Is that it? Do, if you like and can."

"For God's sake, no levity, man."

"That's another thing. You, and my wife too, seem to expect me to show

penitence, to cry over what I've done. Why? I'm glad, not sorry; why

should I then pretend a sorrow, like the Walrus with the oysters?"

Peter stared at him, with bewilderment in his eyes, as there had been a

few minutes before in Lucy's.

"Because," he said slowly, "because you're a human being, Graeme."

"Well, I don't feel it, not in the slightest degree, and I'm not going

to sham."

Carson rose, and for a moment stood looking down at him.

"Graeme," he said, "you and I have been friends since you joined ten

years ago, and, well, I stand by my friends, and do not give them away,

whatever they do; their actions are matters for their own consciences,

not mine. Of this afternoon I'll never speak again; it's a thing, I

confess, beyond my understanding; let it remain at that and be buried.

Only you--you must see it can never be quite the same between us again;

you do see that, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"I can't help that; it is so, for me, at all events. But one thing I

promise you: no one outside shall see it; they must not. We _must_ be

careful, for ... your wife's sake. Good-night, Graeme."

"Good-night, Peter."

*CHAPTER VIII*

The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the summer rains. This

queer, rambling place, the hot-weather capital of India, is a collection

of houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and slopes of a

fir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three miles in length and

many thousand feet above the level of the plains. On all sides of the

ridge the ground falls steeply away; on the south towards the plains, a

haze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the horizon; on

the north, east and west to a succession of forest-clad hills and

valleys, beyond which rises a chain of snow-capped mountains. Running

along the crest of the ridge lies the one metalled road, the main artery

of the place, bordering which stand the various European dwellings.

These are few and far apart towards the western extremity, but increase

in number as the road runs on eastward, till finally they merge into the

town itself, a heterogeneous mass of shops, Government buildings, and

native bazaar.

Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence of British

official might and majesty in India, and consequently, during that

season, the resort of all that is most select and fashionable in the

country. In the hot weather of the year 1900, however, thoughts other

than those of social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of most

men. The British Empire was at war in distant South Africa, and so far,

though close on a year had elapsed since its beginning, no sign of the

end was at hand, and the fate of England still rocked in the balance.

Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to interfere

appreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to human nature it is not

public but individual interests that matter; and even a toothache is of

far greater moment to him who feels it than the fate of a hundred

empires. Thus it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the war

acted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth; the

ever-present possibility of harrowing partings added zest to love-making

between the sexes; waltz tunes gained in enchantment; and hearts

thrilled in response to stirring martial ballad.

In high official quarters a somewhat different view prevailed, for here

were men with a stake in the country, oldish men to whom waltz tune and

martial ballad failed to appeal--their time for that was past. Unlike

the others, they, being more largely interested, were able to take a

larger view, and thus realised that England's downfall would certainly

involve that of India, and consequently their own, a very serious matter

indeed. Here faces were grave--the higher the official, the graver the

face--as, deaf to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they sat

in dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with increasing

correspondence.

In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment, situated in the

huge brick edifice forming the Military Offices of Chillata, a man sat

busily writing one September morning--a thick-set man, with bristling

black hair and round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in Fort

Hussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to the Indian

forces. On the table before him lay a pile of letters, fat-looking

documents in long official envelopes, both white and blue, most of them

marked "Urgent," "Very Urgent," or "Confidential." These he was opening

in turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow paper, which

he carefully pinned to the various documents, and threw into tin trays

placed on the floor beside him for removal and subsequent engrossment by

his clerks.

A knock at the door was heard. "Come in, come in," he muttered, and

Captain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of the Chillata A.D.C., appeared. To

prevent the departure of this officer for the plains, and consequent

disappointment to the public, he had been retained as staff officer,

despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the Intelligence

Department--the natural refuge of such as he--being unfortunately full

up at the time.

"In an hour, De Boudoir," said Quentin, "I'm not ready for you yet. No,

it's no good asking for a morning off; I won't give it you for fifty

rehearsals."

"But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency's coming. Hoped you would

too, sir."

"Bah! You can't go, I tell you. What's that, a card? I won't see him,

whoever he is."

"He won't go, sir; it's Captain Pushful; he's here every day."

"What does he want?"

"Usual thing, sir--South Africa."

"Tell him to go to blazes. I have work enough, as it is, without being

worried by every fool who wants to go battle-fighting. Confound it, De

Boudoir, what the devil's the good of you if you can't----. Hullo! what

the--who the dickens is this?" for the door had gently opened, and a

head appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said an insinuating voice, and thereupon a

body followed the head, "but could you spare me a minute? I won't keep

you long sir."

"Who the devil are you?"

"My name is Pushful, sir. I think, sir, I'm a connection of yours by

marriage. My sister----"

"Turn him out, De Boudoir. Oh, damn it all, this is----"

"My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William. 'Boodles' we

used to call him, because----"

"Really, sir, I fail to see----"

"And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up."

"Tell me what you want, sir, and go."

"I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get me out to South

Africa, and----"

"Send in an application then. Good-day."

"I have, sir, six already."

"Send another then, and I'll consider it."

"Thank you, sir, and you will----"

"Oh yes, yes. Good-day, and De Boudoir," as the door closed behind the

visitor, "when that application comes, put it where the others go, in

the basket; d'ye understand?"

"Very good, sir, anything more?"

"No. Yes, there is. Do you know a Captain Graeme, 1st Lancers? I

thought I saw him the other day."

"Yes, sir; he's here on two months' leave. She's been in Chillata since

April, living at Dilkhusha, the house the Pennants had last year."

"If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him? If you don't, send

a note."

"Very well, sir. I'll get my pony, and go there now."

"No, you won't; you'll stay where I can get at you, in your office. Go

this afternoon if you like, till then work. That will do, thank you,"

upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully withdrew, cursing the fate that had

placed him here, instead of with his friends in the Intelligence

Department.

"I'd like to give the fellow a chance," muttered Quentin; "he was badly

treated over that last affair. Colonel would not even recommend him for

a transport billet"--for in this way had Schofield saved his face on

Hector's refusal--"and he was wrong, I'm sure of it; the fellow's got

stuff in him, if it can be got out, that I'll swear, though I only saw

him for a few minutes. Well, I'll give it to him, and damn the

recommendation." He sat thinking for a moment, then plunged once more

into his correspondence.

* * * * *

Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging in

the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lying

among the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range.

Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala

race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual to

Anglo-Indians in India. Two more Regimental Cup races had been won and

lost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been present

as a spectator. With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut

up their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills.

During these three years Lucy's health had gradually declined, till she

was now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long in

India was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a

nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident,

and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had little

acquaintance before that event.

It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion of

foul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary, much sympathy had been

expressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling. A

letter had also been received from O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, for

it appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been a

good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share in

her son's death. It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, and

from where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she

herself did.

Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, had

absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarette

with it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to her

room, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours. One consolation was

hers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson. When

they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more so

even than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did not

come to the house at odd times, as was his wont. Finally, he had left

Riwala for a year's shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though

the twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again--not for a

long time, at any rate--for shortly she too would be gone, leaving the

hateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few months

hence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for

over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he could

accompany her. At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield had

agreed to Captain Graeme's going in October, three months ahead, not a

day before.

A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, in

addition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid--one for

which she had always longed, but which in her present feeble condition

threatened to overwhelm her. To all the doctors' entreaties, to go home

in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused to

listen, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata,

instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originally

intended.

Here he would be able to run up for the very few days' leave he could

hope to obtain. They would be in the same country, at any rate, and if

he were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him to

come to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be

between them, and anything might happen to him even without her

knowing--things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.

Hector, on his part, had done his best. He had rented one of the best,

though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personally

superintended every detail for her comfort. He even accompanied her on

the long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special

comfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, instead

of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to that

place. This was a most unwonted attention on Hector's part, who had

hitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be

dealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal

belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed a

consideration and affection of which even she would never have believed

him capable. Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor did

Hector himself know exactly. Remorse for O'Hagan's death was certainly

not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife;

nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself--the memory

of which troubled him not at all--but by the revelation within him of

some tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his

fellows. The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his callous

soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feel

as they felt, to live as they lived.

With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please Lucy,

anticipating her every want and devoting himself to her to an extent

that caused Graeme's uxoriousness, as it was called, to become a byword,

especially in Chillata, where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusual

thing. Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the world's

sneers; they didn't know what his object was, how should they? He

redoubled his efforts, and now that a child was to be born to them

strove with all his might to interest himself in the baby's

coming--little liking as he had for children--for in the cultivation of

such purely natural feelings as affection for wife and child, he

realised dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existence

he alone was aware.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew nothing of all this.

She was too sane and healthy-minded to be able to comprehend such a

nature as her husband's, and with the curious fatality that had always

marked her dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, rather

frustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own undoing.

It was not want of tact on her part, for of that quality Lucy had more

than most, but simply that, being so normal herself, the comprehension

of the abnormal was beyond her understanding; and, though touched and

pleased with her husband's constant wish to be always with her, she yet

fought against it, believing that he stayed solely to please her. With

this idea in her mind, she was constantly urging him to leave her, and

mix more with his kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man to

wish to remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour's walk as his

sole exercise. Of course, it was sweet of him to wish to be with her,

and she appreciated the thought, but she would much rather he didn't;

she could get on very well by herself, and he would always be home

before dark.

Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long solitary rides--the

worst thing for him--leaving Lucy happy in the consciousness of an

unselfish action. How well she understood him, she thought, and what a

dear he was. True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting--to

which she owed the present state of her nerves--but even for that she

had by now come to account. It had been an accident after all, she was

certain, and Hector, to gratify his vanity, had made out it was

intentional, and was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, which

she and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him. Callous?

