At last, one bitter January morning, as the two sat in his room by the

fire, she on his knee, the knowledge awoke within him, that, quivering,

the scales hung level, and, knowing, for a moment he pondered, and then

spoke.

"Ruby," he said. At his voice the child looked up quickly, for there

was something tremendous coming, and she knew it at once.

"'Oo's frightened, daddy, 'oo's frightened at something. Tell Ruby."

Her hands groped their way to his face and rested there. The balance

went clashing down.

"Would you like me to stay with you always, Ruby, just you and I, and

mother, and Peter?" Peter was the rabbit.

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

"James too, of course, and Whiting. Would you like it, Ruby, or ...

shall I go away?"

"You're my daddy; I'se not let you go. Oh, daddy, daddy," and the thin

arms were wound tightly round his neck, and the sightless eyes filled

with tears, "you can't go, you shan't go. It's my burfday soon, and you

promised to have tea wiv me, you and muvver."

"But, Ruby, dear."

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

Graeme rose and put her gently down. His face had grown ashen, but in

his eyes shone a light such as none, not even Stara, had seen there

before, a light that none ever saw again.

"I'll keep my promise, Ruby," he said, an odd ring in his voice. "I'll

go now and tell mother. You wait here, dear, and take care of James

till I come back," and Hector left her, and went on his way to tell

"mother."

She was not in the house, the maid said; she thought she was in the

garden. The girl looked rather hostile as she told him, more so than

usual, he thought; but he paid no heed, for all that was to be at an end

now, and passed out into the frozen garden, at the far end of which a

figure could be seen pacing slowly up and down the gravel path. A bitter

east wind was blowing, but neither hat nor wrap had Lucy, and, for the

first time since his home-coming, Hector noted such things; a pang of

self-reproach struck him, and he hurried on.

"Lucy dear," he said, drawing near, "you're mad to be out in the cold

like this; come into the house and sit with me over the fire. I've got

something to tell you, something I hope you'll be glad to hear. I've

been blind, Lucy, but----"

"So have I been blind," and at the words Hector stopped, staring, for

surely this was not the gentle Lucy, this white-faced woman, whose blue

eyes glared at him?

"You liar! ... You unutterable liar!..." she went on in low, trembling

tones. "Oh, don't speak, but look at that," thrusting out a slip of

paper towards him. It was a cheque for L150, undated, and made out to

the name of Miss Selbourne.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the pocket of one of your coats, the one you were wearing yesterday.

Like a fool, I was looking over your things as ... as I used to do.

That fell out."

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

"Nothing? You send this creature money, or were going to send it, it's

the same thing, from here, your wife's house. You--you cad, Hector!"

A flame of anger appeared for a second in the man's eyes, his face grew

white, but he mastered himself, and answered quietly enough:

"I was not going to send it, Lucy; that cheque was written six weeks

ago. I forgot to date it, as I usually do my letters or cheques. The

money was refused."

"Forgot? Refused? That sort of woman refuse money? You expect me to

believe a wild, improbable tale like that. Oh, but I understand, though

you think any lie is good enough for a poor trusting fool of a wife to

believe. And it was, Hector, but--but not now."

"Wait, I've not finished. It's true that cheque was refused, but I

insisted, and wrote another the same night, did not forget the date, and

this time it ... was accepted."

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

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

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

"As you please then, I don't care. Five minutes ago I did, but now----"

He stopped suddenly and, turning away, stood with his back towards her,

and then, the devil fought under, tried once more: "Lucy, won't you hear

me, if not for my sake, then for ... Ruby's? I did lie to you that

first night, or rather I let you believe what was not true, but my

nerves were all to pieces, and I couldn't think or speak. I'll tell you

the whole story now. It was for that I came out here."

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

The devil conquered. "Found out," before the fury in his voice Lucy's

died, and fear sprang to life, "what do I care what you find out? I do

love this woman. I thought just now I did not, but I was a fool, I do.

I love her as I've never loved you, and--and I'm going back to her now."

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

"You're too late, I came out with the full intention of telling you all,

and, cur that I was ... giving her up. Oh, it was not for your sake,

don't think it; it was for..." A spasm contorted his face for a moment,

but in an instant passed, and he went on:

"Yes, for the first time in my life I was weak, but of that weakness

you've cured me, and given me back my strength, and for that, my wife, I

thank you. No more puling sentiment now for me; no more 'mummy and

daddy'--hell's curse on you all!--but love ... life..."

"A life of sin, Hector, for, as God hears me, I'll never set you free

now. Had you been honest with me from the first, as I implored you to

be, I would have done it, but now--no!"

"Lucy, take care."

"Take care, why should I take care? What have I to care for now? Kill

me if you like, Hector, it's the only way. I swear it. What stops you,

my husband? You did it once before, and..."

"Twice."

"I dare say fifty times, and for far less reason. Kill me, I ask you,

I'm not afraid to die. You won't? Then ... go." And Hector went.

At the hall door an uncouth figure was standing, awaiting him; it was

Tom, bearing news of widgeon in the marshes and woodcock in the spinny,

blown in by the gale last night, but the story was cut short. "Bring

the cart round at once. Damn the widgeon!" answered his master, and

hurried within. There was barely time to catch the train, but the devil

was aiding him now, and ten minutes later dressing-case and portmanteau

had been carried below and thrown into the waiting cart; and he was left

standing in the room he was leaving behind for ever.

Dully his eyes rested upon the new guns reposing in their leather case,

the wild grasses on the mantelpiece, and on his bed the yellow plush

figure of James. For a moment he stood staring at the monkey, and then,

snatching it up, thrust it away out of sight in his pocket, and hurried

from the room. Down the stairs he went, through the black-and-white

tiled hall, creeping like a thief past a certain closed door, and then

into the cart and away at a gallop.

Rocking and swaying, they flew through the narrow lanes, rounding

corners on one wheel, and shaving heavily-laden country carts. On

through the village, scattering children and flocks of frightened geese,

till at last the station was reached. Only just in time too, for the

train was already on the move, but one push from the gleeful devil and

Hector was across the platform and into the train; and three minutes

later was lying a huddled heap in the corner, the flat green landscape

around him sliding away into the past.

Tom sat gazing after him, with a look on his face that few had ever seen

there before. He climbed slowly down, and, taking out a blanket, spread

it carefully over the white pony's quarters, streaked with rivulets of

sweat. For a moment he stood contemplating his quivering charge, and

then his eyes fell on the golden sovereign lying in his hand.

"Curse your dirty money!" he said violently, and flung it far over an

adjacent hedge into the field beyond.

* * * * *

Lucy remained, where they had parted, in the frost-blighted garden, her

heart as numb and cold as the ground on which she stood. With stony

eyes she gazed out over the marshland, shining in the winter sunlight;

she saw the foam-flecked, cloud-shadowed sea, and heard the scream of

gull and quavering cry of speeding curlew, and knew that as she loved it

all once so she hated it now. For here, where she had looked forward to

perfect happiness and union with one beloved, she had found nothing but

a broken heart and faith shattered beyond recall.

As she stood there, a little figure came stumbling towards her, its face

blue with the east wind and a wild terror in the sightless eyes.

"Daddy, daddy," she wailed, "'oo's gone, and 'oo's promised to stay wiv

me," and, still calling and running blindly on, she struck an iron hoop

guarding the border and fell headlong, her cries dying to a feeble

moaning.

Passionate indignation against Hector shook Lucy at the sight, and,

running forward, she lifted the child and held her close against her

heart.

"Daddy's left us, Ruby," she said, "but you have me, your mother, still.

Oh, darling, why did you come out here in the bitter cold? It was very

wrong of you, Ruby," and Lucy hurried away, her burden clutched tightly

in her arms.

"I want daddy! I want daddy!" And strive as she might, no effort of

Lucy's could still those cries, which later became feebler, running off

into snatches of song and prayers to God.

"Send for her father, ma'am," implored the nurse, her ruddy face white

with anxiety. "You ought to, ma'am; it's criminal not to, and I say it,

though I am only a servant."

Lucy bade her hold her tongue and not interfere, opposing the same

sullen obstinacy to the doctor when he came.

"You're taking a very great responsibility on yourself then, madam," he

said, being an outspoken man, though fond of little children, and,

seating himself beside the cot, he fixed his keen eyes on the baby's

face.

Then, at last, terror conquering pride, Lucy wrote out a telegram and

sent it off, only to receive it back an hour later--it was too late, and

the office closed.

A message, nevertheless, was next morning delivered to where Hector was

sitting in his dingy hotel bedroom, a yellow plush monkey in his arms,

and the devil vanquished at last. The message ran:

"Ruby died last night.--LUCY."

Hector stood looking at it, and then suddenly laughed, high-pitched

laughter, long and loud, till with a crack it ended, and he fell forward

on to the floor, where he lay motionless. And the devil beside him once

more raised his head, came nearer, bent down, and began to whisper fast

and low in his ear.

*CHAPTER XVII*

Richard Selbourne stood in front of his South African home, blankly

surveying the cloudless heaven.

Over the white farm-buildings and tin-roofed kaffir huts a slumbrous

peace was reigning, for it was the hour of noonday rest, and men and

beasts alike lay placidly sleeping.

Clothing the shores of the great dam hard by--now shrunk to half its

usual proportions--the feathery willows drooped motionless, as though in

silent lamentation of its fallen estate; even the restless windmill had

ceased from toiling, and save for an occasional dismal clonk, uttered

seemingly in its dreams, slumbered with the rest.

Stretching away on all sides from the small oasis of trees, lucerne

patches, and dam, forming Rosebank Farm, rolled a sea of yellow grass,

from which stuck up, like islands, saw-like ridge and conical kopje, and

beyond them could be seen a giant ring of brown, paper-like hills, their

outline sharp-cut and rigid against a sky of hard vivid blue.

As he looked at the scene, a frown gathered on Richard's handsome face,

and in impotent anger he shook his fist at the blandly-smiling heavens.

"Confound you!" he muttered, "why can't you hide your face and rain for

once in a while? My lucerne's withering, the dam will give out in a

fortnight, the beasts are dying in the fields. Gad, I came out here to

get away from English mists and fogs, but I'd give something now to feel

one of those same old yellow fogs in my throat again. England, London,

shops, Club, Savoy--oh damn! I'll go in and sleep." Richard shook his

smart person--for clad though he was in weatherbeaten garments, patched

and stained, Selbourne possessed that indefinable air of "class," which

ancient clothes but serve to emphasise--and walked slowly back to the

house.

On the stoep the figure of a girl was standing, clad in a

black-and-white homespun riding-skirt, a white drill jacket, and a large

grey Terai hat. "Hullo, Stara," said Richard, seeing her; "now, what

the blazes are you up to, not going out riding in this heat, surely?

You'll get sunstroke to a moral, if you do. Hullo!" suddenly aware of

something unusual in her appearance, "what have you done to yourself?

Lord, you've got on a habit, what's up? Oh!" and Richard's mouth

expanded into a grin; and he winked at his sister, whose face

straightway became bright red.

