleep dreamlessly till dawn. With reveille he was up, and away to the riding maneges to take his place amongst the young horsemen, a situation for which, to speak truth, Graeme was not qualified, being as a rider deficient in both "hands" and patience.

All this time Lucy's letters were weekly growing more insistent for his return. Did he not want to see her again, she wrote? The house too, Cuddingfold Hall, she had taken, relying on his coming, though only for a year, in case he should not like it. She had, however, the option of a long lease, though goodness knew when another prospective tenant might appear. If he did not, after all, now wish to retire, and from his last letters it seemed he did not, at least he could come home on leave; they would not refuse him that after three years' absence.

Lucy's appeals remained disregarded, and probably would have remained so but for another event that took place about this time, namely, the sudden death of his father. Hector thus becoming owner of a small property in Scotland.

The announcement of the death was accompanied by a letter from his lawyers, requesting his immediate presence at home; and though this also was for a time ignored, Messrs. Quill & Screw became so urgent in their demands—hinting at serious pecuniary loss did he fail to return at once—that Graeme was at length forced to comply, and submitted an application for six months' leave of absence.

This was gladly forwarded by Colonel Royle, who had secret hankerings after the control of his own regiment, and equally gladly approved by General Banks, who jumped at the chance of getting rid of Hector, if only for a time; and a week later, his passage secured, Graeme was comfortably seated in a first-class compartment of the famous train de luxe, on his way to Capetown, where the mail steamer, Dunrobin Castle, 12,000 tons, was already waiting alongside the quay.

CHAPTER XII

Through the shining tropic sea sped the Dunrobin Castle, homeward bound, a speck of scarlet and grey in a waste of still, oily blue. Canvas awnings glared white in the morning sunlight; pitch bubbled in the seams of the holystoned decks; from metal-work and fitting, flashes of light smote blindingly on the eye. Over the towering oval-shaped funnels a faint shimmer hovered; from clanging engine-room rose the reek of oil and steam mingling with the hot air above; wire stays quivered dizzily to the dull throbbing of the screw.

On one side of the ship, where a faint breeze blew, a row of chairs stretched along the deck, their occupants reading, chatting, or lazily looking on at games of deck billiards, quoits, or bull, played by the more energetic of the passengers; on the other, now invaded halfway across by the glare of the slanting sunlight, there were only two figures, the one that of Hector Graeme, the other—the length of the deck away—of a girl, Stara Selbourne.

Both were apparently reading, but neither had turned a page for an hour, their thoughts being of one another. Stara wondered why, since this man was so obviously interested in her, he declined to avail himself of board-ship licence and speak instead of staring. Hector revolved in his mind for the hundredth time suitable words with which to begin, and cursed the curious awkwardness that inevitably assailed him when in her vicinity, impelling him to pass her by without a word when he had approached her with the object of commencing the attack.

This stupidity on his part, moreover, apart from its novelty, was the more galling, as for the first time in ten years he found himself desirous of talking to a woman other than his wife; in fact, even in the short space of two days this desire had begun to take possession of him to the exclusion of all else, even to that of the perusal of a parcel of new books with which he had intended to occupy his whole time when on board.

It is perhaps unnecessary to mention, Hector's attention having been thus aroused, that Stara Selbourne was possessed of personal attractions, these being of that soft, essentially feminine kind before which the strength of men evaporates.

Looking at her now as she lay, lazily disposed among a heap of pink-and-white cushions, the short-lipped, sensuous mouth half open, and soft, dimpled cheek resting on a tiny white hand; noting, moreover, the fineness of cambric blouse and skirt, the sheen of tightly-stretched silken stocking, and the amber combs in the elaborately curled hair, one knew instinctively that this daintiness was not mere outward show, but part of her nature, and that, strip off the outward husk, no incongruities would stand revealed, no monstrosities of wool and flannel, the unseen would be a wonder of snowy and beribboned delicacy. In hunting parlance indeed, Stara, even where no such catastrophe was to be apprehended, was, and always would be, dressed "for a fall."

Nevertheless, despite this general appearance of femininity, signs were to be observed of other characteristics, signs of a somewhat startlingly contradictory nature. The chin, for instance, though soft and white, was most unfemininely firm, almost hard; while the eyes, long in shape and black-lashed though they were, were not of blue, as to be in keeping they ought to have been, but of light grey, clear, steady and rather cold—in no way languishing.

These eyes she now kept fixed on her book, firmly determined to run no risk of meeting even one of the frequent glances directed at her from the other end of the deck; of which glances, as also of Hector's mental restlessness, she was at the same time perfectly aware.

"Let him come and talk if he wants to," she thought impatiently; "ogling is a practice I abominate; it's a servant-maid's trick." And Stara at last turned another page, forcing her attention once more back to the relation of the adventures of one Mademoiselle de Maupin, Hector at the same time returning to the theory of heredity as expounded by Arthur Schopenhauer of pessimistic notoriety.

"Physical qualities from the father's, mental from the mother's side," he reflected, laying the book down again. "Well, that seems true, my mother was clever enough, though a bit cranky. He's a bit out, though, about the other, poor old governor was rather an ugly chap."

He yawned, stretched himself, and once more his eyes wandered to the far end of the deck. "Still there," he murmured. "Wherever I am, there she is too; must do it on purpose; wants me to talk to her, I suppose; doesn't know I'm married; if she did, her interest would very soon die. Bah! what humbug it is, that a man should be debarred from amusement because of a mere conventional tie. No wonder those other fellows, Nelson, Suvarov, and the rest, revolted; they couldn't stand restraint any more than I can.

"Mustn't, you're married, family man and so forth, it's just that makes one want to do things. Damn it, for years I've never looked at a woman except Lucy, and see the result, I've become a fossil; don't even know how to begin. I've been only half alive all this time, and I want to live, and I think somehow that girl would help me. She looks as if she'd love well. I've a good mind to try it, just for the voyage. I'm strong enough, thank God, to pull up when I want to. Hanged if I don't let myself go all I know; no, I'm bothered if I do; she'd only laugh at me if she knew and that I could not stand."

Again he took up his book and began to turn over the pages. "'Ethics.' Don't know what they are, and don't want to either. 'Man's need for metaphysics.' Have none myself. Ah! 'On Woman;' that sounds better. Oho!" reading; "this is capital.

"'Injustice is the fundamental failing of the female character. This arises from the want of reason and reflection, and is assisted by the fact that they, as the weaker sex, are driven by nature to have recourse not to force but to cunning, hence their instinctive treachery and irremediable tendency to lying. For as nature has armed the lion with claws, the bull with horns, and the sepia with ink which blackens water, so has nature armed woman with powers of deception for her protection.'

"I'd like to read that aloud to you," muttered Hector, again glancing up; "shake your conceit a bit, I should say, or ought to."

He went on reading:

"'Only the male intellect befogged through the sexual impulse could call that undersized, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped and short-legged sex fair, for in the sexual impulse resides its whole beauty.'

"Beastly way of putting it," murmured Hector, who possessed the ultra refinement that is usually a characteristic of those in whom the moral sense is deficient, "and it's not true either—she's neither undersized nor short-legged. I'll take a walk past her now and look, to make sure, rather interesting this."

He rose, and moved slowly up the deck towards the reclining figure, who, at his approach, turned another page.

"I really believe he's going to at last," she thought, with a faint feeling of excitement. "No, he's not, he's shied again," as Hector went by looking straight before him. "Oh, this is too absurd, I must help him, I suppose." Whereupon away fluttered Stara's bookmarker, across the deck, a low exclamation of annoyance escaping her as she watched it nearing the ship's side.