Not he, why, every action of his since then had shown him to be the very

reverse.

Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the prospect of a

speedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble, had somewhat recovered,

and with the arrival of her husband, on a quite unexpected two months'

leave, was now almost happy. For the first two weeks after his coming

she had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was almost

exclusively of war, and the place thronged with applicants to be sent

out to South Africa. Only too well did she realise Hector's vanity, and

feared that he also, solely from a morbid disinclination to be left in

the background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would certainly

succeed, as he always did, when those dreadful sudden fits of

determination came upon him. It was therefore with a feeling of

heartfelt relief that she saw him, apparently, in no way interested in

the matter, though, had she known his mind, it is possible she would not

have been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been more than

ever touched by a further proof of his devotion. For exactly what she

had feared was in her husband's mind, and for that reason Hector avoided

Chillata assemblies like the plague, refused to attend the theatre,

despite Lucy's urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried by

the Military Offices without a glance.

He was now, on this September morning, brooding over the subject, a

crumpled copy of the _Pioneer_ in his hand, detailing some fresh

disaster, which he felt bitterly, had he been in command, would have

been no defeat, but a brilliant success. For a week without

intermission it had rained steadily, rendering even the short morning

and evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after night, the

rain had poured drearily down, rattling on the corrugated iron of the

roof, turning Lucy's small garden into a quagmire, and shrouding the

surrounding hills and valleys with a pall of white vapour. Small

streams had become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while from

weeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip of water on

dank fern and rotting vegetation. As Hector looked and heard, a feeling

of depression came over him, and with it that other self began to make

itself heard. The longing came over him to be off at once to the

Military Offices, send in his application, and go, for despite the

constant refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he to

apply.

"Three weeks more of this," he reflected, "then two months' idling in

the plains, and after that home, a year's loafing again, while others

are making names and passing me. It's that which galls me, being out of

it, I who could leave them all if I chose. Oh, curse my folly of five

years ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it easily

too, if only they hadn't opposed me. If they'd made it easy, I don't

think somehow I'd have persisted. Oh, damnation take it, here am I,

with the best wife in the world, regretting. Apply? Not I. Oh, thank

God, here she is. Lucy dear," throwing down the paper, and hurrying

forward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, "it's good to see you

down so early. Here's your chair, I've got the cushions and everything

ready for you. There," settling her comfortably and tucking the shawl

round her feet, "now tell me how you feel, better?"

"Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way you cheer me up.

I'm afraid I'm rather a burden to you now, and so very plain and

unattractive. You can't call me pretty, as you used to."

"Nonsense, Lucy, you're prettier than ever, and far more attractive to

me now, naturally."

"Oh no, I'm not, Hector. You only say that because, because ... you're

the best husband in the world, so different from most men to their

wives. But isn't that the _Pioneer_, any news of the war?"

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

me."

"But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we know fighting out

there. Oh, Hector, how thankful I am you're not one of those who

volunteered. It would have broken my heart had you done so."

Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window remained for a

moment staring out into the mist.

"Lucy," he said suddenly, "why did you always oppose my retiring? I

could have done so before the war started, now I can't."

"Because I didn't want to spoil your life, Hector. I want you to

command your regiment, not settle down yet; you're too young. It was

for your sake I refused. I should have loved it myself."

"And at the same time you don't want me to see active service," said

Hector, with a somewhat justifiable show of irritation. "Can't you see,

Lucy, that not being in this war will certainly prove a bar to my own or

anybody else's chance of future command?"

"But you _have_ seen active service, Hector. Surely once is enough for

any man, besides, you did so well then, everyone knows you ought to have

got the V.C. Oh, by the way, I have meant to ask you for some time, do

you know a---- Oh, bother, there's a caller, don't go. Hector, it's

only Mrs. Swaine. How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?" to the lady who was

ushered in by the bearer.

"So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme," said the new-comer. "I came

round to ask whether you and your husband would care to come round to

lunch to-day. Rather short notice, I'm afraid, but my nephew has just

received orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I'm inviting a

few friends to give him a send-off."

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

"Oh, I don't know, after all, it's what soldiers are for, and Tom's

really very fortunate to be selected. Everyone's applying nowadays, you

know, and nearly all are refused. They only take the best men, and Tom,

though he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters."

"They'd like my husband to go, I know," said Lucy, up in arms at once,

"he only has to apply."

"Oh, really? I didn't know they'd take married men. Sir Henry told me

the other day they wouldn't. Anyway, I'm sure Captain Graeme wouldn't

think of leaving you ... now," with an arch smile at the frowning

Hector, "the thing's quite unthinkable. But about lunch, will you

come?"

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

husband----"

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

"Capital," said the lady. "Well, I must be off, I've got all sorts of

things to see about. Good-bye, you two, so glad," and away trotted Mrs.

Swaine, leaving silence behind her.

"Hector dear," said Lucy, after a pause, "you didn't mind what that

woman said? She's a good soul really, only tactless."

"Not I," said Hector, "but you were saying something when she came in.

You asked me if I knew----"

"Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector. They call him

Golliwog here, and I should say he has about as much intelligence.

Really, I don't think I ever met such a dull person in my life before."

"He's one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion I respect. Also,

he's the only fellow in the army from whom I ever learnt anything."

"Good gracious, Hector," said Lucy, surprised, for such commendation of

a military superior was something very novel. "I didn't know you'd ever

seen the man. Tell me about it."

"Oh, it was after that Mortlock affair, he spoke to me then, snubbed

Schofield too--did it jolly well."

"That was nice of him, Hector, and of course I only saw him for a few

minutes; he didn't even know my name. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll

invite him to dinner."

"Certainly not, Lucy," was the unexpected answer, "why, he's

Adjutant-General."

"What does that matter? He'll come, and you must have somebody to talk

to besides me, we'll ask him for to-morrow night; it's your birthday,

you know, though I suppose you've forgotten that. Had you, Hector?"

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

ask Quentin."

"No, I won't please, I'm going to; you like him, and that's enough. Oh,

look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains at last. Now I'll write the

note, and you shall take it; the ride will do you good, and you can meet

me at the Swaines."

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

"No, I've got things to do, I must get on with my sewing, and I can't do

that while you're here."

"Why not? I'm interested in that sewing. Oh, I do wish, Lucy, you'd

let me know a little more about--about the infant. I really want to,

and you never will talk about it."

"Of course not, such things are not for a man to know about. I intend

to keep everything of that sort from you, dear. When he or she comes it

will be different, but till then you mustn't ask questions."

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

"Perfectly, and it's sweet of you to be interested, or rather appear to

be, for of course you're not really; no man could be in such details,

and a woman would be a fool to expect it. Now go, like a good boy, and

order the pony while I write the note."

She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk, leaving Hector

standing looking at her, with a baffled expression on his face. For a

moment he remained irresolute, then walked slowly away to order the

pony, and presently returned to Lucy.

"Here's the letter, Hector," handing it to him. "You'd better go to the

Military Offices, you'll find him there now; and I wonder, would you

mind getting me some ribbons at Lace's when you pass?"

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

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

"Very well, Hector. It's only a little thing I ask of you, but of

course if you won't; and I understand, you--you'd rather your friend

didn't see me like this. I--I know I'm dull and plain, but--but----"

"Give me the note, Lucy," said Hector quietly. "I'll take it, and enter

the Military Offices for the first time since I've been here." He went

out, and, mounting the pony, departed on his mission.

* * * * *

As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for a while the

dense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay in sullen banked-up masses

girdling the horizon. A blue sky glared overhead, from which shone a

bright sun, its rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground,

forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth, reeking

fern, and rotting leaves.

The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint murmur of tiny

rills, threading their way through emerald moss and tangled undergrowth,

to the roar of swollen torrents thundering down the hillside on their

way to parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing at

intervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the valley depths.

Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer parched and bare as three weeks

before, but clad in velvet green, veined with silver threads glittering

in the sunlight, as they too danced on their way to the river below.

Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression of the morning

had now deepened to heavy gloom, and with it had come a sense of

foreboding, the feeling of being driven on by destiny, which, struggle

as he might, he was powerless to resist.

Two or three times, in obedience to a faint far-off and in some way

strangely reproachful voice, he reined in his pony and paused, the

inclination to return strong upon him, but then, cursing himself for an

irresolute fool, he rode on. As he passed through the Mall, crowded

with folk, who, like butterflies, had emerged from seclusion to desport

themselves in the welcome sunshine, the feeling of foreboding grew,

till, on reaching the Military Offices, so loud had the voice become

that he then and there determined to obey it and return. Arriving at

this decision, he experienced a sense of great relief; the cloud of

gloom lifted from his mind, and, feeling strangely light-hearted, he was

turning his horse about, when the animal suddenly stumbled, recovered

himself, and then went on; but he was dead lame. "Picked up a stone,"

muttered his rider, and, dismounting, was proceeding to extract a sharp,

three-cornered flint wedged between the frog and shoe, when a voice

hailed him.

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

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

Curse this stone."

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

"'Nothing,'" he said, "'only a ride,' just so, that's what I'm here for,

that's what we all come to the Offices for; it's no use, though,

Golliwog won't see you, none of 'em will. I ought to know, for I've

tried most of 'em. Going to have a go at his Excellency, though, this

afternoon; we'll see what that will do. Another choking off, I suppose,

but no matter."

"What on earth for?"

