Hector Graeme

  *CHAPTER IX*

  "Well, what is it now," said Quentin, not looking up from his papers asGraeme entered, "and what the devil's all that row about? Damn it, DeBoudoir, if you want to play 'Box and Cox,' you must find another....Oh, good morning, Graeme; I didn't see it was you. Glad to meet youagain. How are you?"

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

  "Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you. Wait a minute, will you, till I'vefinished this letter, I've something to say to you. Sit down; smoke ifyou like; there are cigarettes."

  Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and lighting it satback in his chair and waited till the other had finished. What onearth, he wondered, could the Adjutant-General have to say to him?Surely it didn't mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted hisapplication for leave home, and it had arrived at Headquarters, only tobe refused? Yes, that must be it, and Quentin had now sent for him toinform him of the fact. At the thought, Graeme was seized with anger,and he braced himself for fight. He wouldn't stand it, not he; he wouldspeak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office, Adjutant-General though hewas, that he had made up his mind ...

  Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen had ceased, andthat Quentin was regarding him with the same unwinking stare with whichhe had favoured him three years before at Fort Hussein.

  "Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme," he asked abruptly, "nowcommanding at Gurrumbad?"

  "I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last manoeuvres,"answered Graeme, his anger giving way to surprise at the unexpectednessof the question. What was the man driving at, he wondered.

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

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

  "Hum ... pity."

  A pause, then Quentin went on.

  "He's one of the rising men, Graeme, one of the cleverest they ever hadat the Staff College, they tell me; did well, too at last cold weathermanoeuvres."

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

  "They've just given him the command of a brigade in South Africa, and hehas written to me asking if I know of a"--a pause--"a suitable A.D.C."

  Enlightenment at last, and with it the blood rushed to Hector's face.His forehead grew wet, and the room reeled before him. Far off he heardQuentin's voice continuing:

  "It's a great chance, Graeme, for any soldier, and after considerationI've determined to offer the post to you."

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

  "You're thinking about the recommendation, I suppose, from your Colonel.He won't give it; is that what you mean?"

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

  "Hum, that's a pity, a very great pity. A Colonel's word, you know,Graeme, goes for a lot in these matters. Still, this is a purelypersonal appointment, and if I choose to take the risk of recommendingyou in spite of unfavourable reports, well, that's my lookout. And I'mprepared to take it, Graeme."

  Silence.

  "I'm prepared to take it, Captain Graeme," repeated Quentin, his eyesnow like lamps. "What's the matter, aren't you well?"

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

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

  "I--I'll try, sir. Thank you."

  "I'm sure you will, and now I must ask you to leave me, I've got a goodthree hours' work here," laying his hand on the papers before him."I'll wire to Bradford at once, and let you know his answer thisafternoon; but I think I can tell you beforehand it will be all right.You'd better go home now and pack. Good-day."

  "Good-day, sir," and Graeme stumbled out of the office and along thestone-flagged passage leading from it, till he found himself once moreat the steps, on the top of which was seated Pushful, pensively smokinga pipe.

  On seeing Hector he sprang up, with inquiry in his eye, but the otherpassed by unheeding. Declining an offer of his company in a manner thateven Pushful recognised as final, he unhitched his pony from the rails,and rode off--Lucy, ribbons, and the Swaines' luncheon party completelyforgotten. Arrived at home, he entered the house, and deaf to thebearer's offers of lunch went off to his room, where, locking the door,he flung himself down on the bed and tried to grasp the reality of whathad happened. "I am going out to South Africa; to-morrow at this time Ishall be gone," he repeated to himself for the hundredth time. But invain--the words conveyed no meaning, and his thoughts wandered off intoa confused labyrinth of trivial matters.

  Finally, in desperation, he sprang up and hurried out to the garden,where for a time he walked up and down the sodden paths, and thengradually realisation came, and with it an intense feeling of remorseand unavailing regret. Oh, cursed unstable fool that he'd been, thus toallow himself to be driven into the very thing he had vowed to avoid.Where was his boasted strength, where the resolutions of the last threeyears? Gone, all gone. At a word from a stranger, he had betrayed theonly being who loved him. From a weak-minded inability to refuse, hehad accepted a thing for which he had not only no wish, but actualloathing, and brought misery on one whose only thought and wish were forhis happiness. To leave her now, alone here amongst strangers, to gethome as best she might, oh God! And, thoughts crowding thick uponHector, he clenched his hands and cursed.

  Then suddenly through the darkness shone a gleam, one of those thatalways come when the hour is blackest: the hope of the coup that hauntsthe ruined gambler; the dream of reprieve to the criminal on his way tothe scaffold--false, always false, mere Will-o'-the-wisps, but clung toand believed in always. Perhaps he might not be sent after all, Quentinmust have seen his disinclination, he had thought his manner cold whenhe said good-bye. No, he would choose someone else, someone who wantedto go, like that fool who was sitting on the Office steps--not him.Why, two hours had already elapsed since he left; if a wire had beencoming it would have been here by this time, and Lucy ought to be backby now from the Swaines--good heavens, he had forgotten all about theluncheon party. Never mind, he would make it up to her, he would showher a devotion that would surprise even her, would make her so happy,and this time there should be no mistake. He had had his last lesson,and, once home, in would go his papers and ...

  "Chitthi sahib, Faujdari dufta say aya,"[#] said a voice at his elbow,and looking round he saw his bearer holding out a salver on which lay aletter.

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

  "Jao,[#]" said Graeme, and snatching up the document strode away withit, the man looking curiously after him.

  [#] Go.