"And why shouldn't I put on a skirt?" she answered with dignity. "I

know I usually do not, but----."

"But now he's coming you do."

"Nothing of the sort, I put it on because it's cooler. Don't keep me,

please. I'm going to meet the Cape cart, as you're too lazy. Where's

Polly?"

"In bed and asleep, but I shouldn't worry if I were you. The boy ought

to know his way by now. I'm afraid though, old girl, this pal of yours

will have rather a dull time, nothing on earth to do but look at the

sunset, and you, I suppose. What's the game, Stara, are you going to

make a job of it at last? Tell your brother, my child."

Again the vivid blush, but with it now a sharp stab of pain. Make a job

of it, yes. Tell her brother, not for a thousand worlds, though ten

times a thousand would Stara have given to be able to say, "I'm going to

marry him," instead of telling a lie--the first of many.

"There's nothing to tell you, Dick," she answered, looking away; "he's a

friend, that's all. You know I have men friends without any thought of

other things."

"I'm aware you have, though the poor devils themselves think

differently, I should say. Never mind, old lady, you carry on and do

what you like; it's no business of mine; and it's dull enough for you

here, God knows, with only Polly and me."

"It is not, Dick, it is not, you must never think that, I love being

here, and I--I hope you will like Colonel Graeme, though I'm afraid

somehow he's not quite the sort of man you would."

"Oh, I'll like him all right, Stara, don't you bother. I do most

fellows, unless they're wrong 'uns, and I know you wouldn't fancy one of

that sort. Funny I never saw the chap when the '1st' came through here

last year. I dined with them, you know, and can remember most. There

was a fellow called Porky, who never stopped talking till he got blind,

and Graves, and Carson--good fellow, Carson--and old Royle, and yes,

there was another chap none of them seemed to fancy. I didn't cotton to

him myself, either, though I don't know why. He set my teeth on edge,

for some reason."

"What was he like, Dick?"

"Rum-looking fellow, long nose, pale face, black eyes, not a bit like a

soldier. Wore a purple silk cap at dinner, I remember, with gold bugs

on it. Never saw such a thing in my life."

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

"Lord, you don't mean it, Stara? Damn, but I'm sorry, somehow. I wish

it had been Carson--never mind, though. I dare say I was wrong, I

usually am, and, anyway, your bringing him here is good enough for me.

I'm going in to sleep now. Bye-bye, old girl; don't overtire yourself;

you look a bit white. Polly and I will be looking out for you when you

get back."

"Dick, if--you'd rather not have him here, I'll arrange it. I'll tell

him you've sickness in the house, and that he must put up at the hotel.

I could ride with him every day just the same."

"Hotel be blowed, Stara, what, a guest of mine put up at that

Duikerpoort drinking shanty. Thank'ye no, I don't do that sort of

thing. Now be off. Here's your pony, and tell Graeme from me he's very

welcome; don't forget," and Richard rather huffily pushed aside the cane

blinds and disappeared into the house.

Stara mounted and rode slowly away, the old antagonists watching each

other once more across the battlefield of her mind--loyalty and

straight-dealing on the one side, and love on the other. Of struggle

between them, however, there was now none, for the question had been

fought out three weeks before, on that day when the single word "Coming"

had been flashed to her across six thousand miles of sea. Then indeed

the battle had been fierce but final, for Stara, unlike most women, did

not, her antagonist once down, lift him up again for the pleasure of

renewing the combat with the consequent certainty of ultimate defeat.

Slower than Hector in decision, for to her the throwing overboard of

honour and loyalty was a heart-wrenching pang, she nevertheless, in this

instance, showed herself stronger than he, and the giving up of all once

determined on, the sacrifice would be made freely and unreservedly. And

so honour and loyalty were crushed down, and love remained alone on the

field. Her mouth hardened, she thrust aside the thought of what lay

behind, and, striking her pony with her spurred heel, hurried on to the

destiny rushing to meet her.

For miles she rode without drawing rein, her mount lolloping easily on,

as if impervious to heat or fatigue, till at length, some eight miles

having been covered, she pulled up, and, dismounting, loosened the

girths and led the pony away from the track to a small rise a few

hundred yards away. Here she left him, the reins trailing loosely on

the ground--Basuto-bred, he would stay there, she knew, for hours--and,

throwing herself down on the grass, lay there, with her eyes fixed on

the road ahead, a white thread seaming the yellow plain, till, topping a

distant rise, it became lost to view.

Far below her, stretching across the track, a great herd of blesbok were

moving restlessly, their forms looking vague and unreal through the

gauzy veil of heat. Save for them and a wide-winged lammergeier hanging

motionless in the blue vault above, sign of life there was none--veldt,

kopje, and mountain slumbered undisturbed.

Suddenly Stara's body stiffened, her half-closed eyes opened wide, and a

look almost of terror came into them, for the peace was broken at last,

and the blesbok below, like her, were startled. Their aimless

wanderings ceased, the outlying groups drew in, till the herd became one

solid mass, and their heads were turned away from her towards the rise,

beyond which the road dipped and was lost to sight.

Something had frightened them, but what? Then Stara's eyes grew wild as

she, too, saw what that something was--a small cloud of dust topping the

hill, and then rapidly descending into the plain below her. For a while

the herd stood staring, and then began to move away, at a walk first,

then at a trot, and finally in a headlong gallop, bounding over the

grass for some miles, when they stopped, wheeled sharply about and again

stood staring.

The cloud of dust drew nearer, taking shape as it came, till a Cape cart

drawn by mules could be plainly seen. In the cart there were two

figures--one in black, with a conical hat, sitting bolt upright and

brandishing a whip; the other seemed strangely misty and indistinct to

Stara.

She rose, turned her eyes towards the browsing pony, and moved away;

then stopped, with her mouth firm-set, and sat down once more.

"What a woman I am, after all," she muttered, "flight, hide for him to

pursue and find; we're all the same, pretend as we like. Heavens, how

fast that cart's coming, what does Jacob mean by driving the mules like

that? Ah! they've seen me; there's the boy pointing with his whip,

they're stopping, and it's come at last. Oh, I daren't look at him, I

know he'll show elation, and I shall hate him."

"How do you do, Colonel Graeme?"

"Quite well, thank you, Miss Selbourne; that's the right answer, isn't

it? Damned fit I am, look at me and see."

Startled, Stara looked up, and fear vanished in amazement, for here was

no triumphant conqueror, but a stricken, haggard-eyed man. "He has done

it and regrets," she thought, and instantly was in revolt.

"It's so very good of you to come, Colonel Graeme, such a long journey

in the heat. Did you have a good passage? My brother is so looking

forward to seeing you, shall we get on? My pony's here, and----"

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

brother, sit down."

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

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

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

"Bah!"

"Tell me."

"Kiss me first, not like that--properly." He caught Stara to him, and

kissed her in a way that made her cheeks flame. She shrank back

frightened and ashamed.

"Does that look as though I regretted? Listen. I've broken with her,

as I said I would. Please God, I'll never see her again, blast her!"

"Oh, Hector, hush! Why?"

"Because she failed to ... No, that's not the reason, because she won't

divorce me. That settles us, you see, no marriage for you and me."

"I never expected it, Hector. I was ready for it. But ... there's

something more. What is it?"

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

"Hector, there is; there's something which has ... hurt you. It's not

the parting from her. I can see that. Dearest, I must--I will know."

"There's nothing, I tell you, me hurt, by the death of a blind brat?

Oh, God, curse me for a babbling fool!"

"Good--good God!"

Hector turned savagely on her. "Why do you say that? What right have

you to assume ... Take your arms away from me. Oh, you must hear, must

you, satisfy your damned curiosity, I suppose? All right, you shall. I

told you on the ship I had no children. I lied; there was one, I'd

never seen her when I spoke. She was blind and sickly, but--God knows

why--she ... liked me, used to crawl over me, and call me 'daddy,' me,

Stara, 'daddy.' Laugh, curse you, laugh, you won't? Look here, then,"

he dragged from his pocket the battered figure of James, and held it

from him, wildly laughing, "here's what I play with at nights alone,

croon and chuckle over it like the madman I am. Damn you, give it

back--give it back, I say," for Stara had snatched James from his hand

and was holding him against her breast, her tears raining on the plush.

Hector's hand fell to his side and he turned sharply away, then once

more went on:

"And when I left--I did suddenly, one morning--she came out to find me

in the garden. There was an east wind blowing, and she ... caught cold,

I suppose, and she," the expression of his voice made Stara shrink

back--"the nurse wrote to me, let her die without me; she asked for me,

but she wouldn't send till it was too late. Oh, don't be a fool and

snivel like that, who cares? I don't. She wouldn't have lived, in any

case. Oh, it didn't take much to kill my child, Stara, she paid in her

body for the rottenness of her father's soul. For I am rotten--rotten

to the core."

"You're not, you're not, no man can be who can love a child like that.

Dearest, I won't have you say it, for you're mine, Hector, mine. My

love is all yours now, and so am--I."

"Yes, with reservations. Oh, I know the sort of love--pure, no vile,

earthly thoughts--thus far and no farther."

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

Hector stared, and, passion once more reawakening, he caught her by the

shoulders; but Stara held him off, her grey eyes looking up into his.

"Wait, there is something you must promise me first. It--it may be,

Hector, that in time there might come--another--oh, don't shrink away

from me, it hurts so much--and you'd love my--our child, wouldn't you,

Hector? But if ... that should happen, you must take me away ... leave

the army, forsake ambition for--for love. Could you do that? Think

well before you answer, for it's a big thing, Hector."

Hector, however, was now in passion's grip, and reflection had become

impossible. Had Stara at that moment asked for the Southern Cross to

wear in her hair, he would have promised her that, or anything else; and

without a second's hesitation, he swore, if called upon, to do her

bidding.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

Thus Hector followed in the footsteps of those with whom he claimed

kinship, and, like them, left the broad track of conventional duty to

turn aside into the by-paths of illicit love. True, behind him,

trampled in the dust of the highway, broken vows and the fragments of a

woman's happiness were lying, and, ever vivid and distinct, a tiny

grave. But what of that, since he had carried through his purpose, and

proved himself above the human weaknesses by which other men's lives are

cramped and fettered? Feverishly he drank of the cup held out to him by

Stara, and, his thirst quenched but too soon, revived the dead craving

with the salt of imagination, and demanded more, ever more.

A month passed, and he was no longer a stranger, but one of the

household; the hand of fellowship was held out to him by all, and by no

one more eagerly than his host, whose cordiality was adopted the better

to hide the curious instinctive aversion of twelve months before, which

had but increased with fuller acquaintance with his guest. In vain did

Richard assure himself that the feeling was one of prejudice only; it

grew in strength daily, till at last, at Graeme's approach, Dick would

make off, feigning work on the farm, or any excuse to avoid being alone

with a man in whose presence he became so unaccountably silent and

embarrassed.

His wife, however, had from the first taken to the stranger, though her

only reason for such liking was, it must be owned, the essentially

feminine one of sympathy for a lover, for that Hector was Stara's she

had realised from the first, though why undeclared was beyond her

comprehension.