Hector, turning at the sound and noting its cause, picked up the errant bookmarker and brought it back, indulging himself, as he did so, with a straight, steady stare into her eyes, and, meeting them, one of the odd fits of giddiness, which of late had been increasing in frequency, came over him; the sweat stood out on his forehead and the girl's figure was hidden for a moment in mist. He reeled, catching at the back of her chair for support; then fingers of steel gripped his arm and he found himself in Stara's chair, she standing looking down upon him, her eyes alert and interested.

"Damn!" said Graeme, when the mists had gone and he realised the situation.

"Certainly 'damn' if you like," was the answer in clear tones, "but don't move, stay where you are; d'you hear me?"

"I certainly won't, why should I?"

"Because I tell you to. I'm a nurse, and know what I'm about."

"You ... a nurse?"

"Yes, but never mind about that. Why do you sit in the sun, if it affects you like this?"

"Because I like it, but I'm hanged if I'll sit here while you're standing. I'll fetch my chair and bring it over."

"No, I'll go," and Stara walked leisurely away, and returned dragging the chair, in which she proceeded to settle herself.

"What a beast of a chair," she said, wriggling; "not nearly so comfy as mine. Oh, there's a book here, what is it? Ah, Schopenhauer," picking it up and opening it, the pages falling apart where Graeme had last been reading, 'On Woman.' "Oh!"

"Don't read the stuff, please, Miss Selbourne; it's rubbish from beginning to end, that chapter."

"Don't be alarmed, Colonel Graeme; I've read all his works, and about this essay, personally I think it very true, though perhaps a little violent. I wonder, though, whether he made it up with her afterwards."

"Her, who?"

"The woman that essay was written at. Pique and disappointment show in every line. He was certainly in love when he wrote it."

"Surely a man like Schopenhauer would be above such weakness."

"Above humanity? I think not, Colonel Graeme."

"You think, then, that every man must—must——"

"I don't think at all about it, I'm sure. That's what he exists for, and woman too, though she pretends not to. I should say I know my Schopenhauer better than you do, Colonel Graeme."

"In that case, if we exist solely as prospective fathers and mothers, and the attraction between the sexes is merely the cry of the unborn child, the stronger the attraction the finer the child. Any two people who feel that attraction should—should——" He stopped, confused, for the light grey eyes were on him, and the look in them brought him to a standstill.

"If we were beasts of the field, no doubt we should be as they are. Rating ourselves, however—perhaps wrongly—as higher, we recognise the necessity of social laws. But tell me, or don't if you like, what was the matter with you just now. I'm professionally interested."

"I don't know, it's a thing that has been growing on me lately; whenever I'm excited it comes on as it did then. It's a nuisance when I don't want it, though useful enough when I do. I can't control it, though, that's the mischief, but I'm boring you."

"No, you're not, go on, tell me what you mean by not controlling it."

"Why, this. Whenever I'm in a difficulty, and don't know what to do—have to fight a battle, for instance, and can't think of a plan—I just shut my eyes and let myself go. For the moment I seem to lose consciousness of my present self and become another, and that other always knows and tells me what to do. Then I sort of wake and do it. D'you think I'm mad, Miss Selbourne?"

"I think," said Stara slowly, looking at him, "you're going the right way to make yourself so. That other self you talk about is—call it the subconscious, if you like; and let that—and you're encouraging it to do so—gain the upper hand over the conscious, and madness results. I should stop it at once, Colonel Graeme; it's deadly dangerous."

"May I ask how you know all this?"

"As I told you, I'm a nurse, or rather going to be one. Oh, don't look so astonished and stare at my clothes. I'm very frivolous and expensive-looking, I know; but once I get to work, away goes all this into portmanteaux, and, with it, the world, the flesh, and the devil."

"I don't think he'll remain long in the portmanteau," said Graeme, looking at her mouth and dancing eyes.

"I don't mean him to; he goes with me when I have my day out, or whatever nurses have. Then I shall become frilly and pretty again, and make a night of it, see all the wickedness I can. That's my idea of life, Colonel Graeme, austerity or debauch. I love the veldt, I can saddle my own pony, shoot buck and koran, and cook as well as most chefs, but I must have a break-out sometimes; not a lady-like break-out—tea, dancing and flirtation—but the real thing."

Hector frowned. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said shortly.

"I do, perfectly. I said see the wickedness, Colonel Graeme, not take part in it. I'm not a man."

"You certainly could not go out by yourself; it wouldn't be—safe or—right," answered Hector, the value of social conventions dawning upon him for the first time.

"Nor proper, I suppose. Thank you for telling me, but, as it happens, I can take excellent care of myself, and if you've got a pair of foils on board I think it possible I might surprise you, though you are a soldier. Oh, listen, that's the 'Matschish,' which always thrills me, makes me feel I should like to have a lover. Oh, please, don't be obvious, I should hate it really, I only like to think about it, like Madeleine de Maupin, though that's not quite a parallel case either," she added, reflecting.

"Who was Madeleine de Maupin?"

"Oh, you've not read the book, that's all right then. I can talk about her. I'm afraid Madeleine was not a very correct person, like me. She too wanted to see life, and, if she could, find a perfect lover—not one who pretended to be, like most men, and talk afterwards when they're drunk, but someone she could trust when away from her. So she put on men's clothes, which I should hate, though in my fencing kit, white satin ... but perhaps you'll see me in that if you're nice and don't make love except when I want you to. That time is not now, Colonel Graeme," another look from the grey eyes arresting the movement of his hand towards hers.

"I wasn't going to," he muttered sulkily. "I don't want to touch your hand, why should I?"

"I can't imagine. But about Madeleine, she had all sorts of adventures on her travels; women made love to her, she fought duels and won them too, and then at last she found him."

"And got married, I suppose? Same old ending, why can't they think of something different, I wonder?"

"Madeleine did; there was nothing banal or ordinary about her. She waited some time after she found him, trying him, and then when she was satisfied he was what she wanted, she put off her man's things and sent for him."

"Without her things. I agree with you, Miss Selbourne; Madeleine was far from correct."

"Don't be silly. Of course she had a dress on, a woman's dress; that's why she sent for him, to show herself in it, to prove to him she was a woman after all."

"And what happened then?"

"Oh, nothing much; there the story ends. She admitted she loved him and next ... after that, left him."

"That was a poor sort of thing to do, why did she do it?"

"She didn't want to spoil it, I suppose. I think she was right too. They parted, loving one another, anyway."

"I don't think much of the man for allowing it. I would not have——"

Stara looked at him meditatively.

"No," she said at last; "you, I should say, would have followed it up till she'd really begun to care, not the mere passion that she felt to start with, but the steady love that comes with time, and only a woman, I believe, can feel. Then you'd have got bored and left her."

"That's cheap cynicism, Miss Selbourne; there are happy marriages."

"No doubt. I was talking of what you'd do. Very rude of me, but you introduced the subject."

Graeme felt very angry indeed. Analysis of character, he considered, to be his own particular privilege, and to have it applied to himself, especially when, as in this case, the reading was so obviously false, was most irritating. His whole life gave the lie to her words, he thought, and a sudden feeling of loyalty to and affection for Lucy sprang up, momentarily obliterating Stara's attractions from his mind.

"As it happens, Miss Selbourne," he said stiffly, "you're rather out in your prophecies. I've been married for the last ten years, and believe that, so far, I have shown none of the symptoms you mention."

"I apologise, Colonel Graeme. I didn't know, of course, and you don't look married."

The frown vanished from Hector's face, for her words were pleasing—no man likes to look married.

"I suppose," he said, "it's because I've been such a lot away. It's three years since I was last home."

"I wonder whether you ever met my brother, Richard Selbourne, he was out with the Yeomanry during the war, and settled down afterwards on a farm in the O.R.C. I've been staying with him and my sister-in-law."

