Hector sat staring at the postscript and then suddenly a light broke in

upon him. "Kept it back, I see," he muttered, "till I was a Major, thus

giving me double promotion. Lord, but they must think something of me

to do that, I wonder who it was? Godwin, I suppose. He wasn't quite

such a fool as the rest; he could see what they couldn't. How the old

fellow, though, hammers on about reading. I've done pretty well without

it, so far, and yet I don't know--he might be right. Hang it, I've a

good mind to give the thing a trial; there's nothing else to do here,

and the War may go on for months. I'll send for some books to Cape

Town. I'll do it now, by Jove!" And, one of those sudden imperative

desires coming over him, he left the kopje, and, hurrying back to the

blockhouse, wrote out an order for all the military books he could think

of, sending it off by mounted orderly the same afternoon, special

messengers being daily despatched to the post-office till the literature

ordered arrived.

From that time the transformation of Hector's blockhouse apartment into

a library, and himself into a book-worm, proceeded apace; weekly

consignments of military works thenceforth arrived, and, the heart

having been torn out of them, were thrown aside and looked at no more.

In his youth Graeme had been sickly, and on that account had not been

sent to a public, or even a private, school, his mental training having

been entrusted to governesses and tutors, whose instructions were on no

account to force the lad's inclinations, with the result that he grew up

practically uneducated. He had managed to scrape through the necessary

army examinations, but this was due rather to a certain "crammer's"

uncanny knowledge of his art than to any proficiency on the part of the

pupil, and a few months after the undergoing of his ordeal Hector's mind

had once more relapsed into its former happy state of ignorance, in

which condition it had remained till the present time.

Fortunately for him, the mental ground thus left fallow had never been

weakened by the rank growth springing from the assiduous reading of

novels, and the soil was ready and hungry for such seeds as he might

choose to sow. In a very few months--though yawning at times over their

dulness--he had easily mastered the contents of the dry and

unimaginative text-books. This done and duty satisfied, he thereupon

indulged to the full his own peculiar bent for character study, as

exemplified in the biographies of the world's great commanders.

These he read from cover to cover, no longer yawning, but eagerly taking

in the smallest details; indeed, it was chiefly on the trivial incidents

of childish life--revealing, nevertheless, the true unalterable

character of the subject--that Hector would dwell, marking as he went

the paragraphs in which these particulars were described.

Now, to read with the object of acquiring information is one thing; but

to read in order to discover a resemblance between yourself and the

subject of a biography is quite another, and a most dangerous one,

especially for those to whose nature the abnormal appeals, the

inevitable result being an unconscious desire to make the resemblance

complete, even to the smallest and most objectionable details.

This is what Graeme now began to do. Since he had received recognition,

and with it the birth of ambition, he had become firmly convinced that

he was destined to join the ranks of the great, and the more he read

about them the surer and more exultant he grew, for in the story of

their lives he recognised a hundred traits of character similar to his

own, particularly in their oddities and eccentricities, on which his

mind eagerly seized.

There were some among them, it is true, in whom no sign of himself was

to be met with, these the eminently sane and methodical characters; but

such he passed over as lacking in the true fire of genius, and their

biographies, once scanned, were thrown aside and looked at no more. Of

the others, however, there was one in whose character he especially

delighted, that one being Prince Suvarov, the great Russian.

His power over his soldiers, eccentricity of attire, recklessness of

consequences, and, above all, the ingrained determination to attack and

never wait on the defensive, all these characteristics he felt himself

to possess; and inasmuch as Suvarov not only scorned to conceal, but

gloried in, the revelation of mental peculiarity, so now did Hector do

the same, giving full rein to that passion for difference from his

fellows which hitherto, chiefly from the wish to please Lucy--to whom

such was anathema--he had to a certain extent concealed.

The immediate result of this was, as usual, in the army, the bestowal of

a nickname, Graeme soon becoming known as "Mad Jack," a designation

which stuck to him till the day of his death. This, far from annoying

its recipient, delighted him, and fired by the sensation he was causing

he went further. One of his habits, that of riding down the line of

blockhouses in a state of nature save for a towel, having come to the

ears of the General commanding the district, the result was a sharp

reproof and request that Colonel Graeme would in future comport himself

as an officer and a gentleman.

To this Hector replied in rhyme, which so infuriated its recipient that

he reported the matter to Headquarters, and for a time Graeme's career

was in serious jeopardy. Providentially, at this crisis the enemy at

last thought fit to put in an appearance, their assembly at a farmhouse

three miles distant, with the avowed object of capturing Hector, who as

a colonel was worth something, being reported to the latter by an

English farmer living in the district.

Thereupon, without waiting for the expected onslaught, and in defiance

of standing orders, Graeme called up the garrison of every blockhouse

under his command. Leaving these empty save of scarecrow dummies, he

sallied forth the same night, and surprised and captured the sleeping

commando at dawn.

The following day happening to be Palm Sunday, he despatched his

prisoners to District Headquarters under an escort decorated with long

grass and reeds, his despatch, giving an account of the affair, being

couched in the form of a hymn. This the escort were forced to practise

for an hour before starting on their mission, their Chief conducting

their efforts with his knobkerrie, with which he threatened instant

death to any man who sang out of tune or laughed. His labours were in

vain, however, for, despite the most stringent orders and threats of

dire punishment did they disobey his orders, the escort's courage failed

them at the eleventh hour, and the prisoners were handed over in silence

by a crimson-faced, grass-decorated subaltern.

For this exploit Hector received nothing except a reproof for

impertinent levity, and, the War shortly after coming to an end, he was

despatched to Blauboschfontein, to await the arrival of his regiment.

This took place some few weeks later. Royle was in command, and over

him Graeme soon established a complete ascendency. Carson, the one man

who might have proved an obstacle in his path, having retired shortly

before, disgusted at the regiment's non-participation in the War.

Hector thus succeeded to the position of second-in-command--that is,

nominally, for to all intents and purposes he reigned supreme.

He conducted the training of the troops; introduced startling

innovations; and, in short, did what he liked, his confidence in himself

and contempt for superiors growing daily. A constant and, to his

fellows, unaccountable sequence of successes in field-days and

manoeuvres followed, Hector's methods when confronted by an adversary

being so unusual as to render useless the ordinary stereotyped means of

defence, and though generals and other superior persons shook their

heads and talked of wild schemes, still these plans somehow always came

off, despite their gloomy prophecies.

Graeme's schemes were not quite the wild ones they were supposed to be,

but, on the contrary, were formed on a perfectly sound basis, namely, on

his knowledge of his opponent's peculiar character, and thus proved the

safest. Well he knew the process of the ordinary military mind and its

adherence to text-book principles. These and the answering moves they

understood, and were consequently never confronted with them, being

paralysed at the outset by a cut to which no text-book gave the correct

parry.

Give him the wild, hairbrained adversary, however--and on one occasion

such a foe was put up against him with a view to his discomfiture, by

General Banks, officer commanding the district, and his bitter

enemy--and straightway Hector's tactics became of the most ordinary and

stereotyped description, the result on the occasion in question being

the rout of the harebrained one without his opponent having moved from

his original position.

Graeme moreover, by now, knew his text-books as well as and probably

better than, his most learned adversaries, and was consequently well

aware of the risks he ran, and from which quarter danger was likely to

come; and, this being so, half the peril he incurred was gone.

Altogether Graeme prospered, and was happier in Blauboschfontein than he

had ever been before; and with happiness came physical well-being and

health, things that had been practically unknown to him till now.

He loved the country too, spending hours roaming about the veldt till

nightfall, when, with cheeks aglow and eyes alert he would return to his

quarters and bury himself in his reading till dinner. A most

respectable meal consumed--for him--he would seek his room once more,

read again for an hour, and then tumble into bed and sleep dreamlessly

till dawn. With reveille he was up, and away to the riding maneges to

take his place amongst the young horsemen, a situation for which, to

speak truth, Graeme was not qualified, being as a rider deficient in

both "hands" and patience.

All this time Lucy's letters were weekly growing more insistent for his

return. Did he not want to see her again, she wrote? The house too,

Cuddingfold Hall, she had taken, relying on his coming, though only for

a year, in case he should not like it. She had, however, the option of

a long lease, though goodness knew when another prospective tenant might

appear. If he did not, after all, now wish to retire, and from his last

letters it seemed he did not, at least he could come home on leave; they

would not refuse him that after three years' absence.

Lucy's appeals remained disregarded, and probably would have remained so

but for another event that took place about this time, namely, the

sudden death of his father. Hector thus becoming owner of a small

property in Scotland.

The announcement of the death was accompanied by a letter from his

lawyers, requesting his immediate presence at home; and though this also

was for a time ignored, Messrs. Quill & Screw became so urgent in their

demands--hinting at serious pecuniary loss did he fail to return at

once--that Graeme was at length forced to comply, and submitted an

application for six months' leave of absence.

This was gladly forwarded by Colonel Royle, who had secret hankerings

after the control of his own regiment, and equally gladly approved by

General Banks, who jumped at the chance of getting rid of Hector, if

only for a time; and a week later, his passage secured, Graeme was

comfortably seated in a first-class compartment of the famous _train de

luxe_, on his way to Capetown, where the mail steamer, _Dunrobin

Castle_, 12,000 tons, was already waiting alongside the quay.

*CHAPTER XII*

Through the shining tropic sea sped the _Dunrobin Castle_, homeward

bound, a speck of scarlet and grey in a waste of still, oily blue.

Canvas awnings glared white in the morning sunlight; pitch bubbled in

the seams of the holystoned decks; from metal-work and fitting, flashes

of light smote blindingly on the eye. Over the towering oval-shaped

funnels a faint shimmer hovered; from clanging engine-room rose the reek

of oil and steam mingling with the hot air above; wire stays quivered

dizzily to the dull throbbing of the screw.

On one side of the ship, where a faint breeze blew, a row of chairs

stretched along the deck, their occupants reading, chatting, or lazily

looking on at games of deck billiards, quoits, or bull, played by the

more energetic of the passengers; on the other, now invaded halfway

across by the glare of the slanting sunlight, there were only two

figures, the one that of Hector Graeme, the other--the length of the

deck away--of a girl, Stara Selbourne.

Both were apparently reading, but neither had turned a page for an hour,

their thoughts being of one another. Stara wondered why, since this man

was so obviously interested in her, he declined to avail himself of

board-ship licence and speak instead of staring. Hector revolved in his

mind for the hundredth time suitable words with which to begin, and

cursed the curious awkwardness that inevitably assailed him when in her

vicinity, impelling him to pass her by without a word when he had

approached her with the object of commencing the attack.

This stupidity on his part, moreover, apart from its novelty, was the

more galling, as for the first time in ten years he found himself

desirous of talking to a woman other than his wife; in fact, even in the

short space of two days this desire had begun to take possession of him

to the exclusion of all else, even to that of the perusal of a parcel of

new books with which he had intended to occupy his whole time when on

board.