It must be her sister-in-law's fault, she had come to believe, and was

in consequence somewhat annoyed with Stara, frequently pressing her for

explanations. If she cared for Colonel Graeme, why did she not admit

it? It was not fair to play fast and loose with a man's devotion. Upon

which her sister-in-law would smile, and assure her she was altogether

wrong and didn't understand; she and Hector were friends, nothing more.

Friends! as if she, Mary, was blind or a fool. And with much

indignation the hostess would return to her housework, leaving the pair

as usual to their own devices. They must settle the matter their own

way, she decided, and, if Graeme was but half the man she took him to

be, he would sooner or later bring Stara to book, for of the latter's

feelings, too, Mary had no doubt, though Stara was far more successful

in concealing them than Hector. Still, there was no mistaking the

improvement in her sister-in-law's looks, or the meaning of the shedding

of her former assumption of mannishness, which, with the bifurcated

riding garments, had gone apparently for good, a modest riding-skirt

replacing the one and a soft womanliness and radiant happiness the

other.

Stara was happy, despite the lie she was living, for this had now become

a habit, and troubled her not at all. And being happy, and loving, a

change came over her: the veneer of hardness and independence

disappeared, and with it, unfortunately, much of her former wit and

brilliance. She was all woman now, fussing over Hector, ministering to

his comforts, and exercising those small tyrannies dear to most lovers'

hearts.

The inordinate consumption of cigarettes she put down firmly, retaining

the supply in her own room, and doling them out at the rate of five a

day--no more, save as a special indulgence. Schopenhauer and Lombroso

also went, while the small phials were taken out on to the veldt the day

after his arrival, and carefully buried in the home of an ant-bear, a

solemn promise being exacted from Hector never to touch such things

again. For Stara, wiser than Lucy, had from the first seen in which

direction Graeme's peril lay, but while formerly she had regarded his

morbidity merely as an interesting study, now the suppression of all

encouragement of, and incentive to it, had become to her a matter of

vital necessity.

For a time she was successful, Hector apparently being well content to

idle the days away, roaming through the hot grass veldt, lying down on

it for hours, or lounging with her in desultory inspection of

farm-buildings, dam, and lucerne-fields. But, unknown to her, the

poison was already working, and Graeme, when he seemed to be asleep on

the grass beside her, was debating problems in his mind; for Stara,

though she never knew it, had been stabbed to the heart by the

unconscious hand of a blind child, who was now lying in sleep eternal to

the lullaby of wind and waves.

Hector loved her, it is true, but it was not the love it had been, for,

since the hour of darkness passed with the devil in the dreary hotel

bedroom, there had come a difference. The ideality and the golden halo

with which he had clothed his mistress were gone, and with them the

longing to serve. Now he only saw her beauty, and in the possession of

that beauty he strove to find oblivion from an undying memory; but in

vain, for in the one pure emotion Hector had known, or could ever know,

his eyes had been opened, and the real gold of the one showed the other

to be but counterfeit metal and base. Thus Ruby was avenged, and, as

usual, not on the most guilty fell the vengeance.

Hector began to ask himself questions, and critically to analyse the

love he felt--love to which analysis means death. Why was it, he

pondered, that passion so great as his did not act as a spur, but rather

as a bridle? Surely Nelson was wrong when he said that "if the world

held more Emmas, there would be more Nelsons"? For his own love for

Stara was equally great, and yet indulgence in that love, so far from

proving the incentive he had hoped, was fast suffocating ambition and

rendering him a mere lotus-eater, content to idle away the hours on a

God-forsaken African farm.

Gradually, fight against it, blind himself as he might, the bitter truth

became known to Hector, that whereas passion denied, even vexed or

hindered, is the greatest incentive to ambition man's nature can know,

passion indulged without let or hindrance becomes inevitably its

murderer. And with this truth, unacknowledged though it was, awakened

in his mind, Hector became restless and rebellious, the sense of revolt

growing as he realised that no sympathy was to be hoped for from Stara,

but rather active opposition.

She now always became silent when he spoke of future greatness, or

turned the subject to another future of which ambition was not the aim,

but those very domestic joys which before she had been wont to deride.

Only the other day she had put forward the same absurdity advanced by

Lucy years before, namely, the hope of military renown without the

disadvantages of his having to seek it on the battlefield. Nor was it

only in her views that Stara had changed, for gone too were her

brilliancy, her cynicism, the unlikeness to other women that had so

fascinated him on board the _Dunrobin Castle_. He was now the cynic;

she the believer, bitterly resentful of sneers at domesticity and

marital fidelity.

As the days wore on, the monotony began to pall, the long rides to lose

their charm, for, lover of the veldt though Hector was, solitude was

also essential to his enjoyment of it. Silence and freedom to think

undisturbed were what he craved, not talk of trifles, which only

passion's glamour could render interesting. But Stara saw nothing of

this, for she was blind, as she had said she would be blind, and when he

was lying dreaming of future greatness she would irritate him with

gentle caresses, asking him if he was thinking of her; and, starting, he

would answer "Yes," and fall to silence once more.

The varnish, too, of normality, so laboriously laid on him by Stara,

began to wear off; sleeplessness returned, and his real nature

reasserted itself. Through the long night hours he would lie thinking,

strange, monstrous thoughts, gradually weaving themselves into a fabric

upon which he saw himself depicted as great as those others were great,

and, like them, solitary in their greatness, for she whom he loved was

dead. Stara had left him, and yet in some dim way stood near, a radiant

vision, beloved as never on earth, guiding him on his lonely way. In a

rapture of adoration he would be there talking to her, telling her of

his undying love, till, torn with remorse for his cruelty and neglect to

her when living, his eyes would fill and ecstatic grief wring his heart.

And when the day came, Stara would greet him, her eyes dark with a love

to which his own felt no response.

Nevertheless, strangely enough, in his dreams there was never a sign of

Ruby, for she lay buried in his heart; the other only lived as a fantasy

of fevered imagination. At last the day came when he knew he must return

to a man's life once more, leaving her, the living and neglected, to

dream of her dead and beloved, and of this necessity he told her one

morning as they lay in the shadow of a lonely kopje.

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

regiment wants me back."

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

scared.

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

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

"Why?"

"Why? ... Because it's my life, Stara. I can't remain on leave, idling

here for ever. Remember, I've got a name to make, and as yet I've not

begun."

"You're a Colonel, isn't that enough, why do you want to make a name for

yourself, Hector, aren't you happy here?"

"Of course I am, but----"

"Hector dear, I've been thinking a lot lately, thinking that perhaps the

ambition we used to talk such a lot of is nothing, after all. I am sure

now there is only one thing in the world that matters--love; that's

real, the other's only a dream."

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

Talk of inconsistency!"

"I know, but you mustn't expect a woman to be consistent. Besides, I

wasn't in love then, but now I am, and can see things clearer. Oh, I am

ashamed when I think of the nonsense I used to talk. Dear, I don't ask

it, but couldn't you, wouldn't you like to give it up and be with me

always?"

"Stara ... you don't mean? You ... can't. Oh, God, there seems to be a

curse on me," and Hector flung himself face downwards on the grass.

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

hurriedly:

"No, no, you need not fear. I was only thinking, you being so happy

here with me, that perhaps you had for gotten your ambitions."

"I? Never, they're part of me. Oh, thank God, but you know, Stara, I'd

have done it, don't you? I'll keep faith with you."

For a fraction of a second Stara hesitated, but, before she could speak,

Hector went on, and the chance was gone:

"You see, Stara, I must go back; they'll be finding out things if I

don't--fellows are so infernally inquisitive--and then your brother

might come to hear. By the way, he's no idea, I suppose?"

"None whatever. I told him what you said, about being here on leave

when you're supposed to be in England, and that if they knew there'd be

trouble. Dick won't say a word."

"And Polly?"

"She knows, of course, that we love each other, Hector, any woman could

see that. She's never told Dick though. I asked her not to, but,

Hector, she's always asking me things, why we ... don't..."

"What did you tell her?"

"Oh, some lie, but she didn't believe it. Hector, do you know, I think

if she knew the truth, and we were to go away together, she'd stand by

us two."

"Why are you always harping on this, Stara? I've told you the thing's

practically impossible, though of course I'd do it, if anything

happened. Why, do you know what I have to live on now that I've given

up my income to her? Fool that I was! Two hundred a year besides my

pay, and the last would stop once I leave, bar L120 a year."

"I don't think I should mind, Hector. I'm a good housekeeper, and we

should have each other, which is everything, and perhaps in time your

wife might relent, and we could marry."

"Damn her relenting, Stara; don't dream of it. I wouldn't do it for

your sake, as much as mine. Oh, why can't you be satisfied, we are

everything to each other now, and--and it's possible that if we were

tied like that, you--I shouldn't--might tire, it's the freedom, don't

you think, that makes love lasting?"

"No, I don't, I hate those ideas. They're wicked and unnatural. It's

the advocates of immorality who start such theories."

"I'm not so sure, but about going, I should like to leave to-morrow, if

it could be managed. I can easily get leave later, you know, and come

back again."

"When?"

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

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

parting."

"It's only for a time, Stara, and, as I'm going, I think we ought to

return home now. I've my packing to do, and the train leaves early

to-morrow morning."

"I'll do your packing; I should love to. My brother shan't see, and

Polly won't mind, I know. Come, as we must," and together they rode

home, Graeme for once talkative, but Stara silent.

* * * * *

Next morning, before the sun had risen, the woman's dream had come to an

end, and Hector was on his way back to a man's life once more. Within a

mile of the station, at the top of the rise, where Stara had first seen

his coming, the boy pulled up his mules, and pointed backward with his

whip at a speck on the road behind them, rapidly growing larger.

"Missy Star," he said.

"We'll lose the train," muttered Hector, but the boy, ignoring the hint,

refused to move till the flying figure had caught them up.

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

Graeme, with one glance at the station ahead, climbed down and went over

to where she was waiting, the pony's flanks heaving with distress.

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

... train."

Stara was silent, struggling with difficult words.

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

"Hector, I--I, oh, I can't, I can't. I'll write. Good-bye, my own

dearest," and Stara, wheeling sharply about, galloped away whence she

came.

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

his heart.

*CHAPTER XIX*

"Number One and All's Well."

The cry of the night sentry wailed through the silent barracks, which no

longer looked bare and unlovely as when seen in the glaring African sun,

but had been transformed by the moonlight into a city of silver walls

and roofs of lotus pink.

"Number Two and All's Well," came in instant response, and then there

was a pause.

"Number Two and All's Well," rang out once more, this time with the full

power of lusty lungs, in the generous hope of arousing Number Three,

happily dreaming in his nest of hay. In vain, however, though Four and

Five, alive to the emergency, took up the call right quickly Number

Three did not answer, and the omission was at once noticed by

experienced ears.

The guard-room door opened hurriedly, and an irate corporal, bearing a

lantern, emerged, followed by two men. The recumbent form of Number

Three was found, and, after being rudely awakened, was borne straightway

to durance vile, there to finish his slumbers. A door banged, a key

grated in the lock, and then there was silence once more. This was

broken now and again by a sudden savage squeal from the stables, the

sharp thudding of hoofs against wood and iron, and the angry growl of a

sentry.