"Place called Duikerpoort?"

"Yes."

"I have, then; my regiment camped on his ground last manoeuvres, and your brother dined with us, I remember. Where were you?"

"At home, with Polly, my sister-in-law. We watched you ride away. Oh, look!" with sudden delight in her eyes as they fell on a small fat child slowly toddling about the deck some distance away, "quick, fetch her and bring her here; she'll be gone if you don't hurry."

Graeme reluctantly rose and walked over to where the child was playing. Unceremoniously picking her up, he returned to Stara, the little girl faintly whimpering in his arms.

"The idea of holding a child like that," said Stara indignantly, snatching his burden from him; "no wonder the poor mite was beginning to cry. Oh, you darling," bending rapturously over the baby, who was now smiling up at her, her hands playing with Stara's coral chain, "how perfectly sweet you are, and how I wish you were mine. Look at her little feet and legs, Colonel Graeme; oh, you're not interested a bit."

"I confess I'm not; babies have no attraction for me."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Every man ought to love children. Haven't you any of your own?"

"No," snapped Graeme, and walked sulkily away down the deck, stopping at the far end to look back. Stara was still holding the child in her arms and talking baby talk to it, obviously oblivious of his existence.

"Schopenhauer's right," he muttered; "they're hypocrites, every one of them. Night of it, Madeleine de Maupin, and now baby talk—don't go together the two. I've done with it, I know the sort: pose as fast and bite you if you say anything. I'll get some books and go on the upper deck. I shan't see her there."

He descended to his cabin, picked up a couple of books at random, and went above, where he sat down amongst the boats, and, ignoring the luncheon bugle, tried to concentrate his attention on Lombroso. "It's too hot for this stuff," he muttered, after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times without taking in a word. "I'll try the other, Shelley; I don't know why I bought the thing except for the short biography at the beginning." He read this through and lay back reflecting. "Woman, always woman in these fellows' lives," he murmured; "domestic unhappiness seems inseparable from genius." He began to turn over the pages. "Epipsychidion—now what does that mean I wonder?" He began to read, and, bored at first, soon became absorbed, the flaming passion in the lines stirring something within him that had been hitherto unawakened.

"We shall become the same, we shall be one

Spirit within two frames. Oh! wherefore two?

One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew,

Till, like two meteors of expanding flame,

Those spheres instinct with it become the same,

Touch, mingle, are transfigured: ever still

Burning, yet ever inconsumable."

Graeme laid down the volume. His eyes were shining, and his face had become very pale.

"Nothing banal about that," he murmured; "no married sameness, no dreary domesticity. It's all free and lawless, as it ought to be. God, the thing's maddened me; I can't keep still!" He sprang up, hesitated for a moment, and then hurrying below looked furtively up and down the decks. He searched the saloon, the music-room, the library, but all to no purpose; that which he sought was not there. Gradually he was seized with anger, then anxiety, and finally a sick longing. Restlessly he wandered about the ship, now trying to read, now pacing the decks, till at length the dinner-bugle sounded and he went below to dress.

"She shan't escape me afterwards," he thought, watching her across the crowded saloon; "we'll sit together away from the world, and the romance of our lives shall begin." Stara, nevertheless, did escape him, despite his vigilance, and, wait though he did till after the decks were in darkness, she appeared no more.

Sick with disappointment and a bitter sense of humiliation, he at length went down to his cabin, and, flinging himself on the bed, tried hard to sleep. But the bells clanged the hours away and sleep refused to come, till at last he rose from the tumbled bed and sat up, irresolution in his eyes.

"Sanders told me not to," he muttered; "he said for me it was fatal, but what am I to do? I shall go mad if I don't sleep. I don't care—I will," and Hector switched on the light, dragged out a dressing-case and took out a small phial containing tabloids.

"Thank heaven," he murmured drowsily, half an hour later; "better than all the natural sleep in the world. Stara..." His eyes closed, and he fell asleep at last.

CHAPTER XIII

The old proverb, "One man may better steal a horse, than another look over the hedge," like most sayings of its kind, possesses a very deep meaning, particularly when applied to the passions and emotions by which human nature is swayed.

There are beings, for instance, to whom a little flirtation is a pastime, enjoyable maybe, but never to be allowed to interfere with the serious business of their lives; it is taken up or dropped whenever it pleases them, for their natures allow them so to do. On the other hand, there are others to whom a love affair, once entered upon, means a temporary enthralment of body and soul; and to this class belonged Hector Graeme. Though but ten days had elapsed since the episode of the bookmarker, he had managed, even in that short space, to forget both love of wife and his ambition, the one destroyed for ever, the other for the time superseded by a mad unreasoning desire of possession the more imperative because of the seeming impossibility of fulfilment.

The small phial, hidden away in his dressing-case, was by now almost empty. Its contents had been drawn on at the rate of three or four tabloids a night, and yet sleep, save intermittently, failed him; nor could he eat, racked as he was by the triple pangs of unsatisfied desire, impatience of the wasted present, and jealousy of the future, with its certain rivals.

Such love as this the brutal and plain-spoken call "lust," the more refined "earthly passion." Scornfully they contrast it with the sentiments they feel for their own beloved, ignoring the fact that love between man and woman, disguise it as you will, is that and that only—the sexless guardians of the harem proving this in their insensibility to the emotion—though it varies according to the nature of him or her who feels it.

Thus the dull, material being is as dull and brutish in his loves as he is in all else; the rare, steadfast nature, knowing no satiety, loves on till death; the ardent and imaginative invests his mistress with a halo of romantic fancies. And so, Hector loved Stara, with an exalted, passionate adoration, rendering him, for the time, ready and longing for any manifestation of self-sacrifice, and, as he truly believed, incapable of the very wrong to the accomplishment of which his whole present energies were nevertheless directed.

It is men like Graeme who are the only really dangerous lovemakers to pure-minded women, for apparently grossness has no part in their minds, they place their divinities on a pedestal and worship at it: not for worlds, they declare and believe, would they sully her white purity with suggestions of earthly passion. Then the time comes, and they ... do, and that far more effectually and thoroughly than doer, the ordinary commonplace lover, whose feeling, though obviously of the earth, is nevertheless healthy, and not rendered unnatural and fantastic by a fevered imagination. And so Hector vowed that Stara was, and would be always, sacred to him: he only wanted her love, that was all, and to gain this he now concentrated all the force of which his nature was capable. But the days were slipping by, the end of the journey was already in sight, and still so far, apparently, his efforts were all in vain; for, from the first, Stara had made it plain that she would have none of his lovemaking. Good friend he might be to any extent, but nothing more; and to this resolution she adhered, despite all his attempts at trespass on ground forbidden, and thereby rendered imperatively desirable.

The whole day long she would sit with him, and often till late at night, when the decks were dark, and, save for them, deserted; also she would dance with him, fence with him, and on one occasion had even matched herself to drink against him. This last, however, like their fencing bouts, had resulted in humiliation to Hector, who, with the deck heaving beneath his feet and the stars dancing giddily above him, had staggered away below, his steps being guided by the soft, white, yet steel strong arm of his late antagonist. Further, she would discuss love in all its aspects, but at any attempt on his part to take advantage of her candour, and turn the conversation to a personal issue, Stara would round on him, lashing him with her tongue in a manner that left Hector sullen and discomfited for hours afterwards.

Indeed, so far, with the woman lay victory, even in those very intellectual attainments on which he had now come to set such store; for his reading, compared with hers, was as the veriest smattering, while in knowledge of subjects called deep, and ability to discuss them, Stara was on another plane.