It is perhaps unnecessary to mention, Hector's attention having been

thus aroused, that Stara Selbourne was possessed of personal

attractions, these being of that soft, essentially feminine kind before

which the strength of men evaporates.

Looking at her now as she lay, lazily disposed among a heap of

pink-and-white cushions, the short-lipped, sensuous mouth half open, and

soft, dimpled cheek resting on a tiny white hand; noting, moreover, the

fineness of cambric blouse and skirt, the sheen of tightly-stretched

silken stocking, and the amber combs in the elaborately curled hair, one

knew instinctively that this daintiness was not mere outward show, but

part of her nature, and that, strip off the outward husk, no

incongruities would stand revealed, no monstrosities of wool and

flannel, the unseen would be a wonder of snowy and beribboned delicacy.

In hunting parlance indeed, Stara, even where no such catastrophe was to

be apprehended, was, and always would be, dressed "for a fall."

Nevertheless, despite this general appearance of femininity, signs were

to be observed of other characteristics, signs of a somewhat startlingly

contradictory nature. The chin, for instance, though soft and white, was

most unfemininely firm, almost hard; while the eyes, long in shape and

black-lashed though they were, were not of blue, as to be in keeping

they ought to have been, but of light grey, clear, steady and rather

cold--in no way languishing.

These eyes she now kept fixed on her book, firmly determined to run no

risk of meeting even one of the frequent glances directed at her from

the other end of the deck; of which glances, as also of Hector's mental

restlessness, she was at the same time perfectly aware.

"Let him come and talk if he wants to," she thought impatiently; "ogling

is a practice I abominate; it's a servant-maid's trick." And Stara at

last turned another page, forcing her attention once more back to the

relation of the adventures of one Mademoiselle de Maupin, Hector at the

same time returning to the theory of heredity as expounded by Arthur

Schopenhauer of pessimistic notoriety.

"Physical qualities from the father's, mental from the mother's side,"

he reflected, laying the book down again. "Well, that seems true, my

mother was clever enough, though a bit cranky. He's a bit out, though,

about the other, poor old governor was rather an ugly chap."

He yawned, stretched himself, and once more his eyes wandered to the far

end of the deck. "Still there," he murmured. "Wherever I am, there she

is too; must do it on purpose; wants me to talk to her, I suppose;

doesn't know I'm married; if she did, her interest would very soon die.

Bah! what humbug it is, that a man should be debarred from amusement

because of a mere conventional tie. No wonder those other fellows,

Nelson, Suvarov, and the rest, revolted; they couldn't stand restraint

any more than I can.

"Mustn't, you're married, family man and so forth, it's just that makes

one want to do things. Damn it, for years I've never looked at a woman

except Lucy, and see the result, I've become a fossil; don't even know

how to begin. I've been only half alive all this time, and I want to

live, and I think somehow that girl would help me. She looks as if

she'd love well. I've a good mind to try it, just for the voyage. I'm

strong enough, thank God, to pull up when I want to. Hanged if I don't

let myself go all I know; no, I'm bothered if I do; she'd only laugh at

me if she knew and that I could not stand."

Again he took up his book and began to turn over the pages. "'Ethics.'

Don't know what they are, and don't want to either. 'Man's need for

metaphysics.' Have none myself. Ah! 'On Woman;' that sounds better.

Oho!" reading; "this is capital.

"'Injustice is the fundamental failing of the female character. This

arises from the want of reason and reflection, and is assisted by the

fact that they, as the weaker sex, are driven by nature to have recourse

not to force but to cunning, hence their instinctive treachery and

irremediable tendency to lying. For as nature has armed the lion with

claws, the bull with horns, and the sepia with ink which blackens water,

so has nature armed woman with powers of deception for her protection.'

"I'd like to read that aloud to you," muttered Hector, again glancing

up; "shake your conceit a bit, I should say, or ought to."

He went on reading:

"'Only the male intellect befogged through the sexual impulse could call

that undersized, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped and short-legged sex

fair, for in the sexual impulse resides its whole beauty.'

"Beastly way of putting it," murmured Hector, who possessed the ultra

refinement that is usually a characteristic of those in whom the moral

sense is deficient, "and it's not true either--she's neither undersized

nor short-legged. I'll take a walk past her now and look, to make sure,

rather interesting this."

He rose, and moved slowly up the deck towards the reclining figure, who,

at his approach, turned another page.

"I really believe he's going to at last," she thought, with a faint

feeling of excitement. "No, he's not, he's shied again," as Hector went

by looking straight before him. "Oh, this is too absurd, I must help

him, I suppose." Whereupon away fluttered Stara's bookmarker, across

the deck, a low exclamation of annoyance escaping her as she watched it

nearing the ship's side.

Hector, turning at the sound and noting its cause, picked up the errant

bookmarker and brought it back, indulging himself, as he did so, with a

straight, steady stare into her eyes, and, meeting them, one of the odd

fits of giddiness, which of late had been increasing in frequency, came

over him; the sweat stood out on his forehead and the girl's figure was

hidden for a moment in mist. He reeled, catching at the back of her

chair for support; then fingers of steel gripped his arm and he found

himself in Stara's chair, she standing looking down upon him, her eyes

alert and interested.

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

situation.

"Certainly 'damn' if you like," was the answer in clear tones, "but

don't move, stay where you are; d'you hear me?"

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

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

"You ... a nurse?"

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

affects you like this?"

"Because I like it, but I'm hanged if I'll sit here while you're

standing. I'll fetch my chair and bring it over."

"No, I'll go," and Stara walked leisurely away, and returned dragging

the chair, in which she proceeded to settle herself.

"What a beast of a chair," she said, wriggling; "not nearly so comfy as

mine. Oh, there's a book here, what is it? Ah, Schopenhauer," picking

it up and opening it, the pages falling apart where Graeme had last been

reading, 'On Woman.' "Oh!"

"Don't read the stuff, please, Miss Selbourne; it's rubbish from

beginning to end, that chapter."

"Don't be alarmed, Colonel Graeme; I've read all his works, and about

this essay, personally I think it very true, though perhaps a little

violent. I wonder, though, whether he made it up with her afterwards."

"Her, who?"

"The woman that essay was written at. Pique and disappointment show in

every line. He was certainly in love when he wrote it."

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

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

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

"I don't think at all about it, I'm sure. That's what he exists for,

and woman too, though she pretends not to. I should say I know my

Schopenhauer better than you do, Colonel Graeme."

"In that case, if we exist solely as prospective fathers and mothers,

and the attraction between the sexes is merely the cry of the unborn

child, the stronger the attraction the finer the child. Any two people

who feel that attraction should--should----" He stopped, confused, for

the light grey eyes were on him, and the look in them brought him to a

standstill.

"If we were beasts of the field, no doubt we should be as they are.

Rating ourselves, however--perhaps wrongly--as higher, we recognise the

necessity of social laws. But tell me, or don't if you like, what was

the matter with you just now. I'm professionally interested."

"I don't know, it's a thing that has been growing on me lately; whenever

I'm excited it comes on as it did then. It's a nuisance when I don't

want it, though useful enough when I do. I can't control it, though,

that's the mischief, but I'm boring you."

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

"Why, this. Whenever I'm in a difficulty, and don't know what to

do--have to fight a battle, for instance, and can't think of a plan--I

just shut my eyes and let myself go. For the moment I seem to lose

consciousness of my present self and become another, and that other

always knows and tells me what to do. Then I sort of wake and do it.

D'you think I'm mad, Miss Selbourne?"

"I think," said Stara slowly, looking at him, "you're going the right

way to make yourself so. That other self you talk about is--call it the

subconscious, if you like; and let that--and you're encouraging it to do

so--gain the upper hand over the conscious, and madness results. I

should stop it at once, Colonel Graeme; it's deadly dangerous."

"May I ask how you know all this?"

"As I told you, I'm a nurse, or rather going to be one. Oh, don't look

so astonished and stare at my clothes. I'm very frivolous and

expensive-looking, I know; but once I get to work, away goes all this

into portmanteaux, and, with it, the world, the flesh, and the devil."

"I don't think he'll remain long in the portmanteau," said Graeme,

looking at her mouth and dancing eyes.

"I don't mean him to; he goes with me when I have my day out, or

whatever nurses have. Then I shall become frilly and pretty again, and

make a night of it, see all the wickedness I can. That's my idea of

life, Colonel Graeme, austerity or debauch. I love the veldt, I can

saddle my own pony, shoot buck and koran, and cook as well as most

chefs, but I must have a break-out sometimes; not a lady-like

break-out--tea, dancing and flirtation--but the real thing."

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

shortly.

"I do, perfectly. I said _see_ the wickedness, Colonel Graeme, not take

part in it. I'm not a man."

"You certainly could not go out by yourself; it wouldn't be--safe

or--right," answered Hector, the value of social conventions dawning

upon him for the first time.

"Nor proper, I suppose. Thank you for telling me, but, as it happens, I

can take excellent care of myself, and if you've got a pair of foils on

board I think it possible I might surprise you, though you are a

soldier. Oh, listen, that's the 'Matschish,' which always thrills me,

makes me feel I should like to have a lover. Oh, please, don't be

obvious, I should hate it really, I only like to think about it, like

Madeleine de Maupin, though that's not quite a parallel case either,"

she added, reflecting.

"Who was Madeleine de Maupin?"

"Oh, you've not read the book, that's all right then. I can talk about

her. I'm afraid Madeleine was not a very correct person, like me. She

too wanted to see life, and, if she could, find a perfect lover--not one

who pretended to be, like most men, and talk afterwards when they're

drunk, but someone she could trust when away from her. So she put on

men's clothes, which I should hate, though in my fencing kit, white

satin ... but perhaps you'll see me in that if you're nice and don't

make love except when I want you to. That time is not now, Colonel

Graeme," another look from the grey eyes arresting the movement of his

hand towards hers.

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

hand, why should I?"

"I can't imagine. But about Madeleine, she had all sorts of adventures

on her travels; women made love to her, she fought duels and won them

too, and then at last she found him."

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

something different, I wonder?"

"Madeleine did; there was nothing banal or ordinary about her. She

waited some time after she found him, trying him, and then when she was

satisfied he was what she wanted, she put off her man's things and sent

for him."

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

far from correct."

"Don't be silly. Of course she had a dress on, a woman's dress; that's

why she sent for him, to show herself in it, to prove to him she was a

woman after all."

"And what happened then?"

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

next ... after that, left him."

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

"She didn't want to spoil it, I suppose. I think she was right too.

They parted, loving one another, anyway."

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

Stara looked at him meditatively.

"No," she said at last; "you, I should say, would have followed it up

till she'd really begun to care, not the mere passion that she felt to

start with, but the steady love that comes with time, and only a woman,

I believe, can feel. Then you'd have got bored and left her."