In Number One block, Officers' Quarters, a light was seen to flicker,

disappear, and then shine steadily; a door opened, and a figure,

gorgeous in dressing-gown of yellow silk and fur, came out on to the

verandah, and, leaning his arms on the rail, stood looking out over the

sleeping barracks.

"Lucky devil, Number Three, whoever you are," he muttered; "it's cells

for you to-morrow, right enough, but you're a lucky devil, all the same.

You can sleep, you're not racked and harried like me. You thank God for

your brainlessness, my friend; if I'd been born like that, I too should

now be able to sleep. Yet you have your troubles too, I suppose, as

great to you as mine are to me--one hundred and sixty-eight hours'

absence from the canteen, that will be one of them. Oh, but I'd do your

one hundred and sixty-eight cheerfully, stone-breaking, shot-lifting, or

whatever amusement the prison warder provides, to have your peace of

mind.

"Half-past three," as a sharp ting came from the room behind him; "four

hours before Murphy comes to call me, four hours of thinking, trying to

find some hole in the net I have thrown over myself, a hole which

doesn't exist. I could tear it, and break through it that way, but that

I will not do; I gave her my word, love-struck fool that I was, and

there's enough on my soul now without adding perjury to the rest. And

yet to do it is ... hell! I'd sooner shoot myself, infinitely rather,

for that would only destroy the carcase, the other means soul damnation.

And coming, as it does, now, now that war is almost certain, and my

chance staring at me at last, oh, it's too wicked, too cruel."

He clenched his hands and paced restlessly up and down the wooden

verandah. "My own fault too, all my own fault. I clamoured for

freedom, and I got it, only to bind himself hard and fast again. I was

better off with Lucy, for she expected little, but Stara wants

everything, my whole life. And she'll have it too, there's no escape,

and by to-morrow night the wire will have gone, and my career be

finished. The regiment will go to war, and I shall not be with them. I

shall be a retired officer, living on my pension in some damned French

watering-place. I shall read of the war, of Porky getting a D.S.O.,

Royle a C.B. Oh, God! God! surely there must be some way out, if I

could but find it. I'll get that letter again and read."

He turned and walked slowly back to his room, which was now in darkness,

for the candle had burnt down and gone out. The open doorway gaped a

black hole before him; he hesitated, in sudden terror of the dark.

Then, feeling in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he produced some

matches, and, striking one, hurried into the room, where he snatched up

a letter lying beside the bed, and rushed out again, glancing fearfully

over his shoulder.

"There are ghosts in there," he muttered. "I've felt them about me

before, but never like to-night; not for a thousand pounds would I go

back again. Here I stay till dawn."

He opened the crumpled letter, and, laying it on the rail, read it by

the light of the moon, or rather imagined he was reading it, for he knew

every word of the letter he now repeated by heart.

"'My brother has found out at last, someone at home ... last mail. He

is furious, Hector, I have never seen him like it before, and he says I

must either swear never to see you again--as if I should!--or leave here

at once for ever. That I don't mind; not for fifty thousand brothers

would I give you up, and would go away and earn my living somehow, but,

Hector, I can't, not now, for _it_ has happened. I meant to tell you

that last morning three weeks ago, that's what I rode after you for, but

something in your face stopped me; it was so hard and unsympathetic, not

like my Hector at all. Darling, please don't say you're sorry. I'm not,

not a bit, I shall love it, for it is yours, but I must, dearest, I have

no choice, I must ask you to keep your promise and take me away. Is it

such a sacrifice, Hector? God knows I hate asking it of you, but perhaps

it is for the best after all, our life in the future will not be the lie

it is now. And I will make you happy. I will try to prevent your

regretting. Oh, think of it, darling, always together, you and I and

... her, for that I know you would like best. Don't worry about me, I

know you will, but you needn't, only send me a wire in answer to this,

just the one word "Yes," and let me have it by Thursday evening.'"

"And to-day is Thursday," he muttered. Then followed a carefully-erased

sentence, which, nevertheless, had been made out by Hector, as such

sentences, no matter at what toil, always are made out: "If not by then

I shall know, and settle things in my own way."

Hector flung the letter down on the boards beside him, and crushed it

under his foot.

"Is it a sacrifice?" he jeered. "Oh no, no sacrifice at all; and you

pretend to understand me, and think I'm a man to be satisfied with the

life you propose. No; if I do it--and do it I must, I suppose--it will

be hell for both of us. I'll probably kill you in the end, and myself

too. That will be the finish of our heaven, Stara, a heaven green with

absinth, most likely, that's the French remedy, I believe, for despair."

Once more he took up the letter, and studied the sentence erased. "'If

not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way,'" he

repeated, and then his eyes darkened with anger. "A threat," he

muttered, "to show me up, I suppose, write to the Colonel, like forsaken

sweethearts do about their soldier-lovers. Do it then, by all means.

God! but you make me laugh, Stara," and he laughed harshly at the

thought.

"No, I'm wrong, though," he went on after a pause; "you don't mean that,

I know, but what in the devil's name, then, _do_ you mean? Nothing, I

suppose, put it in to add emphasis, and scratched it out on reflection.

Four o'clock, another half-hour of Thursday gone, and still no nearer

solution. Well, I may as well get it over, as it's got to be, and, by

heaven, yes, there's just one chance--they may not accept my papers now

war's only a question of days. It's a toss-up, let Fate decide; if I'm

to be great, nothing can stop me; if a derelict, then that I shall be

whatever I do. I'll write that wire out now, and give it to Murphy to

take when he calls me; it's light now, and the ghosts are gone."

He entered the room, grey and unreal-looking in the approaching dawn,

and taking up a telegraph-form from the writing-table sat down and

wrote: "Yes--Hector."

For a moment he sat staring at the words, with a peculiar smile on his

face. "Good-bye, Hector Graeme, conqueror of worlds," he murmured.

"Westminster Abbey is not for you, my friend; it's in Boulogne Cemetery

your bones will rot, an example of what woman's love can do for a man."

Then a fit of despair came over him. He rose, and hurrying from the

room, stood once more on the verandah, with his eyes fixed on the dark

blur of mountains appearing dimly through the grey. "Come down, come

down, you black devils yonder," he prayed; "begin your throat-cutting

to-day, and I'll bless you for it. It's only a few hours I've got--for

the love of God, come down!"

For a while he remained watching. Then suddenly a great drowsiness came

over him: he swayed drunkenly, and, staggering back to his room, fell

heavily on the bed and slept.

* * * * *

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

would you like the 'orse?"

"And why the devil shouldn't I drink the stuff if I want to? It's all

I've got ... eh ... er? Oh, Murphy, thank God!"

"What time would you like the 'orse, sir? Field day at nine, sir.

Rondyvoo, Grobler's Farm, two miles from 'ere, sir."

Graeme sat up and drank the tea at a gulp.

"Horse at half-past eight, and ... take that telegram there to the

post-office. You can ride the second charger; and don't gallop him

along the road as you always do, you'll have him down if you do. Bath

ready? Right--get out," and Hector dragged himself wearily out of bed,

and proceeded to dress for the coming field day. "My last show this," he

muttered, buckling on his belt, "and I'll make the most of it. I'll

astonish them all to-day, make Bumps open his eyes, the insolent,

ignorant fool. Murphy taken that wire? Yes, it's gone; no hope now.

Only hope he won't show it about, though it wouldn't matter much if he

did, their thick heads wouldn't make anything out of it. Murphy's no

Sherlock Holmes, thank heaven; he's an unobservant beggar too, don't

suppose he's a thought in his head besides his dinner and beer. Hallo,

half-past eight, I must get on." He went out, mounted his waiting

charger, and followed by his orderly and trumpeter, set off at a canter

for Grobler's Farm.

Murphy, from the verandah of the servants' quarters, watched him go, and

then returned to his perusal of the telegram, a rather worried look on

his unmeaning countenance.

"Can't make nothing of it," he muttered. "'Yes,' he says, but 'Yes,'

what? Now, wot's 'Ector up to, I wonder? I don't like it--I don't, Pen,

straight," to Penrose, Ferrers' servant, who was polishing a sword

scabbard close by.

"What's up, Mickey?" said the latter; "bloke turned nasty about yer bill

or wot? You take my tip and tell him, as 'e don't seem to 'ave no

confidence in you, you prefer to return to yer dooty at once. It's what

I does with Ferrers when 'e gits uppish, and I never 'as no further

trouble. ''Course I trusts you, Penrose,' 'e says. 'I was a bit 'asty,

perhaps; we'll say no more abaat it.' And 'Very good, sir,' I says,

'uffy like, and goes off to the Orfcers' Mess for a drink, which I puts

down to 'im."

"'Ector never says nothing about 'is bills," answered Murphy, still

worried; "'e ain't got no cause. This ere's a tallygram to 'is girl

Stara, and I can't make it out, that's all. You see, Pen, when a

bloke's dotty about a girl, there's no saying wot kind of foolishness

'e'll be up to. She's a good-looking girl, I'll say that for her,"

continued the unobservant one, thoughtfully. "'Ere's 'er photograph,"

taking a card from his breast pocket and handing it to Penrose, who,

regarding it, said "Yum." "But good-looking or not, she ain't going to

put the bloke wrong, and that's all abaat it."

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

"I don't know, Pen, and it's that wot's worrying me. There's 'er last

letter I ain't been able to git 'old of, and there's something in that

letter wot's troubling 'Ector. You see, I knows 'im, and I'll eat my

'orse if so be 'Ector ain't going to do something wot 'e ought not.

It's all in this tallygram 'ere, I knows, if I could only get at it."

"Ain't your bloke married, Mickey?" said another servant, for a moment

stopping hissing at a boot and holding it up for contemplation, his hand

acting as boot tree, "Wot's 'e done with 'is own lawful box of bricks?"

"I dunno, Simmy, and that's a fact," answered Murphy; "'e ain't 'ad no

letter from Lucy since 'e come back. It's my belief she's needled and

given 'im the bag--she would do straight if she saw them letters of

Stara's. 'Strewth, them letters!" he added reflectively.

"What's in the letters, Mickey?"

"Never you mind, Simmy; that ain't no business of yours. A bloke's

letters is 'is own, 'is servant's different, of course."

"'E's a rum 'un, is 'Ector," said Penrose. "Did you blokes 'ear of the

turn up between 'im and Tim Molloy yesterday? Tim was up before him for

using disrespectful langwidge to the room corporal, and 'Ector was a

dressing of 'im down--'e can throw it abaat too can 'Ector--when Tim

loses 'is 'air, and ups and tells 'im 'e wouldn't talk to 'im like that

if so be 'e weren't an orfcer and 'im a private. And 'Ector 'e larfs and

stops the Sergeant-Major wot was calling for a file to take Tim to the

guard-room. 'Ho, wouldn't I?' 'e says, like that, and 'im and Tim goes

orf together to the sick lines, when 'e orfs with 'is coat and the two

of 'em go at it, the Sergeant-Major keeping the time; and 'Ector 'as Tim

outed in the second round! Larf fit to bust theirselves did the

squadron win they sees Molloy's eye and 'Ector's ear."