Nevertheless, though hitherto baffled, Graeme's purpose remained unchanged, rather it increased in intensity with the passing of the days. Nor did his confidence in ultimate success lessen, for that Stara loved him he felt intuitively certain, though at the same time he realised that she was determined not to acknowledge that love, possibly from pride, more likely because she did not believe in his, thinking it to be but a passing infatuation and not the life's passion it really was to him.

He must make her believe—that was all; not by words, for they, he realised, would never convince her, but by action, and that soon, for his own endurance, he knew, was now well-nigh at an end. The only question was, what was that action to be? Something big it must be; nothing small would do. Well, the bigger the better; he wouldn't shrink whatever it was, even to the burning of the ship, if necessary, and subsequent rescue of Stara from the flames. He didn't care—the end was before him, and everything must give way to the attainment of that end.

He was debating these things in his mind one afternoon, as he lay in his deck-chair with eyes closed and brain feverishly working. From the other side of the ship, where sports were now in progress, bursts of delighted screams and clapping of hands came at intervals.

Close beside him sat Stara, reading; a somewhat pale-faced Stara of late, with blue shadows beneath the long, grey eyes.

Suddenly she smiled over her book, and, looking up at her companion, spoke. "Here's something for you, Colonel Graeme," she said. "Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't see you were asleep."

"Asleep, how the devil could anyone sleep with that row going on? Oh, confound it all!" angrily, as another loud outburst of hilarity came from the other side.

"You're very captious this afternoon, why grudge those people their amusement?"

"Amusement! Dropping potatoes into a bucket or chalking a pig's eye on the deck? The swine's an unclean animal to most of them too, I should say. Amusement—God!"

"Far better for you, Colonel Graeme, if you were to do the same, instead of sitting all day reading unhealthy books. I should like to talk to you seriously about those books; I've been wanting to for some time. Will you listen?"

"All right, if you'll listen too when I talk seriously, as I shall ... soon."

"What do you want to say, nothing silly, I hope; because, if so ... what is it?"

"Never mind now; go on."

"Well, then—oh, bother you, Colonel Graeme—! I wish you wouldn't interrupt; I've forgotten what I was going to say."

"My books," watching her.

"Oh yes, don't stare, please. Well, an unhealthier selection than you have here on board I've never seen. There's Edgar Allan Poe, for instance, imagination gone mad. Schopenhauer, a philosophy to justify wrong-doing, hence its popularity; it's full of flaws too."

"How?"

"Here's one, at any rate: in his main argument for pessimism, he says desire for anything means unhappiness."

"He's quite right."

"And because we're always wishing for something, we must necessarily be unhappy. He's quite wrong; it's that which alone gives happiness and keeps us alive; for, take away hope—the same thing, for what we desire we hope to get—and suicide would inevitably follow. Everyone, even the most wretched hopes, don't you?"

"Yes, but don't rest content with hoping."

"Well, there's one flaw in your Schopenhauer, there are many others too, but never mind. Now for Lombroso, your other favourite. I see you have 'The Man of Genius' there. Throw it overboard, if you're wise."

"What's the matter with it? It's science."

"Perfectly true, but you're neither a scientist nor a doctor. That book is as bad for you as the advertisement of a quack medicine is for some weak-minded people. You find all your own symptoms, and, like them, are glad when you do. Drop such reading, Colonel Graeme; take up something healthy."

"Like that thing you've got there, I suppose, 'The Cow in the Morning,' isn't it? It sounds as if it might have been written by one of Lombroso's friends."

"Don't be cheap, please. It's 'The Heifer of the Dawn,' and, well, you may think it silly, but I don't. Listen to this, and judge for yourself, though in the interests of women I consider this particular paragraph ought to be suppressed." She took up the book and began to read.

"'She that is to retain her lover's love for ever must possess, first, a body without a flaw, or his senses will stray from her to other bodies, for it is their nature to seek their proper object; secondly, intelligence, or his esteem will depart elsewhere; and thirdly, goodness, or his soul will abandon her in search of that without which it cannot do, and without which the other two component parts are worthless except for a time. And as it is for the woman so it is for the man, with this difference, that their bodies and their intelligence and their souls are totally unlike.'"

"And, if she has all that, he's bound to be faithful, I suppose?"

"In theory yes, but I'm afraid not practically. You see, the speaker, being a woman, looks at it from a woman's point of view, which is not that of a man, their intelligence being, as she says, totally unlike. She thinks that, if she is perfectly beautiful, her husband's thoughts will never stray to one less so. But that can't be right, for in many cases men have left beautiful wives for ugly mistresses. A woman can't or won't see that—that—how shall I put it nicely?"

"That in the sexual instinct lies her whole attraction. Pah!"

"Thank you, though that's not nicely put.... And once that dies, her beauty ceases to exist for him. She might be a picture on the wall as far as he's concerned: the beauty is still there, and others see it, but the owner has seen it too often and got tired."

"And the intellect part?"

"No good at all to keep him. A man may like talking to a so-called clever woman—which, by the way, only means one quick to utilise men's brains, for no woman can originate, only receive—but that doesn't prevent him from kissing a pretty fool five minutes afterwards."

"According to you, then, fidelity is impossible to a man."

"Certainly not; however, it's not love that keeps him faithful, but other things, a sense of honour, pride in his family, and possibly a feeling of compassion."

"What damned nonsense!"

"Colonel Graeme?"

"So it is. You sit there, knowing nothing at all about it, and reel off yards of cheap clap-trap cynicism picked up from rotten, morbid books. Lord, talk of my reading doing me harm!"

"My views are not gathered from books, but observation. I know what I say is true."

"And may I ask how, if you do, you can contemplate the idea of marrying one of us brutes, as you told me the other day you did eventually?"

"Because I'm human, like everyone else, and when the time comes, as it unfortunately must, I suppose, I shall be like any other woman, or like—like you. I shall recant all I've said, and believe in undying love and the rest of it. I can see now; then I shan't be able."

"Sure you can see now?

"Quite sure, Colonel Graeme, absolutely, perfectly sure," she added, somewhat unnecessarily meeting his eyes.

"'Absolutely—perfectly', why such emphasis, Stara?"

"Please don't call me 'Stara'; it annoys me."

"I shall call you 'Stara' from now."

"You will not. Why—why should you?"

"Because——"

"Be quiet, here's someone coming. Oh, it's that poor creature Hayward, why doesn't someone look after him? It's sad to see him."

"Drunken brute! I'll bash him if he comes here. I wish he would, and insult you, I believe I'd kill him if he did."

"You'd do a very cowardly thing, then, which would disgust me more than I can say. It's not the destruction, but the saving of life that appeals to me, Colonel Graeme."

The man, a harmless creature enough save for his one failing, at this moment shambled by, smiled vacantly at the two as he passed, and then, moving behind the wind screen some distance away, perched himself on the rail, where he sat rocking, his figure just visible from where they sat.

"I've pity for that man, and pity only," continued Stara. "Why, where are you going, Colonel Graeme, to see the sports? All right, I'll come too."

"No, stay where you are," answered Hector rather indistinctly, his face averted from her; "I'll be back in a minute, I'm only going down to my cabin to fetch..." The rest of the sentence was lost, the speaker having disappeared through the main companion.

Once more Stara returned to her book, and then a minute later flung it down and jumped up, her face blanched and every nerve quivering; for high and shrill in her ears a scream of mortal terror was ringing and then was suddenly hushed.

"Man overboard! starboard side!" wailed a voice from the forecastle head. The beating of the screw ceased, and the ship quivered to the short, sharp bursts of the siren.

A tumult of voices arose; the clatter of hurrying feet. "Where is he, who is it, Stara?" and Graeme, coat and shoes discarded, stood beside her.

"It's Hayward, he's no longer there, what are you going to do, Colonel Graeme? Hector, you shall not."