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

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

introduced the subject."

Graeme felt very angry indeed. Analysis of character, he considered, to

be his own particular privilege, and to have it applied to himself,

especially when, as in this case, the reading was so obviously false,

was most irritating. His whole life gave the lie to her words, he

thought, and a sudden feeling of loyalty to and affection for Lucy

sprang up, momentarily obliterating Stara's attractions from his mind.

"As it happens, Miss Selbourne," he said stiffly, "you're rather out in

your prophecies. I've been married for the last ten years, and believe

that, so far, I have shown none of the symptoms you mention."

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

look married."

The frown vanished from Hector's face, for her words were pleasing--no

man likes to look married.

"I suppose," he said, "it's because I've been such a lot away. It's

three years since I was last home."

"I wonder whether you ever met my brother, Richard Selbourne, he was out

with the Yeomanry during the war, and settled down afterwards on a farm

in the O.R.C. I've been staying with him and my sister-in-law."

"Place called Duikerpoort?"

"Yes."

"I have, then; my regiment camped on his ground last manoeuvres, and

your brother dined with us, I remember. Where were you?"

"At home, with Polly, my sister-in-law. We watched you ride away. Oh,

look!" with sudden delight in her eyes as they fell on a small fat child

slowly toddling about the deck some distance away, "quick, fetch her and

bring her here; she'll be gone if you don't hurry."

Graeme reluctantly rose and walked over to where the child was playing.

Unceremoniously picking her up, he returned to Stara, the little girl

faintly whimpering in his arms.

"The idea of holding a child like that," said Stara indignantly,

snatching his burden from him; "no wonder the poor mite was beginning to

cry. Oh, you darling," bending rapturously over the baby, who was now

smiling up at her, her hands playing with Stara's coral chain, "how

perfectly sweet you are, and how I wish you were mine. Look at her

little feet and legs, Colonel Graeme; oh, you're not interested a bit."

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

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Every man ought to love

children. Haven't you any of your own?"

"No," snapped Graeme, and walked sulkily away down the deck, stopping at

the far end to look back. Stara was still holding the child in her arms

and talking baby talk to it, obviously oblivious of his existence.

"Schopenhauer's right," he muttered; "they're hypocrites, every one of

them. Night of it, Madeleine de Maupin, and now baby talk--don't go

together the two. I've done with it, I know the sort: pose as fast and

bite you if you say anything. I'll get some books and go on the upper

deck. I shan't see her there."

He descended to his cabin, picked up a couple of books at random, and

went above, where he sat down amongst the boats, and, ignoring the

luncheon bugle, tried to concentrate his attention on Lombroso. "It's

too hot for this stuff," he muttered, after reading the same paragraph

half a dozen times without taking in a word. "I'll try the other,

Shelley; I don't know why I bought the thing except for the short

biography at the beginning." He read this through and lay back

reflecting. "Woman, always woman in these fellows' lives," he murmured;

"domestic unhappiness seems inseparable from genius." He began to turn

over the pages. "_Epipsychidion_--now what does that mean I wonder?"

He began to read, and, bored at first, soon became absorbed, the flaming

passion in the lines stirring something within him that had been

hitherto unawakened.

"We shall become the same, we shall be one

Spirit within two frames. Oh! wherefore two?

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

Till, like two meteors of expanding flame,

Those spheres instinct with it become the same,

Touch, mingle, are transfigured: ever still

Burning, yet ever inconsumable."

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

become very pale.

"Nothing banal about that," he murmured; "no married sameness, no dreary

domesticity. It's all free and lawless, as it ought to be. God, the

thing's maddened me; I can't keep still!" He sprang up, hesitated for a

moment, and then hurrying below looked furtively up and down the decks.

He searched the saloon, the music-room, the library, but all to no

purpose; that which he sought was not there. Gradually he was seized

with anger, then anxiety, and finally a sick longing. Restlessly he

wandered about the ship, now trying to read, now pacing the decks, till

at length the dinner-bugle sounded and he went below to dress.

"She shan't escape me afterwards," he thought, watching her across the

crowded saloon; "we'll sit together away from the world, and the romance

of our lives shall begin." Stara, nevertheless, did escape him, despite

his vigilance, and, wait though he did till after the decks were in

darkness, she appeared no more.

Sick with disappointment and a bitter sense of humiliation, he at length

went down to his cabin, and, flinging himself on the bed, tried hard to

sleep. But the bells clanged the hours away and sleep refused to come,

till at last he rose from the tumbled bed and sat up, irresolution in

his eyes.

"Sanders told me not to," he muttered; "he said for me it was fatal, but

what am I to do? I shall go mad if I don't sleep. I don't care--I

will," and Hector switched on the light, dragged out a dressing-case and

took out a small phial containing tabloids.

"Thank heaven," he murmured drowsily, half an hour later; "better than

all the natural sleep in the world. Stara..." His eyes closed, and he

fell asleep at last.

*CHAPTER XIII*

The old proverb, "One man may better steal a horse, than another look

over the hedge," like most sayings of its kind, possesses a very deep

meaning, particularly when applied to the passions and emotions by which

human nature is swayed.

There are beings, for instance, to whom a little flirtation is a

pastime, enjoyable maybe, but never to be allowed to interfere with the

serious business of their lives; it is taken up or dropped whenever it

pleases them, for their natures allow them so to do. On the other hand,

there are others to whom a love affair, once entered upon, means a

temporary enthralment of body and soul; and to this class belonged

Hector Graeme. Though but ten days had elapsed since the episode of the

bookmarker, he had managed, even in that short space, to forget both

love of wife and his ambition, the one destroyed for ever, the other for

the time superseded by a mad unreasoning desire of possession the more

imperative because of the seeming impossibility of fulfilment.

The small phial, hidden away in his dressing-case, was by now almost

empty. Its contents had been drawn on at the rate of three or four

tabloids a night, and yet sleep, save intermittently, failed him; nor

could he eat, racked as he was by the triple pangs of unsatisfied

desire, impatience of the wasted present, and jealousy of the future,

with its certain rivals.

Such love as this the brutal and plain-spoken call "lust," the more

refined "earthly passion." Scornfully they contrast it with the

sentiments they feel for their own beloved, ignoring the fact that love

between man and woman, disguise it as you will, is that and that

only--the sexless guardians of the harem proving this in their

insensibility to the emotion--though it varies according to the nature

of him or her who feels it.

Thus the dull, material being is as dull and brutish in his loves as he

is in all else; the rare, steadfast nature, knowing no satiety, loves on

till death; the ardent and imaginative invests his mistress with a halo

of romantic fancies. And so, Hector loved Stara, with an exalted,

passionate adoration, rendering him, for the time, ready and longing for

any manifestation of self-sacrifice, and, as he truly believed,

incapable of the very wrong to the accomplishment of which his whole

present energies were nevertheless directed.

It is men like Graeme who are the only really dangerous lovemakers to

pure-minded women, for apparently grossness has no part in their minds,

they place their divinities on a pedestal and worship at it: not for

worlds, they declare and believe, would they sully her white purity with

suggestions of earthly passion. Then the time comes, and they ... do,

and that far more effectually and thoroughly than doer, the ordinary

commonplace lover, whose feeling, though obviously of the earth, is

nevertheless healthy, and not rendered unnatural and fantastic by a

fevered imagination. And so Hector vowed that Stara was, and would be

always, sacred to him: he only wanted her love, that was all, and to

gain this he now concentrated all the force of which his nature was

capable. But the days were slipping by, the end of the journey was

already in sight, and still so far, apparently, his efforts were all in

vain; for, from the first, Stara had made it plain that she would have

none of his lovemaking. Good friend he might be to any extent, but

nothing more; and to this resolution she adhered, despite all his

attempts at trespass on ground forbidden, and thereby rendered

imperatively desirable.

The whole day long she would sit with him, and often till late at night,

when the decks were dark, and, save for them, deserted; also she would

dance with him, fence with him, and on one occasion had even matched

herself to drink against him. This last, however, like their fencing

bouts, had resulted in humiliation to Hector, who, with the deck heaving

beneath his feet and the stars dancing giddily above him, had staggered

away below, his steps being guided by the soft, white, yet steel strong

arm of his late antagonist. Further, she would discuss love in all its

aspects, but at any attempt on his part to take advantage of her

candour, and turn the conversation to a personal issue, Stara would

round on him, lashing him with her tongue in a manner that left Hector

sullen and discomfited for hours afterwards.

Indeed, so far, with the woman lay victory, even in those very

intellectual attainments on which he had now come to set such store; for

his reading, compared with hers, was as the veriest smattering, while in

knowledge of subjects called deep, and ability to discuss them, Stara

was on another plane.

Nevertheless, though hitherto baffled, Graeme's purpose remained

unchanged, rather it increased in intensity with the passing of the

days. Nor did his confidence in ultimate success lessen, for that Stara

loved him he felt intuitively certain, though at the same time he

realised that she was determined not to acknowledge that love, possibly

from pride, more likely because she did not believe in his, thinking it

to be but a passing infatuation and not the life's passion it really was

to him.

He must make her believe--that was all; not by words, for they, he

realised, would never convince her, but by action, and that soon, for

his own endurance, he knew, was now well-nigh at an end. The only

question was, what was that action to be? Something big it must be;

nothing small would do. Well, the bigger the better; he wouldn't shrink

whatever it was, even to the burning of the ship, if necessary, and

subsequent rescue of Stara from the flames. He didn't care--the end was

before him, and everything must give way to the attainment of that end.

He was debating these things in his mind one afternoon, as he lay in his

deck-chair with eyes closed and brain feverishly working. From the

other side of the ship, where sports were now in progress, bursts of

delighted screams and clapping of hands came at intervals.

Close beside him sat Stara, reading; a somewhat pale-faced Stara of

late, with blue shadows beneath the long, grey eyes.

Suddenly she smiled over her book, and, looking up at her companion,

spoke. "Here's something for you, Colonel Graeme," she said. "Oh, I'm

sorry; I didn't see you were asleep."

"Asleep, how the devil could anyone sleep with that row going on? Oh,

confound it all!" angrily, as another loud outburst of hilarity came

from the other side.

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

amusement?"

"Amusement! Dropping potatoes into a bucket or chalking a pig's eye on

the deck? The swine's an unclean animal to most of them too, I should

say. Amusement--God!"

"Far better for you, Colonel Graeme, if you were to do the same, instead

of sitting all day reading unhealthy books. I should like to talk to you

seriously about those books; I've been wanting to for some time. Will

you listen?"

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

soon."

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

is it?"

"Never mind now; go on."

"Well, then--oh, bother you, Colonel Graeme--! I wish you wouldn't

interrupt; I've forgotten what I was going to say."

"My books," watching her.