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

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

stinking?"

"An' the lifting of them cabbages off Botha's farm to teach the men

scoutin'? 'See without being seen,' 'e says, as 'e pulls 'em up. Ho!

ho!"

"Botha was a Dutchman, an' 'ostile to the English," answered Murphy,

"and as such 'is cabbages was liable to be pinched. But I ain't goin'

to stop 'ere jawing no longer. 'Send this tallygram at once,' the bloke

says, 'if not sooner,' 'e says. 'Ere Tomkins," to Graeme's second

servant, who was sitting on a iron bed-cot nursing a cat, "nip up to the

stable and fetch the chestnut 'orse, while I change my costoom," and

thereupon Murphy retired to his room, where he proceeded to transform

himself into as near a representation of his master as the state of his

wardrobe allowed.

Having oiled his hair and fastened his collar with an imitation gold

safety-pin, he mounted the horse and rode away on his mission. He

proceeded at a walking pace till he was well clear of the barracks, but

on reaching the hard high road he shook the old horse up, and at a good

sharp gallop made his way to the telegraph office.

Hector, meanwhile, was rapidly nearing the place of rendezvous. On the

way he overtook Graves--now Adjutant of the 1st Lancers--also bound for

Grobler's Farm.

"Morning, Colonel," he said, touching his helmet. "Heard the news? It's

all up with the war, Mahongas have caved in. Rotten, ain't it?" A

curse was the only answer, and Graeme rode on, disregarding his brother

officer's "Hold hard, I'm coming too; there's plenty of time. Surly

beggar you are," continued Graves, looking after him, "but you're up

against it this time all right. I'd have warned you too, if you'd been

civil, for I've a pretty good notion what to-day's 'scheme' is, after

what Johnson let out last night. Deuced unfair one it is too, got up by

Bumps solely to floor Graeme; Johnson owned as much. Well, if he is

floored, so much, the better; take him down a peg," and, somewhat

consoled, Graves cantered on. Turning off the path, he made his way

across the veldt to where a dark mass of men and horses could be seen,

assembled for what General Rivers was pleased to call "Instructive Field

Operations."

*CHAPTER XX*

Major-General Rivers, C.B.--better known as Bumps, from his seat on a

horse--was fond of describing himself as "a soldier of the old school."

"I'm a practical man, sir," he was wont to declare, "hard knocks and

plenty of 'em for me; that's the way we won our battles in the past--and

we'll do again in the future, mark my words--not by poring over books

and mugging away at map reading."

This prophecy of the gallant General may or may not have been correct;

his liking for hard knocks also was doubtless genuine, though

unfortunately it had never been put to the test, actual fighting not

having come Bumps's way, but the theory is certainly a convenient one

for those who possess neither the ability nor inclination for study. He

relied on himself solely; his views on warfare were his own and borrowed

from no man, and though at times they were somewhat at variance with

those of accepted authorities on the Art of War, who shall say that

Bumps was not right when he declared that the opinions of Napoleon,

Wellington, and others were as obsolete as the uniforms they wore?

One thing was very certain, however, and that was that Rivers would

tolerate no opposition, nor allow his infallibility to be questioned.

Some generals there were, he knew, who prefaced their remarks by "My

opinion is." Not so Bumps; he despised such a concession as weakness;

his criticisms on military operations were no expressions of opinion,

but statements of facts, and, with this conviction in his mind, no one

was so scathing in condemnation of, or sarcastic in comments on, what he

believed to be mistakes in strategy or tactics as Bumps. Indeed, he was

an excellent instance of the truth of the saying that, whereas few men

think, all will have opinions.

Further, like most general officers whose service has been passed almost

exclusively with infantry, he held especially strong views on the

subject of cavalry. Engineers and artillery he left alone, they could

floor him with abstruse details concerning cubic contents and

breech-blocks, but with the mounted arm there were no such annoying

technicalities. He knew all about them, he considered, and indeed it

was a cherished article of faith with him that, had not Fate ordained

his march through life to be in large square-toed boots instead of a

seat in a saddle, his career would have been that of a Seidlitz or

Murat--that is to say, if he had ever heard of these warriors, which

unfortunately he had not.

For Hector Graeme, as has before been mentioned, General Rivers had a

particular aversion, not that he admitted this, for hatred means

equality, and never would he have allowed the existence of such between

himself and a junior. Nevertheless, hate him he did, with that virulent

form of hatred a man bestows on one to whom, though superior in rank, he

is inferior in the very qualifications of which that rank is the sign

manual.

Graeme was his subordinate, and, as such, theoretically bound to accept

his dictum and teaching on matters military, while practically, as he

well knew, Graeme did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary treated

his lessons with an almost open contempt, never missing an opportunity

of showing up his instructor and exposing his absurdities to all

present; indeed, an argument between the two was productive of much

innocent enjoyment to seniors and juniors, with the one exception of

Graeme's colonel, Royle, to whom such moments were full of heart-felt

anguish.

To-day, however, a supreme effort had been made by Bumps to crush once

and for always this insolent questioner of his infallibility, and it was

with a glow of anticipatory triumph in his heart, revealed by the

twinkle in his small grey eyes, that he now beheld Hector's arrival on

the scene.

He returned his salute graciously, and said "Morning, Graeme," a

civility awakening instant suspicion in Hector's mind and a muttered

"What's Napoleon up to now, I wonder, and what the deuce is the matter

with Royle? He looks half dead with funk."

"A little late," continued the General; "almost time to start. All your

force is waiting for you to lead them to--victory."

"All, sir?" answered Graeme, looking round. "I don't see the infantry.

There are the guns, a section (two) of them, and the cavalry, three

squadrons. Those waggons, too, are meant to represent a convoy, I

suppose, but no sign of the 'feet.' Am I to take on eight hundred

infantry"--there was only that number, as Graeme was naturally aware, in

the station--"with three squadrons, two hundred and eighty men in all?"

and Hector laughed, a suspicion of the plot dawning upon him. He was to

be given an impossible task, was he? Right, then; so much the greater

score when he won, as he certainly would.

"You'll know all about it in good time, I've no doubt, Colonel Graeme,"

answered the other; "but you ought not to think of odds, you know. Dear

me, a cavalry officer frightened of infantry--this is something new."

"Not at all, sir. I only wanted to know what was against me. A

somewhat usual knowledge, I believe, for a commander to possess."

"The General has just told you, Graeme," put in Royle hastily, "that

you'll know all about it in good time. Why can't you wait till them?"

Royle was not quite at his best this morning. Always frightened of a

General, he was especially terrified of Bumps; and though ordinarily he

had confidence enough in Hector--indeed, he sought his advice on all

regimental questions--since seeing the scheme[#] his nerve had left him.

Graeme would certainly be defeated, he felt, and on him would fall the

blame; for, as he was responsible for the training of his officers,

their downfall meant his own.

[#] A printed paper, given to each opposing leader, though naturally

differing in each case. On these papers is described an imaginary

military situation, followed by the task to be carried out, the actual

execution of this being, of course, left to the respective commanders.

Official censure was the one thing most dreaded by Royle, and, though he

had escaped it so far, the catastrophe was in sight at last. The sword

hung but by a hair, that hair being Graeme's ability to placate; and

now, in sheer sport, it seemed that person was making the blade to dance

over his head, till the hair must undoubtedly snap in a moment.

He looked imploringly at Graeme as he spoke, and was conscious of a

faint sensation of relief, for his subordinate's face was confident as

ever. Why could he not feel the same?

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Hector; "I have no wish to be unduly

curious. One thing, however, I should like to ask, if I may, who's

commanding the opposite side?"

"Certainly you may know that, Graeme," said Bumps, watching him; "it's

Colonel Wicklow." And once more Hector laughed, for his opponent was a

Staff College graduate, and reputed one of the smartest officers at that

time in South Africa.

"Thank you, sir," he replied; "I'm much obliged to you for giving me a

chance of defeating such a distinguished officer."

"I hope you may," snapped the General; "but it's time you saw the

scheme; here it is," drawing a long blue envelope from his pocket and

handing it to Graeme, at the same time again closely watching him, the

twinkle deepening in his eyes.

Hector, however, did not open it there, but walked some hundred yards

away, where he seated himself behind a large boulder. He then took out

his case, lighted a cigarette, and, having removed his helmet so that

the sun beat full on his face, leisurely proceeded to open the envelope.

"As I thought," he muttered; "the plot at last revealed; he's got it up

for me this time and no mistake. But no matter; there must be some way

out, and I'll find it."

He stretched himself flat on the ground, the cigarette between his

teeth, and, closing his eyes, passed into semi-unconsciousness. A voice

began to whisper in his ear.

The following was the scheme. Hector's force, composed of the 1st

Lancers and two guns, was directed to escort a convoy of waggons to

Tafelberg Farm, a distance of about six miles. Between him and his

destination lay a high rugged ridge, the only openings in which were two

narrow passes two miles apart, and by now assuredly guarded by Colonel

Wicklow with his eight hundred infantrymen. Other way round there was

none, save by a detour of some fifteen miles, and, even if the distance

had not made such a turning movement prohibitive, the country on that

side had been carefully marked "out of bounds."

The ridge itself Hector knew well, knew also that, save by the two

passes, neither waggons nor even horses could hope to cross throughout

its length; for many times on his solitary rides he had made the attempt

on his Basuto pony, but had always been forced to desist. Only on hands

and knees could a man scale those rocky sides, and even then the task

was difficult, more particularly about midway between the two passes,

where the ridge reached its highest point and was well-nigh precipitous.

This, then, was his task: the crossing of a mountain barrier, impassable

for waggons and mounted troops--of which his force was composed--the two

gates being guarded and held by infantry. Truly, General Rivers had

been successful in his object.

Suddenly Hector stirred, sat up, and gazed for a moment vacantly around

him; then, springing to his feet, stood rocking dizzily. Slowly the

mists cleared from before his eyes, and they lit up; a flame of red

appeared in his cheeks: his knees ceased from trembling, and he was

awake--with the solution of the problem clear before him.

Taking out his glasses, he carefully scrutinised the distant ridge, each

stone of which could be seen through the powerful Zeiss. He noted the

figures of men lining the rocks at the sides of the passes, and then

lowering the glasses, remained motionless, thinking rapidly.

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

"That's the first thing," he muttered, "remove him from command of the

cavalry"--this position, being next senior to himself, Porky was now

occupying, Royle being detailed as umpire, and he in command of the

side--"He'll sell me to a certainty if I don't."

"Kinley," he called again, no answer to his first summons being

forthcoming, and at length after some minutes' waiting, Kinley having

had to be aroused from his slumbers, that person appeared, rubbing his

eyes.

"Well, old chap," he said yawning, "bit of a teaser this, eh? Johnson's

just told me about it, but never mind, I've got an idea; tell you what

it is if you like."