"Oh yes, I shall—but before I go—Stara, say it."

"Say what?"

"You love me, Stara—quick!"

"Oh, I do—I do, Hector—you—you shall not. Oh, Hector, there are sharks hereabouts."

"No shark can hurt me now, Stara, love; good-bye." and springing on to the rail he stood for a second steadying himself, looked back once and was gone. With a crash he struck the water, the blue surface seeming to rush up to meet him as he fell, and then, like an arrow, flew down, apparently for miles, down through a strange jade-coloured world into the very heart of the sea. Surely he must strike the bottom soon, he must have journeyed for hours already, yet still he was rushing on. What would it be like, he wondered vaguely, that unknown ocean floor—rock, sand or oozy mud?

Ah, he was stopping at last, and yes, slowly, very slowly rising. The return to daylight had begun, but—what a journey lay before him: those endless miles of water, thousands of millions of tons of liquid crystal between him and air. Could he hold out, would his breath last? No, not unless he hurried, and a sudden desperate feeling of anxiety seizing him, he began to fight, his hands tearing at the dense green wall above him. Frenzied, he fought, heart and lungs well-nigh bursting, and in his head the loud, wild clanging of bells; then, suddenly, the desire to struggle ceased, and in its place he felt a sense of rest and dreamy content. In his head, now strangely clear and light, a voice began to sing—only one verse, that of a music-hall ditty, last heard at a soldiers' "sing-song" in Dutch Gethsemane. "I would I were a kipper in the foam," it repeated for the hundredth time. Well, that's what he was—in the foam, at any rate; but a kipper—-a kipper... "I would I were a kipper in the foam."

He must think this out; it was clear as daylight really—daylight—light—light; and then with a sudden stunning roar the mists of death were torn asunder and the veil of water gone.

Slowly back from death's gates he came, his dazzled eyes blinking at the fathomless blue above, and labouring lungs gulping down the salt evening breeze. It seemed hours that he lay there, though but a minute in all had passed since his leaving the ship's side, hours of perfect peace and rest; and then suddenly strength came rushing back, and with it consciousness of his own being. A faint wonder at first, a chaos of mingled remembrances, and then sequence of ideas and full realisation of his surroundings. With a thrust of his foot he raised his head and shoulders above the water and looked about him; there, a mile or so away, floated the great grey shape of the Dunrobin Castle, a faint haze of smoke showing above the scarlet funnels, her decks black with figures, all faces turned to where he lay. And yes, that was a boat being lowered down her side, and thereupon the last cloud of mist lifted from his brain and he remembered what he had set himself to do.

Again he looked around, and saw some distance away a white object, with pole attached, looming gigantic against the sky, as it rose and fell to the lift of the waves. Striking out, he swam towards it, and, seizing the cork circle, held on, his eyes searching the water about him, and then, with an exclamation, let go and struck out to where a black object had appeared for a moment above the surface and disappeared. Reaching the spot, he waited, peering down, until it again slowly rose, and a steel claw shot up from the depths, gripped his foot, and under went Hector in the hold of a drowning man. Then up once more, the two interlocked, till wrenching his arm free, Graeme beat on the other's head, and the frenzied struggling ceased. Then throwing himself on his back, and clutching the man's coat-collar, he slowly towed his prize back, and, reaching the buoy just as his strength was failing, held on gasping, the other's head falling forward into the water, where it lay.

For a minute Graeme remained contemplating him, and then hauling him up beside him, looked closely into his face.

"Dead, I think," he muttered, "and God knows I hope so. Anyway, I've saved what's left of you. I'm a hero now, thanks to you, you drunken sweep," and despite circumstances hardly calculated for mirth, something seemed to tickle Graeme, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

Suddenly he stopped, with a startled look in his eyes. "Now what was that?" he murmured. "I could have sworn something touched my foot." He looked down, and below him saw hanging a dark shadow: a dull eye was fixed upon his, and then the shadow was gone, hung poised for a moment, and whirling round, came back. A monstrous shape gleamed white through the green beneath him—a savage tug, and the burden he was holding was nearly torn from his grasp, and then became strangely light, trailed loose in the water, now no longer clear.

For a second, Graeme was seized with wild terror, a loud shuddering shriek burst from his lips and went echoing across the sea; a hoarse shout of encouragement, the rattle and bang of feet upon boards, coming in instant response from the boat rushing onwards. Well its crew knew the meaning of that cry, knew also that their efforts might be all in vain, and where rescuer and rescued now floated nothing might be found save a few torn rags and a swirl of bloody water.

With this vision before their eyes, they bent themselves to their work; rough hands closed on the great oars, and corded muscles stood out on forearms, till the heavy boat rushed through the water and foam flew up from her bows. But the shriek was not repeated, for already rage had conquered fear in Hector's heart, and with rage came not only the fierce determination to hold on to that which he had won, but to grapple with and destroy this new enemy who had dared to attack him.

Feverishly he sought for a weapon, and in his pocket found a small knife. With eyes as wicked as those beneath him he peered down, his arm drawn back to strike. On came the shape once more, down went Hector's hand, a curse escaping him as the enemy turned and fled. "Damn you!" he shouted to his burden, "but for you I'd go after him, I can't leave you, though; I've sworn to get you back and I will. Come on, come on!" he shrieked.

"It's all right, sir; you're safe now," sounded from close behind, and Graeme and his prize were seized, hauled up and placed gently in the boat, a horrified "Gawd!" rising from the crew as they saw what Hector was holding in his arms. For, as he himself had said, it was only what was left of Hayward that had been saved from the seas.

"Let me go, blast you, let me go!" screamed Graeme, struggling with a burly sailor. "I've not begun on that shark yet, let me go!"

"Strike me, but you're a masterpiece!" muttered a voice. "It's no use, though, sir; the bastard's gone. Look," and a hand pointed to a black triangle, swiftly moving through the water a hundred yards away.

"'Ark, sir, to that," cried another; "they've seed you, sir, from the ship," and for a moment the creaking of the oars ceased, all listening to a dull roar rolling across the water from the motionless Dunrobin Castle. "They're cheering you, sir; blow me if we don't cheer too," and seven lusty voices set up an answering shout, Graeme the while sitting frowning at the still open knife in his hand.

"Spoilt it all," he muttered, "that devil getting off."

Back across the sea the boat went springing, and, as she neared the grey side, from the whole ship's company—crew, passengers, stewards, even the white-aproned and behatted cooks waving ladles and frying-pans—renewed cheering arose, and then suddenly was hushed, for the boat was now under their eyes and they saw the grim heap in its stern.

Up the lowered ladder went Graeme, the Captain himself standing at the gangway to meet him.

"You're a brave man, sir," he said; "it's not your fault it's been so ... little use."

Graeme said nothing, for again the ill-timed merriment was seething within him, and only with the greatest difficulty was held in check.

He hurried on, and then stopped, for Stara was before him, a new Stara to him, the grey eyes misty with tears and face white and quivering.

"I've brought him back, Stara, what's left of him, a shark tried to get the rest, but I fought him and won."

"God bless you, Hector. I—I——" and Stara burst out crying, whereupon the cheering was renewed, and Graeme, with exultation in his heart, went below.

* * * * *

"Can't—can't you forget it, Hector, it was wrung from me, is it fair to take advantage of a moment of weakness?"

Stara's form drooped before him, her whole attitude spoke defeat. Alone on the darkened decks the two were standing; eight bells had just clanged through the stillness.

Hector looked at her, his eyes glowing into hers, drew nearer and then suddenly bent and kissed her. Maddened at the touch of those soft lips, he caught her to him and repeated the offence a dozen times, Stara resting passive in his arms.