"Oh yes, don't stare, please. Well, an unhealthier selection than you

have here on board I've never seen. There's Edgar Allan Poe, for

instance, imagination gone mad. Schopenhauer, a philosophy to justify

wrong-doing, hence its popularity; it's full of flaws too."

"How?"

"Here's one, at any rate: in his main argument for pessimism, he says

desire for anything means unhappiness."

"He's quite right."

"And because we're always wishing for something, we must necessarily be

unhappy. He's quite wrong; it's that which alone gives happiness and

keeps us alive; for, take away hope--the same thing, for what we desire

we hope to get--and suicide would inevitably follow. Everyone, even the

most wretched hopes, don't you?"

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

"Well, there's one flaw in your Schopenhauer, there are many others too,

but never mind. Now for Lombroso, your other favourite. I see you have

'The Man of Genius' there. Throw it overboard, if you're wise."

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

"Perfectly true, but you're neither a scientist nor a doctor. That book

is as bad for you as the advertisement of a quack medicine is for some

weak-minded people. You find all your own symptoms, and, like them, are

glad when you do. Drop such reading, Colonel Graeme; take up something

healthy."

"Like that thing you've got there, I suppose, 'The Cow in the Morning,'

isn't it? It sounds as if it might have been written by one of

Lombroso's friends."

"Don't be cheap, please. It's 'The Heifer of the Dawn,' and, well, you

may think it silly, but I don't. Listen to this, and judge for yourself,

though in the interests of women I consider this particular paragraph

ought to be suppressed." She took up the book and began to read.

"'She that is to retain her lover's love for ever must possess, first, a

body without a flaw, or his senses will stray from her to other bodies,

for it is their nature to seek their proper object; secondly,

intelligence, or his esteem will depart elsewhere; and thirdly,

goodness, or his soul will abandon her in search of that without which

it cannot do, and without which the other two component parts are

worthless except for a time. And as it is for the woman so it is for

the man, with this difference, that their bodies and their intelligence

and their souls are totally unlike.'"

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

"In theory yes, but I'm afraid not practically. You see, the speaker,

being a woman, looks at it from a woman's point of view, which is not

that of a man, their intelligence being, as she says, totally unlike.

She thinks that, if she is perfectly beautiful, her husband's thoughts

will never stray to one less so. But that can't be right, for in many

cases men have left beautiful wives for ugly mistresses. A woman can't

or won't see that--that--how shall I put it nicely?"

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

"Thank you, though that's not nicely put.... And once that dies, her

beauty ceases to exist for him. She might be a picture on the wall as

far as he's concerned: the beauty is still there, and others see it, but

the owner has seen it too often and got tired."

"And the intellect part?"

"No good at all to keep him. A man may like talking to a so-called

clever woman--which, by the way, only means one quick to utilise men's

brains, for no woman can originate, only receive--but that doesn't

prevent him from kissing a pretty fool five minutes afterwards."

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

"Certainly not; however, it's not love that keeps him faithful, but

other things, a sense of honour, pride in his family, and possibly a

feeling of compassion."

"What damned nonsense!"

"Colonel Graeme?"

"So it is. You sit there, knowing nothing at all about it, and reel off

yards of cheap clap-trap cynicism picked up from rotten, morbid books.

Lord, talk of my reading doing me harm!"

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

say is true."

"And may I ask how, if you do, you can contemplate the idea of marrying

one of us brutes, as you told me the other day you did eventually?"

"Because I'm human, like everyone else, and when the time comes, as it

unfortunately must, I suppose, I shall be like any other woman, or

like--like you. I shall recant all I've said, and believe in undying

love and the rest of it. I can see now; then I shan't be able."

"Sure you can see now?

"Quite sure, Colonel Graeme, absolutely, perfectly sure," she added,

somewhat unnecessarily meeting his eyes.

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

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

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

"You will not. Why--why should you?"

"Because----"

"Be quiet, here's someone coming. Oh, it's that poor creature Hayward,

why doesn't someone look after him? It's sad to see him."

"Drunken brute! I'll bash him if he comes here. I wish he would, and

insult you, I believe I'd kill him if he did."

"You'd do a very cowardly thing, then, which would disgust me more than

I can say. It's not the destruction, but the saving of life that

appeals to me, Colonel Graeme."

The man, a harmless creature enough save for his one failing, at this

moment shambled by, smiled vacantly at the two as he passed, and then,

moving behind the wind screen some distance away, perched himself on the

rail, where he sat rocking, his figure just visible from where they sat.

"I've pity for that man, and pity only," continued Stara. "Why, where

are you going, Colonel Graeme, to see the sports? All right, I'll come

too."

"No, stay where you are," answered Hector rather indistinctly, his face

averted from her; "I'll be back in a minute, I'm only going down to my

cabin to fetch..." The rest of the sentence was lost, the speaker

having disappeared through the main companion.

Once more Stara returned to her book, and then a minute later flung it

down and jumped up, her face blanched and every nerve quivering; for

high and shrill in her ears a scream of mortal terror was ringing and

then was suddenly hushed.

"Man overboard! starboard side!" wailed a voice from the forecastle

head. The beating of the screw ceased, and the ship quivered to the

short, sharp bursts of the siren.

A tumult of voices arose; the clatter of hurrying feet. "Where is he,

who is it, Stara?" and Graeme, coat and shoes discarded, stood beside

her.

"It's Hayward, he's no longer there, what are you going to do, Colonel

Graeme? Hector, you shall not."

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

"Say what?"

"You love me, Stara--quick!"

"Oh, I do--I do, Hector--you--you shall not. Oh, Hector, there are

sharks hereabouts."

"No shark can hurt me now, Stara, love; good-bye." and springing on to

the rail he stood for a second steadying himself, looked back once and

was gone. With a crash he struck the water, the blue surface seeming to

rush up to meet him as he fell, and then, like an arrow, flew down,

apparently for miles, down through a strange jade-coloured world into

the very heart of the sea. Surely he must strike the bottom soon, he

must have journeyed for hours already, yet still he was rushing on.

What would it be like, he wondered vaguely, that unknown ocean

floor--rock, sand or oozy mud?

Ah, he was stopping at last, and yes, slowly, very slowly rising. The

return to daylight had begun, but--what a journey lay before him: those

endless miles of water, thousands of millions of tons of liquid crystal

between him and air. Could he hold out, would his breath last? No, not

unless he hurried, and a sudden desperate feeling of anxiety seizing

him, he began to fight, his hands tearing at the dense green wall above

him. Frenzied, he fought, heart and lungs well-nigh bursting, and in

his head the loud, wild clanging of bells; then, suddenly, the desire to

struggle ceased, and in its place he felt a sense of rest and dreamy

content. In his head, now strangely clear and light, a voice began to

sing--only one verse, that of a music-hall ditty, last heard at a

soldiers' "sing-song" in Dutch Gethsemane. "I would I were a kipper in

the foam," it repeated for the hundredth time. Well, that's what he

was--in the foam, at any rate; but a kipper---a kipper... "I would I

were a kipper in the foam."

He must think this out; it was clear as daylight

really--daylight--light--light; and then with a sudden stunning roar the

mists of death were torn asunder and the veil of water gone.

Slowly back from death's gates he came, his dazzled eyes blinking at the

fathomless blue above, and labouring lungs gulping down the salt evening

breeze. It seemed hours that he lay there, though but a minute in all

had passed since his leaving the ship's side, hours of perfect peace and

rest; and then suddenly strength came rushing back, and with it

consciousness of his own being. A faint wonder at first, a chaos of

mingled remembrances, and then sequence of ideas and full realisation of

his surroundings. With a thrust of his foot he raised his head and

shoulders above the water and looked about him; there, a mile or so

away, floated the great grey shape of the _Dunrobin Castle_, a faint

haze of smoke showing above the scarlet funnels, her decks black with

figures, all faces turned to where he lay. And yes, that was a boat

being lowered down her side, and thereupon the last cloud of mist lifted

from his brain and he remembered what he had set himself to do.

Again he looked around, and saw some distance away a white object, with

pole attached, looming gigantic against the sky, as it rose and fell to

the lift of the waves. Striking out, he swam towards it, and, seizing

the cork circle, held on, his eyes searching the water about him, and

then, with an exclamation, let go and struck out to where a black object

had appeared for a moment above the surface and disappeared. Reaching

the spot, he waited, peering down, until it again slowly rose, and a

steel claw shot up from the depths, gripped his foot, and under went

Hector in the hold of a drowning man. Then up once more, the two

interlocked, till wrenching his arm free, Graeme beat on the other's

head, and the frenzied struggling ceased. Then throwing himself on his

back, and clutching the man's coat-collar, he slowly towed his prize

back, and, reaching the buoy just as his strength was failing, held on

gasping, the other's head falling forward into the water, where it lay.

For a minute Graeme remained contemplating him, and then hauling him up

beside him, looked closely into his face.

"Dead, I think," he muttered, "and God knows I hope so. Anyway, I've

saved what's left of you. I'm a hero now, thanks to you, you drunken

sweep," and despite circumstances hardly calculated for mirth, something

seemed to tickle Graeme, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

Suddenly he stopped, with a startled look in his eyes. "Now what was

that?" he murmured. "I could have sworn something touched my foot." He

looked down, and below him saw hanging a dark shadow: a dull eye was

fixed upon his, and then the shadow was gone, hung poised for a moment,

and whirling round, came back. A monstrous shape gleamed white through

the green beneath him--a savage tug, and the burden he was holding was

nearly torn from his grasp, and then became strangely light, trailed

loose in the water, now no longer clear.

For a second, Graeme was seized with wild terror, a loud shuddering

shriek burst from his lips and went echoing across the sea; a hoarse

shout of encouragement, the rattle and bang of feet upon boards, coming

in instant response from the boat rushing onwards. Well its crew knew

the meaning of that cry, knew also that their efforts might be all in

vain, and where rescuer and rescued now floated nothing might be found

save a few torn rags and a swirl of bloody water.

With this vision before their eyes, they bent themselves to their work;

rough hands closed on the great oars, and corded muscles stood out on

forearms, till the heavy boat rushed through the water and foam flew up

from her bows. But the shriek was not repeated, for already rage had

conquered fear in Hector's heart, and with rage came not only the fierce

determination to hold on to that which he had won, but to grapple with

and destroy this new enemy who had dared to attack him.

Feverishly he sought for a weapon, and in his pocket found a small

knife. With eyes as wicked as those beneath him he peered down, his arm

drawn back to strike. On came the shape once more, down went Hector's

hand, a curse escaping him as the enemy turned and fled. "Damn you!" he

shouted to his burden, "but for you I'd go after him, I can't leave you,

though; I've sworn to get you back and I will. Come on, come on!" he

shrieked.

"It's all right, sir; you're safe now," sounded from close behind, and

Graeme and his prize were seized, hauled up and placed gently in the

boat, a horrified "Gawd!" rising from the crew as they saw what Hector

was holding in his arms. For, as he himself had said, it was only what

was left of Hayward that had been saved from the seas.