"Thank you, Porky, I should; can't make head or tail of it myself. You

ride with me and we'll talk it over together."

"Right-o--glad to escape the dust. But what about the bloomin'

regiment? I'm in command, you know."

"Hand it over to Graves, we'll send him on ahead while you and I sit

with the guns and watch. Ask him to come here, will you--the rest as

well."

Porky departed, returning some few minutes later followed by the other

officers of Graeme's army. These proceeded to range themselves in a

half circle before their leader, their faces showing varying degrees of

interest; for, though to the majority field days had long since lost

their charm, there was always a chance of something sensational

happening when under their present commander, not to mention the

practical certainty of a row between him and Bumps.

Nor were their expectations disappointed to-day, for of the many mad

schemes in which, under his leadership, they had previously

participated, the one now propounded surpassed them all in sheer lunacy,

and their faces grew bright with interest as they listened to the plan

laid before them.

"Here's the game, gentlemen," he began, "we've got to get that lot of

carts to Tafelberg Farm. Between us and it lies an impassable ridge,

only two openings, both held, as you'll see if you look, by infantry and

guns. No way through--or so thinks Bumps." Here Graeme paused to allow

the impossibility of the task to sink into his hearers' minds; for this

was his way, to make out that a thing was impossible and then to show

his audience how easy it really was for him. It was a touch of

theatrical display in which he, like some other and more distinguished

commanders, delighted.

"He's out as usual, though, is Bumps," he continued; "for the convoys

are going through all right and will be at the farm in three hours from

now. Against me is that most distinguished officer Colonel Wicklow,

who, as you know, is a Staff College graduate. Now, at that abode of

learning they read books, and those books teach them that the way to

defend a ridge is not to spread troops all along it, but to hold the

passes strongly, and keep one or two reserves somewhere in rear, ready

to come up to the threatened point. That, gentlemen, is what my

opponent is now doing, and on his so doing I make my plan.

"Here it is. The cavalry under you, Graves--Porky remains to advise

me--will start off and head straight for the western opening. Then,

when they begin to shoot, and Wicklow's reserves have started to

reinforce that point, as they will, thinking we're going to rush the

pass, you'll turn half right and go, hard as God will let you, for the

centre of the ridge, that peak there. At its foot you'll dismount,

swarm up it, there'll be nothing but a picket on top--the reserve by

that time will be a mile away--and having settled them, work along the

ridge to the left, and come down on the western opening from above, and

knock that lot out too. Then Jehu," pointing to the transport officer,

"and I will bring on the carts and run them through and away to

Tafelberg Farm. The guns will bang away as soon as the cavalry starts

from here, their target the western opening. That's to keep up the

delusion of attacking them. Now, you've got it. Get away and be off."

All but Porky saluted and hurried away. "Stand to your horses!" was

shouted, and, at the sound, sleeping figures rose up from the ground and

busied themselves with bridle and loosened girth. "Mount!" was called

once more, followed by "Walk march!" and then suddenly "Halt!" from many

voices, and the clattering mass came to a standstill.

"What the devil are they halting for?" said Graeme. "Go and see, Porky,

tell them to shove on. Oh Lord, if it ain't that old idiot who's

stopped them! Here's Johnson coming too," as Bumps's A.D.C. came

hurrying up. "What is it, Johnson?"

"The General's compliments, sir, and Major Kinley's to command the

cavalry," was the answer.

Graeme uttered an oath, and consternation was displayed on Porky's face,

for here was a bombshell indeed. The latter, as usual, was the first to

speak.

"Look here, old chap, I'm not for this at all. Taking on mountains with

cavalry! Ain't goats, you know."

"What the hell do you mean, you fool? You never said a word just now

when you heard the scheme."

"I know I didn't; but then, you see, I wasn't responsible--but Graves.

It's another pair of shoes now. If it comes off, all very well; but if

it don't, it's me who gets damned, not him. You know what Bumps is

about cavalry."

"Oh, go to blazes! I don't act to Bumps nor anyone else. Get away to

your squadron, and don't talk."

"For heaven's sake come with us, then. You see, Graeme, if you're

there, you get the damning, as is only right. It's your scheme."

"Of course I'm coming. D'you think I'd let a turnip-headed ... Oh, come

on. Trumpeter, my horse," and Graeme mounted and was hurrying away,

when again Johnson was seen approaching.

"The General's compliments, sir," he said, "and he wishes you to stay

with him. The cavalry under Major Kinley is to go on at once and..."

And then the A.D.C. stopped astonished, his ears listening to a flow of

language such as struck his simple soul with genuine admiration.

"You can tell your something something General," he concluded, "to draw

his something something face on a something something blackboard and

take a something something sponge and spit on it and----"

"Will you obey orders, sir," interrupted a quavering voice, and Royle

rode up beside him. "For God's sake," reverting to pleading, as he

caught Graeme's eye, "for all our sakes, don't put the General's back

up."

Hector glared at him for a moment; his mouth opened and then shut with a

snap.

"Very well," he said, "I'll come. Only don't blame me for what's going

to happen; or rather do, if you like, I don't care," and thereupon he

dismounted, and, handing his horse over to the trumpeter, walked away to

where Bumps was sitting.

"Now, Colonel Graeme," said the latter affably, "we want to hear your

plans; but first, I must tell you, you were wrong in proposing to lead

the cavalry. As commander of a mixed force, your place is with the

guns. You've told Major Kinley, I presume, what you meant to do?"

"I've tried to."

"Tried to, what do you mean? Either you have or have not, which is it?"

"I repeat, I've tried to; but my plan requires me in person to lead."

"By that you mean, I suppose, a field officer in your regiment is

incapable? What do you say to that, Colonel Royle?"

"I don't know what Graeme means, sir, I'm sure, Major Kinley's a most

excellent officer," answered Royle, who but yesterday had lamented

Porky's total want of intelligence to Hector himself.

"I confess that is also my opinion," said Bumps, "he's an officer, with

ideas, too, is Kinley, and what's more is both modest and unassuming.

Always ready to learn, doesn't think he knows better than his superiors.

But about your plans, what are they, Graeme?"

"To attack that ridge where it's highest," answered Hector.

"Really, and how, may I ask, charge it with cavalry?"

"That's my idea."

"Graeme, you don't, you can't mean that," from Royle. "Sir," turning to

the smiling Bumps, "I can assure you this is directly contrary to my

teaching."

"And mine too, Colonel."

"I meant yours, sir. Why, it was only the other day, after your last

lecture on cavalry, that I had all my officers up, and impressed upon

them how right you were when you said--said----" Here Royle was brought

to a standstill, memory failing him.

"Say no more, Colonel, I believe you; but there are some people too

clever to learn. Ah, they're off! Sit down here, Graeme, and watch. I

think, possibly, in the next few minutes you may learn something, or the

experience of forty-five years goes for nothing."

"A mule that had been through all the wars of Frederick still remained a

mule," muttered Graeme, and, sitting down, lighted a cigarette and

closed his eyes.

That disaster was imminent he knew well, but now cared nothing. Let

Bumps have his silly triumph if he liked. His own plan had been right,

of that he was intuitively certain, and that was all that mattered to

him; it would fail, of course, as it was, but that was to be expected,

Porky being in charge.

Sitting there, he could foretell, knowing that officer, what was in his

mind as he rode along, almost to the words he was now uttering to Graves

galloping beside him.

"Hanged if I get a telling off," he was saying, "for Graeme or anyone

else; my plan's much sounder, and will pull him through, and then he'll

be glad he didn't run his own rotten scheme. Look ye, Graves, we'll

make for the centre of the ridge now, straight away, that'll entice

those blokes away from the pass, and then we'll turn and be through it

like winking. It's the same as his plan, only the other way round."

In vain did Graves, who possessed intelligence, protest. Porky was firm,

and carried out his scheme, or rather the first part of it, for in the

last he was not so successful.

On they headed for the ridge, Wicklow watching them through his glasses

as they came, and for a moment doubt arose in his mind, soon quelled,

however, for his Staff College teaching told him that cavalry do not

attempt the crossing of precipitous mountains. "It's a transparent

ruse," he reflected, "to draw me away from the passes, their only hope,"

and he called up his reserves till each entrance was guarded by close on

four hundred men.

A cry arose of "Here they are!" Cartridges rattled in breech-blocks,

and Wicklow's heart was joyful within him, when, a cloud of dust

preceding them, a straggling mass of horsemen burst upon them. The

storm broke, but on they came, for Porky was valiant and by now

reckless, till at last, with guns thudding in their faces and withering

fire from Maxim and rifle pouring in upon them, even he became convinced

of the futility of further advance, and halted his cursing, sulky-faced

regiment in the centre of the pass. A loud shout of laughter greeted

them from the infantrymen looking down from the rocks on either side.

"We're in for it, Graves," he calmly observed, "but a damning is no new

thing to me." Then Porky proceeded to light his pipe, and, seating

himself on a stone beside the path, waited for the wrath to come.

"A pretty piece of business," said the General, as he lumbered across

the veldt towards the scene of disaster, "very pretty indeed! Oh for

heaven's sake keep up beside me, Colonel Royle, and stop talking to

Graeme, you can do that afterwards."

"Yes, sir; very sorry, sir," gasped Royle, rushing his horse up and

cannoning into the General in his haste. "oh, I beg ten thousand

pardons, sir, and you were saying----"

"How the devil can I say anything when you damn near knock me over?

Hold up, confound you!" pulling at his horse's mouth, as the animal

skipped cleverly over the hole of an ant-bear. "Nasty clumsy brute to

give a general officer. Who chose him--you?"[#]

[#] It is usual for the general and his staff, when not bringing their

own horses with them, to be mounted by the cavalry regiment in the

station they are visiting. Amiability is a _sine qua non_ in the

quadrupeds selected for this honour.

"No, sir, Colonel Graeme, sir----"

"Damme," roared the General, "it's always Colonel Graeme, pray, does he

command the 1st Lancers or do you?"

"I do, of course, sir; but Graeme, being the second in command, I

usually leave such matters to him. I thought he was to be relied on,

sir; but after to-day I see----"

"I hope you do, a nice show up for your regiment, to-day's performance.

Now, perhaps, you'll believe what I've always said about this officer."

"Indeed I do, sir, and if you like, sir, there are the Confidential

Reports to go in soon, sir, and----"

"Do your own dirty work, Colonel," snapped the General, who found this

servility even more exasperating than Graeme's insolence. "I should

advise you to remember, however, that you've always cracked the fellow

up till now; made him out a sort of Julius Caesar."

"But, sir, that was before I knew, sir. Now, sir, that my eyes are

opened, thanks to you, I see my mistake, and----"

"Oh, do you? Well, here we are. Sound the officers' call, Trumpeter."

"Gad, but your trumpeters want practice," he snarled, as the man,

infected by the general demoralisation, blew a cracky, discordant blast,

"and look there, see the way your officers are lounging up, like a lot

of ducks shuffling along. For the Lord's sake, go and march 'em here

yourself properly. All present? Hum, yours too, Wicklow? Sit down

there, please, closer, damn it! I don't want to shout."