"Same old thing, to get out to South Africa. I'll do it yet, though, in

spite of 'em all."--It may here be remarked that Captain Pushful was

eventually sent out; De Boudoir, indeed, offered to pay his passage to

get rid of him--"But surely you're not having a shot? It's no earthly

use for you, believe me, you're married. He won't see you, I tell you,"

as, the stone extracted, Hector moved away.

"He certainly would, if I wanted him to," said Graeme, stopping; "but,

as it happens, I don't."

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

"Oh, all right then, we'll see," and Hector, tying up his pony to the

rails, mounted the steps leading to the Offices.

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

"Do I know," answered Pushful, with some scorn, "couldn't I draw a plan

of the whole rotten place by now? You come with me; I'll have another

try too. I'll ask him if he's got my application."

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

"Oh yes, we can," and, regardless of Graeme's protests, Pushful led the

way to the door of De Boudoir's room, and, without knocking, entered.

"Can I see----" began both simultaneously.

"No, you can't. Oh Lord, it's you again," said De Boudoir wrathfully,

seeing Pushful, who had thrust himself ahead of Graeme. "By the Poker,

but I'll have you out of this double quick," and, springing up, he

seized Pushful, who was stealing past to the Adjutant-General's door, by

the collar, and after a short but sharp struggle succeeded in putting

him outside.

"And now for you," he began, turning to the other visitant. "It's no

use, I tell you beforehand; the Chief won't see anyone. Oh, it's you,

Graeme; I beg your pardon. I was just writing a note to you, asking you

to come round. The General wants to see you. That door; go in quietly;

he's a bit upset this morning."

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

*CHAPTER IX*

"Well, what is it now," said Quentin, not looking up from his papers as

Graeme entered, "and what the devil's all that row about? Damn it, De

Boudoir, if you want to play 'Box and Cox,' you must find another....

Oh, good morning, Graeme; I didn't see it was you. Glad to meet you

again. How are you?"

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

to----"

"Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you. Wait a minute, will you, till I've

finished this letter, I've something to say to you. Sit down; smoke if

you like; there are cigarettes."

Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and lighting it sat

back in his chair and waited till the other had finished. What on

earth, he wondered, could the Adjutant-General have to say to him?

Surely it didn't mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted his

application for leave home, and it had arrived at Headquarters, only to

be refused? Yes, that must be it, and Quentin had now sent for him to

inform him of the fact. At the thought, Graeme was seized with anger,

and he braced himself for fight. He wouldn't stand it, not he; he would

speak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office, Adjutant-General though he

was, that he had made up his mind ...

Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen had ceased, and

that Quentin was regarding him with the same unwinking stare with which

he had favoured him three years before at Fort Hussein.

"Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme," he asked abruptly, "now

commanding at Gurrumbad?"

"I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last manoeuvres,"

answered Graeme, his anger giving way to surprise at the unexpectedness

of the question. What was the man driving at, he wondered.

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

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

"Hum ... pity."

A pause, then Quentin went on.

"He's one of the rising men, Graeme, one of the cleverest they ever had

at the Staff College, they tell me; did well, too at last cold weather

manoeuvres."

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

"They've just given him the command of a brigade in South Africa, and he

has written to me asking if I know of a"--a pause--"a suitable A.D.C."

Enlightenment at last, and with it the blood rushed to Hector's face.

His forehead grew wet, and the room reeled before him. Far off he heard

Quentin's voice continuing:

"It's a great chance, Graeme, for any soldier, and after consideration

I've determined to offer the post to you."

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

"You're thinking about the recommendation, I suppose, from your Colonel.

He won't give it; is that what you mean?"

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

"Hum, that's a pity, a very great pity. A Colonel's word, you know,

Graeme, goes for a lot in these matters. Still, this is a purely

personal appointment, and if I choose to take the risk of recommending

you in spite of unfavourable reports, well, that's my lookout. And I'm

prepared to take it, Graeme."

Silence.

"I'm prepared to take it, Captain Graeme," repeated Quentin, his eyes

now like lamps. "What's the matter, aren't you well?"

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

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

"I--I'll try, sir. Thank you."

"I'm sure you will, and now I must ask you to leave me, I've got a good

three hours' work here," laying his hand on the papers before him.

"I'll wire to Bradford at once, and let you know his answer this

afternoon; but I think I can tell you beforehand it will be all right.

You'd better go home now and pack. Good-day."

"Good-day, sir," and Graeme stumbled out of the office and along the

stone-flagged passage leading from it, till he found himself once more

at the steps, on the top of which was seated Pushful, pensively smoking

a pipe.

On seeing Hector he sprang up, with inquiry in his eye, but the other

passed by unheeding. Declining an offer of his company in a manner that

even Pushful recognised as final, he unhitched his pony from the rails,

and rode off--Lucy, ribbons, and the Swaines' luncheon party completely

forgotten. Arrived at home, he entered the house, and deaf to the

bearer's offers of lunch went off to his room, where, locking the door,

he flung himself down on the bed and tried to grasp the reality of what

had happened. "I am going out to South Africa; to-morrow at this time I

shall be gone," he repeated to himself for the hundredth time. But in

vain--the words conveyed no meaning, and his thoughts wandered off into

a confused labyrinth of trivial matters.

Finally, in desperation, he sprang up and hurried out to the garden,

where for a time he walked up and down the sodden paths, and then

gradually realisation came, and with it an intense feeling of remorse

and unavailing regret. Oh, cursed unstable fool that he'd been, thus to

allow himself to be driven into the very thing he had vowed to avoid.

Where was his boasted strength, where the resolutions of the last three

years? Gone, all gone. At a word from a stranger, he had betrayed the

only being who loved him. From a weak-minded inability to refuse, he

had accepted a thing for which he had not only no wish, but actual

loathing, and brought misery on one whose only thought and wish were for

his happiness. To leave her now, alone here amongst strangers, to get

home as best she might, oh God! And, thoughts crowding thick upon

Hector, he clenched his hands and cursed.

Then suddenly through the darkness shone a gleam, one of those that

always come when the hour is blackest: the hope of the coup that haunts

the ruined gambler; the dream of reprieve to the criminal on his way to

the scaffold--false, always false, mere Will-o'-the-wisps, but clung to

and believed in always. Perhaps he might not be sent after all, Quentin

must have seen his disinclination, he had thought his manner cold when

he said good-bye. No, he would choose someone else, someone who wanted

to go, like that fool who was sitting on the Office steps--not him.

Why, two hours had already elapsed since he left; if a wire had been

coming it would have been here by this time, and Lucy ought to be back

by now from the Swaines--good heavens, he had forgotten all about the

luncheon party. Never mind, he would make it up to her, he would show

her a devotion that would surprise even her, would make her so happy,

and this time there should be no mistake. He had had his last lesson,

and, once home, in would go his papers and ...

"Chitthi sahib, Faujdari dufta say aya,"[#] said a voice at his elbow,

and looking round he saw his bearer holding out a salver on which lay a

letter.

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

"Jao,[#]" said Graeme, and snatching up the document strode away with

it, the man looking curiously after him.

[#] Go.

At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at the envelope, with

dread in his heart; then, suddenly clenching his teeth, tore it open,

and seizing the paper within, read at a glance:

"DEAR GRAEME,

"It's all right. Colonel Bradford agrees. Report yourself to him at

Gurnimbad to-morrow night. You needn't wait for official orders. Good

luck.

"Yours,

"C. QUENTIN."

As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw wheels was heard

coming along the road towards the house. It was Lucy returning from the

Swaines'. For a moment he remained listening. Then, crushing the

letter into his pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuary

just as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.

"Where is the sahib," he heard from where he stood hovering within, "and

what has he had for lunch?" much outspoken indignation greeting the

bearer's answer that the master had not deigned to eat the meal

provided.

"Of course he'd eat, it's your fault and the cook's if he didn't.

Hector, where are you? Oh, there you are, why didn't you come out to

meet me as you always do? Oh, Hector, I'm so sorry about your lunch,

those stupid servants; and there was a guinea-fowl and the ham and----"

"It--it wasn't their fault, Lucy. They had the--the things ready, but I

refused; I didn't feel like eating."

"Hector, you're ill; your voice is different somehow; come into the

light, dear, and let me see," but Hector hung back.

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

blues, that's all."

"And no wonder, being without food all this time. We'll have tea at

once. Abdul, bring tea and two eggs for the sahib. And now sit down,

and I'll tell you about the Swaines. Oh, Hector, why didn't you come?

I was so disappointed."

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

"Lots of people, and we'd such fun, not a bit like a farewell party.

Captain Dance was there, you know, the man who does the comic parts at

the theatre. And he was really most amusing, quite cheered me up,

and--and oh, Hector, dear, he's given us a box for the theatre to-morrow

night; you will come just for once, won't you? He's got a new song

about Kruger, and I believe it's too funny. Oh, heavens, though, I

forgot, General Quentin, don't say he's coming, please, Hector."

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

"Thank goodness, I should have been so disappointed, and we'll have a

nice little dinner here together, just you and I, and go on to the play

afterwards. Oh dear, I feel quite excited about it, I hope you do too,

Hector."

"Lucy, my dearest."

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

"Omar?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, dear, not till to-morrow; but I've got a

cat for you, my birthday present, Hector. He's a Persian, that's why I

call him Omar, not very brilliant I fear, but I'm not clever, as you

know only too well."

"Clever, you're the dearest----"

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

be clever like you."

"Me? Good heavens!"

"Yes, but about Omar. I know how you missed poor Fop, and I've meant to

get you another in his place for a long time, but couldn't find one good

enough. He's white, Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspect

him."

"Lucy, wait. I--I've something to tell you, something terrible, dear,

has happened, and--and--oh, my God, how can I say it?"

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

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

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

eyes.