"Let me go, blast you, let me go!" screamed Graeme, struggling with a

burly sailor. "I've not begun on that shark yet, let me go!"

"Strike me, but you're a masterpiece!" muttered a voice. "It's no use,

though, sir; the bastard's gone. Look," and a hand pointed to a black

triangle, swiftly moving through the water a hundred yards away.

"'Ark, sir, to that," cried another; "they've seed you, sir, from the

ship," and for a moment the creaking of the oars ceased, all listening

to a dull roar rolling across the water from the motionless _Dunrobin

Castle_. "They're cheering you, sir; blow me if we don't cheer too,"

and seven lusty voices set up an answering shout, Graeme the while

sitting frowning at the still open knife in his hand.

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

Back across the sea the boat went springing, and, as she neared the grey

side, from the whole ship's company--crew, passengers, stewards, even

the white-aproned and behatted cooks waving ladles and

frying-pans--renewed cheering arose, and then suddenly was hushed, for

the boat was now under their eyes and they saw the grim heap in its

stern.

Up the lowered ladder went Graeme, the Captain himself standing at the

gangway to meet him.

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

... little use."

Graeme said nothing, for again the ill-timed merriment was seething

within him, and only with the greatest difficulty was held in check.

He hurried on, and then stopped, for Stara was before him, a new Stara

to him, the grey eyes misty with tears and face white and quivering.

"I've brought him back, Stara, what's left of him, a shark tried to get

the rest, but I fought him and won."

"God bless you, Hector. I--I----" and Stara burst out crying, whereupon

the cheering was renewed, and Graeme, with exultation in his heart, went

below.

* * * * *

"Can't--can't you forget it, Hector, it was wrung from me, is it fair to

take advantage of a moment of weakness?"

Stara's form drooped before him, her whole attitude spoke defeat. Alone

on the darkened decks the two were standing; eight bells had just

clanged through the stillness.

Hector looked at her, his eyes glowing into hers, drew nearer and then

suddenly bent and kissed her. Maddened at the touch of those soft lips,

he caught her to him and repeated the offence a dozen times, Stara

resting passive in his arms.

"Darling, why struggle any longer?" he whispered. "We love each other;

it's no use fighting, Stara. Oh, my love my love;" and then stopped

confounded, for the girl had done the best thing she could, and was

sobbing violently on his shoulder.

At the sight, that which men call the better mood came upon Hector,

passion yielding for the moment to tenderness, its child.

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

"Stara, dearest, listen. It's true I love you, and you--it's no use

denying it now--love me; but there's no harm in that. I won't hurt you,

dear. You're safe with me. We don't injure that which we love, Stara."

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

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

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

Stara stared into his eyes, searching for that she wished to find, and

wishing, as always, found.

"I want to trust you, Hector."

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

"If I do, will you promise to--to be as you were, before ... you ...

knew, you won't make love to me, you--you'll never try to kiss me again,

you'll be content with my friendship?"

"More than content, Stara."

"If--if you really mean that, dear, if you won't take advantage of what

I've said, I--I ... will trust you, and ... for the last time I will say

it again, I love you, Hector. Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, Stara." He turned away, his eyes looking out seawards. A

touch on his shoulder roused him, and looking round, he saw Stara once

more before him, her face scarlet and eyes shy.

"Hector."

"My dearest."

"I--I've come back to say ... good-night, dear; and ... as it's for the

last time, and from now we're only ... friends, you may ... just for

this once..."

For a moment she clung to him, returning kiss for kiss, and then,

breaking free, hurried away, leaving Hector on fire behind her.

*CHAPTER XIV*

"What you venture to propose to me now, Colonel Graeme, is, in plain

English, a double establishment, over one of which I am to have the

honour of presiding, and this, I suppose," tapping a slip of paper in

her hand, "is my first quarter's housekeeping allowance?"

Stara's voice was like the dropping of ice-cold water and her eyes

steely as she stood up, straight and slim, every faculty alert and

concentrated on the crushing of her opponent, who was carelessly

lounging against the ship's rail, his half-closed eyes fixed on hers.

"The exact opposite, as of course you know; but 'even as the sepia

darkens the water with ink, so does woman.'"

The thin ice of Stara's composure flew into a thousand sparkling

fragments, the grey eyes darkened as she moved towards him, her small

hands clenched.

"You, you stand there and jibe at me! You insult a girl you professed

to--to care for, and then laugh at her. You ... devil!"

"I told you I loved you, if that's what you mean by professing. I say

so now, and give you the greatest proof I can."

"How? By proposing to degrade me, me who you said was sacred to you, by

a low intrigue? Your wife one day, I suppose, and me the next. I'm to

be your toy, an amusement when you tire of her or want distraction from

your soldiering. A proof of love, faugh! This cheque's another proof,

I suppose you think."

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

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

ominously.

"I won't. I hate you. You took advantage of a moment of weakness any

other man would have respected, to--to make me say things. You swore I

could trust you, and I, like a fool, believed it, and against my own

judgment let things be as before. I've sat with you, tried to amuse

you, dressed for you even, why, it was for you I put on this dress

to-night, because you said you liked it and this was our last night

together. And all the time you were thinking, planning ... this."

She stopped suddenly, for Graeme, all pretence of composure abandoned,

had seized her by the shoulders and was shaking her. For a moment she

faced him bravely, and then before his anger hers died. She began to

tremble, and then broke down and sobbed.

"Now, will you listen to me? If I have to keep you here all night to do

it, I'll make you in the end. You're wrong, altogether wrong."

"I won't. I don't want to hear; and how--how can I be wrong? You said

you wanted me to belong to you, and how can I, except in--in the way I

said? You're married, and--and ... you gave me money; it's the money

which kills me!" And passion reawakening, she flung the cheque from her

over the rail. For a moment it fluttered in the breeze, and then was

blown back again to their feet. Hector picked it up, smoothed it out,

and, after looking at it for a moment, put it in his pocket.

"Perhaps it's as well you did not present this, Stara," he said; "I

forgot to date it, as I usually do. Now, if you're ready and won't

interrupt, I'll explain."

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

go on then."

"I'll take the money first; that's a trifle, the other's not. You

remember some time ago, when I told you I was always hard up, you

offered me your quarter's allowance. Fifty pounds it was--all you had."

"That was different."

"And you said that surely one friend could do a little thing like that

for another. Did I fly out at you then?"

"But you didn't take it."

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

told me about."

"I would never have told you, had I thought you'd take advantage like

this. That's not what I did it for."

"I know that as well as you do, but all the same you did tell me, and

you said that, when you reached London, they'd probably serve a writ on

you. Now, I'm not going to have you bothered by beastly tradespeople,

and so I did the little thing you said one friend might do for

another--I wrote you a cheque."

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

"Certainly I will."

"Oh ... We'll let that pass, then, though I don't say I believe it,

mind. And now for the other, rather more difficult of explanation, I

imagine."

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

"I will not, the idea."

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

Now..."

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

money."

"Please yourself about that; and now for the other." He paused, and

then again seizing her by the shoulders while the glow in his eyes

became a leaping flame, went on: "We love each other, Stara, and love

such as ours must be satisfied. What do conventions matter to you and

me; leave them to the weak fools whose lives they trammel. Belong to me

you shall, not, as you think, by paltry deceit, but openly, for the

whole world to see. It's marriage I offer you, not dishonour."

Stara looked up at him bewildered.

"Are you mad, Hector, your wife?"

"What is she to me--what is anything to me? Stara, in the whole world I

can see but one thing now, you, and you I swear to have."

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

talk about impossibilities?"

"There's nothing impossible to me. There never was from the time you

told me you loved me. Listen and I'll tell you what I mean to do.

To-morrow I shall see her--I will call her 'my wife' no longer,

Stara--and I'll tell her it's you I love and not her. I'll say, too,

I've come to break with her, that the past is finished and a new life

begun. Oh, I've thought it all out; the thing's as good as done now."

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

won't?"

"She will, she's a sensible woman; she will understand and set me free,

and then, then, Stara, I shall claim you."

"You shall not, I won't be a party to this, I say. Oh Hector, dear,

this is madness. Think what you're saying, think what it means, to

abandon a wife of ten years for a woman you met but three weeks ago, the

dragging of your name through the mud of the Divorce Court. Never,

Hector, never!"

"Such things are nothing to me, but you do what you like, consent or not

as you like. I shall do it all the same. Can't you see it's my love for

you that has made it impossible for me to go back to her?"

"But, Hector, we--you would forget in time; you will come together again

and--and be glad."

"Like they do in moral story books, I suppose, and why should we? We've

got a chance of heaven now; we don't get many. D'you think I'm going to

give up that for mere paltry scruples? Bah! you're but a weakling after

all."

"I'm not, only I happen to have some sense of honour and the ordinary

feelings of humanity. Oh, please, please, listen to me."

"Spare yourself the trouble; my mind's made up. It's but a small thing

lies between us and happiness, and now you shrink from it, though you're

not asked to do anything but look on."

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

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

Stara was silent, feeling the futility of further opposition.

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

"Marry me when I'm free."

"And if she refuses?"

"She will not, I tell you; but if she does, we'll have to content

ourselves with platonics, I suppose. In any case I break with her."

"You'd be satisfied with--platonics?"

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

I keep my word, Stara."

Again the girl was silent.

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

you?"

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

London till I return?

"No; I will go back to South Africa by the next boat. My brother will

think me mad, but he'll be glad all the same. He always hated my

nursing schemes. And there's something I want to say now, Hector,

before I leave you." She paused and then went on hurriedly: "When--when

it's over, definitely broken off, I mean--and, oh, for my sake, dear,

try to get her to divorce you--you may come out to me then."

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

"Because--because--oh, I won't tell you now, but perhaps you'll find

that I'm not quite the weak creature you think, and if you make this

sacrifice for me I too may ... make a return. And, Hector, one thing

more. Till then I don't want to see you again, to me it would seem

like--like an intrigue. When you come you must be free. And so, when

we land to-morrow, don't look for me, you won't find me if you do."

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

"Send it by a steward, if you must; and when it's all over, wire to me

the one word "Coming." I shall understand and be waiting. Good-bye."

*CHAPTER XV*

The north wind blew keen and lusty over the Norfolk marshland, bending

the lush grass and sedge and ruffling the surface of dyke and pool.

Overhead there was a sky of pale blue dappled with white and grey, from

which shone forth the yellow ball of a December sun.

Tossed in the wind, flocks of screaming plover and white kittiwake flew

aimlessly over the green flat; the plaintive cry of a lonely curlew rang

eerily as he scudded swiftly along the foreshore. Now and again a

sturdy mallard could be seen stoutly battling his way against the wind

towards some rush-covered sanctuary, quacking triumphantly as he hung

for a moment over it, and then, dropping, was lost to view. Away to the

east a low, ragged line of sandhills broke the green monotony, beyond

which lay a foam-flecked jade-coloured sea, streaked and mottled with

ever-shifting shadows of purple and ultramarine.