"Darling, why struggle any longer?" he whispered. "We love each other; it's no use fighting, Stara. Oh, my love my love;" and then stopped confounded, for the girl had done the best thing she could, and was sobbing violently on his shoulder.

At the sight, that which men call the better mood came upon Hector, passion yielding for the moment to tenderness, its child.

He laid his hand on the bowed head and stroked her hair.

"Stara, dearest, listen. It's true I love you, and you—it's no use denying it now—love me; but there's no harm in that. I won't hurt you, dear. You're safe with me. We don't injure that which we love, Stara."

Stara looked up at him, the grey eyes tear-dimmed and hair tumbled.

"It—it's not possible, Hector; I couldn't trust you or—or ... myself."

"I'm strong enough for both, Stara."

Stara stared into his eyes, searching for that she wished to find, and wishing, as always, found.

"I want to trust you, Hector."

"You can. You're sacred to me."

"If I do, will you promise to—to be as you were, before ... you ... knew, you won't make love to me, you—you'll never try to kiss me again, you'll be content with my friendship?"

"More than content, Stara."

"If—if you really mean that, dear, if you won't take advantage of what I've said, I—I ... will trust you, and ... for the last time I will say it again, I love you, Hector. Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, Stara." He turned away, his eyes looking out seawards. A touch on his shoulder roused him, and looking round, he saw Stara once more before him, her face scarlet and eyes shy.

"Hector."

"My dearest."

"I—I've come back to say ... good-night, dear; and ... as it's for the last time, and from now we're only ... friends, you may ... just for this once..."

For a moment she clung to him, returning kiss for kiss, and then, breaking free, hurried away, leaving Hector on fire behind her.

CHAPTER XIV

"What you venture to propose to me now, Colonel Graeme, is, in plain English, a double establishment, over one of which I am to have the honour of presiding, and this, I suppose," tapping a slip of paper in her hand, "is my first quarter's housekeeping allowance?"

Stara's voice was like the dropping of ice-cold water and her eyes steely as she stood up, straight and slim, every faculty alert and concentrated on the crushing of her opponent, who was carelessly lounging against the ship's rail, his half-closed eyes fixed on hers.

"The exact opposite, as of course you know; but 'even as the sepia darkens the water with ink, so does woman.'"

The thin ice of Stara's composure flew into a thousand sparkling fragments, the grey eyes darkened as she moved towards him, her small hands clenched.

"You, you stand there and jibe at me! You insult a girl you professed to—to care for, and then laugh at her. You ... devil!"

"I told you I loved you, if that's what you mean by professing. I say so now, and give you the greatest proof I can."

"How? By proposing to degrade me, me who you said was sacred to you, by a low intrigue? Your wife one day, I suppose, and me the next. I'm to be your toy, an amusement when you tire of her or want distraction from your soldiering. A proof of love, faugh! This cheque's another proof, I suppose you think."

"Hadn't you better be quiet and listen?"

The thicker ice of Graeme's self-control was now beginning to crack ominously.

"I won't. I hate you. You took advantage of a moment of weakness any other man would have respected, to—to make me say things. You swore I could trust you, and I, like a fool, believed it, and against my own judgment let things be as before. I've sat with you, tried to amuse you, dressed for you even, why, it was for you I put on this dress to-night, because you said you liked it and this was our last night together. And all the time you were thinking, planning ... this."

She stopped suddenly, for Graeme, all pretence of composure abandoned, had seized her by the shoulders and was shaking her. For a moment she faced him bravely, and then before his anger hers died. She began to tremble, and then broke down and sobbed.

"Now, will you listen to me? If I have to keep you here all night to do it, I'll make you in the end. You're wrong, altogether wrong."

"I won't. I don't want to hear; and how—how can I be wrong? You said you wanted me to belong to you, and how can I, except in—in the way I said? You're married, and—and ... you gave me money; it's the money which kills me!" And passion reawakening, she flung the cheque from her over the rail. For a moment it fluttered in the breeze, and then was blown back again to their feet. Hector picked it up, smoothed it out, and, after looking at it for a moment, put it in his pocket.

"Perhaps it's as well you did not present this, Stara," he said; "I forgot to date it, as I usually do. Now, if you're ready and won't interrupt, I'll explain."

"You can't. Don't try to. I shan't believe you whatever you say. Oh, go on then."

"I'll take the money first; that's a trifle, the other's not. You remember some time ago, when I told you I was always hard up, you offered me your quarter's allowance. Fifty pounds it was—all you had."

"That was different."

"And you said that surely one friend could do a little thing like that for another. Did I fly out at you then?"

"But you didn't take it."

"Because I didn't want the money. You do. There are those bills you told me about."

"I would never have told you, had I thought you'd take advantage like this. That's not what I did it for."

"I know that as well as you do, but all the same you did tell me, and you said that, when you reached London, they'd probably serve a writ on you. Now, I'm not going to have you bothered by beastly tradespeople, and so I did the little thing you said one friend might do for another—I wrote you a cheque."

"Hector, will you swear that was all you meant?"

"Certainly I will."

"Oh ... We'll let that pass, then, though I don't say I believe it, mind. And now for the other, rather more difficult of explanation, I imagine."

"I'm coming to that presently. First, you must take this money."

"I will not, the idea."

"I'll give you another cheque to-morrow morning. That's settled. Now..."

"Oh, please, please don't ask me. Well, if—if I do, I won't spend the money."

"Please yourself about that; and now for the other." He paused, and then again seizing her by the shoulders while the glow in his eyes became a leaping flame, went on: "We love each other, Stara, and love such as ours must be satisfied. What do conventions matter to you and me; leave them to the weak fools whose lives they trammel. Belong to me you shall, not, as you think, by paltry deceit, but openly, for the whole world to see. It's marriage I offer you, not dishonour."

Stara looked up at him bewildered.

"Are you mad, Hector, your wife?"

"What is she to me—what is anything to me? Stara, in the whole world I can see but one thing now, you, and you I swear to have."

"I don't understand. You're married; nothing can alter that. Oh, why talk about impossibilities?"

"There's nothing impossible to me. There never was from the time you told me you loved me. Listen and I'll tell you what I mean to do. To-morrow I shall see her—I will call her 'my wife' no longer, Stara—and I'll tell her it's you I love and not her. I'll say, too, I've come to break with her, that the past is finished and a new life begun. Oh, I've thought it all out; the thing's as good as done now."

"I won't be party to such a hateful bargain. Besides, what if—if she won't?"

"She will, she's a sensible woman; she will understand and set me free, and then, then, Stara, I shall claim you."

"You shall not, I won't be a party to this, I say. Oh Hector, dear, this is madness. Think what you're saying, think what it means, to abandon a wife of ten years for a woman you met but three weeks ago, the dragging of your name through the mud of the Divorce Court. Never, Hector, never!"

"Such things are nothing to me, but you do what you like, consent or not as you like. I shall do it all the same. Can't you see it's my love for you that has made it impossible for me to go back to her?"

"But, Hector, we—you would forget in time; you will come together again and—and be glad."

"Like they do in moral story books, I suppose, and why should we? We've got a chance of heaven now; we don't get many. D'you think I'm going to give up that for mere paltry scruples? Bah! you're but a weakling after all."

"I'm not, only I happen to have some sense of honour and the ordinary feelings of humanity. Oh, please, please, listen to me."

"Spare yourself the trouble; my mind's made up. It's but a small thing lies between us and happiness, and now you shrink from it, though you're not asked to do anything but look on."

"A small thing, great heavens, you call this a small thing!"

"Anything's small that stands between you and me."

Stara was silent, feeling the futility of further opposition.

"What—what is it you want me to do, then?" she said slowly.