"South Africa," she repeated; "you--are going to--South Africa," and

then suddenly she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees before

him. "Hector, Hector," she said wildly, "it's not true, tell me it

isn't. You can't leave me, you can't, do you hear?" She tried to drag

his hands from his face, but in vain. Then her mood changed, and she

rose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her white face.

"So--so you've volunteered like the rest, you whom I called only this

morning 'the best husband in the world.' You'll go off and leave me as

I am, helpless and alone, oh, what are men made of to do these things?"

"Lucy, I did not volunteer. I was weak, criminally weak, if you like,

but that I did not do; the thing was forced upon me. Will you listen?"

"Go on."

Hector told her, and, as is usual with such recitals, suppressed the

evidences of his own weakness, insisting on the fact that, as Quentin

had put the matter, he had no choice but to accept, that it had been

less an offer than an order. He didn't want to go, he repeated again and

again, he never had had any wish to go, and let Lucy but say the word,

he would wire to Bradford this minute to refuse. He would say he was

ill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his medicine-chest upstairs.

And then he stopped bewildered, for Lucy was smiling at him, a smile

oddly in contrast with her white face and despairing eyes.

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

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

"But I do, dear; and--and, Hector, I was wrong in what I said just now,

but I thought it was your own doing, and that you had volunteered. It

was that which hurt me, dear, and made me say what I did; and--and I

know you despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they taught me

a lesson this afternoon. She felt her nephew's going--I know that,

because I found her crying afterwards in her room--but she never showed

it to him. She was all smiles before him and the others, as I shall be

when--when the time comes, Hector. When is it, dear?"

"To-morrow morning, but----"

"To-morrow? Then--then we've very little time; I must go and see to

your things; and we'll keep your birthday to-night, dear, instead of ...

and Omar shall have his blue ribbon."

"Lucy, for God's sake listen to me before we decide. I have a feeling

about this. I know somehow I ought not to go, that if I do, it will be

an irrevocable step. Oh, I can't explain, but--but I feel that--that

this is my last chance. Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am being

driven, God knows where! I have felt it before, I felt it only this

morning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too that you and

the baby alone can save me. Oh, Lucy, if you love me, tell me to stay."

"It's because I love you, Hector, that I now ask you to go. It's

everything to me your wanting to remain; but, dearest, I cannot let

you--I should be wickedly selfish if I did; and what you say about that

feeling is wrong too, dear; it is morbid and unhealthy. Fight it down,

Hector; it is nothing, and--and soon you will come back to me, and there

will be the baby, and we--we shall be so happy, and we couldn't be if we

were to shirk our duty when it's come. But I must leave you now, no, you

stay here, dear; you--you would only hinder me," and she went.

* * * * *

Next morning, with the rain pouring down upon him, Hector rode away,

and, as he reached the gate opening on to the main road, he stopped and

looked back at the still figure watching him from the dripping verandah.

For a moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to return, and

then, mastering it once and for ever, galloped away through the

downpour.

*BOOK II*

*CHAPTER X*

Many thousands of miles away from high-perched fir-clad Chillata--now no

longer rain-drenched and sad, but a white fairy-land of glistening ice

and snow--a large column of mounted men was slowly toiling its way

through a waste of rocky mountains. A weary-looking column it was, the

men silent and sullen-faced; the animals dull-eyed, with their ribs

showing through tightly-stretched coats. On they crawled, mile after

mile, now breasting the side of some stony mountain, now sinking into

the airless depths of gloomy gorge or desolate valley. Lower and lower

dropped the sun, and then, with one last blinding flash of light, was

gone, leaving the western sky aflame with specks of burning cloud.

Rapidly the light began to fade, a veil of hazy blue blurred the

mountains, a few stars twinkled feebly overhead; and then at last came

the welcome order to halt. The men clambered wearily down, and led the

horses away to where a staff officer was standing, looking dubiously

down at a few pools of muddy water, the remains of a sometime rushing

torrent. Directing and objurgating the sullen men, he remained till the

last beast had drunk and gone; and then he too turned away in search of

such cheer as he might hope to find in the Headquarter Mess.

For weeks past the present day's work had been but a repetition of its

predecessor: the rise before the dawn; the eventless trek through veldt

and mountain; the bivouac in some hot valley, where alone water could be

hoped for; the dreamless sleep, hard upon the unappetising meal; and

then once more the awakening and profitless resumption of the march.

For profitless it seemed, this pursuit of the elusive Dutchman, Van der

Tann, rebel and murderer, whose capture many had attempted, but all, so

far, failed to achieve.

Six weeks before, full of hope and confidence in their leader, despite

the gloomy prophecies of those who had attempted the task before, this

column had started on its quest, and so far not one man of the hostile

commando had they seen; apparently at its ease, it kept just one march

ahead, which distance, strive as he might, Colonel Bradford found

himself powerless to lessen.

Gradually, in the column, hope had died out, and with its death came the

longing for the comforts of civilisation: hot baths, whiskey and

cigarettes for the officers, beer and tobacco for the men--luxuries that

for the past three weeks they had been without. The former grew slack

and dispirited; the latter sullen, in the last few days, indeed, almost

openly mutinous, a state of things of which their leader was only too

well aware, and which in his heart, secretly as hopeless as theirs, he

knew himself powerless to combat. He was thinking of these things, and

even meditating the abandonment of his quest, as he sat on the hillside

overlooking the bivouac, and gloomily noted the air of unwillingness

pervading the men below.

Surely it was justifiable to give up now, he thought; he had done all

that a man could, but the task set was beyond him or anyone else; better

to accept the inevitable and go back. He was but wearing out men and

horses in a vain quest, and to force the march on was to risk the

catastrophe of mutiny and consequent ruin of his career. His authority,

he knew well, only hung by a hair, and the mere writing out of orders

for the next day had become a torment, so fearful was he of a flat

refusal to obey; only, last night their issue had been received with

"booing"--a sound that had filled him with nervous dread. Despite his

present despondency, Colonel Bradford's reputation was that of a good

and able commander; and since landing in the country five months before

his career had been one of unbroken success. Cool in action, ready of

resource, and deeply read in military lore, he had, as a brigade

commander in the main body, won high opinions from superiors and

subordinates alike, and it had been in the full hope of a successful

issue that to him had been entrusted the capture of the notorious and

hitherto undefeated Van der Tann.

Unsuspected by all, however, in Bradford's character there was a weak

spot, which events so far had failed to discover, and that was the

inability to hold on his way, unmoved by the opinions of those around

him. Give him a willing army to lead and all was well, but, let the men

become discouraged and show hostility to authority, he also, only too

soon, came to share the one feeling and fear the other. The double task

of overcoming them as well as the enemy was beyond him--as it is to all

save the Marlboroughs and Wellingtons of history--and in the present

crisis, instead of rooting up the sprouting weeds of insubordination,

his sole desire, and that the most fatal of all, was to conciliate the

malcontents, with the inevitable result that the murmuring grew daily

louder.

There was one, and, probably the only one in the column, who was not

only unaffected by the general depression, but rather stimulated by it,

and that was Captain Hector Graeme. So far, in his novel _role_ of

A.D.C., he had failed to justify his selection for the post by General

Quentin; indeed, Bradford had many times thought hard things of the

Adjutant-General to the Indian Forces, for providing him with a staff

officer so negligent and ignorant of his work.

On more than one occasion he had had just reason for complaint, Hector's

arrangements as to messing and the transport of his chief's baggage

having only too often proved defective, while his cavalier treatment of

senior officers had brought more than one rebuke on his careless head.

His sartorial eccentricities, too, were a source of constant irritation

to Colonel Bradford, for now that he was no longer a regimental officer

he had given free rein to his taste for original garments; and, bizarre

as were many of the uniforms worn at that time in South Africa, Hector,

in unconventionality and strangeness of attire, eclipsed them all.

Several times Bradford, stung by the remarks of distinguished visitors

to his Mess, had debated the advisability of sending Graeme about his

business, or at any rate palming him off on some unwary new-comer, but

somehow he had never done so; and in the last fortnight had come to be

glad of his forbearance. For during that time a surprising change had

come over his A.D.C. In proportion as the spirits of the rest went

down, his went up, and no matter how long or profitless the day Hector

never seemed tired or depressed, but, on the contrary, cheerful and full

of fight. And gradually Bradford, harassed by doubts and the

unresponsiveness of his followers, began to turn to his erstwhile

obnoxious A.D.C., whose confidence in ultimate success seemed to

increase daily, and who alone amongst his fellows appeared to be

thoroughly enjoying the present expedition.

He looked at him now as he lay on his back close by, calm and content,

the end of a "Pinhead" cigarette--given him a the rate of one daily by

his servant from the latter's scanty store--between his teeth, and, as

he looked, he sighed. He wished that he too could feel like that.

Hector heard the sigh, and, instantly opening his eyes, sat up and gazed

meditatively at the mob of men and horses below.

"Hard as nails, those horses," he observed cheerfully, "do their thirty

miles a day easy now; never so fit in their lives before."

"I don't know what you call fit, Graeme," was the moody answer, "they're

all skin and bone. Worn out, that's what they are; look at the way

they're standing."

"Only healthily tired, they'll be bucking after a night's rest. The men

seem a bit sullen though, the brutes. What the dickens do they want, I

wonder? Fine weather, grand country, and quite enough to eat. Damn it,

they've not fed those mules yet. I'll soon see about that," rising as

he spoke.

"Better leave the men alone, Graeme; poor devils, they're tired too.

For heaven's sake don't hustle them, they'll only lose their temper and

answer back."

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

worse than theirs."

