Front matter (continued 5)

Only too well did he realise, standing here, what his homecoming meant to Lucy; the care she had lavished on this place to make it a home, such as he would like; the pride with which she had looked forward to welcoming him to it. All this was his; he was the master here whom all were anxious to serve; no longer was he a mere irresponsible officer of cavalry, but the head of a household—a man to be looked up to and respected. Respected? He? Why, the very servants who now waited so smilingly upon him would turn from him with loathing did they know his purpose; and soon they must know it, and to-morrow all would be changed.

At the thought, a sudden wave of hatred of himself came over him, and with it a sense of moral uncleanness and unfitness to be in this innocent, harmless household. He bowed his head and shuddered where he stood. Nevertheless, despite his present tortures, he knew that do this thing he would; for his will was but paralysed for the moment by shattered nerves, and it remained the while unchanged; only it was harder, infinitely, immeasurably harder than he had thought. Then he heard the sound of Lucy's voice from above, and, looking up, he saw her from the gallery overhead smiling down upon him, and there was something in her smile that made Hector wince.

"Come up here, will you, Hector?" she said, and the cheerfulness in her voice rang false; "I have something to show you." Without a word, Hector mounted the stairs and joined her.

"What is it, Lucy?" he said dully.

"It—it's Ruby; I want you to see her now, at last; and—and, Hector, you will try not to be disappointed, won't you? She—she's not a very strong child, and there's something ... wrong."

"Wrong, what do you mean?"

"Oh, I know I ought to have told you, and I tried to many times, but ... couldn't. Go in now and see for yourself, and please try and not show you ... you notice, Hector."

"Where is she?"

"That door there. No, no, I won't come in with you; don't ask me, Hector, for I can't," and Lucy hurried away, leaving Hector standing before a red baize-covered door. Faintly curious, he knocked, and a voice said, "Come in." He entered, and then stood staring. In a high chair, drawn up close to the fire, a small pale-faced child was sitting, holding in her arms a yellow plush monkey, to which she was softly singing. As Hector entered, she turned quickly, and at the sight of her eyes the new-comer muttered "Good God!" and clutched at a chair.

"Yes, sir," said the nurse, watching him, "she can't see you; she was born like that. It's your father, Miss Ruby, come to see you and say good-night to you. I think, sir," turning again to Hector, who was still standing motionless, "perhaps you had better go now; she's not very strong, sir, and if distressed..." But the nurse stopped, astonished; for Hector, unheeding, had suddenly stumbled forward, and, picking up the little child, whose thin arms closed round his neck, was crying over her like a woman.

Hastily the nurse rose up, thimbles, needles, and work falling unheeded on the floor, and rushed headlong from the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she was soon sobbing loudly in the cook's arms.

"I'll never forget it, Martha, not if I live to be a hundred. Him disappointed, him not love the child! Why, from the moment he set eyes on her, he just made one rush and—and ... Oh, he's a good sort is that man, Martha, a right down good fellow," and again she sobbed aloud, the cook also weeping in sympathy. Nor, may it be here remarked, did the nurse ever subsequently change her opinion, but, deaf to all argument and blind to proof, maintained always that the master was a good master, let them say what they liked, and, if some folk weren't rightly able to understand him, that was their fault, not his.

Above, in the firelit nursery, father and daughter made friends; for the incredible had happened, and Hector had taken to this poor weakling as he would never have done to the sturdy, healthy romp prayed for by Lucy. Perhaps in little blind Ruby he recognised the physical incarnation of his own twisted soul, perhaps in some dim way he knew that to him and him only her infirmities were owing, but, be this as it may, his heart went out to her and hers to him.

Here, where he had least expected one, he had found a friend, and forthwith his tortured nerves were calmed and his working brain at rest; and he opened out his mind to this baby as to one his equal in years and knowledge. And the blind eyes were kept fixed on his own, and the thin hands stroked his face, as she murmured words of sympathy, possibly wondering what all this might mean and possibly comprehending, for God and his angels alone know what little children do understand.

An hour passed and still the two sat there, though in silence now, for the sightless eyes were closed and Ruby was happily dreaming; then the door opening noiselessly, the snuffling nurse stood on the threshold, and behind her Lucy, her eyes wide with wonderment and a certain awe at the marvel Heaven had brought to pass. In silence she followed Hector from the room, and when the door had closed behind them, and they stood in the passage outside, she turned and laid her hands on his breast.

"Hector," she said very low, "you have taught me a lesson. I have been so wicked about her, dearest, so unnatural; but from to-night I—I will make amends." She leaned towards him, but Hector started back, his eyes wild. For a moment he stood staring at her, and then sharply turning left her, and a minute afterwards was lying face downwards on the bed in his dressing-room, his hands gripping the iron frame-work and his face rigid with pain.

Here Lucy, entering half an hour later, all pale blue and white lace, found him, but paid no heed, only rallied him gently for being late the first night of his return, and said, "Do you like my present? Oh, never mind; to-morrow will do, it isn't much really, only, oh, Hector, do please look at them," and Lucy flew to a large brown paper parcel lying ignored on the floor, and on which was inscribed in large letters: "To HECTOR, WITH LUCY'S LOVE." "They're something you've always wanted," she ran on, her slender fingers busy with knots as she spoke, "and I've always wished to give you, but never been able to till now. There—" as the last wrapping of paper was torn off and the lid of a brown leather case revealed and lifted—"don't—don't you like them?" looking rather anxiously at Hector, who was staring silently down at a pair of shining Purdy guns, delights which in the past he had often longed for but had never been able to afford. At least three years of close saving on Lucy's part did this gift represent, for well he knew that not one penny of the price had been taken from his own money; out of her own small income alone had these toys been bought.

"They're all right, Hector, aren't they? They're ejectors, you see," fingering the barrels of one as she spoke; "and there are plenty of cartridges downstairs—Kynochs brass. No. 6, the ones you always used to use. And to-morrow we'll try them, won't we? Oh, I'm so looking forward to to-morrow, I do hope it will be fine, and then you and I and Tom..." She stopped suddenly, for Hector had again turned away from her and was leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire.

"Hector," touching his shoulder, "won't you, can't you tell me now, dear?"

"No—no, not now—later. Leave me, Lucy; I'll join you in a minute." And Lucy without a word left him.

* * * * *

Dinner was over, and wrath reigned in Martha's ample bosom, for the skill and knowledge of a life-time had gone to the preparing of this night's repast, and bitterly she felt that all her talent had been wasted. "Mark my words, Eliza," she said to the kitchen maid, "there's something wrong with a man as don't relish a beautiful dinner like this. There's that vol-o-vong, the souffly too, came down untasted. It ain't in nature, Eliza—it ain't; and 'im too just back from furrin parts. Oh, I've not patience with him, nor yet with the Missus either," and she shut the oven door with a bang.

Upstairs, in the softly-lighted drawing-room, Lucy and her husband were sitting looking into the fire. Silence had fallen, for the woman's chatter, sustained uninterruptedly during the meal, had ceased at last, and the time had come for the one to hear and the other to tell. Now she sat waiting, with nerves braced and every faculty alert and ready for battle.

The minutes ticked away, but still the silence remained unbroken, for by now all coherence of thought had left Hector, and, strive as he would, no sequence of thought would come. In vain did he try to call up Stara's face to strengthen him; in vain did he repeat that this was mere weakness, and that carry this thing through he must; he could say the words as much and as often as he liked, but no resolution lay behind them—they were but as ghosts.

The exaltation of the night before; the long train journey; the meeting with Lucy; and then the final blow dealt by a pair of thin baby hands—all had told; and now, when he had most need of them, strength of purpose and clearness of thought were gone.

Suddenly Lucy rose, and, moving swiftly across to him, knelt on the hearth at his feet, her bright eyes fixed on his.

"Dear, tell me," she whispered, "as you promised; I am your wife, remember, and have the right to know. I don't mind what it is, Hector, so that you tell me."

"Lucy, I can't, I meant to, God knows; but now the time's come, I can't think—my head's whirling. Give me till to-morrow, Lucy, I will tell you then, I swear."

"And you think, Hector, I could wait till to-morrow," said Lucy passionately, "oh, how can you be so inhuman? Surely, surely, it can't be so hard a thing as this, that you can't tell me, your wife of ten years. Oh, my dearest," and Lucy put her arms round his neck, "we have never had secrets from each other, like most husbands and wives."

"This is different, Lucy."

"Is it money ... gambling? If so, I can help you. I have——"

"It's not money, Lucy."

"Something you've done in the regiment, then, have—have they cashiered you, Hector? If that's it, I don't mind a bit. I always hated the regiment; it was never a good enough one for you."

"It's nothing of that sort, Lucy."

Lucy stared at him, her brow knit in thought; then suddenly her arms fell from his neck and she sank, a huddled heap, on the hearth-rug.

"It's ... another ... woman, Hector?"

"Yes."

Silence, and then the bowed figure straightened itself, and the light of battle once more came into her eyes. She would fight this out to the end.

"Tell me about it, Hector," she said steadily, "everything, please. I want the whole story, nothing kept back whatever."

Hector began, a recital very different from that arranged in his mind only a few hours before. "Lucy, when I left South Africa, three weeks ago, I could say, what very few husbands can to their wives, that I had never been unfaithful to you."

"You needn't tell me that; I know it. Go on."

"But on the ship—the—the—I can't think of the name—I met her ... and——"

"Her, who?"