"Marry me when I'm free."

"And if she refuses?"

"She will not, I tell you; but if she does, we'll have to content ourselves with platonics, I suppose. In any case I break with her."

"You'd be satisfied with—platonics?"

"No, I should not, but I won't ask more of you. I promise you that, and I keep my word, Stara."

Again the girl was silent.

"You really mean to do this thing, Hector—nothing I can say will stop you?"

"Oh, why go over old ground, Stara? Now, about you, will you wait in London till I return?

"No; I will go back to South Africa by the next boat. My brother will think me mad, but he'll be glad all the same. He always hated my nursing schemes. And there's something I want to say now, Hector, before I leave you." She paused and then went on hurriedly: "When—when it's over, definitely broken off, I mean—and, oh, for my sake, dear, try to get her to divorce you—you may come out to me then."

"Why do you say for your sake, Stara, isn't it for both our sakes?"

"Because—because—oh, I won't tell you now, but perhaps you'll find that I'm not quite the weak creature you think, and if you make this sacrifice for me I too may ... make a return. And, Hector, one thing more. Till then I don't want to see you again, to me it would seem like—like an intrigue. When you come you must be free. And so, when we land to-morrow, don't look for me, you won't find me if you do."

"How am I to give you that cheque, then?"

"Send it by a steward, if you must; and when it's all over, wire to me the one word "Coming." I shall understand and be waiting. Good-bye."

CHAPTER XV

The north wind blew keen and lusty over the Norfolk marshland, bending the lush grass and sedge and ruffling the surface of dyke and pool. Overhead there was a sky of pale blue dappled with white and grey, from which shone forth the yellow ball of a December sun.

Tossed in the wind, flocks of screaming plover and white kittiwake flew aimlessly over the green flat; the plaintive cry of a lonely curlew rang eerily as he scudded swiftly along the foreshore. Now and again a sturdy mallard could be seen stoutly battling his way against the wind towards some rush-covered sanctuary, quacking triumphantly as he hung for a moment over it, and then, dropping, was lost to view. Away to the east a low, ragged line of sandhills broke the green monotony, beyond which lay a foam-flecked jade-coloured sea, streaked and mottled with ever-shifting shadows of purple and ultramarine.

Some two miles inland the square, white shape of a house could be seen nestling in a clump of trees, an unpretentious-looking place, despite its appellation of Hall—Cuddingfold Hall, to give it its full title—but solidly built and comfortable, nevertheless. This was the home of which Lucy had written to her husband, and here for the last four months she had been installed, living now in one room, now in another, for painters, paperers and their kind had been plying their respective trades, and life had been full of discomforts.

Their work had been at last completed, and even to Lucy's exacting mind Cuddingfold Hall had been transformed from a ramshackle human warren into an almost perfect dwelling-place. In spite of the somewhat extensive improvements carried out, it was only for twelve months she had rented the Hall, but she had the option of taking it on at the end of that time for seven, twenty-one, or ninety-nine years, if she wished.

That, however, was for her husband to decide—the husband who was arriving that evening after more than three years' absence. Of his decision she had no doubt whatever, but Lucy, in her own way, was wise, and refrained from signing any lease; she knew that to do so without his consent would be more than likely to inspire him with an instant distaste for the place—partridges and ducks notwithstanding. To bind Hector, meant for him to chafe against his bonds and the certain rupture of them.

She would leave him to do it, and, if she knew him aright, that very night would see a letter, nay, a telegram, despatched to the land agent, to the effect that Colonel Graeme would take Cuddingfold Hall for a term of ninety-nine years. Take it? No, he would certainly insist on buying it, and rush up next morning to his bankers, for the purpose of raising the necessary sum. She could hear him say, "What's the good of paying rent, Lucy? Much better buy; it's always cheaper in the end."

Well, if he wanted to, why not? He must certainly not be allowed to raise the money, for that would not be cheaper in the end. It would only result in a financial crisis, as had happened once before, and an ignominious abandonment of their new home before the year was out; and here, at the thought of her husband's business capacity, an irrepressible smile stole over Lucy's face.

No, she had her plan, that being to buy the place herself and give it to him as a present. She had a little money of her own, which had come to her from her mother, and already Lucy had approached the trustees on the subject of reinvestment. They had demurred, it is true, her uncle, the General, being strongly averse to any scheme giving Hector control over his wife's property; but Lucy, as once before, had conquered, and eventually he, with his co-trustee, had agreed. After all, they decided, it was house property, this proposed new investment, and as such allowable under the trust; and, at any rate, the General would take good care that the place was settled upon his niece and that that fellow, as he always designated Hector, should have no chance of laying his hands on it. And so the matter had been left till Graeme's arrival.

On the afternoon of that event, Lucy was sitting on a rush-covered bank, happily dreaming of the time when this estate of marsh and sandhill would be their own. Here, she thought complacently, watching the wheeling birds, they would settle down for life, and partings and war scares would be nightmares of the past. She would have her rose garden, Hector his shooting, and later, she hoped, a seat in the House, and perhaps in time they might—oh Heaven, how she prayed for it—be given a son. Here Lucy's smile died and the blue eyes clouded. A son, a strong, straight-limbed boy, not like Ruby; and at the thought of her, their only child, a sudden passionate feeling of revolt came over Lucy and her eyes filled with angry tears.

"Why," she thought bitterly, "should such a thing have happened to me? I was so looking forward to her coming too, and was so very very careful. It was not my fault, or that of my ancestry; we have always been strong and healthy. Oh, my God, how am I to tell him? I was mad to keep it from him, but it looked so awful in a letter. What will he say when he sees her—he so intolerant of weakness and disliking children at any time? And all these years I expect he's been wondering what she's like, picturing her as a round, rosy child, who'll want to romp with him and pull his hair. Ruby, romping! Oh," a sudden revulsion of feeling coming over her, "what a brute I am, wicked and unnatural. It's not her fault, poor mite; and if I, her mother, run her down, who's to take her part? And perhaps Hector won't take it so hardly; he'll be kind to her, even if he can't love her—Hector could never be anything else. And he won't see much of her; she'll be in her nursery all day; this cold would kill her at once, poor child."

With a sigh, she rose from the bank and made her way back to the house, when for the hundredth time that day she ran through the preparations for her husband's coming, and then, after a short visit to the nursery, went to her room to dress. The sudden chiming of the clock startled her, and hurrying over the last stages of her toilet she flew downstairs, impatiently calling for the pony-cart, though it was not due for a quarter of an hour. Rapidly her anxiety was becoming a fever from waiting when at length the trap appeared. Hastily mounting, she took the reins, and, whipping up the white pony, sent him along at his best pace to the station.

Here, as she might have known, had excitement not rendered reflection impossible, she arrived a good half-hour too soon, a time of waiting that would certainly be prolonged to at least one hour—the trains on that line being remarkable for a monotonous unpunctuality. However, with the aid of a little conversation with the station-master, a thorough perusal of the texts decorating the one dingy waiting-room, and some twenty minutes of sentry-go up and down the platform, the time was at length got through.

The sharp tinkling of a bell broke the silence, the sound of wire rustling at her feet was followed by the clack of a falling signal, and then a faint humming growing gradually louder. Far down the line a yellow point could be seen, another shot out beside it, the humming swelled to a roar, and with the rush of a whirlwind the train dashed past Lucy, a flare of yellow lights flying giddily by.

"Heavens, it's going on!" she gasped, dismayed; "they've forgotten to stop it. No, it isn't, though," as the rattle died down and the mass of wood and iron came to a rest at last. "There he is," and Lucy, dignity forgotten in joy, ran up the platform to where a man was standing gazing vacantly about him.