"There's a time, Graeme, you know, when it's better to shut one's

eyes--the velvet glove, you know;" but Hector had gone, and was now

making his way to where a group of men were sitting in a circle, at some

distance from the famished mules.

"Velvet glove be hanged," he muttered as he went; "that's all right when

the steel hand's inside, not the flabby digits your gloves contain.

Damn, you may be a devilish fine tactician or strategist, but you don't

understand men. I do, and always have," and he strode on, the light of

battle in his eyes.

Sick with nervous apprehension, Bradford watched him approach the group,

and, as he reached it, say something to one of its members. The man,

turning his head, looked up without rising, and then, with a shrug of

his shoulders, was resuming his conversation when Hector rushed at him,

seized him by the collar, and dragged him to his feet. The others jumped

up and gazed in astonishment at the intruder; a murmur of anger arose,

but was almost instantaneously silenced, quelled by a fury such as

staggered their dull souls. For a few minutes the winged words flew,

and then Bradford saw Hector wheel round on the first man and point to

the mules. Slowly the fellow was slouching off, when for the second

time Graeme was on him, and, whirling him round, again spoke, when the

man's hand went to his cap in a salute, and he stood stiffly at

attention. Another order was given, on which the rest ranged themselves

into line, were numbered off by fours--the proving being repeated three

times before the requisite smartness was attained--and the men were

marched briskly away to the waiting mules, which they proceeded to feed,

Hector supervising. This operation completed, he rejoined his chief.

"Bit and spur, not sugar, for a tired horse," he observed, resuming his

seat on the ground. "It's not the men's fault, though; they'd be all

right if properly managed."

"What did you say to them, Graeme? It seems to have been pretty

effective, whatever it was."

"Cursed them well, sir, called them every name I could lay my tongue to.

That big fellow I promised to shoot if he spoke again. I'd have done it

too, devilish near thing as it was."

"What?"

"Certainly I would, it was him or me. Obedience I meant having, and if

he wasn't going to give it, he'd have got hurt, that's all."

"This is not the German Army, Graeme."

"No, if it were we shouldn't keep the useless devils we do in command.

Old Carthew, for instance; I wish you'd let me have a go at him, sir."

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

"Well, if I am, sir, I'm only saying what every one in the column knows.

Why, last night at dinner, before his officers, he said that our present

expedition was hopeless, and that he had reason to believe you thought

so too."

Bradford was silent.

"Of course, he ought not to have said that, Graeme," he answered after a

pause, "but I'm afraid he's only expressing the general feeling."

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

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

officer, Major Godwin."

"Godwin? An old woman."

"Graeme!"

"So he is, if he advises giving up; and it's all very well for him, he

won't get the blame--you will. He'll probably say afterwards too, he

was all for going on, but you wouldn't."

Again Bradford was silent. From what he knew of staff officers, he

thought that this was more than likely to be true, and the idea was

unpleasant. And then a fatal and ever-to-be-regretted moment of

weakness came over him, and he turned to Graeme.

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

"Try for a bit longer, anyway," was the instant response. "Look here,

Colonel, I, as you know, am not much of a tactician, but this is not a

question of tactics; it's a question of our will against Van der Tann's

and my--ours is stronger than his; I know it."

"I don't follow you, Graeme," said Bradford, looking puzzled, for to him

psychology was an unknown region.

"Simply this, we've been after this fellow now for six weeks and one of

us must give, and that soon. The strain is too great to last. Our lot

may be bad, but think what his must be, with us always hanging on to his

heels, and never knowing when we're going to pounce on them. I know he

goes as fast as we do, faster perhaps, but so does the rabbit than the

stoat, yet the stoat gets him in the end, because the rabbit's nerve

goes and he chucks it."

"Yes, but the rabbit can't turn round and fight the stoat. Van der Tann

can; a nice plight we should be in if he were to attack us to-night.

Regular _cul-de-sac_ this place we're in."

"Not much attack left in men who've been pursued for six weeks; besides,

they're probably thinking the same about us."

"Hum, can't say I think much of your argument, Graeme. Let's go and have

tea. I suppose we've not run out of that, have we? Coming? No? Well,

don't go beyond the sentry line, these Dutchmen are always prowling

about;" and Bradford rose and walked slowly away, leaving Hector seated

on the ground.

For a few minutes he remained there, and then, his Chief out of sight,

sprang up, and, evading the none too alert sentries, made his way across

country till he struck a rough sheep-track leading into the heart of the

mountains. "I'll think this out," he muttered. "I'll get him on

somehow, the faint-hearted fool, only another day or two, and we'll have

this fellow Van der Tann. He's close by somewhere. I don't know why I

think so, but I'm sure of it. I wish to heaven I was in charge; give me

a day only, and you wouldn't know that column. I'd..." And here his

thoughts wandered off, as Hector's were wont to do, into a picture of

personal achievements.

He had just worked out the capture of the Dutchman, having seen every

detail of the march and subsequent fight vividly before him, and was

proceeding to give orders for the disposal of the prisoners, speaking--a

habit to which he had of late become prone--half-aloud as he did so,

when, striking his foot violently against a stone, the pain brought him

straightway back to earth. With a sudden shock, he became aware of the

darkness and deep silence around him, and hurriedly striking a match

looked at his watch, which by good luck he had not forgotten to wind the

previous night. It was close on eight, and at six he had started, which

meant that he was now, at the pace he had come, well-nigh seven miles

from the bivouac.

By this time dinner would be over, and a search-party probably out after

him; he must get back at once, that is, if he could find his way, which

he rather doubted, for he had been too deeply engrossed with mental

visions to take much note of the road he had come by. He looked behind

him, in the hope of seeing the bivouac lights, but in vain--a wall of

mountains lay between. He turned off the track, and clambered up on to

a peak of rock, thinking he could possibly see better from it.

For a few minutes he stood there, straining his eyes into the darkness,

but no fires were visible, only the shadowy shapes of mountains on three

sides, and on the fourth a black abyss, falling sheer from his feet.

Suddenly he started, a thrill of excitement running through him, for far

down below him a faint spark of light was visible; it flickered,

disappeared, and then shone out once more.

In a flash, Hector's imagination had rent the veil of darkness. The

light stood revealed as a camp-fire, its disappearance caused by the

figures of passing Dutchmen, and a faint far-away sound from the depths

the neighing of a horse. It--it was--it could only be--Van der Tann's

bivouac. Quivering, he stood staring down, but all was black once more;

the glimmer had gone, and the sound, whatever it was, had ceased.

Visionary as the glimpse of the light had been, it was enough for

Hector. He had asked for a lever to move Bradford, and here was the

handle thrust out for him to seize. He then and there determined to

work it. After all, he was the sole witness, and what he said no one

could dispute. It would force his Chief on, that was all that mattered;

and if, afterwards, he should be proved wrong, and no commando was to be

found, well, what of it? Bradford would possibly say hard things, might

even dismiss him from his staff in disgrace, but that could not hurt him

much.

He was obscure enough now, and were his Chief allowed to carry out his

present intention of returning, a failure self-confessed, the cloud

that, in the future, would assuredly overhang Bradford's name, would

also serve to blot out altogether that of the failure's personal staff

officer. No, this was his chance, the last he would have, and take it

he would. His eyes shone, his jaw set, and, clambering down from the

rock, he regained the sheep-track, and set off at a run for the bivouac.

* * * * *

"Where the dickens has the fellow got to, d'you think, Godwin?" said

Bradford, laying down the battered-looking novel he was reading by the

light of a camp-lantern.

Dinner was long since over in the Headquarter Mess, and the two were

sitting there alone, the rest of the party having retired to bed.

"Goodness knows, sir," answered the other, a long-nosed individual with

a high forehead, who was generally supposed to be the ugliest man in

South Africa: "he's nowhere in camp, for I've sent all round to see.

Must have got through the sentries and been captured, or shot, or

something. That jacket of his would be rather a prize for a Dutch lady,

make her a nice combing-jacket."

"I particularly ordered him to keep within the boundaries," said

Bradford irritably. "Damn the fellow, he's been more trouble to me than

the whole of the rest of the column. But never mind about him now;

about those orders, you understand, that we remain here to-morrow to

rest, and the next day start back?"

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

"None, I---- Hullo, who's this? Why it's--where the dickens have you

been, Graeme? We've been hunting all over the bivouac for you,

disobeying my orders again, I suppose, and----"

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

"What!"

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

saw it."

"North, south, east, or west?" asked Godwin, his green eyes fixed on

Hector's face.

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

"That's west," said the Chief of the Staff, "in which case we passed

within a few miles of him to-day. Sure you saw him, Graeme?"

"Positive. I was quite close, crept down the mountain-side--almost a

precipice it was, too--and got within a hundred yards of them; there

were about five hundred, I should say."

"That coat of yours make you invisible, Graeme?" resumed Godwin,

glancing at Bradford. "You must have gone through their sentries as you

did ours. Van der Tann's commando, sir," to Bradford, "is, as you know,

a thousand strong, at least."

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

"Oh, be quiet, Graeme," said Bradford wearily. "remember to whom you're

talking. Do you mean seriously to tell me you have seen Van der Tann's

commando?"

"I do."

"You're quite sure you weren't deceived by the darkness, didn't mistake

cattle for horses, for instance? It's a thing anybody might do, you

know."

"I'm quite sure, sir."

Bradford stared hard at him for a moment, and then looked towards his

Chief of the Staff.

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

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

fixed upon Hector.

"I think, sir," he said after a pause, and a rather curious quaver was

in his voice, "I think it might be worth trying."

Another pause followed, and Bradford rose, and taking a map from his

haversack spread it on the table.

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

lies."

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

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

"Yes, blindfold."