"Never mind that, Lucy; it would do no good telling it ... and we—she and I got to care for each other, and—and—that's all, Lucy. Oh, for God's sake, don't let's go on now."

"Is that all, Hector? Was she—this woman—good? There was no—no wickedness, you understand me, Hector, don't you?"

"There was none."

"Thank God!" she breathed, and then a pause followed.

"Where is she now, dear?"

"I don't know—in London somewhere, I believe; she returns to Africa in a few days."

"And you, Hector, what do you mean to do, to go back with her? If so, tell me now, and—and..." Lucy paused, and then went on, "if that's what you really want, Hector, if it—it's not only a passing infatuation, and you feel you cannot live without this woman, I—I will help you, dear."

"What do you mean?"

"This, that I am too proud, Hector, to keep you tied to me against your will. I—I don't look upon marriage as some do, as a chain which nothing can break. Love's the only chain I recognise, and if that is broken between us I will set you free, Hector."

"You want to get rid of me, is that it, Lucy?"

"Oh, my God, Hector, if there is but a chance, the merest atom of hope, I would cling to it, but I—I don't think there is, somehow. Hector, is there?"

Here was the way made easy, here were the obstacles lying down of their own free will to let him pass, and yet, strangely enough, it was this very ease that conquered Hector now and dealt the final blow to resolution.

Had Lucy opposed him, had she but hinted that the bond between them was indissoluble, Hector's soul would have risen in instant rebellion, and with rebellion would have come strength to act. But Lucy's love for once had made her subtle, and so, there being no opposition and nothing to fight, the sword remained useless in the scabbard.

"Hector," she went on, and her lips were now set in a firm straight line, "tell me, are you going back with this woman to South Africa or not?"

Hector's groping hands snatched at the dangling rope and held on. "She is going back alone," he muttered; "there was never any thought of our returning together."

For a full minute Lucy knelt looking at him, her blue eyes searching his soul; then again her arms went around his neck, and she broke into a passion of weeping.

"Thank God, oh, thank God!" she murmured; "you're my Hector still; forgive me, dearest, for having doubted you. I ought to have known that you, of all men, would never be guilty of dishonour or treachery to me. Oh, it was hateful of me, hateful."

"Lucy, wait. I—I——"

"No, you've been brave and true, Hector; you've fought temptation and conquered it, and I honour you for it and love you a thousand times more than before. And—and she, oh, don't turn away; I wouldn't speak ill of her for the world. I will pray for her, and ask God to comfort her, for she—she must be a good woman, Hector, far—far better than I am. I would never have given you up had I been her."

"For God's sake stop, Lucy; you—you're wrong."

"No, Hector, I won't; my heart's too full of gratitude to God and her, and—and, dear——"

"Well?"

"I should like some time, if you'll let me, to write to her and send her some little thing from me and Ruby to show her I know and sympathise; for we, Ruby and I, owe her so much—so much. And you, you poor boy, I'll help you through. I will be patient and tactful, dear, and won't expect things ... yet. But it will all come back again, won't it—your love, I mean—and I haven't taken it so badly, have I? Oh, for God's sake, dearest, don't you break down," for Hector's head had fallen forward on his hands and his whole body was quivering. "Come upstairs now and sleep. To-morrow the sun will be shining and we'll start afresh, Hector, you and I and ... Ruby."

CHAPTER XVI

The morning came, the white-rimed marshland glittered in the morning sun, kittiwake and plover renewed their battle with the wind. The daylight faded and was gone, a glow of pink and yellow appeared in the west, green of sky deepened to blue, the sound of unseen wings clove the violet dusk overhead, and dim shapes stole phantom-like across the moon. The first day of the new life was past, and the gloom was not lightened but had become deeper, ever deeper, with the flitting of the hours.

With Hector's coming, the peace and happiness reigning over that Norfolk home had spread their wings and fled. There was something wrong, and everyone knew it, despite Lucy's strivings after concealment; but the instinct of the servant class is a hard thing to baffle, and, ignore it as she might, only too well did the mistress know that there was not one member of the household but was fully aware that between her and the master all was not harmony.

Further, she knew—and to Lucy's proud soul this was perhaps the hardest of all to bear—that, with one exception, they were with her and against Hector. The exception, of course, was the nurse, who maintained stoutly that they were all a pack of fools, and if misunderstanding there were, though for her part she could not see it, it was the fault of the mistress, to whom in consequence her manner became somewhat cold and distant. And for this Lucy loved her, and hated her self-constituted allies, snubbing their advances on all occasions and showering unnecessary favours on the haughty nurse. In vain, however, for in both directions did she fail: her allies continued to smile and sympathise; the enemy declined to be mollified.

Day by day the clouds thickened, and she realised that that which she had thought but a rift between her and Hector—an ugly rent maybe and one that, though healed, must ever leave a scar behind—was in reality a chasm, the depths of which she was unable to fathom. Hard though she fought to bridge it and cross over to where he was standing, it was all in vain; for the planks she stretched out fell uselessly from the farther edge, receding as they touched it, and the figure on the other side grew daily smaller and more indistinct. And Lucy might hope to cross that yawning chasm in vain, for that which lurked within it, pushing its sides asunder, was a lie unconfessed. If Hector would only confess and pluck the lie from the depths, no longer would the gulf widen, but remain fixed for her to bridge, could she but find the plank. If it were left, however, like an iron wedge it would sink lower, ripping and rending as it sank.

Of such a confession from Hector there was little hope now: the lie was almost out of sight already, and he wished it so buried. His brain reeled at the thought of further explanations, every jangling nerve clamoured for peace—peace; for that odd paralysis, which had seized upon his will the first night, had not lifted, as he had hoped, in the morning, rather had it tightened its hold, till now all power of resistance had left him and he had fallen to drifting without mast or oars on a grey, horizonless sea. Something would happen; it was for that he lived now; not for ever could he wander on like this; land must be viewed at last; and at the thought a ray of hope would glimmer above the grey monotony, and its beam for an instant strike warm on his heart.

Yes, sooner or later the end would come; Lucy would see and insist on his going, and not only offer to let him go, as she had done before. He forgot, in his own blindness, that Lucy too could not see, for he himself had taken away her sight. The days dragged on, grey and purposeless, and at last Lucy also began to despair. Do what she would, it was all useless. Unhappiness, unkindness even, she had been prepared for and would have known how to meet, but this dull apathy, this total lack of interest in life, it was that which crushed her.

He was so changed, too, from the husband of former years; his whole nature and tastes seemed to have undergone some strange transformation. All his assertiveness and intolerance had left him: she might advance what views she liked now—and often she did in the vain hope of awakening the old Hector—it was all to no purpose; he never contradicted or opposed. Even the laudation of newspapers, from which only had Lucy learnt of a certain event on board the Dunrobin Castle, was ignored by its object, and it was she, not Hector, as it would have been in former years, who sent for every paper dealing with the subject, and having read their contents to the assembled household, cut out the paragraphs, and, tying them up with stout ribbon, put them carefully away with a certain honours' list and other treasures.

The shooting also, from which she had anticipated such joy, failed to arouse any enthusiasm, and the peace of marsh and pool remained almost undisturbed by the bang of the Purdys. True, on one or two occasions he had gone out in answer to her frequent urgings, but he was all the time obviously thinking of other things, and screeching snipe and quacking mallard flew away only too often unscathed, even unseen, by the erstwhile vigilant eyes. Then, while the sun was yet high in the heaven, he would suggest a return home, and, once there, would shut himself up in his room, and read uninterruptedly till dinner, and after that silent meal till well into the night.

This, perhaps, was the most disquieting change of all, the transformation of the former restless, energetic Hector into a bookworm. Such books too: no less than three works on the doings of an uninteresting and seemingly insane person called Suvarov; a collection of medical works, or such they appeared to Lucy; and another, one she had found on his dressing-table one morning, a thin daintily-bound volume called "The Heifer of the Dawn." What a strange name, she thought and, taking it up, opened it, and then stood rigid, with her eyes fixed on the title-page. For a moment she remained looking, then with sudden passion tore the book across, and, thrusting the halves into the fire, stamped them into the burning coals with her foot.

"Oh, it's no use—no use at all," she thought drearily, and from that day abandoned the struggle and left it to be fought out by Ruby. And in no better hands could she have entrusted it, for indifferent to all else as Hector had become there was yet one who, whatever his mood, was always sure of a glad welcome, that one being his small daughter.

"Miss Ruby, sir," the nurse would say, breaking in upon him without ceremony, "and she's much better to-day, sir. I declare she's getting quite strong now her father's come home," and down would go Schopenhauer or Lombroso, and Hector, springing up, would rush at the little figure groping its way towards him, and, placing her on his knee, invent lame and improbable fairy stories, or carry her off to the stables for inspection—if such it could be called when one could not see—of the white pony and a certain grey rabbit, bought for her by him in the village.

At other times, when the black mood was on him, she would lie quite still in his arms, her hand now and again stroking his face, while she murmured words of sympathy and encouragement. For Ruby always knew and understood, and in those baby fingers lay a strength and power, which were rapidly growing, till in time they might have torn away Stara's grip on his heart, had the battle been left to her and Fate not interfered. As it was, she made a good fight for it, and very nearly won; for Hector, even thus early, had begun to ask himself the question, "Ruby or Stara?" And though the balance was still down on the one side, yet daily the other was drawing up.