"Hector, darling, oh, Hector, at last, after all these years!" she began, and then stopped suddenly, an icy finger seeming to touch her heart, for this man who stood before her, though bearing her husband's features, was surely a stranger; yet, no, he was speaking to her, addressing her by name, though the voice too was unfamiliar.

"Oh, Lucy," he said, "is that you, how are you?"

"Hector ... what on earth's the matter, aren't you glad to see me? Oh, darling, you're ill; you look half dead," and conviction gaining upon her as she looked, the sudden terror of the unknown died in Lucy's heart and was replaced by a rush of protecting tenderness. She took his arm, her face looking up into his, a world of loving anxiety in her eyes.

"It's nothing, Lucy. I'm only tired; I've been up since dawn."

"Of course you have, dear, I forgot; and I know I was the same, Hector—so excited. I thought the daylight would never come. And then the day, how it's dragged; but it's all over at last, and your..." Again a sudden stop, again the icy finger at her heart, for her husband had turned sharply away, and a ghastly silence followed.

"Porter—where's the porter?" muttered Hector. "Oh, there you are, get my things out, will you? Not that one, you fool, where to? God knows—I don't, when's the next train back to town?"

"Ain't no more to-night, sir, Colonel, that is, beg pardon, sir," said the man, staring at him and then questioningly at Lucy, whom he knew and liked well, as did already all the natives of Cuddingfold village.

"Take them to the luggage cart, Sims," said Lucy, her voice become suddenly level; "the Colonel's tired with his long journey; and you," smiling at Hector, "come with me. That's our trap standing over there with the white pony. Get in; I'll drive you; he knows my hand, and he's always a little playful at starting. Good-night, Sims; tell your wife I'll be round to see the new baby soon. Steady boy," to the dancing pony; "that's right," and the two drove away. For the first mile there was silence, and then, like a pistol-shot, words burst from Hector's lips.

"What's his name, Lucy?" he asked, the triviality of the question being in odd contrast to the voice that asked it. But triviality was now what Hector was fighting for with all his power, conversation on purely ordinary matters; for in that way only, he knew, could he keep off the numbing sense of unreality that was creeping over him—a nightmare feeling rapidly sapping the strength of purpose that till then had burnt so strong and steadily.

"I have come to do this thing, and I will; I'll be firm, firm, firm," he repeated to himself, and the word mingled with the rattle of the flying wheels and were flung back at him in meaningless echo. Apparently miles away, he heard Lucy's voice answering some question he had put, and which now he could not for his life remember.

"His name, dear?" she said cheerfully. "I call him Whiting, because he's white; and when he's fresh his head and his tail come together. Not very clever, I fear; but then I'm not clever, as I told you once..." She broke off, a sudden stab at her heart. When had she said this very same thing before? Ah, she remembered, at Chillata, that last night; what thousands of years ago it seemed now. "It made Tom laugh," she added hurriedly.

"Tom?"

"He's the groom, and the gardener and hoot-boy and the keeper and all sorts of other things. He's rather a treasure, really, though not much to look at. He's so looking forward to your coming; we—we all are, Hector."

"How—how is——?" God, he'd forgotten his own child's name!

"Ruby?"—a pause. "Oh, you'll see her presently, and I—I hope you won't be disappointed, Hector. A baby, you know, very often at first is—is not ... But I want to tell you about the shooting. It's what you've always wanted: miles of marsh, and such a lot of ducks, you can hear them quacking every night; and to-day a flock of widgeon passed over the house, within shot too. And there are partridges and pheasants, though not many; and the house—oh, Hector, you'll like the house," and here Lucy launched out into a description of her property, though truth to tell, she had very little idea of what she was saying.

Only on two points was she clear: one, that at all hazards silence must not again be allowed to fall; the other, that she must hold back for the present from any questioning of her husband as to what had brought about this change in him. God knew what the thing was that had come between them, but, whatever it was, she would hear in time, that was certain; for, thank heaven, whatever her husband's other failings might be, that of deceit was not among them. Till then she must wait as best she could, and, when it came, face and fight it with all the strength in her power. A great crisis was at hand, she knew instinctively, one involving her whole life's happiness; and Lucy was not going to give that up without a struggle.

She might not be clever—she knew she was not—but she was the possessor of a fund of sound common sense and the pluck and staying power of a hundred. And so, as if unaware that there was anything amiss, she chatted on cheerfully, the light trap flying through the country lanes, till at length a pair of white wooden gates were reached. Passing through these, they rattled along a short carriage drive, finally pulling up in front of the house, through the open doors of which a stream of light shone out into the darkness.

At the sound of the wheels a rosy-cheeked maid came bustling out, all smiles and anxiety to help; while from the stables close by a queer-looking creature hastened, wiping his mouth with his sleeve—he had been disturbed in the middle of his tea—and, having touched his cap and grinned sheepishly at Graeme, seized the pony by the bridle and led him away to stable and oats. This person was Tom, of whom Lucy had spoken, a Norfolk man born and bred, and a stranger to towns and their ways. Not a gentleman's servant in appearance possibly—his multitudinous duties forbade that—but an honest and devoted creature nevertheless, and one who had already identified himself with Cuddingfold Hall and its interests.

The arrival of his new master was an event in Tom's life, one he had looked forward to for many weeks; for though contented enough—as were all Lucy's servants—in his present post, he had felt that a man was wanted about the place, one who would be up and after those feathered denizens of marsh and pool, the thought of whose undisturbed serenity had of late begun to get on Tom's nerves. But now that the master had arrived, the master of whose prowess with the gun he had heard so much and often, he felt, strangely enough, a bitter sense of disappointment. This was not the hero he had expected, this white-faced haggard man, who had not so much as looked at him or noted his greeting, but without a word had descended from the cart and walked stiffly into the house.

Something was also wrong with the mistress; the brightness had gone from her face, and she had also omitted her usual "good-night." Tom was not given to fancies, but, like most of those whose natural instinct has not been stifled by a smattering of education, he, in common with the beasts and birds he loved, knew things intuitively, and that intuition made him aware of a strong feeling of repulsion towards his new master. In vain did he fight against it—it remained; and Tom's ruddy face was strangely overcast as he unharnessed the white pony and shook out his evening feed of oats; nor was his whistle quite so shrill and cheerful as it generally was when performing that operation.

Hector, meanwhile, was left standing alone in the black-and-white tiled hall, for Lucy, on their entrance, had disappeared and the maid was already busy on her knees upstairs with the unpacking of portmanteaux. But now that he was alone and had time to marshal his thoughts, for which he had been praying all through that nightmare drive, the same deadening sense of unreality descended on his mind like a pall, and he stood there, his brain a whirling chaos. Only a few hours before he had felt himself to be of steel, inflexible of will and insensible to all human emotions save that of love; he had even gloried in what he meant to do, as marking him out as a man above his fellows, in that for him conventional scruples had no meaning, and bonds deemed unbreakable he could tear asunder without a pang.

He had told Stara—and had believed what he said—that this was nothing to him. But in the exaltation of that moment he had overlooked two things: the one, the power of old associations over the human mind; the other—the curse of natures such as his—nerves, a legacy bequeathed to him, amongst other things, by his mother, and the revolt of which means paralysis to the strongest will. In vain did Hector call upon that will, it would not answer; in vain did he repeat that this was nothing; old associations told him he lied, and bade him look around and see what this thing was he was about to do.

They pointed to the thousand and one evidences of womanly love and forethought: the spotless cleanliness and comfort of the old firelit hall, the gleam of brass and pewter ornaments, the polish on oak and mahogany. The scales fell from Hector's eyes, and he knew that this same nothing was in reality a horror, growing in intensity with the passing of the minutes, and at the thought of which his coward nerves now quivered and shrank.