Chapter VIII: Part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tom?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wrong, what do you mean?"

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

"Where is she?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This is different, Lucy."

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

"It's not money, Lucy."

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

"Her, who?"

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

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

"There was none."

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

"Where is she now, dear?"

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucy, wait. I--I----"

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

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

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

"Well?"

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

*CHAPTER XVI*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.