At last, one bitter January morning, as the two sat in his room by the fire, she on his knee, the knowledge awoke within him, that, quivering, the scales hung level, and, knowing, for a moment he pondered, and then spoke.

"Ruby," he said. At his voice the child looked up quickly, for there was something tremendous coming, and she knew it at once.

"'Oo's frightened, daddy, 'oo's frightened at something. Tell Ruby." Her hands groped their way to his face and rested there. The balance went clashing down.

"Would you like me to stay with you always, Ruby, just you and I, and mother, and Peter?" Peter was the rabbit.

"James"—the yellow plush monkey—"too, daddy, and 'Iteing."

"James too, of course, and Whiting. Would you like it, Ruby, or ... shall I go away?"

"You're my daddy; I'se not let you go. Oh, daddy, daddy," and the thin arms were wound tightly round his neck, and the sightless eyes filled with tears, "you can't go, you shan't go. It's my burfday soon, and you promised to have tea wiv me, you and muvver."

"But, Ruby, dear."

"Oh, daddy, oh, daddy, 'oo promised."

Graeme rose and put her gently down. His face had grown ashen, but in his eyes shone a light such as none, not even Stara, had seen there before, a light that none ever saw again.

"I'll keep my promise, Ruby," he said, an odd ring in his voice. "I'll go now and tell mother. You wait here, dear, and take care of James till I come back," and Hector left her, and went on his way to tell "mother."

She was not in the house, the maid said; she thought she was in the garden. The girl looked rather hostile as she told him, more so than usual, he thought; but he paid no heed, for all that was to be at an end now, and passed out into the frozen garden, at the far end of which a figure could be seen pacing slowly up and down the gravel path. A bitter east wind was blowing, but neither hat nor wrap had Lucy, and, for the first time since his home-coming, Hector noted such things; a pang of self-reproach struck him, and he hurried on.

"Lucy dear," he said, drawing near, "you're mad to be out in the cold like this; come into the house and sit with me over the fire. I've got something to tell you, something I hope you'll be glad to hear. I've been blind, Lucy, but——"

"So have I been blind," and at the words Hector stopped, staring, for surely this was not the gentle Lucy, this white-faced woman, whose blue eyes glared at him?

"You liar! ... You unutterable liar!..." she went on in low, trembling tones. "Oh, don't speak, but look at that," thrusting out a slip of paper towards him. It was a cheque for £150, undated, and made out to the name of Miss Selbourne.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the pocket of one of your coats, the one you were wearing yesterday. Like a fool, I was looking over your things as ... as I used to do. That fell out."

"Lucy, this ... this is nothing."

"Nothing? You send this creature money, or were going to send it, it's the same thing, from here, your wife's house. You—you cad, Hector!"

A flame of anger appeared for a second in the man's eyes, his face grew white, but he mastered himself, and answered quietly enough:

"I was not going to send it, Lucy; that cheque was written six weeks ago. I forgot to date it, as I usually do my letters or cheques. The money was refused."

"Forgot? Refused? That sort of woman refuse money? You expect me to believe a wild, improbable tale like that. Oh, but I understand, though you think any lie is good enough for a poor trusting fool of a wife to believe. And it was, Hector, but—but not now."

"Wait, I've not finished. It's true that cheque was refused, but I insisted, and wrote another the same night, did not forget the date, and this time it ... was accepted."

"And you tell this to me, you stand there and own your vileness?"

"Yes, for I wish to tell you the truth, Lucy."

"Spare yourself the trouble. I don't believe you."

"As you please then, I don't care. Five minutes ago I did, but now——" He stopped suddenly and, turning away, stood with his back towards her, and then, the devil fought under, tried once more: "Lucy, won't you hear me, if not for my sake, then for ... Ruby's? I did lie to you that first night, or rather I let you believe what was not true, but my nerves were all to pieces, and I couldn't think or speak. I'll tell you the whole story now. It was for that I came out here."

"Yes, now that you're found out and caught."

The devil conquered. "Found out," before the fury in his voice Lucy's died, and fear sprang to life, "what do I care what you find out? I do love this woman. I thought just now I did not, but I was a fool, I do. I love her as I've never loved you, and—and I'm going back to her now."

"Hector, you're mad. You can't, you shall not—Hector?"

"You're too late, I came out with the full intention of telling you all, and, cur that I was ... giving her up. Oh, it was not for your sake, don't think it; it was for..." A spasm contorted his face for a moment, but in an instant passed, and he went on:

"Yes, for the first time in my life I was weak, but of that weakness you've cured me, and given me back my strength, and for that, my wife, I thank you. No more puling sentiment now for me; no more 'mummy and daddy'—hell's curse on you all!—but love ... life..."

"A life of sin, Hector, for, as God hears me, I'll never set you free now. Had you been honest with me from the first, as I implored you to be, I would have done it, but now—no!"

"Lucy, take care."

"Take care, why should I take care? What have I to care for now? Kill me if you like, Hector, it's the only way. I swear it. What stops you, my husband? You did it once before, and..."

"Twice."

"I dare say fifty times, and for far less reason. Kill me, I ask you, I'm not afraid to die. You won't? Then ... go." And Hector went.

At the hall door an uncouth figure was standing, awaiting him; it was Tom, bearing news of widgeon in the marshes and woodcock in the spinny, blown in by the gale last night, but the story was cut short. "Bring the cart round at once. Damn the widgeon!" answered his master, and hurried within. There was barely time to catch the train, but the devil was aiding him now, and ten minutes later dressing-case and portmanteau had been carried below and thrown into the waiting cart; and he was left standing in the room he was leaving behind for ever.

Dully his eyes rested upon the new guns reposing in their leather case, the wild grasses on the mantelpiece, and on his bed the yellow plush figure of James. For a moment he stood staring at the monkey, and then, snatching it up, thrust it away out of sight in his pocket, and hurried from the room. Down the stairs he went, through the black-and-white tiled hall, creeping like a thief past a certain closed door, and then into the cart and away at a gallop.

Rocking and swaying, they flew through the narrow lanes, rounding corners on one wheel, and shaving heavily-laden country carts. On through the village, scattering children and flocks of frightened geese, till at last the station was reached. Only just in time too, for the train was already on the move, but one push from the gleeful devil and Hector was across the platform and into the train; and three minutes later was lying a huddled heap in the corner, the flat green landscape around him sliding away into the past.

Tom sat gazing after him, with a look on his face that few had ever seen there before. He climbed slowly down, and, taking out a blanket, spread it carefully over the white pony's quarters, streaked with rivulets of sweat. For a moment he stood contemplating his quivering charge, and then his eyes fell on the golden sovereign lying in his hand.

"Curse your dirty money!" he said violently, and flung it far over an adjacent hedge into the field beyond.

* * * * *

Lucy remained, where they had parted, in the frost-blighted garden, her heart as numb and cold as the ground on which she stood. With stony eyes she gazed out over the marshland, shining in the winter sunlight; she saw the foam-flecked, cloud-shadowed sea, and heard the scream of gull and quavering cry of speeding curlew, and knew that as she loved it all once so she hated it now. For here, where she had looked forward to perfect happiness and union with one beloved, she had found nothing but a broken heart and faith shattered beyond recall.

As she stood there, a little figure came stumbling towards her, its face blue with the east wind and a wild terror in the sightless eyes.

"Daddy, daddy," she wailed, "'oo's gone, and 'oo's promised to stay wiv me," and, still calling and running blindly on, she struck an iron hoop guarding the border and fell headlong, her cries dying to a feeble moaning.

Passionate indignation against Hector shook Lucy at the sight, and, running forward, she lifted the child and held her close against her heart.

"Daddy's left us, Ruby," she said, "but you have me, your mother, still. Oh, darling, why did you come out here in the bitter cold? It was very wrong of you, Ruby," and Lucy hurried away, her burden clutched tightly in her arms.

"I want daddy! I want daddy!" And strive as she might, no effort of Lucy's could still those cries, which later became feebler, running off into snatches of song and prayers to God.

"Send for her father, ma'am," implored the nurse, her ruddy face white with anxiety. "You ought to, ma'am; it's criminal not to, and I say it, though I am only a servant."

Lucy bade her hold her tongue and not interfere, opposing the same sullen obstinacy to the doctor when he came.

"You're taking a very great responsibility on yourself then, madam," he said, being an outspoken man, though fond of little children, and, seating himself beside the cot, he fixed his keen eyes on the baby's face.

Then, at last, terror conquering pride, Lucy wrote out a telegram and sent it off, only to receive it back an hour later—it was too late, and the office closed.

A message, nevertheless, was next morning delivered to where Hector was sitting in his dingy hotel bedroom, a yellow plush monkey in his arms, and the devil vanquished at last. The message ran:

"Ruby died last night.—LUCY."

Hector stood looking at it, and then suddenly laughed, high-pitched laughter, long and loud, till with a crack it ended, and he fell forward on to the floor, where he lay motionless. And the devil beside him once more raised his head, came nearer, bent down, and began to whisper fast and low in his ear.

CHAPTER XVII

Richard Selbourne stood in front of his South African home, blankly surveying the cloudless heaven.

Over the white farm-buildings and tin-roofed kaffir huts a slumbrous peace was reigning, for it was the hour of noonday rest, and men and beasts alike lay placidly sleeping.