  At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at the envelope, withdread in his heart; then, suddenly clenching his teeth, tore it open,and seizing the paper within, read at a glance:

  "DEAR GRAEME,

  "It's all right. Colonel Bradford agrees. Report yourself to him atGurnimbad to-morrow night. You needn't wait for official orders. Goodluck.

  "Yours, "C. QUENTIN."

  As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw wheels was heardcoming along the road towards the house. It was Lucy returning from theSwaines'. For a moment he remained listening. Then, crushing theletter into his pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuaryjust as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.

  "Where is the sahib," he heard from where he stood hovering within, "andwhat has he had for lunch?" much outspoken indignation greeting thebearer's answer that the master had not deigned to eat the mealprovided.

  "Of course he'd eat, it's your fault and the cook's if he didn't.Hector, where are you? Oh, there you are, why didn't you come out tomeet me as you always do? Oh, Hector, I'm so sorry about your lunch,those stupid servants; and there was a guinea-fowl and the ham and----"

  "It--it wasn't their fault, Lucy. They had the--the things ready, but Irefused; I didn't feel like eating."

  "Hector, you're ill; your voice is dif
ferent somehow; come into thelight, dear, and let me see," but Hector hung back.

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

  "And no wonder, being without food all this time. We'll have tea atonce. Abdul, bring tea and two eggs for the sahib. And now sit down,and I'll tell you about the Swaines. Oh, Hector, why didn't you come?I was so disappointed."

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

  "Lots of people, and we'd such fun, not a bit like a farewell party.Captain Dance was there, you know, the man who does the comic parts atthe theatre. And he was really most amusing, quite cheered me up,and--and oh, Hector, dear, he's given us a box for the theatre to-morrownight; you will come just for once, won't you? He's got a new songabout Kruger, and I believe it's too funny. Oh, heavens, though, Iforgot, General Quentin, don't say he's coming, please, Hector."

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

  "Thank goodness, I should have been so disappointed, and we'll have anice little dinner here together, just you and I, and go on to the playafterwards. Oh dear, I feel quite excited about it, I hope you do too,Hector."

  "Lucy, my dearest."

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

  "Omar?"

  "Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, dear, not till to-morrow; but I've got acat for you, my birthday present, Hector. He's a Persian, that's why Icall him Omar, not very brilliant I fear, but I'm not clever, as youknow only too well."

  "Clever, you're the dearest----"

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

  "Me? Good heavens!"

  "Yes, but about Omar. I know how you missed poor Fop, and I've meant toget you another in his place for a long time, but couldn't find one goodenough. He's white, Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspecthim."

  "Lucy, wait. I--I've something to tell you, something terrible, dear,has happened, and--and--oh, my God, how can I say it?"

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

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

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

  "South Africa," she repeated; "you--are going to--South Africa," andthen suddenly she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees beforehim. "Hector, Hector," she said wildly, "it's not true, tell me itisn't. You can't leave me, you can't, do you hear?" She tried to draghis hands from his face, but in vain. Then her mood changed, and sherose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her white face.

  "So--so you've volunteered like the rest, you whom I called only thismorning 'the best husband in the world.' You'll go off and leave me asI am, helpless and alone, oh, what are men made of to do these things?"

  "Lucy, I did not volunteer. I was weak, criminally weak, if you like,but that I did not do; the thing was forced upon me. Will you listen?"

  "Go on."

  Hector told her, and, as is usual with such recitals, suppressed theevidences of his own weakness, insisting on the fact that, as Quentinhad put the matter, he had no choice but to accept, that it had beenless an offer than an order. He didn't want to go, he repeated again andagain, he never had had any wish to go, and let Lucy but say the word,he would wire to Bradford this minute to refuse. He would say he wasill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his medicine-chest upstairs.And then he stopped bewildered, for Lucy was smiling at him, a smileoddly in contrast with her white face and despairing eyes.

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

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

  "But I do, dear; and--and, Hector, I was wrong in what I said just now,but I thought it was your own doing, and that you had volunteered. Itwas that which hurt me, dear, and made me say what I did; and--and Iknow you despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they taught mea lesson this afternoon. She felt her nephew's going--I know that,because I found her crying afterwards in her room--but she never showedit to him. She was all smiles before him and the others, as I shall bewhen--when the time comes, Hector. When is it, dear?"

  "To-morrow morning, but----"

  "To-morrow? Then--then we've very little time; I must go and see toyour things; and we'll keep your birthday to-night, dear, instead of ...and Omar shall have his blue ribbon."

  "Lucy, for God's sake listen to me before we decide. I have a feelingabout this. I know somehow I ought not to go, that if I do, it will bean irrevocable step. Oh, I can't explain, but--but I feel that--thatthis is my last chance. Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am beingdriven, God knows where! I have felt it before, I felt it only thismorning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too that you andthe baby alone can save me. Oh, Lucy, if you love me, tell me to stay."

  "It's because I love you, Hector, that I now ask you to go. It'severything to me your wanting to remain; but, dearest, I cannot letyou--I should be wickedly selfish if I did; and what you say about thatfeeling is wrong too, dear; it is morbid and unhealthy. Fight it down,Hector; it is nothing, and--and soon you will come back to me, and therewill be the baby, and we--we shall be so happy, and we couldn't be if wewere to shirk our duty when it's come. But I must leave you now, no, youstay here, dear; you--you would only hinder me," and she went.

  * * * * *

  Next morning, with the rain pouring down upon him, Hector rode away,and, as he reached the gate opening on to the main road, he stopped andlooked back at the still figure watching him from the dripping verandah.For a moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to return, andthen, mastering it once and for ever, galloped away through thedownpour.

  *BOOK II*