Chapter IX: Part 9

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.