Some two miles inland the square, white shape of a house could be seen

nestling in a clump of trees, an unpretentious-looking place, despite

its appellation of Hall--Cuddingfold Hall, to give it its full

title--but solidly built and comfortable, nevertheless. This was the

home of which Lucy had written to her husband, and here for the last

four months she had been installed, living now in one room, now in

another, for painters, paperers and their kind had been plying their

respective trades, and life had been full of discomforts.

Their work had been at last completed, and even to Lucy's exacting mind

Cuddingfold Hall had been transformed from a ramshackle human warren

into an almost perfect dwelling-place. In spite of the somewhat

extensive improvements carried out, it was only for twelve months she

had rented the Hall, but she had the option of taking it on at the end

of that time for seven, twenty-one, or ninety-nine years, if she wished.

That, however, was for her husband to decide--the husband who was

arriving that evening after more than three years' absence. Of his

decision she had no doubt whatever, but Lucy, in her own way, was wise,

and refrained from signing any lease; she knew that to do so without his

consent would be more than likely to inspire him with an instant

distaste for the place--partridges and ducks notwithstanding. To bind

Hector, meant for him to chafe against his bonds and the certain rupture

of them.

She would leave him to do it, and, if she knew him aright, that very

night would see a letter, nay, a telegram, despatched to the land agent,

to the effect that Colonel Graeme would take Cuddingfold Hall for a term

of ninety-nine years. Take it? No, he would certainly insist on buying

it, and rush up next morning to his bankers, for the purpose of raising

the necessary sum. She could hear him say, "What's the good of paying

rent, Lucy? Much better buy; it's always cheaper in the end."

Well, if he wanted to, why not? He must certainly not be allowed to

raise the money, for that would not be cheaper in the end. It would

only result in a financial crisis, as had happened once before, and an

ignominious abandonment of their new home before the year was out; and

here, at the thought of her husband's business capacity, an

irrepressible smile stole over Lucy's face.

No, she had her plan, that being to buy the place herself and give it to

him as a present. She had a little money of her own, which had come to

her from her mother, and already Lucy had approached the trustees on the

subject of reinvestment. They had demurred, it is true, her uncle, the

General, being strongly averse to any scheme giving Hector control over

his wife's property; but Lucy, as once before, had conquered, and

eventually he, with his co-trustee, had agreed. After all, they

decided, it was house property, this proposed new investment, and as

such allowable under the trust; and, at any rate, the General would take

good care that the place was settled upon his niece and that that

fellow, as he always designated Hector, should have no chance of laying

his hands on it. And so the matter had been left till Graeme's arrival.

On the afternoon of that event, Lucy was sitting on a rush-covered bank,

happily dreaming of the time when this estate of marsh and sandhill

would be their own. Here, she thought complacently, watching the

wheeling birds, they would settle down for life, and partings and war

scares would be nightmares of the past. She would have her rose garden,

Hector his shooting, and later, she hoped, a seat in the House, and

perhaps in time they might--oh Heaven, how she prayed for it--be given a

son. Here Lucy's smile died and the blue eyes clouded. A son, a

strong, straight-limbed boy, not like Ruby; and at the thought of her,

their only child, a sudden passionate feeling of revolt came over Lucy

and her eyes filled with angry tears.

"Why," she thought bitterly, "should such a thing have happened to me?

I was so looking forward to her coming too, and was so very very

careful. It was not my fault, or that of my ancestry; we have always

been strong and healthy. Oh, my God, how am I to tell him? I was mad

to keep it from him, but it looked so awful in a letter. What will he

say when he sees her--he so intolerant of weakness and disliking

children at any time? And all these years I expect he's been wondering

what she's like, picturing her as a round, rosy child, who'll want to

romp with him and pull his hair. Ruby, romping! Oh," a sudden

revulsion of feeling coming over her, "what a brute I am, wicked and

unnatural. It's not her fault, poor mite; and if I, her mother, run her

down, who's to take her part? And perhaps Hector won't take it so

hardly; he'll be kind to her, even if he can't love her--Hector could

never be anything else. And he won't see much of her; she'll be in her

nursery all day; this cold would kill her at once, poor child."

With a sigh, she rose from the bank and made her way back to the house,

when for the hundredth time that day she ran through the preparations

for her husband's coming, and then, after a short visit to the nursery,

went to her room to dress. The sudden chiming of the clock startled

her, and hurrying over the last stages of her toilet she flew

downstairs, impatiently calling for the pony-cart, though it was not due

for a quarter of an hour. Rapidly her anxiety was becoming a fever from

waiting when at length the trap appeared. Hastily mounting, she took

the reins, and, whipping up the white pony, sent him along at his best

pace to the station.

Here, as she might have known, had excitement not rendered reflection

impossible, she arrived a good half-hour too soon, a time of waiting

that would certainly be prolonged to at least one hour--the trains on

that line being remarkable for a monotonous unpunctuality. However,

with the aid of a little conversation with the station-master, a

thorough perusal of the texts decorating the one dingy waiting-room, and

some twenty minutes of sentry-go up and down the platform, the time was

at length got through.

The sharp tinkling of a bell broke the silence, the sound of wire

rustling at her feet was followed by the clack of a falling signal, and

then a faint humming growing gradually louder. Far down the line a

yellow point could be seen, another shot out beside it, the humming

swelled to a roar, and with the rush of a whirlwind the train dashed

past Lucy, a flare of yellow lights flying giddily by.

"Heavens, it's going on!" she gasped, dismayed; "they've forgotten to

stop it. No, it isn't, though," as the rattle died down and the mass of

wood and iron came to a rest at last. "There he is," and Lucy, dignity

forgotten in joy, ran up the platform to where a man was standing gazing

vacantly about him.

"Hector, darling, oh, Hector, at last, after all these years!" she

began, and then stopped suddenly, an icy finger seeming to touch her

heart, for this man who stood before her, though bearing her husband's

features, was surely a stranger; yet, no, he was speaking to her,

addressing her by name, though the voice too was unfamiliar.

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

"Hector ... what on earth's the matter, aren't you glad to see me? Oh,

darling, you're ill; you look half dead," and conviction gaining upon

her as she looked, the sudden terror of the unknown died in Lucy's heart

and was replaced by a rush of protecting tenderness. She took his arm,

her face looking up into his, a world of loving anxiety in her eyes.

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

"Of course you have, dear, I forgot; and I know I was the same,

Hector--so excited. I thought the daylight would never come. And then

the day, how it's dragged; but it's all over at last, and your..."

Again a sudden stop, again the icy finger at her heart, for her husband

had turned sharply away, and a ghastly silence followed.

"Porter--where's the porter?" muttered Hector. "Oh, there you are, get

my things out, will you? Not that one, you fool, where to? God

knows--I don't, when's the next train back to town?"

"Ain't no more to-night, sir, Colonel, that is, beg pardon, sir," said

the man, staring at him and then questioningly at Lucy, whom he knew and

liked well, as did already all the natives of Cuddingfold village.

"Take them to the luggage cart, Sims," said Lucy, her voice become

suddenly level; "the Colonel's tired with his long journey; and you,"

smiling at Hector, "come with me. That's our trap standing over there

with the white pony. Get in; I'll drive you; he knows my hand, and he's

always a little playful at starting. Good-night, Sims; tell your wife

I'll be round to see the new baby soon. Steady boy," to the dancing

pony; "that's right," and the two drove away. For the first mile there

was silence, and then, like a pistol-shot, words burst from Hector's

lips.

"What's his name, Lucy?" he asked, the triviality of the question being

in odd contrast to the voice that asked it. But triviality was now what

Hector was fighting for with all his power, conversation on purely

ordinary matters; for in that way only, he knew, could he keep off the

numbing sense of unreality that was creeping over him--a nightmare

feeling rapidly sapping the strength of purpose that till then had burnt

so strong and steadily.

"I have come to do this thing, and I will; I'll be firm, firm, firm," he

repeated to himself, and the word mingled with the rattle of the flying

wheels and were flung back at him in meaningless echo. Apparently miles

away, he heard Lucy's voice answering some question he had put, and

which now he could not for his life remember.

"His name, dear?" she said cheerfully. "I call him Whiting, because

he's white; and when he's fresh his head and his tail come together.

Not very clever, I fear; but then I'm not clever, as I told you once..."

She broke off, a sudden stab at her heart. When had she said this very

same thing before? Ah, she remembered, at Chillata, that last night;

what thousands of years ago it seemed now. "It made Tom laugh," she

added hurriedly.

"Tom?"

"He's the groom, and the gardener and hoot-boy and the keeper and all

sorts of other things. He's rather a treasure, really, though not much

to look at. He's so looking forward to your coming; we--we all are,

Hector."

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

"Ruby?"--a pause. "Oh, you'll see her presently, and I--I hope you

won't be disappointed, Hector. A baby, you know, very often at first

is--is not ... But I want to tell you about the shooting. It's what

you've always wanted: miles of marsh, and such a lot of ducks, you can

hear them quacking every night; and to-day a flock of widgeon passed

over the house, within shot too. And there are partridges and

pheasants, though not many; and the house--oh, Hector, you'll like the

house," and here Lucy launched out into a description of her property,

though truth to tell, she had very little idea of what she was saying.

Only on two points was she clear: one, that at all hazards silence must

not again be allowed to fall; the other, that she must hold back for the

present from any questioning of her husband as to what had brought about

this change in him. God knew what the thing was that had come between

them, but, whatever it was, she would hear in time, that was certain;

for, thank heaven, whatever her husband's other failings might be, that

of deceit was not among them. Till then she must wait as best she

could, and, when it came, face and fight it with all the strength in her

power. A great crisis was at hand, she knew instinctively, one

involving her whole life's happiness; and Lucy was not going to give

that up without a struggle.

She might not be clever--she knew she was not--but she was the possessor

of a fund of sound common sense and the pluck and staying power of a

hundred. And so, as if unaware that there was anything amiss, she

chatted on cheerfully, the light trap flying through the country lanes,

till at length a pair of white wooden gates were reached. Passing

through these, they rattled along a short carriage drive, finally

pulling up in front of the house, through the open doors of which a

stream of light shone out into the darkness.

At the sound of the wheels a rosy-cheeked maid came bustling out, all

smiles and anxiety to help; while from the stables close by a

queer-looking creature hastened, wiping his mouth with his sleeve--he

had been disturbed in the middle of his tea--and, having touched his cap

and grinned sheepishly at Graeme, seized the pony by the bridle and led

him away to stable and oats. This person was Tom, of whom Lucy had

spoken, a Norfolk man born and bred, and a stranger to towns and their

ways. Not a gentleman's servant in appearance possibly--his

multitudinous duties forbade that--but an honest and devoted creature

nevertheless, and one who had already identified himself with

Cuddingfold Hall and its interests.