Another pause, then Bradford spoke, with restored confidence in his

voice--here was something tangible to fight, not an atmosphere--"Send to

commanding officers at once, please, Major Godwin," he said, "and tell

them to come here."

Godwin left, returning a few minutes afterwards.

"We shall want three columns," continued Bradford, "one here, one there,

and another where Graeme was standing. You'll take one, Godwin, I

another, and--and Carthew, I suppose, the third."

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

"Kindly hold your tongue, sir, and don't interfere," answered Bradford,

his assurance growing.

"But he won't get there, sir; it's a beast of a road, and he'll turn

back for certain. It's courting failure to send him. Let me have the

third column, sir, I found the man."

"You, a Captain, utterly impossible," Bradford was beginning, when

Hector received quite unlooked-for support.

"With all respect, sir," said Godwin, "I think, if it could be managed,

Graeme's wish should be indulged. As he says, sir, he found the man,

and----" but here once more the odd quaver sounded in the speaker's

voice; he paused, and then continued, "Apart from everything else, he

alone knows the track."

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

"I think I could arrange that, sir. Keep Colonel Carthew with you, and

give Graeme the Colonial troops. There are less than a hundred of them,

quite enough for the third column, if what he says is right about the

ground. He said, didn't you, Graeme?" turning to the latter, "that you

were standing on the edge of a precipice, so they're hardly likely to

break that way. Let him have Rufford's lot, sir; he's only a Captain

too, and won't mind, I know."

"He's a Major by now, though his name is not in the 'Gazette' yet;

besides, even as a Captain, he's senior to Graeme."

Godwin, however, stuck to his point.

"Send him a note, sir, telling him to act under _Major_ Graeme's orders

to-night. You can rectify the mistake to-morrow."

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

"Because," burst in Hector, "Major Godwin knows that I can carry this

thing through. I'll have my lot in position, sir, at any hour you like,

if I have to carry them there. I don't think you know me, sir," he

added quietly, and Godwin, watching his face, suddenly realised that

this statement was possibly correct.

Between the two, Colonel Bradford gave way.

"Very well," he said slowly, "I'll write the order, though I don't like

doing it. You give it, Godwin, or, better still, as he might ask

questions, you take it yourself, Graeme, to Rufford. If you like to lie

about it you can, I won't, nor shall my staff officer."

"Here's the order," writing it out as he spoke and handing it to Hector.

"Now be off and make your arrangements. You must be in position

overlooking that valley before dawn. Understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered Graeme, and hurried away through the darkness

to where the Colonial troops were lying. Here he found Rufford, and to

him handed the order.

"What's the game now?" said the latter, opening the envelope and reading

its contents. "Oh, command my beggars, is it? All right, you're

welcome to, if you can, though it's pretty hard cases you'll find 'em.

Sit down, and tell us about it. Have a fill," handing him his pouch;

"got no whiskey to offer you, only baccy, and that mostly dust."

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

the men."

"Oho! coming the old soldier, are you? Can't be done, old chap; you'll

hear something if you try it. They're all dossed down and asleep by

now."

"Rout 'em out, I say. Oh, damn it, man, don't sit gaping there, here,

give me that lantern, now, where are they? The officers first, please,"

and, followed by the grinning Rufford, Hector hurried away to where a

row of blanket-covered figures were lying close by, and thereupon

proceeded to rouse the slumberers, with an energy and flow of words,

which speedily changed their feelings of wrath at the awakening into

respect and desire to be up and doing. This achieved, he flew down the

men's line, cursing, exhorting, joking as he went, till all were astir

and busy with bridle and saddle. Then, leaving them to their work, he

hurried away to Headquarters, where his own horse was now waiting. This

he mounted, galloped back, and, quickly marshalling his small force, was

away, at their head, on his mission, a good half-hour before the other

two columns had begun to turn out.

Through the black night he drove them on; now dismounting to lead up

some steep boulder-strewn hillock, now plunging down into the depths at

a pace which made even the careless Colonials hold their breath.

"The devil's in the fellow," muttered Rufford, from his post in rear,

whither he had been despatched to whip up stragglers. "Slack, casual

beggar I always thought him, and here he is hustling my crowd along as

I'd never dare, well as I know 'em. Damme. They seem to like it too,

rum thing. Wonder what he's after? Choked me off to rights when I

asked him, thought for a moment he meant braining me with that old

knobkerrie of his. Well, I don't care, let him run his own show; he

seem to know all about it. Now then, close up, will you, what the hell

are you hanging back for? Oh, 'halt,' is it? What's that? Pass it on,

confound you--oh, 'officers.'" And thereupon Rufford hurried up to the

front, where he found Graeme surrounded by the rest of the officers.

"Keep back from me, will you," he was saying, "now then, listen,"

whereupon, in quick sharp sentences, clear as daylight, though couched

in somewhat unmilitary phraseology, Hector proceeded to give out his

orders. "Now, be off," he concluded, and the group broke up and hurried

away.

The tramp of feet followed soon after, and then, in single file, up came

the men, rifle at the trail; two columns of them, one on each side of

the track. Arrived at where Hector was standing, the leading files of

each column wheeled off to the right and left respectively, followed by

those in rear, till all were gone, swallowed up in the darkness. Now

and again the clatter of loose stones was heard, a stifled oath in

answer, and then these sounds, too, ceased, and all was still and silent

as before.

For a few minutes Hector stood, his heart swelling with exultation at

the good work accomplished. In less than two hours he had brought his

force eight miles through the heart of the mountains--and this on a

pitch-dark night--exactly to the spot desired.

They were not men of his own regiment either, but Colonials, who were

notoriously independent and difficult to manage, and yet without the

slightest difficulty he had managed them. From the time when, in face

of their own commander's warnings, he had roused them from their beds,

there had not only been no murmuring, but, on the contrary, a willing

obedience and confidence in his leadership. And to-morrow, or rather

to-day, when the fighting began...

Suddenly realisation came to Hector, and from the heights he fell

headlong to the depths, the certainty of disappointment upon him. Fool

that he was to have forgotten; fighting, there would be no fighting;

there was, there could be, no one in that valley below. No, the

darkness would lift, the emptiness be revealed, and all his labour would

be gone or nothing--worse still, unrecognised.

Hector did not fear the consequences to himself once the fraud was

discovered, for that was the gamble, and if he lost, he was prepared to

pay, but to know himself a leader of men, and for that knowledge to go

unshared by all save him, that to Graeme was bitterer than death. A

dreary laugh broke from his lips as the realisation of the giant hoax he

had played upon all, himself included, came home to him. He pictured

Bradford and the long-nosed Godwin struggling over the mountains; their

cautious injunctions for silence in the ranks, the eager anticipation of

the officers as they posted their men, and impressed upon them the

necessity of straight-shooting. God! how absurd it all was, how

damnably absurd.

Then, as hope never dies in human hearts, a thrill of excitement ran

through him, as he became aware that the solid blackness was loosening

and the hour of revelation close at hand. With heart wildly beating, he

watched the shapeless masses around him take form and become the tops of

mountains, blurred at first, and then sharply defined against a sky

fading from violet to green. And suddenly it was light, and a still

grey world stood revealed.

Straining his eyes downwards, he lay till the last patch of shadow

clothing the valley below had melted away, when, with a sudden cry of

exultation, Graeme flung his helmet into the air, and rolled over and

over on the grass, laughing hysterically at what he had seen. In the

centre of the valley, or, rather, horseshoe-shaped indentation in the

mountains, stood a rough farmhouse, with a cluster of large cattle

kraals close by, and around the house and filling the kraals were dark

masses of horses. It was Van der Tann's commando beyond a doubt.

No sooner had one hope been realised, and anxiety relieved, than another

equally insistent took its place--the fear of the escape of the quarry

lying so unsuspectingly below. True, the main entrance, that on the

side farthest away from him, and leading into the open veldt beyond,

would be certainly held and barred by now; nor was flight possible up

the mountains on either side, for these rose sheer from the valley's

level. No, it was not there that the danger lay, but at his end; for

Graeme had made a mistake, and a bad one, the previous night. He was

not standing at the edge of a precipice, as he had imagined, but on a

neck or depression between two hilltops, whence the ground sloped gently

to the farmhouse, forming a natural causeway at least two hundred yards

across, and easily accessible to Boer ponies and horsemen, who, finding

other exit barred, would assuredly turn about and make straight for

where he stood. And to stop them, to block that two hundred yards, he

had but seventy-five men all told--a weak obstacle, truly, to the rush

of desperate fugitives.

Thinking hard, he lay there, but no solution of the problem came, and

then through the still morning air a shot rang out from the far end of

the valley, and at the sound the dark figures below awoke to instant

life. From the ground they sprang up, out of farmhouse and kraal they

poured, swarming in and among the crowd of horses some few fevered

minutes, and then, mounting, streamed off at a gallop, heading for the

entrance to the open veldt.

Immediately the roar of musketry arose in greeting, and from the rocks

on either side a sleet of lead beat in their faces, but for a moment

they held on, till, recognising the impossible, they rushed headlong

back the way they had come, straight to where Graeme, with his

seventy-five men, was lying.

"Bang!" went a rifle close beside him, and at the sound seventy-four

others also began to speak, disjointedly; and then were suddenly silent,

for their leader was up and running down the line, shouting for the fire

to cease and the men to rise and fix bayonets.

"The fellow's mad," muttered Rufford, "never mind, I'll follow you, old

chap, and, God! see, the men, after him like hounds," and Rufford sprang

up and ran, wildly shouting, after Hector, who was bounding over the

stones, swinging his knobkerrie as he went.