Clothing the shores of the great dam hard by—now shrunk to half its usual proportions—the feathery willows drooped motionless, as though in silent lamentation of its fallen estate; even the restless windmill had ceased from toiling, and save for an occasional dismal clonk, uttered seemingly in its dreams, slumbered with the rest.

Stretching away on all sides from the small oasis of trees, lucerne patches, and dam, forming Rosebank Farm, rolled a sea of yellow grass, from which stuck up, like islands, saw-like ridge and conical kopje, and beyond them could be seen a giant ring of brown, paper-like hills, their outline sharp-cut and rigid against a sky of hard vivid blue.

As he looked at the scene, a frown gathered on Richard's handsome face, and in impotent anger he shook his fist at the blandly-smiling heavens.

"Confound you!" he muttered, "why can't you hide your face and rain for once in a while? My lucerne's withering, the dam will give out in a fortnight, the beasts are dying in the fields. Gad, I came out here to get away from English mists and fogs, but I'd give something now to feel one of those same old yellow fogs in my throat again. England, London, shops, Club, Savoy—oh damn! I'll go in and sleep." Richard shook his smart person—for clad though he was in weatherbeaten garments, patched and stained, Selbourne possessed that indefinable air of "class," which ancient clothes but serve to emphasise—and walked slowly back to the house.

On the stoep the figure of a girl was standing, clad in a black-and-white homespun riding-skirt, a white drill jacket, and a large grey Terai hat. "Hullo, Stara," said Richard, seeing her; "now, what the blazes are you up to, not going out riding in this heat, surely? You'll get sunstroke to a moral, if you do. Hullo!" suddenly aware of something unusual in her appearance, "what have you done to yourself? Lord, you've got on a habit, what's up? Oh!" and Richard's mouth expanded into a grin; and he winked at his sister, whose face straightway became bright red.

"And why shouldn't I put on a skirt?" she answered with dignity. "I know I usually do not, but——."

"But now he's coming you do."

"Nothing of the sort, I put it on because it's cooler. Don't keep me, please. I'm going to meet the Cape cart, as you're too lazy. Where's Polly?"

"In bed and asleep, but I shouldn't worry if I were you. The boy ought to know his way by now. I'm afraid though, old girl, this pal of yours will have rather a dull time, nothing on earth to do but look at the sunset, and you, I suppose. What's the game, Stara, are you going to make a job of it at last? Tell your brother, my child."

Again the vivid blush, but with it now a sharp stab of pain. Make a job of it, yes. Tell her brother, not for a thousand worlds, though ten times a thousand would Stara have given to be able to say, "I'm going to marry him," instead of telling a lie—the first of many.

"There's nothing to tell you, Dick," she answered, looking away; "he's a friend, that's all. You know I have men friends without any thought of other things."

"I'm aware you have, though the poor devils themselves think differently, I should say. Never mind, old lady, you carry on and do what you like; it's no business of mine; and it's dull enough for you here, God knows, with only Polly and me."

"It is not, Dick, it is not, you must never think that, I love being here, and I—I hope you will like Colonel Graeme, though I'm afraid somehow he's not quite the sort of man you would."

"Oh, I'll like him all right, Stara, don't you bother. I do most fellows, unless they're wrong 'uns, and I know you wouldn't fancy one of that sort. Funny I never saw the chap when the '1st' came through here last year. I dined with them, you know, and can remember most. There was a fellow called Porky, who never stopped talking till he got blind, and Graves, and Carson—good fellow, Carson—and old Royle, and yes, there was another chap none of them seemed to fancy. I didn't cotton to him myself, either, though I don't know why. He set my teeth on edge, for some reason."

"What was he like, Dick?"

"Rum-looking fellow, long nose, pale face, black eyes, not a bit like a soldier. Wore a purple silk cap at dinner, I remember, with gold bugs on it. Never saw such a thing in my life."

"Dick, it's he; but his eyes are not black, they're blue."

"Lord, you don't mean it, Stara? Damn, but I'm sorry, somehow. I wish it had been Carson—never mind, though. I dare say I was wrong, I usually am, and, anyway, your bringing him here is good enough for me. I'm going in to sleep now. Bye-bye, old girl; don't overtire yourself; you look a bit white. Polly and I will be looking out for you when you get back."

"Dick, if—you'd rather not have him here, I'll arrange it. I'll tell him you've sickness in the house, and that he must put up at the hotel. I could ride with him every day just the same."

"Hotel be blowed, Stara, what, a guest of mine put up at that Duikerpoort drinking shanty. Thank'ye no, I don't do that sort of thing. Now be off. Here's your pony, and tell Graeme from me he's very welcome; don't forget," and Richard rather huffily pushed aside the cane blinds and disappeared into the house.

Stara mounted and rode slowly away, the old antagonists watching each other once more across the battlefield of her mind—loyalty and straight-dealing on the one side, and love on the other. Of struggle between them, however, there was now none, for the question had been fought out three weeks before, on that day when the single word "Coming" had been flashed to her across six thousand miles of sea. Then indeed the battle had been fierce but final, for Stara, unlike most women, did not, her antagonist once down, lift him up again for the pleasure of renewing the combat with the consequent certainty of ultimate defeat.

Slower than Hector in decision, for to her the throwing overboard of honour and loyalty was a heart-wrenching pang, she nevertheless, in this instance, showed herself stronger than he, and the giving up of all once determined on, the sacrifice would be made freely and unreservedly. And so honour and loyalty were crushed down, and love remained alone on the field. Her mouth hardened, she thrust aside the thought of what lay behind, and, striking her pony with her spurred heel, hurried on to the destiny rushing to meet her.

For miles she rode without drawing rein, her mount lolloping easily on, as if impervious to heat or fatigue, till at length, some eight miles having been covered, she pulled up, and, dismounting, loosened the girths and led the pony away from the track to a small rise a few hundred yards away. Here she left him, the reins trailing loosely on the ground—Basuto-bred, he would stay there, she knew, for hours—and, throwing herself down on the grass, lay there, with her eyes fixed on the road ahead, a white thread seaming the yellow plain, till, topping a distant rise, it became lost to view.

Far below her, stretching across the track, a great herd of blesbok were moving restlessly, their forms looking vague and unreal through the gauzy veil of heat. Save for them and a wide-winged lammergeier hanging motionless in the blue vault above, sign of life there was none—veldt, kopje, and mountain slumbered undisturbed.

Suddenly Stara's body stiffened, her half-closed eyes opened wide, and a look almost of terror came into them, for the peace was broken at last, and the blesbok below, like her, were startled. Their aimless wanderings ceased, the outlying groups drew in, till the herd became one solid mass, and their heads were turned away from her towards the rise, beyond which the road dipped and was lost to sight.

Something had frightened them, but what? Then Stara's eyes grew wild as she, too, saw what that something was—a small cloud of dust topping the hill, and then rapidly descending into the plain below her. For a while the herd stood staring, and then began to move away, at a walk first, then at a trot, and finally in a headlong gallop, bounding over the grass for some miles, when they stopped, wheeled sharply about and again stood staring.

The cloud of dust drew nearer, taking shape as it came, till a Cape cart drawn by mules could be plainly seen. In the cart there were two figures—one in black, with a conical hat, sitting bolt upright and brandishing a whip; the other seemed strangely misty and indistinct to Stara.

She rose, turned her eyes towards the browsing pony, and moved away; then stopped, with her mouth firm-set, and sat down once more.

"What a woman I am, after all," she muttered, "flight, hide for him to pursue and find; we're all the same, pretend as we like. Heavens, how fast that cart's coming, what does Jacob mean by driving the mules like that? Ah! they've seen me; there's the boy pointing with his whip, they're stopping, and it's come at last. Oh, I daren't look at him, I know he'll show elation, and I shall hate him."

"How do you do, Colonel Graeme?"

"Quite well, thank you, Miss Selbourne; that's the right answer, isn't it? Damned fit I am, look at me and see."

Startled, Stara looked up, and fear vanished in amazement, for here was no triumphant conqueror, but a stricken, haggard-eyed man. "He has done it and regrets," she thought, and instantly was in revolt.

"It's so very good of you to come, Colonel Graeme, such a long journey in the heat. Did you have a good passage? My brother is so looking forward to seeing you, shall we get on? My pony's here, and——"

"Don't be a fool, I've not come eight thousand miles to see your brother, sit down."

"I think perhaps, as it's getting late——"

"Do you want to hear, or don't you? If not, I go back now."

"That—that depends. If ... you regret ... I don't."

"Bah!"

"Tell me."

"Kiss me first, not like that—properly." He caught Stara to him, and kissed her in a way that made her cheeks flame. She shrank back frightened and ashamed.

"Does that look as though I regretted? Listen. I've broken with her, as I said I would. Please God, I'll never see her again, blast her!"

"Oh, Hector, hush! Why?"

"Because she failed to ... No, that's not the reason, because she won't divorce me. That settles us, you see, no marriage for you and me."

"I never expected it, Hector. I was ready for it. But ... there's something more. What is it?"

"More, what more do you want, isn't that enough?"

"Hector, there is; there's something which has ... hurt you. It's not the parting from her. I can see that. Dearest, I must—I will know."

"There's nothing, I tell you, me hurt, by the death of a blind brat? Oh, God, curse me for a babbling fool!"

"Good—good God!"