The arrival of his new master was an event in Tom's life, one he had

looked forward to for many weeks; for though contented enough--as were

all Lucy's servants--in his present post, he had felt that a man was

wanted about the place, one who would be up and after those feathered

denizens of marsh and pool, the thought of whose undisturbed serenity

had of late begun to get on Tom's nerves. But now that the master had

arrived, the master of whose prowess with the gun he had heard so much

and often, he felt, strangely enough, a bitter sense of disappointment.

This was not the hero he had expected, this white-faced haggard man, who

had not so much as looked at him or noted his greeting, but without a

word had descended from the cart and walked stiffly into the house.

Something was also wrong with the mistress; the brightness had gone from

her face, and she had also omitted her usual "good-night." Tom was not

given to fancies, but, like most of those whose natural instinct has not

been stifled by a smattering of education, he, in common with the beasts

and birds he loved, knew things intuitively, and that intuition made him

aware of a strong feeling of repulsion towards his new master. In vain

did he fight against it--it remained; and Tom's ruddy face was strangely

overcast as he unharnessed the white pony and shook out his evening feed

of oats; nor was his whistle quite so shrill and cheerful as it

generally was when performing that operation.

Hector, meanwhile, was left standing alone in the black-and-white tiled

hall, for Lucy, on their entrance, had disappeared and the maid was

already busy on her knees upstairs with the unpacking of portmanteaux.

But now that he was alone and had time to marshal his thoughts, for

which he had been praying all through that nightmare drive, the same

deadening sense of unreality descended on his mind like a pall, and he

stood there, his brain a whirling chaos. Only a few hours before he had

felt himself to be of steel, inflexible of will and insensible to all

human emotions save that of love; he had even gloried in what he meant

to do, as marking him out as a man above his fellows, in that for him

conventional scruples had no meaning, and bonds deemed unbreakable he

could tear asunder without a pang.

He had told Stara--and had believed what he said--that this was nothing

to him. But in the exaltation of that moment he had overlooked two

things: the one, the power of old associations over the human mind; the

other--the curse of natures such as his--nerves, a legacy bequeathed to

him, amongst other things, by his mother, and the revolt of which means

paralysis to the strongest will. In vain did Hector call upon that

will, it would not answer; in vain did he repeat that this was nothing;

old associations told him he lied, and bade him look around and see what

this thing was he was about to do.

They pointed to the thousand and one evidences of womanly love and

forethought: the spotless cleanliness and comfort of the old firelit

hall, the gleam of brass and pewter ornaments, the polish on oak and

mahogany. The scales fell from Hector's eyes, and he knew that this

same nothing was in reality a horror, growing in intensity with the

passing of the minutes, and at the thought of which his coward nerves

now quivered and shrank.

Only too well did he realise, standing here, what his homecoming meant

to Lucy; the care she had lavished on this place to make it a home, such

as he would like; the pride with which she had looked forward to

welcoming him to it. All this was his; he was the master here whom all

were anxious to serve; no longer was he a mere irresponsible officer of

cavalry, but the head of a household--a man to be looked up to and

respected. Respected? He? Why, the very servants who now waited so

smilingly upon him would turn from him with loathing did they know his

purpose; and soon they must know it, and to-morrow all would be changed.

At the thought, a sudden wave of hatred of himself came over him, and

with it a sense of moral uncleanness and unfitness to be in this

innocent, harmless household. He bowed his head and shuddered where he

stood. Nevertheless, despite his present tortures, he knew that do this

thing he would; for his will was but paralysed for the moment by

shattered nerves, and it remained the while unchanged; only it was

harder, infinitely, immeasurably harder than he had thought. Then he

heard the sound of Lucy's voice from above, and, looking up, he saw her

from the gallery overhead smiling down upon him, and there was something

in her smile that made Hector wince.

"Come up here, will you, Hector?" she said, and the cheerfulness in her

voice rang false; "I have something to show you." Without a word,

Hector mounted the stairs and joined her.

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

"It--it's Ruby; I want you to see her now, at last; and--and, Hector,

you will try not to be disappointed, won't you? She--she's not a very

strong child, and there's something ... wrong."

"Wrong, what do you mean?"

"Oh, I know I ought to have told you, and I tried to many times, but ...

couldn't. Go in now and see for yourself, and please try and not show

you ... you notice, Hector."

"Where is she?"

"That door there. No, no, I won't come in with you; don't ask me,

Hector, for I can't," and Lucy hurried away, leaving Hector standing

before a red baize-covered door. Faintly curious, he knocked, and a

voice said, "Come in." He entered, and then stood staring. In a high

chair, drawn up close to the fire, a small pale-faced child was sitting,

holding in her arms a yellow plush monkey, to which she was softly

singing. As Hector entered, she turned quickly, and at the sight of her

eyes the new-comer muttered "Good God!" and clutched at a chair.

"Yes, sir," said the nurse, watching him, "she can't see you; she was

born like that. It's your father, Miss Ruby, come to see you and say

good-night to you. I think, sir," turning again to Hector, who was

still standing motionless, "perhaps you had better go now; she's not

very strong, sir, and if distressed..." But the nurse stopped,

astonished; for Hector, unheeding, had suddenly stumbled forward, and,

picking up the little child, whose thin arms closed round his neck, was

crying over her like a woman.

Hastily the nurse rose up, thimbles, needles, and work falling unheeded

on the floor, and rushed headlong from the room and downstairs to the

kitchen, where she was soon sobbing loudly in the cook's arms.

"I'll never forget it, Martha, not if I live to be a hundred. Him

disappointed, him not love the child! Why, from the moment he set eyes

on her, he just made one rush and--and ... Oh, he's a good sort is that

man, Martha, a right down good fellow," and again she sobbed aloud, the

cook also weeping in sympathy. Nor, may it be here remarked, did the

nurse ever subsequently change her opinion, but, deaf to all argument

and blind to proof, maintained always that the master was a good master,

let them say what they liked, and, if some folk weren't rightly able to

understand him, that was their fault, not his.

Above, in the firelit nursery, father and daughter made friends; for the

incredible had happened, and Hector had taken to this poor weakling as

he would never have done to the sturdy, healthy romp prayed for by Lucy.

Perhaps in little blind Ruby he recognised the physical incarnation of

his own twisted soul, perhaps in some dim way he knew that to him and

him only her infirmities were owing, but, be this as it may, his heart

went out to her and hers to him.

Here, where he had least expected one, he had found a friend, and

forthwith his tortured nerves were calmed and his working brain at rest;

and he opened out his mind to this baby as to one his equal in years and

knowledge. And the blind eyes were kept fixed on his own, and the thin

hands stroked his face, as she murmured words of sympathy, possibly

wondering what all this might mean and possibly comprehending, for God

and his angels alone know what little children do understand.

An hour passed and still the two sat there, though in silence now, for

the sightless eyes were closed and Ruby was happily dreaming; then the

door opening noiselessly, the snuffling nurse stood on the threshold,

and behind her Lucy, her eyes wide with wonderment and a certain awe at

the marvel Heaven had brought to pass. In silence she followed Hector

from the room, and when the door had closed behind them, and they stood

in the passage outside, she turned and laid her hands on his breast.

"Hector," she said very low, "you have taught me a lesson. I have been

so wicked about her, dearest, so unnatural; but from to-night I--I will

make amends." She leaned towards him, but Hector started back, his eyes

wild. For a moment he stood staring at her, and then sharply turning

left her, and a minute afterwards was lying face downwards on the bed in

his dressing-room, his hands gripping the iron frame-work and his face

rigid with pain.

Here Lucy, entering half an hour later, all pale blue and white lace,

found him, but paid no heed, only rallied him gently for being late the

first night of his return, and said, "Do you like my present? Oh, never

mind; to-morrow will do, it isn't much really, only, oh, Hector, do

please look at them," and Lucy flew to a large brown paper parcel lying

ignored on the floor, and on which was inscribed in large letters: "To

HECTOR, WITH LUCY'S LOVE." "They're something you've always wanted,"

she ran on, her slender fingers busy with knots as she spoke, "and I've

always wished to give you, but never been able to till now. There--" as

the last wrapping of paper was torn off and the lid of a brown leather

case revealed and lifted--"don't--don't you like them?" looking rather

anxiously at Hector, who was staring silently down at a pair of shining

Purdy guns, delights which in the past he had often longed for but had

never been able to afford. At least three years of close saving on

Lucy's part did this gift represent, for well he knew that not one penny

of the price had been taken from his own money; out of her own small

income alone had these toys been bought.

"They're all right, Hector, aren't they? They're ejectors, you see,"

fingering the barrels of one as she spoke; "and there are plenty of

cartridges downstairs--Kynochs brass. No. 6, the ones you always used

to use. And to-morrow we'll try them, won't we? Oh, I'm so looking

forward to to-morrow, I do hope it will be fine, and then you and I and

Tom..." She stopped suddenly, for Hector had again turned away from her

and was leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire.

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

dear?"

"No--no, not now--later. Leave me, Lucy; I'll join you in a minute."

And Lucy without a word left him.

* * * * *

Dinner was over, and wrath reigned in Martha's ample bosom, for the

skill and knowledge of a life-time had gone to the preparing of this

night's repast, and bitterly she felt that all her talent had been

wasted. "Mark my words, Eliza," she said to the kitchen maid, "there's

something wrong with a man as don't relish a beautiful dinner like this.

There's that vol-o-vong, the souffly too, came down untasted. It ain't

in nature, Eliza--it ain't; and 'im too just back from furrin parts.

Oh, I've not patience with him, nor yet with the Missus either," and she

shut the oven door with a bang.

Upstairs, in the softly-lighted drawing-room, Lucy and her husband were

sitting looking into the fire. Silence had fallen, for the woman's

chatter, sustained uninterruptedly during the meal, had ceased at last,

and the time had come for the one to hear and the other to tell. Now

she sat waiting, with nerves braced and every faculty alert and ready

for battle.

The minutes ticked away, but still the silence remained unbroken, for by

now all coherence of thought had left Hector, and, strive as he would,

no sequence of thought would come. In vain did he try to call up

Stara's face to strengthen him; in vain did he repeat that this was mere

weakness, and that carry this thing through he must; he could say the

words as much and as often as he liked, but no resolution lay behind

them--they were but as ghosts.

The exaltation of the night before; the long train journey; the meeting

with Lucy; and then the final blow dealt by a pair of thin baby

hands--all had told; and now, when he had most need of them, strength of

purpose and clearness of thought were gone.

Suddenly Lucy rose, and, moving swiftly across to him, knelt on the

hearth at his feet, her bright eyes fixed on his.

"Dear, tell me," she whispered, "as you promised; I am your wife,

remember, and have the right to know. I don't mind what it is, Hector,

so that you tell me."

"Lucy, I can't, I meant to, God knows; but now the time's come, I can't

think--my head's whirling. Give me till to-morrow, Lucy, I will tell

you then, I swear."

"And you think, Hector, I could wait till to-morrow," said Lucy

passionately, "oh, how can you be so inhuman? Surely, surely, it can't

be so hard a thing as this, that you can't tell me, your wife of ten

years. Oh, my dearest," and Lucy put her arms round his neck, "we have

never had secrets from each other, like most husbands and wives."

"This is different, Lucy."

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

"It's not money, Lucy."

"Something you've done in the regiment, then, have--have they cashiered

you, Hector? If that's it, I don't mind a bit. I always hated the

regiment; it was never a good enough one for you."

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

Lucy stared at him, her brow knit in thought; then suddenly her arms

fell from his neck and she sank, a huddled heap, on the hearth-rug.

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

"Yes."

Silence, and then the bowed figure straightened itself, and the light of

battle once more came into her eyes. She would fight this out to the

end.

"Tell me about it, Hector," she said steadily, "everything, please. I

want the whole story, nothing kept back whatever."

Hector began, a recital very different from that arranged in his mind

only a few hours before. "Lucy, when I left South Africa, three weeks

ago, I could say, what very few husbands can to their wives, that I had

never been unfaithful to you."

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

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

and----"

"Her, who?"

"Never mind that, Lucy; it would do no good telling it ... and we--she

and I got to care for each other, and--and--that's all, Lucy. Oh, for

God's sake, don't let's go on now."

"_Is_ that all, Hector? Was she--this woman--good? There was no--no

wickedness, you understand me, Hector, don't you?"

"There was none."

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

"Where is she now, dear?"

"I don't know--in London somewhere, I believe; she returns to Africa in

a few days."

"And you, Hector, what do you mean to do, to go back with her? If so,

tell me now, and--and..." Lucy paused, and then went on, "if that's

what you really want, Hector, if it--it's not only a passing

infatuation, and you feel you cannot live without this woman, I--I will

help you, dear."

"What do you mean?"

"This, that I am too proud, Hector, to keep you tied to me against your

will. I--I don't look upon marriage as some do, as a chain which

nothing can break. Love's the only chain I recognise, and if that is

broken between us I will set you free, Hector."

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

"Oh, my God, Hector, if there is but a chance, the merest atom of hope,

I would cling to it, but I--I don't think there is, somehow. Hector, is

there?"

Here was the way made easy, here were the obstacles lying down of their

own free will to let him pass, and yet, strangely enough, it was this

very ease that conquered Hector now and dealt the final blow to

resolution.

Had Lucy opposed him, had she but hinted that the bond between them was

indissoluble, Hector's soul would have risen in instant rebellion, and

with rebellion would have come strength to act. But Lucy's love for

once had made her subtle, and so, there being no opposition and nothing

to fight, the sword remained useless in the scabbard.

"Hector," she went on, and her lips were now set in a firm straight

line, "tell me, are you going back with this woman to South Africa or

not?"

Hector's groping hands snatched at the dangling rope and held on. "She

is going back alone," he muttered; "there was never any thought of our

returning together."

For a full minute Lucy knelt looking at him, her blue eyes searching his

soul; then again her arms went around his neck, and she broke into a

passion of weeping.

"Thank God, oh, thank God!" she murmured; "you're my Hector still;

forgive me, dearest, for having doubted you. I ought to have known that

you, of all men, would never be guilty of dishonour or treachery to me.

Oh, it was hateful of me, hateful."

"Lucy, wait. I--I----"

"No, you've been brave and true, Hector; you've fought temptation and

conquered it, and I honour you for it and love you a thousand times more

than before. And--and she, oh, don't turn away; I wouldn't speak ill of

her for the world. I will pray for her, and ask God to comfort her, for

she--she must be a good woman, Hector, far--far better than I am. I

would never have given you up had I been her."

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

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

and--and, dear----"

"Well?"

"I should like some time, if you'll let me, to write to her and send her

some little thing from me and Ruby to show her I know and sympathise;

for we, Ruby and I, owe her so much--so much. And you, you poor boy,

I'll help you through. I will be patient and tactful, dear, and won't

expect things ... yet. But it will all come back again, won't it--your

love, I mean--and I haven't taken it so badly, have I? Oh, for God's

sake, dearest, don't you break down," for Hector's head had fallen

forward on his hands and his whole body was quivering. "Come upstairs

now and sleep. To-morrow the sun will be shining and we'll start

afresh, Hector, you and I and ... Ruby."

*CHAPTER XVI*

The morning came, the white-rimed marshland glittered in the morning

sun, kittiwake and plover renewed their battle with the wind. The

daylight faded and was gone, a glow of pink and yellow appeared in the

west, green of sky deepened to blue, the sound of unseen wings clove the

violet dusk overhead, and dim shapes stole phantom-like across the moon.

The first day of the new life was past, and the gloom was not lightened

but had become deeper, ever deeper, with the flitting of the hours.

With Hector's coming, the peace and happiness reigning over that Norfolk

home had spread their wings and fled. There was something wrong, and

everyone knew it, despite Lucy's strivings after concealment; but the

instinct of the servant class is a hard thing to baffle, and, ignore it

as she might, only too well did the mistress know that there was not one

member of the household but was fully aware that between her and the

master all was not harmony.

Further, she knew--and to Lucy's proud soul this was perhaps the hardest

of all to bear--that, with one exception, they were with her and against

Hector. The exception, of course, was the nurse, who maintained stoutly

that they were all a pack of fools, and if misunderstanding there were,

though for her part she could not see it, it was the fault of the

mistress, to whom in consequence her manner became somewhat cold and

distant. And for this Lucy loved her, and hated her self-constituted

allies, snubbing their advances on all occasions and showering

unnecessary favours on the haughty nurse. In vain, however, for in both

directions did she fail: her allies continued to smile and sympathise;

the enemy declined to be mollified.

Day by day the clouds thickened, and she realised that that which she

had thought but a rift between her and Hector--an ugly rent maybe and

one that, though healed, must ever leave a scar behind--was in reality a

chasm, the depths of which she was unable to fathom. Hard though she

fought to bridge it and cross over to where he was standing, it was all

in vain; for the planks she stretched out fell uselessly from the

farther edge, receding as they touched it, and the figure on the other

side grew daily smaller and more indistinct. And Lucy might hope to

cross that yawning chasm in vain, for that which lurked within it,

pushing its sides asunder, was a lie unconfessed. If Hector would only

confess and pluck the lie from the depths, no longer would the gulf

widen, but remain fixed for her to bridge, could she but find the plank.

If it were left, however, like an iron wedge it would sink lower,

ripping and rending as it sank.

Of such a confession from Hector there was little hope now: the lie was

almost out of sight already, and he wished it so buried. His brain

reeled at the thought of further explanations, every jangling nerve

clamoured for peace--peace; for that odd paralysis, which had seized

upon his will the first night, had not lifted, as he had hoped, in the

morning, rather had it tightened its hold, till now all power of

resistance had left him and he had fallen to drifting without mast or

oars on a grey, horizonless sea. Something would happen; it was for

that he lived now; not for ever could he wander on like this; land must

be viewed at last; and at the thought a ray of hope would glimmer above

the grey monotony, and its beam for an instant strike warm on his heart.

Yes, sooner or later the end would come; Lucy would see and insist on

his going, and not only offer to let him go, as she had done before. He

forgot, in his own blindness, that Lucy too could not see, for he

himself had taken away her sight. The days dragged on, grey and

purposeless, and at last Lucy also began to despair. Do what she would,

it was all useless. Unhappiness, unkindness even, she had been prepared

for and would have known how to meet, but this dull apathy, this total

lack of interest in life, it was that which crushed her.

He was so changed, too, from the husband of former years; his whole

nature and tastes seemed to have undergone some strange transformation.

All his assertiveness and intolerance had left him: she might advance

what views she liked now--and often she did in the vain hope of

awakening the old Hector--it was all to no purpose; he never

contradicted or opposed. Even the laudation of newspapers, from which

only had Lucy learnt of a certain event on board the _Dunrobin Castle_,

was ignored by its object, and it was she, not Hector, as it would have

been in former years, who sent for every paper dealing with the subject,

and having read their contents to the assembled household, cut out the

paragraphs, and, tying them up with stout ribbon, put them carefully

away with a certain honours' list and other treasures.

The shooting also, from which she had anticipated such joy, failed to

arouse any enthusiasm, and the peace of marsh and pool remained almost

undisturbed by the bang of the Purdys. True, on one or two occasions he

had gone out in answer to her frequent urgings, but he was all the time

obviously thinking of other things, and screeching snipe and quacking

mallard flew away only too often unscathed, even unseen, by the

erstwhile vigilant eyes. Then, while the sun was yet high in the

heaven, he would suggest a return home, and, once there, would shut

himself up in his room, and read uninterruptedly till dinner, and after

that silent meal till well into the night.

This, perhaps, was the most disquieting change of all, the

transformation of the former restless, energetic Hector into a bookworm.

Such books too: no less than three works on the doings of an

uninteresting and seemingly insane person called Suvarov; a collection

of medical works, or such they appeared to Lucy; and another, one she

had found on his dressing-table one morning, a thin daintily-bound

volume called "The Heifer of the Dawn." What a strange name, she

thought and, taking it up, opened it, and then stood rigid, with her

eyes fixed on the title-page. For a moment she remained looking, then

with sudden passion tore the book across, and, thrusting the halves into

the fire, stamped them into the burning coals with her foot.

"Oh, it's no use--no use at all," she thought drearily, and from that

day abandoned the struggle and left it to be fought out by Ruby. And in

no better hands could she have entrusted it, for indifferent to all else

as Hector had become there was yet one who, whatever his mood, was

always sure of a glad welcome, that one being his small daughter.

"Miss Ruby, sir," the nurse would say, breaking in upon him without

ceremony, "and she's much better to-day, sir. I declare she's getting

quite strong now her father's come home," and down would go Schopenhauer

or Lombroso, and Hector, springing up, would rush at the little figure

groping its way towards him, and, placing her on his knee, invent lame

and improbable fairy stories, or carry her off to the stables for

inspection--if such it could be called when one could not see--of the

white pony and a certain grey rabbit, bought for her by him in the

village.

At other times, when the black mood was on him, she would lie quite

still in his arms, her hand now and again stroking his face, while she

murmured words of sympathy and encouragement. For Ruby always knew and

understood, and in those baby fingers lay a strength and power, which

were rapidly growing, till in time they might have torn away Stara's

grip on his heart, had the battle been left to her and Fate not

interfered. As it was, she made a good fight for it, and very nearly

won; for Hector, even thus early, had begun to ask himself the question,

"Ruby or Stara?" And though the balance was still down on the one side,

yet daily the other was drawing up.