Chapter VI
A few evenings later, with the dream-like rapidity with which life’s scenery is constantly shifting behind its players, Hector was once more back in his Riwala home. Gone—flitted into the past—were the bare mud walls, stinking lanterns and camp-chairs of the Fort Hussein Mess; in their place the soft comfort and luxury of a drawing-room, each detail of which had been personally superintended by Lucy herself. Here now, warm and comfortable, he reclined in a huge arm-chair, his eyes dreamily gazing into the crackling log-fire before him, and his mind in the beatific state induced by the consumption of an excellent dinner and the subsequent inhaling of a Turkish cigarette.
Beside him, busy with the knitting of a yellow silk waistcoat, sat Lucy, a dainty figure in tea-gown of lemon and white, which was quite in harmony with the soft lights and colouring of her surroundings. Like the hen-pheasant, however, in gorgeousness of plumage she was quite out-shone by her lord, whose smoking-jacket of amethyst velvet, with buttons of pink crystal, amber silk shirt, and Russia leather slippers of the same hue, formed a somewhat striking picture. On his knee reposed a somnolent white cat, a species of animal he loved, which he was caressing with much tender solicitude.
“Hector, dear,” said Lucy, suddenly breaking the silence, “I’ve got an idea.”
“Have you, Lucy? Ow!” to the cat, “you old beggar you, put your claws out at father, would you? Come and tickle this chap’s tummy, Lucy, and see him kick.”
“Oh, put the thing down, it worries me to see you. Really, Hector, how a sporting person like yourself can adore a cat as you do is beyond me. If it was a dog now, I could sympathise, but—a cat.”
“A dog, nasty fidgeting brutes; besides, every fellow in the regiment’s got one, that alone’s enough. As for my being sporting, so’s a cat, the finest sportsman in the world, a genuine one too, hunts for his own pleasure, not to be thought a good fellow, like most men. What about that big lizard we caught this morning, eh, old Nimrod?” again addressing the unresponsive animal.
“To me they’re like spiteful women, Hector.”
“Just where you’re wrong, Lucy, a cat’s not a bit like a woman. They’re restful, which a woman’s not; they’re independent; know what they want and get it, while a woman not only don’t know her own mind, but always does the very reverse of what she preaches.”
“Really, Hector, I’m sure you can’t say that of me.”
“There you are, Lucy, can’t discuss a thing without taking it personally. Besides, you’re as bad as any of them. You’re always at me to become a keen soldier, yet, when the chance of active service comes along, you——”
“Dear, that’s not fair, as I’ve told you before. You surely wouldn’t like me not to care, Hector, like some wives?”
“I don’t suppose I should, but it’s not that I’m talking about, it’s the inconsistency. But, about cats and women a cat only takes what it wants, a woman, on the contrary——”
“Oh, bother the cats! I want to talk about something else, the Regimental Cup to-morrow.”
“When I propose to be ten miles away at Rarkat Jheel, quail shooting.”
“Oh, but, Hector, you can’t really. The regiment’s At Home, and we must put in an appearance; besides, I should like it.”
“Like it, a fifth-rate race-meeting?”
“Yes, I should. I’m not a hundred, Hector, and every woman wants a little gaiety at times. Of course I love going out shooting with you and all that, but I think just occasionally we might vary the programme a little.”
“Oh, of course, if you’re set upon it, Lucy, that’s another matter, but it’s a weary business.”
“Only because you make it so, and take no part in things, Hector. The Regimental Cup, for instance, every officer but you is running something, no matter whether it’s got a chance or not. You only are out of it, and I hate it—it looks so odd and unsporting. I know, of course, it’s not that, but the others think so.”
“Let them think what they like, I don’t care. I’m not competing because I can’t win. I’ll play second fiddle to no one, least of all to O’Hagan, and nothing I’ve got could beat Matador, he’s a racehorse, the rest are only polo ponies.”
“Hector, I do hate that Captain O’Hagan.”
“Really, why? I thought he rather liked you.”
“Oh, he’s civil enough to me, it’s because of his rudeness to you I hate him. Hector, do you know what he said the other evening at the Club?”
“That he meant having me out of the regiment? Yes, I heard of it, Lucy.”
“He dared to say it, Hector. Oh, I could kill him for it,” and Lucy’s breast heaved and her blue eyes flashed.
Hector laughed. “Perhaps he will, Lucy; he has all the others behind him, you know.”
“But you mustn’t allow it, you must fight him. I’ll help you all I can. The Colonel likes me, I know; let’s have the old man to dinner, Hector, and do him really well. Oh, Hector, do rouse yourself, it’s not like you to submit tamely.”
Hector looked at her, and, as he did so, the curious glitter in his eyes vanished. Rising, he went across to his wife and kissed her.
“I believe you’d stand by me, no matter what I did, Lucy.”
Some strange note in his voice startled her; she looked up. “Hector, what do you mean?” she said quickly. “Oh, Hector dearest, you won’t, you don’t mean to do anything mad?”
At the fear in her voice, Graeme’s half-parted lips shut tight. He picked up the cat, and, returning to his chair, resumed his contemplation of the flames, his face expressionless.
“Don’t be alarmed, Lucy,” he said, and it seemed to her that there was a shade of contempt in his tone, “and as for O’Hagan and his paltry schemes, leave the poor fool to me. I’m only letting him play a little, and when the time comes—and it’s pretty close now—it’s Bob O’Hagan who’ll go under, not me. But, about this idea of yours, what is it, to go to-morrow? If so, I will, as you want it.”
“It’s more than that, Hector, I want you to ride in the race for the Cup.”
“But what on?”
“Hermes, Captain Carruther’s second string. He’d give you the mount, I know, for I asked him this afternoon. He’s a good pony, Hector, and jumps well, though of course he can’t beat Matador.”
“He’d be just about last, Lucy. I last, no thank you. Sorry, I’d like to please you, but it can’t be done. I’ll go to the races, as you wish it, but a ride on old Hermes is rather too humiliating a proceeding. Hullo,” looking up at the clock, “past eleven, and an early parade to-morrow morning. Time for bed. Come on, Lucy. You too, Fop, old man, no tiles for Romeo to-night,” Hector rose, and having lighted Lucy’s candles, departed to his dressing-room, the cat hanging limply in his arms.