Hector turned savagely on her. "Why do you say that? What right have you to assume ... Take your arms away from me. Oh, you must hear, must you, satisfy your damned curiosity, I suppose? All right, you shall. I told you on the ship I had no children. I lied; there was one, I'd never seen her when I spoke. She was blind and sickly, but—God knows why—she ... liked me, used to crawl over me, and call me 'daddy,' me, Stara, 'daddy.' Laugh, curse you, laugh, you won't? Look here, then," he dragged from his pocket the battered figure of James, and held it from him, wildly laughing, "here's what I play with at nights alone, croon and chuckle over it like the madman I am. Damn you, give it back—give it back, I say," for Stara had snatched James from his hand and was holding him against her breast, her tears raining on the plush. Hector's hand fell to his side and he turned sharply away, then once more went on:

"And when I left—I did suddenly, one morning—she came out to find me in the garden. There was an east wind blowing, and she ... caught cold, I suppose, and she," the expression of his voice made Stara shrink back—"the nurse wrote to me, let her die without me; she asked for me, but she wouldn't send till it was too late. Oh, don't be a fool and snivel like that, who cares? I don't. She wouldn't have lived, in any case. Oh, it didn't take much to kill my child, Stara, she paid in her body for the rottenness of her father's soul. For I am rotten—rotten to the core."

"You're not, you're not, no man can be who can love a child like that. Dearest, I won't have you say it, for you're mine, Hector, mine. My love is all yours now, and so am—I."

"Yes, with reservations. Oh, I know the sort of love—pure, no vile, earthly thoughts—thus far and no farther."

"No. I am not like that. I make no reservations. I give you all."

Hector stared, and, passion once more reawakening, he caught her by the shoulders; but Stara held him off, her grey eyes looking up into his.

"Wait, there is something you must promise me first. It—it may be, Hector, that in time there might come—another—oh, don't shrink away from me, it hurts so much—and you'd love my—our child, wouldn't you, Hector? But if ... that should happen, you must take me away ... leave the army, forsake ambition for—for love. Could you do that? Think well before you answer, for it's a big thing, Hector."

Hector, however, was now in passion's grip, and reflection had become impossible. Had Stara at that moment asked for the Southern Cross to wear in her hair, he would have promised her that, or anything else; and without a second's hesitation, he swore, if called upon, to do her bidding.

CHAPTER XVIII

Thus Hector followed in the footsteps of those with whom he claimed kinship, and, like them, left the broad track of conventional duty to turn aside into the by-paths of illicit love. True, behind him, trampled in the dust of the highway, broken vows and the fragments of a woman's happiness were lying, and, ever vivid and distinct, a tiny grave. But what of that, since he had carried through his purpose, and proved himself above the human weaknesses by which other men's lives are cramped and fettered? Feverishly he drank of the cup held out to him by Stara, and, his thirst quenched but too soon, revived the dead craving with the salt of imagination, and demanded more, ever more.

A month passed, and he was no longer a stranger, but one of the household; the hand of fellowship was held out to him by all, and by no one more eagerly than his host, whose cordiality was adopted the better to hide the curious instinctive aversion of twelve months before, which had but increased with fuller acquaintance with his guest. In vain did Richard assure himself that the feeling was one of prejudice only; it grew in strength daily, till at last, at Graeme's approach, Dick would make off, feigning work on the farm, or any excuse to avoid being alone with a man in whose presence he became so unaccountably silent and embarrassed.

His wife, however, had from the first taken to the stranger, though her only reason for such liking was, it must be owned, the essentially feminine one of sympathy for a lover, for that Hector was Stara's she had realised from the first, though why undeclared was beyond her comprehension.

It must be her sister-in-law's fault, she had come to believe, and was in consequence somewhat annoyed with Stara, frequently pressing her for explanations. If she cared for Colonel Graeme, why did she not admit it? It was not fair to play fast and loose with a man's devotion. Upon which her sister-in-law would smile, and assure her she was altogether wrong and didn't understand; she and Hector were friends, nothing more. Friends! as if she, Mary, was blind or a fool. And with much indignation the hostess would return to her housework, leaving the pair as usual to their own devices. They must settle the matter their own way, she decided, and, if Graeme was but half the man she took him to be, he would sooner or later bring Stara to book, for of the latter's feelings, too, Mary had no doubt, though Stara was far more successful in concealing them than Hector. Still, there was no mistaking the improvement in her sister-in-law's looks, or the meaning of the shedding of her former assumption of mannishness, which, with the bifurcated riding garments, had gone apparently for good, a modest riding-skirt replacing the one and a soft womanliness and radiant happiness the other.

Stara was happy, despite the lie she was living, for this had now become a habit, and troubled her not at all. And being happy, and loving, a change came over her: the veneer of hardness and independence disappeared, and with it, unfortunately, much of her former wit and brilliance. She was all woman now, fussing over Hector, ministering to his comforts, and exercising those small tyrannies dear to most lovers' hearts.

The inordinate consumption of cigarettes she put down firmly, retaining the supply in her own room, and doling them out at the rate of five a day—no more, save as a special indulgence. Schopenhauer and Lombroso also went, while the small phials were taken out on to the veldt the day after his arrival, and carefully buried in the home of an ant-bear, a solemn promise being exacted from Hector never to touch such things again. For Stara, wiser than Lucy, had from the first seen in which direction Graeme's peril lay, but while formerly she had regarded his morbidity merely as an interesting study, now the suppression of all encouragement of, and incentive to it, had become to her a matter of vital necessity.

For a time she was successful, Hector apparently being well content to idle the days away, roaming through the hot grass veldt, lying down on it for hours, or lounging with her in desultory inspection of farm-buildings, dam, and lucerne-fields. But, unknown to her, the poison was already working, and Graeme, when he seemed to be asleep on the grass beside her, was debating problems in his mind; for Stara, though she never knew it, had been stabbed to the heart by the unconscious hand of a blind child, who was now lying in sleep eternal to the lullaby of wind and waves.

Hector loved her, it is true, but it was not the love it had been, for, since the hour of darkness passed with the devil in the dreary hotel bedroom, there had come a difference. The ideality and the golden halo with which he had clothed his mistress were gone, and with them the longing to serve. Now he only saw her beauty, and in the possession of that beauty he strove to find oblivion from an undying memory; but in vain, for in the one pure emotion Hector had known, or could ever know, his eyes had been opened, and the real gold of the one showed the other to be but counterfeit metal and base. Thus Ruby was avenged, and, as usual, not on the most guilty fell the vengeance.

Hector began to ask himself questions, and critically to analyse the love he felt—love to which analysis means death. Why was it, he pondered, that passion so great as his did not act as a spur, but rather as a bridle? Surely Nelson was wrong when he said that "if the world held more Emmas, there would be more Nelsons"? For his own love for Stara was equally great, and yet indulgence in that love, so far from proving the incentive he had hoped, was fast suffocating ambition and rendering him a mere lotus-eater, content to idle away the hours on a God-forsaken African farm.

Gradually, fight against it, blind himself as he might, the bitter truth became known to Hector, that whereas passion denied, even vexed or hindered, is the greatest incentive to ambition man's nature can know, passion indulged without let or hindrance becomes inevitably its murderer. And with this truth, unacknowledged though it was, awakened in his mind, Hector became restless and rebellious, the sense of revolt growing as he realised that no sympathy was to be hoped for from Stara, but rather active opposition.

She now always became silent when he spoke of future greatness, or turned the subject to another future of which ambition was not the aim, but those very domestic joys which before she had been wont to deride. Only the other day she had put forward the same absurdity advanced by Lucy years before, namely, the hope of military renown without the disadvantages of his having to seek it on the battlefield. Nor was it only in her views that Stara had changed, for gone too were her brilliancy, her cynicism, the unlikeness to other women that had so fascinated him on board the Dunrobin Castle. He was now the cynic; she the believer, bitterly resentful of sneers at domesticity and marital fidelity.

As the days wore on, the monotony began to pall, the long rides to lose their charm, for, lover of the veldt though Hector was, solitude was also essential to his enjoyment of it. Silence and freedom to think undisturbed were what he craved, not talk of trifles, which only passion's glamour could render interesting. But Stara saw nothing of this, for she was blind, as she had said she would be blind, and when he was lying dreaming of future greatness she would irritate him with gentle caresses, asking him if he was thinking of her; and, starting, he would answer "Yes," and fall to silence once more.

The varnish, too, of normality, so laboriously laid on him by Stara, began to wear off; sleeplessness returned, and his real nature reasserted itself. Through the long night hours he would lie thinking, strange, monstrous thoughts, gradually weaving themselves into a fabric upon which he saw himself depicted as great as those others were great, and, like them, solitary in their greatness, for she whom he loved was dead. Stara had left him, and yet in some dim way stood near, a radiant vision, beloved as never on earth, guiding him on his lonely way. In a rapture of adoration he would be there talking to her, telling her of his undying love, till, torn with remorse for his cruelty and neglect to her when living, his eyes would fill and ecstatic grief wring his heart. And when the day came, Stara would greet him, her eyes dark with a love to which his own felt no response.

Nevertheless, strangely enough, in his dreams there was never a sign of Ruby, for she lay buried in his heart; the other only lived as a fantasy of fevered imagination. At last the day came when he knew he must return to a man's life once more, leaving her, the living and neglected, to dream of her dead and beloved, and of this necessity he told her one morning as they lay in the shadow of a lonely kopje.

"Stara, I must go," he said suddenly, "your brother's sick of me, and my regiment wants me back."

The girl looked up with startled eyes, her face grew suddenly pale and scared.