Onward rushed the opposing forces, the one a galloping mass of horsemen

a thousand strong, the other a weak ragged line of khaki and steel. And

well ahead of the advancing commando a man on a white horse led the way,

a big, bearded man, white-faced and shifty-eyed; and on those shifty

eyes Hector's own were fixed unwaveringly, his pace increasing as the

distance between them lessened. Either he or the Dutchman must give in a

moment, he knew, and the giving of the one meant the giving of his

followers. They were nothing: it was between the leaders the issue lay.

Not twenty-five yards divided them, and still the big man came

thundering on, his followers and Hector's checking themselves

involuntarily to watch--and then suddenly the end came. The white

horse, obeying his rider's mind, and not the merciless lash, swerved,

reared and then began to rein back. Up went the big man's hands, "I

surrender," he said, his shifty eyes roving from side to side. "I

surr----" And then with a choked scream he fell forward, his face a

red, featureless mask from the smash of the knobkerrie; a second time

the club rose and fell, a dull crushing sound was heard, and Cornelius

Van der Tann rolled sideways from his horse and fell on the ground dead.

"On, men, on," shouted Hector, "now's the time to drive it home," and he

rushed on, waving the bloody knobkerrie as he went, "Ah!" and a shout of

exultation burst from his lips, for again the horsemen had turned, and

were galloping back to the farmhouse and kraals, where they lay for a

while undisturbed.

Only for a time, for, on the mountain overlooking them, figures soon

began to appear, cautiously picking their way among the rocks. A burst

of firing from the buildings below greeted them, whereupon, crouching

low, they came forward at a run, dodging from stone to stone, and then

suddenly sank to earth and were gone. A moment's pause followed, and

then came the sharp sound of shots directed straight down into the

crowded kraals. It swelled to a roar, was answered by a burst of

screams, and then up went the white flag. Bugles rang the "Cease fire,"

and silence once more.

From the far end of the valley a knot of horsemen came galloping, a red

triangular flag waving in their midst. At the sight the mountain slopes

around awoke to life, and brown figures started up from the ground,

their white faces glaring in the morning sunlight. A ripple of movement

went through their ranks, helmets flew off, and were raised aloft on

rifle-barrels; a murmur arose, which swelled and grew until it merged

into a roar of triumphant cheering.

* * * * *

"I have sent for you, gentlemen," said Colonel Bradford, addressing the

assembled officers some two hours later, "to thank you all for the loyal

support and assistance you have given me this morning. There is one

thing, however, I should like to say, there is one great lesson I hope

all of you have learnt in the campaign, which has just been so

successfully brought to a conclusion, and that, gentlemen, is the

necessity of never yielding to despondency. I am aware--I must say it,

though I regret to--that amongst both officers and men there has been of

late a certain tone of discouragement. That, gentlemen, was wrong and

unsoldierlike, where, I ask you, should we be now had I too showed those

feelings? Back home, gentlemen, back home, in disgraceful retreat.

"No, gentlemen, a soldier's motto must always be _Nil desperandum_, for,

as you know, 'the blackest hour is always that preceding the dawn.'" He

paused, puffing out his chest. "That is all, I think," he added,

"except to ask you to convey my thanks to your respective commands,

though, of course, I shall publish an order on the subject. And now,

Godwin," turning to that officer, "for breakfast. Graeme, where the

deuce has that fellow got to? What, breakfast not here? Oh, damn it,

man. Ah, I forgot though, you were guiding Rufford's column, and

devilish well you did it too. By the way, that was a nasty rush you

stopped, killed Van der Tann too, I hear, how did you do it? I couldn't

see clearly from where I was."

"Went for them with the bayonet, sir; didn't wait for them to come to

us, but attacked. They couldn't stick it, and went."

Bradford whistled, his face grown suddenly disapproving.

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

hundred men."

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

"And you charged them with that. You're a very lucky officer, Graeme,

that's all I can say. Still, it turned out all right, though I'm hanged

if I can understand how. And now for breakfast, we'll draw the Rutlands,

I think, Godwin," and Bradford, humming a tune, walked gaily away.

"And that's just one of those things you never will understand,"

muttered Hector, looking after him. "They don't teach that at the Staff

College. Oh, Godwin, I didn't see you. Do you want me?"

"I do, rather," answered the long-nosed man, and then was silent,

staring at Hector until he grew restive.

"What is it?" he asked sullenly.

"I should like to say, Graeme," replied Godwin, still staring, "that I

consider you one of the pluckiest officers I've ever met."

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

"I don't mean anything of the kind," was the unexpected answer. "I am

alluding to the information you brought in last night, and on which

we--providentially acted."

"I don't understand you, sir."

"Oh yes, you do, and so did I all the time, and that's what I mean when

I say you're the pluckiest man I've ever met. And on that pluck I

congratulate you, Graeme, only, if I were you, I shouldn't try it again,

it mightn't come off a second time, you see. About that charge of

yours, though, that's a different matter, and, speaking unofficially, of

course, I say do _that_ again; by _that_ I mean attack whenever and

wherever you can." He stopped, looked at Graeme, and burst out

laughing. Then suddenly holding out his hand, wrung Hector's in its

clammy grasp, and hurried away, leaving the other staring after him.

*CHAPTER XI*

Laden with trophies, bright-faced and triumphant, the column started on

its way back to civilisation, and in ten days' time, to the strains of

the local band, sent forward to meet it, was marching proudly through

the poplar-lined street of Gethsemane. This town is inhabited mostly by

Colonial Dutch, whose loyalty or the reverse rose or fell according as

the fortunes of war inclined to one or the other contending party.

The death of Van der Tann and capture of his commando having brought

about a fall in Dutch stock, they were now loyal British subjects, and

consequently from every hotel, private dwelling-place, and shop the gay

bunting streamed. Functionaries, in civic robes, came forward to greet

their preservers with hands outstretched in welcome, as they bade them

enter and feast themselves on the good things made ready in their

honour.

Nor were the prisoners forgotten, a forbidding wire-enclosed zeriba

having been prepared in their honour, and here, the whole town turning

out to watch the operation, they were speedily deposited, and left till

such time as the authorities saw fit to arrange for their removal to

Cape Town.

A time of relaxation ensued, the officers revelling in late hours, clean

shirts, and the social delights of tennis, croquet party, and dance; the

men in unlimited beer, tobacco, and well-nigh nightly "sing-songs."

Colonel Bradford made speeches, roared lion-like at social

entertainments, and spoke of the British flag, and the well-known

loyalty of Gethsemane inhabitants, sentiments greeted with loud and

unanimous applause by his hearers.

On all faces were smiles, in all hearts joy, save in the case of Hector

Graeme, who was, as usual, in antagonism with his fellows. "Confound

it, man," said Bradford to him one morning, Hector having been more than

usually unresponsive to his Chief's good-humour, "what an ungracious

fellow you are, one would think, by Gad, you were sorry instead of glad

at our recent success, why, last night at dinner you were infernally

rude to the Mayor. I tell you I don't like it, Graeme, and, what's

more, I won't have it," and Bradford stalked away in dudgeon, another

black mark registered in his mind against his unsatisfactory A.D.C.

Had it not been for Major Godwin, events would long before this have

come to a head between the two, for, since the capture of the commando,

Hector had once more relapsed into his former irritating ways of

slackness and inattention; and had, moreover, recently added another

fault to the list, that of almost continual absence, passing his days,

to the neglect of his Chief, in long solitary rides about the

surrounding country.

This in itself was not distasteful to the Colonel, rather was it a

relief, for his former feelings of annoyance at Hector's ignorance and

casualness had of late become replaced by another--that of dislike, even

hatred, for his subordinate. He felt that peculiarly bitter hatred we

feel for those to whom, in a moment of expansion, we have revealed some

jealously-hidden weakness, and who have responded to the revelation by a

counter-display of strength, comforting possibly at the time, but

becoming an intolerable and rankling memory once that hour is passed and

security attained. To all save Hector--and perhaps one other--Bradford

was a hero, one who had accomplished the hitherto impossible, and daily

the longing grew, not so much to get rid of this one witness of his hour

of humiliation--for that, for reasons of his own, he shrank from

doing--as to crush him, stamp on him, and load him with obloquy. This he

did to the full extent of his power, depriving Graeme of the smallest

show of independence, ruthlessly snubbing him, and countermanding even

such orders as in his position he was entitled to give, fearful lest

they should be construed by those outside into his management by a

subordinate, and that this suspicion would finally culminate in the

belief that it was not he, but Hector, who had in reality brought about

the recent capture.

If Bradford, on his part, cherished these feelings towards his aide,

Hector was even more bitter against his Chief, the main reason for this

being the Colonel's refusal to acknowledge or even allude to the

services rendered to him by Hector on that momentous occasion. "Damn

it," he muttered, watching the hero's gracious acceptation of

congratulations on one occasion, "it was I, not you, who caught the

beggar; but for me, you would have slunk back with your tail between

your legs, and instead of addresses and flags, it's hooting would have

met you from this same loyal town of Gethsemane. Lord," yawning and

turning away, "how infernal slow that honours' list is in appearing, six

weeks, at least, since the names went in. I wonder what they'll do for

me? Brevet, I suppose, and probably a D.S.O. as well; can't very well

do less, they might give me a column too, and then, Bradford, you ass,

you can run your own show, and we'll see what sort of success you'll

have. Gad, what a show-up it will be for the impostor, doing all right

when I'm there, but coming to grief once I'm gone," and Hector,

comforted at the thought, called for his horse and rode away into the

mountains.

At last the long looked-for honours' list arrived, in which Bradford's

name appeared as a Major-General and C.B., and Godwin's as

Lieut.-Colonel and C.M.G. Many others were rewarded with Brevets and

D.S.O.'s--amongst the latter being Rufford, of the Veldt Rifles. Of

Hector Graeme, however, there was no mention, peruse and reperuse the

list as he might; and, incredulity at last giving way to certainty, his

face grew suddenly livid, and a look came into his eyes, which caused

Godwin, who, with Bradford, was in the room, to spring up, and, seizing

Hector by the arm, lead him outside, before the words trembling on his

lips were uttered. "I know, I know," he said hastily, "but don't be a

fool, Graeme; there's time enough yet. Go for a ride; curse the veldt

if you like, but not the..." Hector, obeying him, went, and riding

fiercely away into the mountain flung himself down on the ground, where

he lay, a prey to one of those secret wild fits of passion, the first he

had given way to for four years--in his room at Fort Hussein.

Limp and white-faced, he returned to his quarters, to find Godwin

awaiting him; and a long conversation followed, the first of many, for

the long-nosed man had taken a liking to Graeme, one of those

occasionally awakened--which are almost invariably strong and

lasting--by the universally unpopular. This liking, however, was in no

way returned by its object, who considered the other a bore, the more so

as he was continually harping upon one subject, that of the necessity of

military reading to a soldier, a pursuit for which Hector had no liking,

especially for the class of literature recommended by Godwin.

"Two things are necessary to make a leader," his self-appointed

counsellor would urge, his pale-green eyes lighting up with enthusiasm

as he spoke, "one the natural qualities of character, which cannot be

acquired; the other, knowledge of one's profession, which can, by books.

The qualities--I may be wrong, of course--I think you have; you're

certainly aggressive, the great thing; but the knowledge you have not;

indeed, you're one of the most ignorant officers it has ever been my

fortune to meet. And you may be the strongest man in the world,

Graeme," he concluded, "but, if you can't box, the fellow, with half

your strength, who can will knock you out in the first round."

"Not necessarily," was the answer, "the cleverest professors with the

gloves are often useless in the ring. Their hearts are wrong, they

don't mean smashing their men, and never lead, only wait to be knocked

out. And it's just the same, I imagine, in war. Take this last show,

for instance; you know as well as I do, Godwin, that----"

"That but for the--information you brought in that night," interrupted

the latter hastily, "Van der Tann would probably still be at large.

That, of course, is a matter, Graeme, I must decline to discuss, and if

you take my earnest advice you'll forget the episode as quickly as you

can. Believe me, you'll ruin your career if you don't. But what you

say, about the finest boxer being useless in the ring, proves nothing

beyond the fact that character is the most essential of the two things I

spoke of. Make the two boxers equal, or, as that's impossible, make

them nearly equal in that respect, and the victory goes to the one with

most science. Take Bluecher, for instance, as strong a character as

there has ever been, but, because he was ignorant, he lost army after

army till Gneisenau took him in hand, and, acting as his brain, told him

what to do. He, a general, Graeme, had to rely on another man's

knowledge; he admitted it himself when he said, 'Ah, Gneisenau, what a

general I should have been had I only read!'"

"I'd read fast enough, Godwin," said Graeme, "if I'd got any incentive

to do so. It's recognition I want; give me a start, I'll do the rest."

"Bah!" replied the other, "some men go without recognition all their

lives, and still struggle on. And it may come yet, who knows? Be

prepared for it when it does, that's my point; don't handicap yourself

with ignorance. Now, I've got nothing to do for an hour, and if you

like I'll----"

"Oh, thank you very much, Godwin; it's awfully good of you, but I'm

afraid I can't stay now. There's my pony waiting outside, another time

I shall be delighted," and here the conversation, as such conversations

invariably did, ended in nothing.

Then a fresh disaster befell Hector, his one friend being called home to

take up an appointment at the War Office, and with his departure the

rapid decline of Graeme's fortunes began. With no mediator to intervene

between them, Bradford's treatment of his A.D.C. became daily harsher,

till at length his animosity began to be remarked on, and to give rise

to the very comment he was so morbidly anxious to avoid; the juniors

wondered how Hector could put up with his Chief's bullying; the seniors,

why the General persisted in retaining on his staff an officer who, by

his own showing, was so altogether incompetent and objectionable.

Bradford, accordingly, found himself in a quandary, for were he to

dismiss Hector now, he might find his way to the staff of some other

column leader, who--jealous as were most at that time of their

kind--would be only too ready to listen to a tale belittling Bradford's

recent achievements; while, on the other hand, did he keep Hector where

he was, the suspicion would certainly arise that he had his reasons for

doing so, those reasons being that his A.D.C. knew too much to be

allowed to leave.

His whole frame of mind was an instance of the curious childishness that

saps the intelligence of men, often deemed the strongest, who, while

listening to the admiration expressed by the public for some edifice

constructed by their hands, are all the time conscious of a flaw in its

foundations, which at any minute may cause the building, and with it its

architect's reputation, to crumble before their eyes. None of the

spectators know of the flaw--probably never will know--but the architect

does, and the alarming, though quite natural, cracking of the new

edifice is to his mind the voice of the flaw, shouting its existence to

all present. He hears it, they must too; and the slightest word--a

careless suggestion uttered without reason or meaning--tells him that

all is discovered, and he will be proclaimed an impostor.

Thus it was with Bradford. The most casual observation anent Hector and

his doings on the fateful night would throw him into a fever of anxiety,

the culminating point being reached on the occasion of a visit from the

Commander-in-Chief to Gethsemane, when, in the course of conversation,

he remarked that his host's A.D.C. certainly cultivated a somewhat

remarkable style of dress, but to which, from what he had heard, other

staff officers, notably Gneisenau, were similarly addicted. It was an

unfortunate remark, and on hearing it Bradford grew hot with agitation.

Gneisenau? He, then, was Bluecher, and the Commander-in-Chief knew

everything. Someone must have talked; someone in the column--probably

Graeme himself. At the last thought a fury of hatred seized him, and,

his distinguished guest having departed, he summoned Hector to his room,

where he accused him point-blank of gossiping about him, his Chief.

Graeme denied it. Bradford called him a liar, upon which Hector's

pent-up rage broke loose, and he told Bradford what he thought of him.

With horrid accuracy he dissected his General's mind before his eyes,

holding up the pieces for him to see, and concluded with a direct

accusation of jealousy of one to whom alone he owed his recent honours

and reputation.

"Yes," he said finally, "I lied that night, I own it, I did it to save

you, and it did. It was the only way to get you on; you were all for

going back, but I made up my mind you should not. Now you have it." He

stopped, panting.

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

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

answered Hector, going.

"Come back."

"Ah!"

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

hear?"

"Where am I to go?"

"I'll arrange that, go." Hector went, leaving Bradford white and

shaken, as he saw in his mind's eye his late A.D.C. hurrying from Mess

to Mess, and stripping, as he went, all his new-born reputation from

him. Like most mental visions, it was altogether baseless, for,

whatever other faults Hector possessed, pettiness was not among the

number, and despite his threat to reveal all at the court-martial, he

would, nevertheless, had such taken place, kept scornfully silent on the

subject.

Bradford, however, had little or no understanding of human nature or

character, and consequently sat where he was for hours, fearing to go

out lest he should read in men's faces the knowledge of his own undoing.

At last, wearily rising, he moved across to the writing-table, and,

sitting down, proceeded to indite a letter to Headquarters, in which he

stated that, for purely personal reasons, he was desirous of changing

his A.D.C., and asked that his present one might be transferred to a

post elsewhere.

He suggested the Transport, an unpleasant smile on his face as he wrote,

and having finished the letter sealed it, and summoned the orderly,

whose face he watched narrowly as he handed him the document. With

sinking heart, he noted a cloud on the man's face, the consequence, it

may be observed, of a misunderstanding with Martha, the Mayor's

parlour-maid.

The result of the letter was Hector's appointment as transport officer

to a small column working in the Transvaal, and to that place he

departed, after a short leave-taking with his late Chief, who wished him

good luck in his new venture, and regretted that the arrival of a nephew

from England necessitated Hector's removal. He also regretted any

differences they might have had, and--and he hoped that--that ...

"I am not a gossip," answered Graeme coldly, "though you were good

enough to accuse me of it once, nor am I small," and, ignoring the

outstretched hand, he turned his back on his well-wisher.

Mounting the Cape cart, he drove off, and a few hours afterwards was in

the train jolting on his way north. In the novel _role_ of transport

officer, however, he proved himself even more unsatisfactory than in

that of A.D.C.; indeed, thanks to him, the column he served well-nigh

starved, and this fact, in the form of a peculiarly damaging report from

its leader, having been brought to the notice of the authorities, Hector

was relieved of his duties, and relegated to a stool in a commissariat

office.

With the decline of his fortunes, his ineptitude seemed to increase. A

further and even more damaging report having been received, Hector again

started on his travels, and this time for the last and lowest stage of

all--a blockhouse on the lines of communication. The months passed, the

War slowly dragged to its close, but no further notice from authority

did Graeme receive; and with the flitting of the days his sense of

grievance and injustice increased, till his whole mind was consumed with

bitterness and hatred of his kind.

At times he even meditated, should the chance occur, the throwing in of

his lot with the enemy, and taking what revenge he could on his

persecutors; but, fortunately for him, the chance did not occur--no

enemy showing themselves within a hundred miles of his dreary abode.

Day after day he sat staring moodily out on the bare brown hills and

monotonous stretch of scrub-clad veldt, praying for the enemy to appear;

but in vain, and at last this hope died. Another scheme took its place

in his mind, that of leaving the army, once the War was over, and

joining that of some other nation, his eventual aim being the leading of

that army against his own country-men.

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."