"Now, gentlemen--when you've finished arguing with Captain Graves, Major

Kinley, thank you--I think we've had a most instructive morning, we've

learnt, or I trust most of you have, how cavalry should ... not be

handled. The scheme, I allow, was perhaps a little too difficult for the

'Blue'[#] commander; but even so, that's no excuse for the insane

performance it has just been our privilege to witness. No attempt at

scouting, no reports sent in, merely a blind, headlong rush to

destruction. May I ask, Colonel Graeme, on what information you acted?

As far as I know, you had not the slightest idea of what was in front of

you."

[#] On field days one side is usually designated the "Blue," the other

the "Red."

"There were two companies of infantry, with two guns, holding either

pass. In rear, four companies in reserve," was the careless answer.

There was a murmur from the officers of Wicklow's force--the diagnosis

was correct.

"Really?" said Bumps. "Stop whispering there, will you! What do you

say to that, Colonel Wicklow?"

"It's correct, sir," he answered, "except that my reserves came up as

soon as the attack developed; they were there in time to repel the

cavalry charge."

"There you are, Graeme; four more companies than you thought. However,

you've paid the penalty of disregarding my own and your Colonel's

teaching, and there's no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to

you in the future to be a little less cocksure. It's a fault which has

brought many a better soldier than you to grief. And now I'll tell you

what you ought to have done. First, you should have sent out patrols

and scouted."

"To find out what I already knew, sir?"

"Kindly refrain from interrupting; besides, you did not know; it has

just been proved. And then, having ascertained the enemy's

dispositions, reported to me that the task was beyond you."

"I understood, sir, we were supposed to be on active service

conditions?" said Graeme.

"So you were, sir, what of it?"

"As far as I know, sir, there are no umpires on active service." At

this remark a stir of anticipation ran through the audience, despite

disaster, Graeme was again not going to fail them.

"Umpires, sir, what do you mean, sir? I'm speaking of the officer who

would be your senior, and to whom, consequently, it would be your duty

to report."

"In which case, being my senior and on the spot, wouldn't he have made

the plan and given the orders?" The stir thereupon developed into

ill-concealed mirth, at sight of which Bumps's foot went down.

"I'm not here to answer foolish questions, Graeme, nor yet to argue;

kindly bear that in mind. I've told you what you ought to have done,

and there's an end of it. One thing more, however, I should like to say,

and that is, I in no way blame Major Kinley, though it's true his action

resulted in disaster. He was given an impossible task, and very rightly

declined to run his head against a mountain ridge, and instead did the

best he could under the circumstances. He showed initiative, at any

rate--the great quality in a cavalry officer--and dash, though, perhaps,

a slight want of judgment. That is all, gentlemen, good-day. You ride

home with me, Colonel Royle; I wish to speak to you." The General rose,

and, mounting his horse, was soon lurching away over the veldt

lunchwards.

Graeme rode back alone, no one showing any inclination to accompany him.

He was down now, and the strong man or animal down is a being whom all

smaller creatures shun; for such is the penalty those who claim

pre-eminence over their fellows have to pay if but for a moment they

fail to support their claim. For though to all living creatures a lord

is essential, nevertheless they hate that lord and the dominion he

imposes, and, once fallen, are on him like wolves on a disabled leader.

Only in the case of hereditary kingship is it different--then it is the

place and not the individual to which they bow.

This came home to Graeme as he rode homewards. Yesterday--this morning

even--his brother officers, though disliking and perhaps fearing him,

would nevertheless have followed his lead and accepted without question

his dictum on military matters; but now, thanks to a mere field day

disaster, or, rather, to the utterance of a Bumps, all this had changed,

and his former unbroken sequence of successes had been obliterated from

their minds.

While he was thus reflecting, the clatter of hoofs sounded on the track

behind him, and Wicklow rode up, stopping for a moment as he passed.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said; "rotten job they gave you this morning, no man

living could have done it. Funny, though, at one time I thought you

were going to pull it off, but I think my reserves might have got there

in time. They hadn't started for the passes when you headed for my

centre. There was only a picket of six men on top, but of course I knew

you wouldn't do an unsound thing like that; besides your horses couldn't

have got over."

"Supposing I'd dismounted and swarmed up, then moved along the ridge and

come down on you from above?"

"Glad you didn't, it's I who'd have had the damning then--not you.

Bye-bye, I'm off to lunch," and Wicklow rode on, leaving Graeme the

bitterer at the knowledge of what ought to have been and had not.

A feeling of despondency came over him, a sense of futility, one of

those black moods to which the self-reliant, and consequently solitary,

are at times prone. What was the good of it all, he asked himself, this

laborious building up of a name, which the slightest mistake of a

subordinate or momentary ill-luck could destroy in a moment. Even

worse, perhaps, was the crass stupidity of those by whom he was

surrounded; their total inability to see matters that to his eyes were

as clear as daylight. He knew there was not one of those officers

present at to-day's operations who had an inkling of the motives that

had prompted him to act as he had done. To them his plan had been a

wild gamble, which with luck might come off, but only with luck; whilst

he had known--even without the confirmation of Wicklow's words--the

success of that plan had been certain, based as it was on his knowledge

of human nature, which never changes and never can change.

Oh, to get away from it all, abandon this thankless profession, and

leave the army to the ruin it courted by the retention in high places of

such as Bumps! Then there suddenly flashed upon him the remembrance of

the telegram that had been despatched in the morning, and till now

forgotten; for in the concentration of purpose usual with him there was

only room for one thought in his mind at a time.

A sigh of relief burst from his lips.

"Thank heaven," he muttered, "I did it; fool that I was to wait so

long." And thereupon, suddenly exhilarated at the thought of speedy

release, he struck spurs to his horse and rode on, until he reached his

quarters, before which a soldier in uniform was standing, awaiting him.

"Hullo, Lobb," said Hector, surprised at the apparition, the man being a

trooper from his own late squadron, "what are you doing here, where's

Murphy?"

"Beggy pardin, sir, Murphy's 'ad a haccident; 'orse come down with 'im

this morning and broke 'is arm, and the Sergeant-Major sent me to do

first servant to you in 'is absence."

"Where is he?" shouted Hector.

"'Oo, Murphy, sir? In 'orspital, sir; they took 'im there strite,

compound fracture, I've 'eard, sir, the bone----" But Hector was

already galloping away to the hospital, with a sudden desperate anxiety

in his mind.

"Murphy, did you send that telegram?" he burst out, rushing up to the

bed upon which the sufferer was lying.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I----"

"Did you send it?"

"No, sir; 'ere it is," and Murphy drew a crumpled sheet of paper from

under the pillow. "Very sorry, sir." But once more Hector was gone,

and five minutes later had reached the telegraph office, where, pushing

aside other applicants for attention, he thrust the paper beneath the

grating.

"When will this reach Duikerpoort?" he demanded.

"Couldn't say," answered the clerk, with the nonchalance that a manly

Colonial independence seems to demand; "perhaps to-night, perhaps

to-morrow morning."

"It must get there to-night, d'you hear?"

"Oh, must it? You're in a hurry, you are! Oh, beg pardon, sir," as

Graeme suddenly appeared behind him, having burst open the door marked

"Private" and entered. "I'll send it off at once; it will be all right,

I think, if the line's not blocked. Good-day, sir."

Hector rode slowly back to barracks, where till nightfall he wandered

about aimlessly, his mind racked with this strange newborn anxiety and

the impotent desire to act.

"Dinner--not going to dinner," he replied to Lobbs's reminder that the

dress trumpet had sounded and the hour of eight was close at hand.

"Bring me a bottle of champagne here; that's all I want. Another

damnable night," he muttered, the meal of liquor consumed, "only nine

now, twelve hours at least before I can get an answer. I think I'll send

for my pony and spend the night on the veldt." He walked to the door,

and as he did so, nine o'clock struck. Then a strange thing happened,

for with the ceasing of the strokes the fever of restlessness suddenly

left him, and in its place he felt perfect peace and calm. For half an

hour longer he remained contentedly resting in his chair, his eyelids

gradually growing heavier, and then sleepily undressing he lay down on

the bed and was almost instantly asleep. Nor through the night hours

did he move, but slept dreamlessly on, till a hot deluge in his face

awoke him to the fact that early morning tea had arrived, and also that

it was Private Lobb, and not the experienced Murphy, who had brought him

that tea.

"Beggy pardin, sir," said the perspiring soldier, rushing for a towel

and proceeding to mop the soaking bedclothes and incidentally Hector's

face, "very sorry, sir; caught my foot; can't think 'ow it happened;

'ere's a tallygram for you, sir," and Lobb fled hastily from the room.

A faint rustle of paper was heard from within and then all was silent

save for the ticking of the clock.

"Lobb."

"Sir?" and in rushed the soldier. Once more he unfortunately "caught

his foot," this time against the water-jug, which breaking at the impact

let out a flood of water over the wooden floor.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I'm sure," began Lobb, in an agony, and then

stopped, for his master was speaking to him, and at the sound of the

voice and look in the eyes of the speaker the disaster was forthwith

forgotten.

"Never mind that now, Lobb, but go at once and tell the Adjutant to come

here, and then fetch a Cape cart. Ten minutes I give you; don't be

longer," and Hector rose from his bed and sat smiling at Lobb, a smile

that sent the latter flying from the room, leaving Hector alone.

Still smiling, he unfolded the paper in his hand and remained curiously

regarding the charcoal-written words: "Stara dead."

*CHAPTER XXI*

The train rocked wearily onward through the fast-gathering darkness.

The purple moorland and rocky gorges of the Great Karoo were gone, and

in their place there were great rolling plains of yellow grass, swelling

hill and misty blue mountain. Onward it crawled, through lines of

ruined blockhouses and crumbling earthworks, relics of bygone strife,

now increasing its pace, till the groan and rattle of cars swelled to a

roar, now slowing down to a crawl as it clanked cautiously over a

girder-bridge spanned river, or pulled up with a jerk at some lonely

veldt siding.

It was a very caterpillar of a train, express though it claimed to be,

and crowded with humanity, black and white, bound for garish, golden

Johannesburg. Nevertheless, packed as were its other dusty

compartments, there was one in which a man sat solitary, his peace

undisturbed by friendly chat and the rustle of turning pages. True,

more than once passengers had entered it, sat there for a while--some

even venturing on conversation with its inmate--but all, after a time

had left, preferring heat and lack of elbow-room elsewhere to space and

the company of one not only unsociable but "strange, most strange."

For many hours now Hector Graeme had been left alone, if alone he were;

for if that were so why did he talk, not as one who speaks to himself,

but to someone with him, someone whose voice he could hear, though all

other ears were deaf to it? And this indeed was the case, for a strange

thing had come to pass, and that other voice, heard for so many years,

yet hitherto impersonal, had since the morning undergone a startling

change, and was now become that of Stara, lying dead some thirty miles

away.

Quite suddenly, too, recognition had come to him, almost simultaneously

with the receipt of the wire telling him of her death. Since then they

had spoken together without ceasing, and, tedious though the long

journey might be to others, to him there had been no tedium, but a wild,

mad happiness and gratitude.