"Hector, you can't—not—not yet. Send them a wire."

"What's the use? I must go some time."

"Why?"

"Why? ... Because it's my life, Stara. I can't remain on leave, idling here for ever. Remember, I've got a name to make, and as yet I've not begun."

"You're a Colonel, isn't that enough, why do you want to make a name for yourself, Hector, aren't you happy here?"

"Of course I am, but——"

"Hector dear, I've been thinking a lot lately, thinking that perhaps the ambition we used to talk such a lot of is nothing, after all. I am sure now there is only one thing in the world that matters—love; that's real, the other's only a dream."

"What do you mean, Stara? This is against everything you used to say. Talk of inconsistency!"

"I know, but you mustn't expect a woman to be consistent. Besides, I wasn't in love then, but now I am, and can see things clearer. Oh, I am ashamed when I think of the nonsense I used to talk. Dear, I don't ask it, but couldn't you, wouldn't you like to give it up and be with me always?"

"Stara ... you don't mean? You ... can't. Oh, God, there seems to be a curse on me," and Hector flung himself face downwards on the grass.

A look of desperate pain came over Stara's face, as she answered hurriedly:

"No, no, you need not fear. I was only thinking, you being so happy here with me, that perhaps you had for gotten your ambitions."

"I? Never, they're part of me. Oh, thank God, but you know, Stara, I'd have done it, don't you? I'll keep faith with you."

For a fraction of a second Stara hesitated, but, before she could speak, Hector went on, and the chance was gone:

"You see, Stara, I must go back; they'll be finding out things if I don't—fellows are so infernally inquisitive—and then your brother might come to hear. By the way, he's no idea, I suppose?"

"None whatever. I told him what you said, about being here on leave when you're supposed to be in England, and that if they knew there'd be trouble. Dick won't say a word."

"And Polly?"

"She knows, of course, that we love each other, Hector, any woman could see that. She's never told Dick though. I asked her not to, but, Hector, she's always asking me things, why we ... don't..."

"What did you tell her?"

"Oh, some lie, but she didn't believe it. Hector, do you know, I think if she knew the truth, and we were to go away together, she'd stand by us two."

"Why are you always harping on this, Stara? I've told you the thing's practically impossible, though of course I'd do it, if anything happened. Why, do you know what I have to live on now that I've given up my income to her? Fool that I was! Two hundred a year besides my pay, and the last would stop once I leave, bar £120 a year."

"I don't think I should mind, Hector. I'm a good housekeeper, and we should have each other, which is everything, and perhaps in time your wife might relent, and we could marry."

"Damn her relenting, Stara; don't dream of it. I wouldn't do it for your sake, as much as mine. Oh, why can't you be satisfied, we are everything to each other now, and—and it's possible that if we were tied like that, you—I shouldn't—might tire, it's the freedom, don't you think, that makes love lasting?"

"No, I don't, I hate those ideas. They're wicked and unnatural. It's the advocates of immorality who start such theories."

"I'm not so sure, but about going, I should like to leave to-morrow, if it could be managed. I can easily get leave later, you know, and come back again."

"When?"

"Oh, in two or three months. I'll come when I can, you know that."

"Very well, Hector, if you think you ought to. Oh, it's hateful, this parting."

"It's only for a time, Stara, and, as I'm going, I think we ought to return home now. I've my packing to do, and the train leaves early to-morrow morning."

"I'll do your packing; I should love to. My brother shan't see, and Polly won't mind, I know. Come, as we must," and together they rode home, Graeme for once talkative, but Stara silent.

* * * * *

Next morning, before the sun had risen, the woman's dream had come to an end, and Hector was on his way back to a man's life once more. Within a mile of the station, at the top of the rise, where Stara had first seen his coming, the boy pulled up his mules, and pointed backward with his whip at a speck on the road behind them, rapidly growing larger.

"Missy Star," he said.

"We'll lose the train," muttered Hector, but the boy, ignoring the hint, refused to move till the flying figure had caught them up.

"Hector, I want you." Stara's voice was desperate, and her eyes wild.

Graeme, with one glance at the station ahead, climbed down and went over to where she was waiting, the pony's flanks heaving with distress.

"What is it, Stara? Quick! it's sweet of you to come after me, but the ... train."

Stara was silent, struggling with difficult words.

"Stara, you must hurry. Lord! but there's the train in sight."

"Hector, I—I, oh, I can't, I can't. I'll write. Good-bye, my own dearest," and Stara, wheeling sharply about, galloped away whence she came.

Hector stood staring after her, with a vague feeling of uneasiness in his heart.

CHAPTER XIX

"Number One and All's Well."

The cry of the night sentry wailed through the silent barracks, which no longer looked bare and unlovely as when seen in the glaring African sun, but had been transformed by the moonlight into a city of silver walls and roofs of lotus pink.

"Number Two and All's Well," came in instant response, and then there was a pause.

"Number Two and All's Well," rang out once more, this time with the full power of lusty lungs, in the generous hope of arousing Number Three, happily dreaming in his nest of hay. In vain, however, though Four and Five, alive to the emergency, took up the call right quickly Number Three did not answer, and the omission was at once noticed by experienced ears.

The guard-room door opened hurriedly, and an irate corporal, bearing a lantern, emerged, followed by two men. The recumbent form of Number Three was found, and, after being rudely awakened, was borne straightway to durance vile, there to finish his slumbers. A door banged, a key grated in the lock, and then there was silence once more. This was broken now and again by a sudden savage squeal from the stables, the sharp thudding of hoofs against wood and iron, and the angry growl of a sentry.

In Number One block, Officers' Quarters, a light was seen to flicker, disappear, and then shine steadily; a door opened, and a figure, gorgeous in dressing-gown of yellow silk and fur, came out on to the verandah, and, leaning his arms on the rail, stood looking out over the sleeping barracks.

"Lucky devil, Number Three, whoever you are," he muttered; "it's cells for you to-morrow, right enough, but you're a lucky devil, all the same. You can sleep, you're not racked and harried like me. You thank God for your brainlessness, my friend; if I'd been born like that, I too should now be able to sleep. Yet you have your troubles too, I suppose, as great to you as mine are to me—one hundred and sixty-eight hours' absence from the canteen, that will be one of them. Oh, but I'd do your one hundred and sixty-eight cheerfully, stone-breaking, shot-lifting, or whatever amusement the prison warder provides, to have your peace of mind.

"Half-past three," as a sharp ting came from the room behind him; "four hours before Murphy comes to call me, four hours of thinking, trying to find some hole in the net I have thrown over myself, a hole which doesn't exist. I could tear it, and break through it that way, but that I will not do; I gave her my word, love-struck fool that I was, and there's enough on my soul now without adding perjury to the rest. And yet to do it is ... hell! I'd sooner shoot myself, infinitely rather, for that would only destroy the carcase, the other means soul damnation. And coming, as it does, now, now that war is almost certain, and my chance staring at me at last, oh, it's too wicked, too cruel."

He clenched his hands and paced restlessly up and down the wooden verandah. "My own fault too, all my own fault. I clamoured for freedom, and I got it, only to bind himself hard and fast again. I was better off with Lucy, for she expected little, but Stara wants everything, my whole life. And she'll have it too, there's no escape, and by to-morrow night the wire will have gone, and my career be finished. The regiment will go to war, and I shall not be with them. I shall be a retired officer, living on my pension in some damned French watering-place. I shall read of the war, of Porky getting a D.S.O., Royle a C.B. Oh, God! God! surely there must be some way out, if I could but find it. I'll get that letter again and read."

He turned and walked slowly back to his room, which was now in darkness, for the candle had burnt down and gone out. The open doorway gaped a black hole before him; he hesitated, in sudden terror of the dark. Then, feeling in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he produced some matches, and, striking one, hurried into the room, where he snatched up a letter lying beside the bed, and rushed out again, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.

"There are ghosts in there," he muttered. "I've felt them about me before, but never like to-night; not for a thousand pounds would I go back again. Here I stay till dawn."

He opened the crumpled letter, and, laying it on the rail, read it by the light of the moon, or rather imagined he was reading it, for he knew every word of the letter he now repeated by heart.

"'My brother has found out at last, someone at home ... last mail. He is furious, Hector, I have never seen him like it before, and he says I must either swear never to see you again—as if I should!—or leave here at once for ever. That I don't mind; not for fifty thousand brothers would I give you up, and would go away and earn my living somehow, but, Hector, I can't, not now, for it has happened. I meant to tell you that last morning three weeks ago, that's what I rode after you for, but something in your face stopped me; it was so hard and unsympathetic, not like my Hector at all. Darling, please don't say you're sorry. I'm not, not a bit, I shall love it, for it is yours, but I must, dearest, I have no choice, I must ask you to keep your promise and take me away. Is it such a sacrifice, Hector? God knows I hate asking it of you, but perhaps it is for the best after all, our life in the future will not be the lie it is now. And I will make you happy. I will try to prevent your regretting. Oh, think of it, darling, always together, you and I and ... her, for that I know you would like best. Don't worry about me, I know you will, but you needn't, only send me a wire in answer to this, just the one word "Yes," and let me have it by Thursday evening.'"

"And to-day is Thursday," he muttered. Then followed a carefully-erased sentence, which, nevertheless, had been made out by Hector, as such sentences, no matter at what toil, always are made out: "If not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way."

Hector flung the letter down on the boards beside him, and crushed it under his foot.

"Is it a sacrifice?" he jeered. "Oh no, no sacrifice at all; and you pretend to understand me, and think I'm a man to be satisfied with the life you propose. No; if I do it—and do it I must, I suppose—it will be hell for both of us. I'll probably kill you in the end, and myself too. That will be the finish of our heaven, Stara, a heaven green with absinth, most likely, that's the French remedy, I believe, for despair."

Once more he took up the letter, and studied the sentence erased. "'If not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way,'" he repeated, and then his eyes darkened with anger. "A threat," he muttered, "to show me up, I suppose, write to the Colonel, like forsaken sweethearts do about their soldier-lovers. Do it then, by all means. God! but you make me laugh, Stara," and he laughed harshly at the thought.

"No, I'm wrong, though," he went on after a pause; "you don't mean that, I know, but what in the devil's name, then, do you mean? Nothing, I suppose, put it in to add emphasis, and scratched it out on reflection. Four o'clock, another half-hour of Thursday gone, and still no nearer solution. Well, I may as well get it over, as it's got to be, and, by heaven, yes, there's just one chance—they may not accept my papers now war's only a question of days. It's a toss-up, let Fate decide; if I'm to be great, nothing can stop me; if a derelict, then that I shall be whatever I do. I'll write that wire out now, and give it to Murphy to take when he calls me; it's light now, and the ghosts are gone."

He entered the room, grey and unreal-looking in the approaching dawn, and taking up a telegraph-form from the writing-table sat down and wrote: "Yes—Hector."

For a moment he sat staring at the words, with a peculiar smile on his face. "Good-bye, Hector Graeme, conqueror of worlds," he murmured. "Westminster Abbey is not for you, my friend; it's in Boulogne Cemetery your bones will rot, an example of what woman's love can do for a man."

Then a fit of despair came over him. He rose, and hurrying from the room, stood once more on the verandah, with his eyes fixed on the dark blur of mountains appearing dimly through the grey. "Come down, come down, you black devils yonder," he prayed; "begin your throat-cutting to-day, and I'll bless you for it. It's only a few hours I've got—for the love of God, come down!"

For a while he remained watching. Then suddenly a great drowsiness came over him: he swayed drunkenly, and, staggering back to his room, fell heavily on the bed and slept.

* * * * *

"Beggy pardin, sir, your tea, sir, you're for the field, sir. What time would you like the 'orse?"

"And why the devil shouldn't I drink the stuff if I want to? It's all I've got ... eh ... er? Oh, Murphy, thank God!"

"What time would you like the 'orse, sir? Field day at nine, sir. Rondyvoo, Grobler's Farm, two miles from 'ere, sir."

Graeme sat up and drank the tea at a gulp.

"Horse at half-past eight, and ... take that telegram there to the post-office. You can ride the second charger; and don't gallop him along the road as you always do, you'll have him down if you do. Bath ready? Right—get out," and Hector dragged himself wearily out of bed, and proceeded to dress for the coming field day. "My last show this," he muttered, buckling on his belt, "and I'll make the most of it. I'll astonish them all to-day, make Bumps open his eyes, the insolent, ignorant fool. Murphy taken that wire? Yes, it's gone; no hope now. Only hope he won't show it about, though it wouldn't matter much if he did, their thick heads wouldn't make anything out of it. Murphy's no Sherlock Holmes, thank heaven; he's an unobservant beggar too, don't suppose he's a thought in his head besides his dinner and beer. Hallo, half-past eight, I must get on." He went out, mounted his waiting charger, and followed by his orderly and trumpeter, set off at a canter for Grobler's Farm.

Murphy, from the verandah of the servants' quarters, watched him go, and then returned to his perusal of the telegram, a rather worried look on his unmeaning countenance.

"Can't make nothing of it," he muttered. "'Yes,' he says, but 'Yes,' what? Now, wot's 'Ector up to, I wonder? I don't like it—I don't, Pen, straight," to Penrose, Ferrers' servant, who was polishing a sword scabbard close by.

"What's up, Mickey?" said the latter; "bloke turned nasty about yer bill or wot? You take my tip and tell him, as 'e don't seem to 'ave no confidence in you, you prefer to return to yer dooty at once. It's what I does with Ferrers when 'e gits uppish, and I never 'as no further trouble. ''Course I trusts you, Penrose,' 'e says. 'I was a bit 'asty, perhaps; we'll say no more abaat it.' And 'Very good, sir,' I says, 'uffy like, and goes off to the Orfcers' Mess for a drink, which I puts down to 'im."

"'Ector never says nothing about 'is bills," answered Murphy, still worried; "'e ain't got no cause. This ere's a tallygram to 'is girl Stara, and I can't make it out, that's all. You see, Pen, when a bloke's dotty about a girl, there's no saying wot kind of foolishness 'e'll be up to. She's a good-looking girl, I'll say that for her," continued the unobservant one, thoughtfully. "'Ere's 'er photograph," taking a card from his breast pocket and handing it to Penrose, who, regarding it, said "Yum." "But good-looking or not, she ain't going to put the bloke wrong, and that's all abaat it."

"But wot the 'ell can she do, Mickey?"

"I don't know, Pen, and it's that wot's worrying me. There's 'er last letter I ain't been able to git 'old of, and there's something in that letter wot's troubling 'Ector. You see, I knows 'im, and I'll eat my 'orse if so be 'Ector ain't going to do something wot 'e ought not. It's all in this tallygram 'ere, I knows, if I could only get at it."

"Ain't your bloke married, Mickey?" said another servant, for a moment stopping hissing at a boot and holding it up for contemplation, his hand acting as boot tree, "Wot's 'e done with 'is own lawful box of bricks?"

"I dunno, Simmy, and that's a fact," answered Murphy; "'e ain't 'ad no letter from Lucy since 'e come back. It's my belief she's needled and given 'im the bag—she would do straight if she saw them letters of Stara's. 'Strewth, them letters!" he added reflectively.

"What's in the letters, Mickey?"

"Never you mind, Simmy; that ain't no business of yours. A bloke's letters is 'is own, 'is servant's different, of course."

"'E's a rum 'un, is 'Ector," said Penrose. "Did you blokes 'ear of the turn up between 'im and Tim Molloy yesterday? Tim was up before him for using disrespectful langwidge to the room corporal, and 'Ector was a dressing of 'im down—'e can throw it abaat too can 'Ector—when Tim loses 'is 'air, and ups and tells 'im 'e wouldn't talk to 'im like that if so be 'e weren't an orfcer and 'im a private. And 'Ector 'e larfs and stops the Sergeant-Major wot was calling for a file to take Tim to the guard-room. 'Ho, wouldn't I?' 'e says, like that, and 'im and Tim goes orf together to the sick lines, when 'e orfs with 'is coat and the two of 'em go at it, the Sergeant-Major keeping the time; and 'Ector 'as Tim outed in the second round! Larf fit to bust theirselves did the squadron win they sees Molloy's eye and 'Ector's ear."

"Didn't 'e wear mourning whin 'is cat died, Mickey?"

"Wot abaat 'is looting of the commissariat godown whin the dinners was stinking?"

"An' the lifting of them cabbages off Botha's farm to teach the men scoutin'? 'See without being seen,' 'e says, as 'e pulls 'em up. Ho! ho!"

"Botha was a Dutchman, an' 'ostile to the English," answered Murphy, "and as such 'is cabbages was liable to be pinched. But I ain't goin' to stop 'ere jawing no longer. 'Send this tallygram at once,' the bloke says, 'if not sooner,' 'e says. 'Ere Tomkins," to Graeme's second servant, who was sitting on a iron bed-cot nursing a cat, "nip up to the stable and fetch the chestnut 'orse, while I change my costoom," and thereupon Murphy retired to his room, where he proceeded to transform himself into as near a representation of his master as the state of his wardrobe allowed.

Having oiled his hair and fastened his collar with an imitation gold safety-pin, he mounted the horse and rode away on his mission. He proceeded at a walking pace till he was well clear of the barracks, but on reaching the hard high road he shook the old horse up, and at a good sharp gallop made his way to the telegraph office.

Hector, meanwhile, was rapidly nearing the place of rendezvous. On the way he overtook Graves—now Adjutant of the 1st Lancers—also bound for Grobler's Farm.

"Morning, Colonel," he said, touching his helmet. "Heard the news? It's all up with the war, Mahongas have caved in. Rotten, ain't it?" A curse was the only answer, and Graeme rode on, disregarding his brother officer's "Hold hard, I'm coming too; there's plenty of time. Surly beggar you are," continued Graves, looking after him, "but you're up against it this time all right. I'd have warned you too, if you'd been civil, for I've a pretty good notion what to-day's 'scheme' is, after what Johnson let out last night. Deuced unfair one it is too, got up by Bumps solely to floor Graeme; Johnson owned as much. Well, if he is floored, so much, the better; take him down a peg," and, somewhat consoled, Graves cantered on. Turning off the path, he made his way across the veldt to where a dark mass of men and horses could be seen, assembled for what General Rivers was pleased to call "Instructive Field Operations."

CHAPTER XX

Major-General Rivers, C.B.—better known as Bumps, from his seat on a horse—was fond of describing himself as "a soldier of the old school."

"I'm a practical man, sir," he was wont to declare, "hard knocks and plenty of 'em for me; that's the way we won our battles in the past—and we'll do again in the future, mark my words—not by poring over books and mugging away at map reading."

This prophecy of the gallant General may or may not have been correct; his liking for hard knocks also was doubtless genuine, though unfortunately it had never been put to the test, actual fighting not having come Bumps's way, but the theory is certainly a convenient one for those who possess neither the ability nor inclination for study. He relied on himself solely; his views on warfare were his own and borrowed from no man, and though at times they were somewhat at variance with those of accepted authorities on the Art of War, who shall say that Bumps was not right when he declared that the opinions of Napoleon, Wellington, and others were as obsolete as the uniforms they wore?

One thing was very certain, however, and that was that Rivers would tolerate no opposition, nor allow his infallibility to be questioned. Some generals there were, he knew, who prefaced their remarks by "My opinion is." Not so Bumps; he despised such a concession as weakness; his criticisms on military operations were no expressions of opinion, but statements of facts, and, with this conviction in his mind, no one was so scathing in condemnation of, or sarcastic in comments on, what he believed to be mistakes in strategy or tactics as Bumps. Indeed, he was an excellent instance of the truth of the saying that, whereas few men think, all will have opinions.

Further, like most general officers whose service has been passed almost exclusively with infantry, he held especially strong views on the subject of cavalry. Engineers and artillery he left alone, they could floor him with abstruse details concerning cubic contents and breech-blocks, but with the mounted arm there were no such annoying technicalities. He knew all about them, he considered, and indeed it was a cherished article of faith with him that, had not Fate ordained his march through life to be in large square-toed boots instead of a seat in a saddle, his career would have been that of a Seidlitz or Murat—that is to say, if he had ever heard of these warriors, which unfortunately he had not.

For Hector Graeme, as has before been mentioned, General Rivers had a particular aversion, not that he admitted this, for hatred means equality, and never would he have allowed the existence of such between himself and a junior. Nevertheless, hate him he did, with that virulent form of hatred a man bestows on one to whom, though superior in rank, he is inferior in the very qualifications of which that rank is the sign manual.

Graeme was his subordinate, and, as such, theoretically bound to accept his dictum and teaching on matters military, while practically, as he well knew, Graeme did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary treated his lessons with an almost open contempt, never missing an opportunity of showing up his instructor and exposing his absurdities to all present; indeed, an argument between the two was productive of much innocent enjoyment to seniors and juniors, with the one exception of Graeme's colonel, Royle, to whom such moments were full of heart-felt anguish.

To-day, however, a supreme effort had been made by Bumps to crush once and for always this insolent questioner of his infallibility, and it was with a glow of anticipatory triumph in his heart, revealed by the twinkle in his small grey eyes, that he now beheld Hector's arrival on the scene.

He returned his salute graciously, and said "Morning, Graeme," a civility awakening instant suspicion in Hector's mind and a muttered "What's Napoleon up to now, I wonder, and what the deuce is the matter with Royle? He looks half dead with funk."

"A little late," continued the General; "almost time to start. All your force is waiting for you to lead them to—victory."

"All, sir?" answered Graeme, looking round. "I don't see the infantry. There are the guns, a section (two) of them, and the cavalry, three squadrons. Those waggons, too, are meant to represent a convoy, I suppose, but no sign of the 'feet.' Am I to take on eight hundred infantry"—there was only that number, as Graeme was naturally aware, in the station—"with three squadrons, two hundred and eighty men in all?" and Hector laughed, a suspicion of the plot dawning upon him. He was to be given an impossible task, was he? Right, then; so much the greater score when he won, as he certainly would.

"You'll know all about it in good time, I've no doubt, Colonel Graeme," answered the other; "but you ought not to think of odds, you know. Dear me, a cavalry officer frightened of infantry—this is something new."

"Not at all, sir. I only wanted to know what was against me. A somewhat usual knowledge, I believe, for a commander to possess."

"The General has just told you, Graeme," put in Royle hastily, "that you'll know all about it in good time. Why can't you wait till them?"

Royle was not quite at his best this morning. Always frightened of a General, he was especially terrified of Bumps; and though ordinarily he had confidence enough in Hector—indeed, he sought his advice on all regimental questions—since seeing the scheme[#] his nerve had left him. Graeme would certainly be defeated, he felt, and on him would fall the blame; for, as he was responsible for the training of his officers, their downfall meant his own.

[#] A printed paper, given to each opposing leader, though naturally differing in each case. On these papers is described an imaginary military situation, followed by the task to be carried out, the actual execution of this being, of course, left to the respective commanders.

Official censure was the one thing most dreaded by Royle, and, though he had escaped it so far, the catastrophe was in sight at last. The sword hung but by a hair, that hair being Graeme's ability to placate; and now, in sheer sport, it seemed that person was making the blade to dance over his head, till the hair must undoubtedly snap in a moment.

He looked imploringly at Graeme as he spoke, and was conscious of a faint sensation of relief, for his subordinate's face was confident as ever. Why could he not feel the same?

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Hector; "I have no wish to be unduly curious. One thing, however, I should like to ask, if I may, who's commanding the opposite side?"

"Certainly you may know that, Graeme," said Bumps, watching him; "it's Colonel Wicklow." And once more Hector laughed, for his opponent was a Staff College graduate, and reputed one of the smartest officers at that time in South Africa.

"Thank you, sir," he replied; "I'm much obliged to you for giving me a chance of defeating such a distinguished officer."

"I hope you may," snapped the General; "but it's time you saw the scheme; here it is," drawing a long blue envelope from his pocket and handing it to Graeme, at the same time again closely watching him, the twinkle deepening in his eyes.

Hector, however, did not open it there, but walked some hundred yards away, where he seated himself behind a large boulder. He then took out his case, lighted a cigarette, and, having removed his helmet so that the sun beat full on his face, leisurely proceeded to open the envelope.

"As I thought," he muttered; "the plot at last revealed; he's got it up for me this time and no mistake. But no matter; there must be some way out, and I'll find it."

He stretched himself flat on the ground, the cigarette between his teeth, and, closing his eyes, passed into semi-unconsciousness. A voice began to whisper in his ear.

The following was the scheme. Hector's force, composed of the 1st Lancers and two guns, was directed to escort a convoy of waggons to Tafelberg Farm, a distance of about six miles. Between him and his destination lay a high rugged ridge, the only openings in which were two narrow passes two miles apart, and by now assuredly guarded by Colonel Wicklow with his eight hundred infantrymen. Other way round there was none, save by a detour of some fifteen miles, and, even if the distance had not made such a turning movement prohibitive, the country on that side had been carefully marked "out of bounds."

The ridge itself Hector knew well, knew also that, save by the two passes, neither waggons nor even horses could hope to cross throughout its length; for many times on his solitary rides he had made the attempt on his Basuto pony, but had always been forced to desist. Only on hands and knees could a man scale those rocky sides, and even then the task was difficult, more particularly about midway between the two passes, where the ridge reached its highest point and was well-nigh precipitous.

This, then, was his task: the crossing of a mountain barrier, impassable for waggons and mounted troops—of which his force was composed—the two gates being guarded and held by infantry. Truly, General Rivers had been successful in his object.

Suddenly Hector stirred, sat up, and gazed for a moment vacantly around him; then, springing to his feet, stood rocking dizzily. Slowly the mists cleared from before his eyes, and they lit up; a flame of red appeared in his cheeks: his knees ceased from trembling, and he was awake—with the solution of the problem clear before him.

Taking out his glasses, he carefully scrutinised the distant ridge, each stone of which could be seen through the powerful Zeiss. He noted the figures of men lining the rocks at the sides of the passes, and then lowering the glasses, remained motionless, thinking rapidly.

"Kinley," he called, "Major Kinley."

"That's the first thing," he muttered, "remove him from command of the cavalry"—this position, being next senior to himself, Porky was now occupying, Royle being detailed as umpire, and he in command of the side—"He'll sell me to a certainty if I don't."

"Kinley," he called again, no answer to his first summons being forthcoming, and at length after some minutes' waiting, Kinley having had to be aroused from his slumbers, that person appeared, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, old chap," he said yawning, "bit of a teaser this, eh? Johnson's just told me about it, but never mind, I've got an idea; tell you what it is if you like."

"Thank you, Porky, I should; can't make head or tail of it myself. You ride with me and we'll talk it over together."

"Right-o—glad to escape the dust. But what about the bloomin' regiment? I'm in command, you know."

"Hand it over to Graves, we'll send him on ahead while you and I sit with the guns and watch. Ask him to come here, will you—the rest as well."

Porky departed, returning some few minutes later followed by the other officers of Graeme's army. These proceeded to range themselves in a half circle before their leader, their faces showing varying degrees of interest; for, though to the majority field days had long since lost their charm, there was always a chance of something sensational happening when under their present commander, not to mention the practical certainty of a row between him and Bumps.

Nor were their expectations disappointed to-day, for of the many mad schemes in which, under his leadership, they had previously participated, the one now propounded surpassed them all in sheer lunacy, and their faces grew bright with interest as they listened to the plan laid before them.

"Here's the game, gentlemen," he began, "we've got to get that lot of carts to Tafelberg Farm. Between us and it lies an impassable ridge, only two openings, both held, as you'll see if you look, by infantry and guns. No way through—or so thinks Bumps." Here Graeme paused to allow the impossibility of the task to sink into his hearers' minds; for this was his way, to make out that a thing was impossible and then to show his audience how easy it really was for him. It was a touch of theatrical display in which he, like some other and more distinguished commanders, delighted.