Dead; yes, she was dead, but only her body; for her spirit lived on, and

from now would be with him always, watching over him, guiding him on his

path, as in the dreams he had dreamed. Never would he be in doubt

again, never at a loss as he had been sometimes before; for death had

rent the obstructing veil of flesh, and the soul at last was free to

come to him where and whensoever he should call.

How simple henceforth it would all be. He had only to ask and be told,

for he had already proved that, by much questioning on points to which

he knew the answer, and could have shouted with delight at the accuracy

with which those questions were solved. Only on one point was she dumb,

of her death she refused to speak, and, press as he might, no voice came

back in reply.

Still, he would soon know, very soon now, and together they would stand

looking down on the husk her spirit had left, and he would tell her; for

she would understand, as living she never would have understood, how he

had wearied of that husk and longed for the flesh-obscured soul.

He stretched his cramped limbs, and, rising, went over to the window and

looked out. The train was slackening speed.

"Are we here, Stara?" he asked, and back flashed the answer, "Yes."

"Duikerpoort! Duikerpoort!" a voice was heard calling in the darkness,

and obeying the summons the train stopped for a moment, and then,

creaking and groaning, moved slowly forward once more.

The lighted cars glided by till all had passed; red and green

tail-lights grew smaller and then vanished; the roar died to a murmur

and was stilled. A drowsy porter passed, his lantern swinging as he

went, and then he too was gone, and Hector Graeme stood alone, with the

wide-eyed planets above him and the silent immensity of the African

veldt around.

No one to meet him, thank God; he would have his walk alone. Ten mile

trudge though it was, it did not matter; he was fresh and strong as

never before, and Stara was there to keep him company.

"Come, Stara," he called, and at her response he started on his way,

swiftly striding along the track, deep in sand though it was.

Mile after mile he covered, insensible to fatigue or hunger, though he

had fasted since the night before; for he, like dead Stara, was nearly

all spirit now, and for a time unconscious of fleshly claims. At last,

far away, a speck of light shone through the black, and the man laughed

happily, his outstretched hand guiding his silent companion's gaze to

it.

"Home, Stara, at last," he cried, "the home where your body is lying.

Tell me where, in what room?" She answered: "My old room, dear; you

know it; hasten." Together they ran on, and did not stop till they

stood before a farm-house, now as still and silent as one of its

inmates.

"Stara, keep with me; follow me close," and Hector's fist crashed

against the door, a muttered exclamation from within coming in answer.

A flicker of light appeared, the sound of footsteps was heard, and then

the door opened. Richard Selbourne stood before them, his eyes searching

the darkness without.

"Who are you," he said, "and what do you want at this hour? This is no

time----"

"It's we, Dick, Stara and I."

Richard fell back, with terror at his heart; then came recognition, and

with it a hatred that banished fear.

"You," he said, "you?"

"We, Dick, Stara and I. We've run all the way here. Oh, don't stand

staring there, but let us in," and Hector pressed forward.

"Damn you! Never!" began Richard, but Hector was past, easily thrusting

the other, a man with twice his strength, aside, and was standing in the

hall, his hand on the staircase rails.

"Take me to her," he said, "or I'll go alone."

Richard stared at him for a moment, measuring Hector's strength with

his. "A weak creature," he thought; "he took me unawares just now; that

was all. I could kill him easily enough, and, God knows, I've prayed

for the chance; but yet, now that it's come, I can't--not with her lying

dead above.

"Follow me," he said, and led the way to a small room, called by

courtesy a study, but used by its master indiscriminately for the

keeping of guns, fishing-tackle, and seeds.

"Untidy as ever, Dick, I see. Look, Stara, the same old mess."

Selbourne wheeled round, his grey eyes searching the other's face.

"Do you wish me to believe you mad," he said curtly, "is that your

coward's refuge?"

Hector stared vacantly. "Mad, mad!" he repeated, "you may be, I'm not.

Mad, what do you mean?" a look of anger appearing in his eyes.

"You must be to come here, I should think. Why have you done it?"

"You always were a dense fool, Dick. What do you think I've come for?

To see the body, of course."

"To see the woman you murdered, you mean."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't? Then I'll tell you. My sister died last night by her own

hand, why, you know, I only guess; but this I do know, that her death

lies at your door. Of your villainy in making love to her when you had

a wife at home I won't speak. She knew it, it seems, and I'm not going

to blame the dead. But of the other, of the cowardly abandonment to her

fate of a woman you professed to love, of that I will, Colonel Graeme."

"Say what you like, if it pleases you, Dick. I shan't defend myself."

"I intend to. It seems--I got that much out of my wife--Stara wrote you

a letter five days ago, and that letter asked for a wire in answer.

Even the most callous, I should have thought, would have sent something,

but you did not. With that letter in your pocket, probably unread, you

spent those five days loafing about barracks, too damned lazy even to

walk to the telegraph-office and send the answer which would have saved

a life."

"Right as usual, Dick; go on."

"For three days I had boys waiting at the Duikerpoort office, and last

night she went there herself, and stayed till the place was shut. Then

she came back and an hour afterwards was found on the veldt--dead."

"That was fine of you, Stara." The words were only breathed, but

Richard heard them, heard too the unmistakable ring of gladness in

Hector's voice. At the sound, decency and respect for the dead above

him vanished, and in their place the primitive overmastering desire to

kill prevailed. He stretched out his hand to a drawer, clutched

something, and in one more second Graeme would have been lying dead, his

spirit free to wander by Stara's side, but in that second a woman stood

between them, and her eyes, dulled with tears, were lifted reproachfully

to her husband's face.

"Dick," she said, "is this a time for quarrelling? Think, Dick."

"Let me go, Mary, such as he are better dead. My God! if you'd only

heard."

"I did ... and ... he isn't worth it, Dick." She turned and faced

Graeme, who was standing with a rapt look on his face, apparently

unconscious of their presence.

"What do you want?" she said with level voice and eyes hard as flint.

Hector's wandering wits came back; for a moment he stood regarding her,

and then, recognition dawning, held out his hand. Mary drew back,

sweeping her skirts behind her.

Hector laughed, faintly amused. "So you're against me too, are you?

You're as dense as Dick. Well, well, the battle's begun already, you

and I, Stara, against the world."

"I repeat, what do you want?"

"To see her."

"He shall not, I say. Mary, if you've any respect for Stara's memory,

you'll not sanction this outrage. Think what this man's done, think

what Stara used to be and is now."

"Hush, Dick." Mary's eyes were fixed on Graeme's face and, more

observant than her husband, she saw something there that made her

hesitate; for the moment the hatred in her heart was lessened.

"If ... if I let you see her."

"Alone?"

"Mary!"

"Dick, I beg of you dear, to leave this to me. Alone, if you wish it,

Colonel Graeme, for five minutes only."

"Half an hour."

There was a pause, while Mary's eyes rested unwaveringly on Graeme's

face.

"Very well, half an hour. Will you promise me to go then?"

"Yes."

"Come then," and Mary passed out, leading the way upstairs to a closed

door, where she stopped. "In there," she said. "I trust you," and left

him.

* * * * *

"Stara! we're here, your spirit and I come to say good-bye to the body

they're burying to-morrow. It's only for a few minutes; I mustn't stay.

They won't let me, Stara, for they say I killed you. But I know better

than that, for your spirit has told me the truth, and I honour you for

it and adore you, Stara. Wiser than all, you knew that love for a body

must die, but love for the spirit lives for ever. I wanted your soul,

and you, knowing it, have given."

He paused, crept closer, and stood looking down.

"You beautiful thing," he whispered, "yet, beautiful as you are, I shall

be glad when you're hidden away out of sight in the ground for then I

shall see the soul whose voice only I now can hear. When will that be,

my Star, when will that soul be revealed? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow it

shall be, over your grave, when the sun is dead too, and all are gone.

Promise me it now, dear, let those dead lips speak for the last time."

"Speak!" He stood towering above her, command in the eyes fixed on the

rigid mouth. A gust of wind blew, the lamp flickered, and over the

still face a shadow hovered and was gone.

Then through the silent house a mad cry went ringing; the two waiting

below started apart, with terror in their eyes; and above a man was on

his knees beside the bed, with a dead woman held to his heart, and the

scent of crushed lilies rising to his brain.

The minutes passed, and still he knelt there, holding her, and then,

slowly raising his head, gazed into the stiffly-smiling face.

"Good-bye, body beloved," he said. "Good-bye, earthly love, and welcome

now the spiritual." He rose from his knees, and stood erect, one hand

laid on the cold breast, the other raised aloft to heaven.

"Unseen soul of Stara," he breathed, "hear me now. May God's curse

strike me, may my limbs rot and wither on my body, may the devil burn

and tear me in the Hereafter, if but for a moment my love shall stray

from you!"

He stopped, his eyes alight with ecstasy, then, bending down, kissed the

dead lips once, and went swiftly out into the star-gemmed night.

*CHAPTER XXII*

The red glow of a dying sun framed in masses of angry storm-cloud; a

group of dark-clad figures standing in a roughly-walled enclosure, in

their midst a white-clothed priest. Around, the sunlit veldt and

mountain mocking the shortness of human life, their own tenure, though

but a span, an immortality compared with that of mankind.

"I am the resurrection and the life." The high-pitched voice rose on

the evening air, chanting words that had been millions of times

repeated, yet always sounding new, for of death they form the song, and

neither Azrael nor Eros can ever weary humanity. Apart from the throng,

close to the grave's brink, a man was standing. Dully the words beat on

his brain, but conveyed no meaning, for physical endurance had reached

its limit, and understanding for the time was dead.

Vaguely he listened, wondering what it all might mean, now and again

raising his eyes to the chasm's far side, where stood the chanting

priest, and beyond him the group of black-clothed figures. What was he

doing here, what were these people doing here, and this dark hole at his

feet, what was its meaning? Vacantly he looked around, seeking for

something to lay hold of, some landmark to link the present with the

past, but in vain, all were but as symbols on an ever-flying wheel, seen

for a second, gone, seen again and lost once more.

Then for a space the whirling circle stopped, and the figures came to a

rest and stood steady before his eyes. Ah, there were two he recognised,

a man and a woman, the former rigid-faced and stern, the latter weeping.

Yes, he knew them; they were Richard Selbourne and Mary, but why was she

crying? There was no reason for it that he could see. He looked hard

at them, trying to attract their notice, but in vain, almost it seemed

as though they would not see. Ah last Richard looked up, met his eyes

full, and without recognition lowered his own again. "Cut me,

intentionally too, what, in God's name for, what have I done? Confound

that other fellow too, with them, staring like that; what the devil does

he find in me, a stranger, to interest him? Never takes his eyes off

me, damn him! Looks like a doctor, well, if you are, go back to your

pills, you fool, and leave me alone. I want none of your drugs."

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" Ah, he

recognised that. They were burying someone then, and this hole at his

feet was a grave. But whose, and what, had it to do with him? Faintly

curious, he moved forward and peered down. Yes, there was a coffin, a

name on it too, if he could but read: