Chapter VIII
The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the summer rains. This queer, rambling place, the hot-weather capital of India, is a collection of houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and slopes of a fir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three miles in length and many thousand feet above the level of the plains. On all sides of the ridge the ground falls steeply away; on the south towards the plains, a haze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the horizon; on the north, east and west to a succession of forest-clad hills and valleys, beyond which rises a chain of snow-capped mountains. Running along the crest of the ridge lies the one metalled road, the main artery of the place, bordering which stand the various European dwellings. These are few and far apart towards the western extremity, but increase in number as the road runs on eastward, till finally they merge into the town itself, a heterogeneous mass of shops, Government buildings, and native bazaar.
Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence of British official might and majesty in India, and consequently, during that season, the resort of all that is most select and fashionable in the country. In the hot weather of the year 1900, however, thoughts other than those of social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of most men. The British Empire was at war in distant South Africa, and so far, though close on a year had elapsed since its beginning, no sign of the end was at hand, and the fate of England still rocked in the balance.
Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to interfere appreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to human nature it is not public but individual interests that matter; and even a toothache is of far greater moment to him who feels it than the fate of a hundred empires. Thus it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the war acted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth; the ever-present possibility of harrowing partings added zest to love-making between the sexes; waltz tunes gained in enchantment; and hearts thrilled in response to stirring martial ballad.
In high official quarters a somewhat different view prevailed, for here were men with a stake in the country, oldish men to whom waltz tune and martial ballad failed to appeal—their time for that was past. Unlike the others, they, being more largely interested, were able to take a larger view, and thus realised that England’s downfall would certainly involve that of India, and consequently their own, a very serious matter indeed. Here faces were grave—the higher the official, the graver the face—as, deaf to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they sat in dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with increasing correspondence.
In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment, situated in the huge brick edifice forming the Military Offices of Chillata, a man sat busily writing one September morning—a thick-set man, with bristling black hair and round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in Fort Hussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to the Indian forces. On the table before him lay a pile of letters, fat-looking documents in long official envelopes, both white and blue, most of them marked “Urgent,” “Very Urgent,” or “Confidential.” These he was opening in turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow paper, which he carefully pinned to the various documents, and threw into tin trays placed on the floor beside him for removal and subsequent engrossment by his clerks.
A knock at the door was heard. “Come in, come in,” he muttered, and Captain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of the Chillata A.D.C., appeared. To prevent the departure of this officer for the plains, and consequent disappointment to the public, he had been retained as staff officer, despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the Intelligence Department—the natural refuge of such as he—being unfortunately full up at the time.
“In an hour, De Boudoir,” said Quentin, “I’m not ready for you yet. No, it’s no good asking for a morning off; I won’t give it you for fifty rehearsals.”
“But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency’s coming. Hoped you would too, sir.”
“Bah! You can’t go, I tell you. What’s that, a card? I won’t see him, whoever he is.”
“He won’t go, sir; it’s Captain Pushful; he’s here every day.”
“What does he want?”
“Usual thing, sir—South Africa.”
“Tell him to go to blazes. I have work enough, as it is, without being worried by every fool who wants to go battle-fighting. Confound it, De Boudoir, what the devil’s the good of you if you can’t——. Hullo! what the—who the dickens is this?” for the door had gently opened, and a head appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said an insinuating voice, and thereupon a body followed the head, “but could you spare me a minute? I won’t keep you long sir.”
“Who the devil are you?”
“My name is Pushful, sir. I think, sir, I’m a connection of yours by marriage. My sister——”
“Turn him out, De Boudoir. Oh, damn it all, this is——”
“My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William. ‘Boodles’ we used to call him, because——”
“Really, sir, I fail to see——”
“And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up.”
“Tell me what you want, sir, and go.”
“I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get me out to South Africa, and——”
“Send in an application then. Good-day.”
“I have, sir, six already.”
“Send another then, and I’ll consider it.”
“Thank you, sir, and you will——”
“Oh yes, yes. Good-day, and De Boudoir,” as the door closed behind the visitor, “when that application comes, put it where the others go, in the basket; d’ye understand?”
“Very good, sir, anything more?”
“No. Yes, there is. Do you know a Captain Graeme, 1st Lancers? I thought I saw him the other day.”
“Yes, sir; he’s here on two months’ leave. She’s been in Chillata since April, living at Dilkhusha, the house the Pennants had last year.”
“If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him? If you don’t, send a note.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll get my pony, and go there now.”
“No, you won’t; you’ll stay where I can get at you, in your office. Go this afternoon if you like, till then work. That will do, thank you,” upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully withdrew, cursing the fate that had placed him here, instead of with his friends in the Intelligence Department.
“I’d like to give the fellow a chance,” muttered Quentin; “he was badly treated over that last affair. Colonel would not even recommend him for a transport billet”—for in this way had Schofield saved his face on Hector’s refusal—“and he was wrong, I’m sure of it; the fellow’s got stuff in him, if it can be got out, that I’ll swear, though I only saw him for a few minutes. Well, I’ll give it to him, and damn the recommendation.” He sat thinking for a moment, then plunged once more into his correspondence.
Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging in the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lying among the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range. Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual to Anglo-Indians in India. Two more Regimental Cup races had been won and lost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been present as a spectator. With Lucy’s full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut up their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills. During these three years Lucy’s health had gradually declined, till she was now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long in India was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident, and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had little acquaintance before that event.
It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion of foul riding on Hector’s part; on the contrary, much sympathy had been expressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling. A letter had also been received from O’Hagan’s mother, a sad letter, for it appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been a good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share in her son’s death. It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, and from where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she herself did.
Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, had absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarette with it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to her room, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours. One consolation was hers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson. When they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more so even than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did not come to the house at odd times, as was his wont. Finally, he had left Riwala for a year’s shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though the twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again—not for a long time, at any rate—for shortly she too would be gone, leaving the hateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few months hence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he could accompany her. At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield had agreed to Captain Graeme’s going in October, three months ahead, not a day before.
A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, in addition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid—one for which she had always longed, but which in her present feeble condition threatened to overwhelm her. To all the doctors’ entreaties, to go home in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused to listen, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata, instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originally intended.
Here he would be able to run up for the very few days’ leave he could hope to obtain. They would be in the same country, at any rate, and if he were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him to come to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be between them, and anything might happen to him even without her knowing—things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.
Hector, on his part, had done his best. He had rented one of the best, though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personally superintended every detail for her comfort. He even accompanied her on the long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special comfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, instead of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to that place. This was a most unwonted attention on Hector’s part, who had hitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be dealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.
Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed a consideration and affection of which even she would never have believed him capable. Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor did Hector himself know exactly. Remorse for O’Hagan’s death was certainly not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife; nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself—the memory of which troubled him not at all—but by the revelation within him of some tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his fellows. The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his callous soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feel as they felt, to live as they lived.
With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please Lucy, anticipating her every want and devoting himself to her to an extent that caused Graeme’s uxoriousness, as it was called, to become a byword, especially in Chillata, where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusual thing. Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the world’s sneers; they didn’t know what his object was, how should they? He redoubled his efforts, and now that a child was to be born to them strove with all his might to interest himself in the baby’s coming—little liking as he had for children—for in the cultivation of such purely natural feelings as affection for wife and child, he realised dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existence he alone was aware.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew nothing of all this. She was too sane and healthy-minded to be able to comprehend such a nature as her husband’s, and with the curious fatality that had always marked her dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, rather frustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own undoing. It was not want of tact on her part, for of that quality Lucy had more than most, but simply that, being so normal herself, the comprehension of the abnormal was beyond her understanding; and, though touched and pleased with her husband’s constant wish to be always with her, she yet fought against it, believing that he stayed solely to please her. With this idea in her mind, she was constantly urging him to leave her, and mix more with his kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man to wish to remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour’s walk as his sole exercise. Of course, it was sweet of him to wish to be with her, and she appreciated the thought, but she would much rather he didn’t; she could get on very well by herself, and he would always be home before dark.
Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long solitary rides—the worst thing for him—leaving Lucy happy in the consciousness of an unselfish action. How well she understood him, she thought, and what a dear he was. True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting—to which she owed the present state of her nerves—but even for that she had by now come to account. It had been an accident after all, she was certain, and Hector, to gratify his vanity, had made out it was intentional, and was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, which she and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him. Callous? Not he, why, every action of his since then had shown him to be the very reverse.
Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the prospect of a speedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble, had somewhat recovered, and with the arrival of her husband, on a quite unexpected two months’ leave, was now almost happy. For the first two weeks after his coming she had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was almost exclusively of war, and the place thronged with applicants to be sent out to South Africa. Only too well did she realise Hector’s vanity, and feared that he also, solely from a morbid disinclination to be left in the background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would certainly succeed, as he always did, when those dreadful sudden fits of determination came upon him. It was therefore with a feeling of heartfelt relief that she saw him, apparently, in no way interested in the matter, though, had she known his mind, it is possible she would not have been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been more than ever touched by a further proof of his devotion. For exactly what she had feared was in her husband’s mind, and for that reason Hector avoided Chillata assemblies like the plague, refused to attend the theatre, despite Lucy’s urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried by the Military Offices without a glance.
He was now, on this September morning, brooding over the subject, a crumpled copy of the Pioneer in his hand, detailing some fresh disaster, which he felt bitterly, had he been in command, would have been no defeat, but a brilliant success. For a week without intermission it had rained steadily, rendering even the short morning and evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after night, the rain had poured drearily down, rattling on the corrugated iron of the roof, turning Lucy’s small garden into a quagmire, and shrouding the surrounding hills and valleys with a pall of white vapour. Small streams had become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while from weeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip of water on dank fern and rotting vegetation. As Hector looked and heard, a feeling of depression came over him, and with it that other self began to make itself heard. The longing came over him to be off at once to the Military Offices, send in his application, and go, for despite the constant refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he to apply.
“Three weeks more of this,” he reflected, “then two months’ idling in the plains, and after that home, a year’s loafing again, while others are making names and passing me. It’s that which galls me, being out of it, I who could leave them all if I chose. Oh, curse my folly of five years ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it easily too, if only they hadn’t opposed me. If they’d made it easy, I don’t think somehow I’d have persisted. Oh, damnation take it, here am I, with the best wife in the world, regretting. Apply? Not I. Oh, thank God, here she is. Lucy dear,” throwing down the paper, and hurrying forward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, “it’s good to see you down so early. Here’s your chair, I’ve got the cushions and everything ready for you. There,” settling her comfortably and tucking the shawl round her feet, “now tell me how you feel, better?”
“Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way you cheer me up. I’m afraid I’m rather a burden to you now, and so very plain and unattractive. You can’t call me pretty, as you used to.”
“Nonsense, Lucy, you’re prettier than ever, and far more attractive to me now, naturally.”
“Oh no, I’m not, Hector. You only say that because, because... you’re the best husband in the world, so different from most men to their wives. But isn’t that the Pioneer, any news of the war?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Lucy; the war, as you know, doesn’t interest me.”
“But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we know fighting out there. Oh, Hector, how thankful I am you’re not one of those who volunteered. It would have broken my heart had you done so.”
Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window remained for a moment staring out into the mist.
“Lucy,” he said suddenly, “why did you always oppose my retiring? I could have done so before the war started, now I can’t.”
“Because I didn’t want to spoil your life, Hector. I want you to command your regiment, not settle down yet; you’re too young. It was for your sake I refused. I should have loved it myself.”
“And at the same time you don’t want me to see active service,” said Hector, with a somewhat justifiable show of irritation. “Can’t you see, Lucy, that not being in this war will certainly prove a bar to my own or anybody else’s chance of future command?”
“But you have seen active service, Hector. Surely once is enough for any man, besides, you did so well then, everyone knows you ought to have got the V.C. Oh, by the way, I have meant to ask you for some time, do you know a—— Oh, bother, there’s a caller, don’t go. Hector, it’s only Mrs. Swaine. How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?” to the lady who was ushered in by the bearer.
“So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme,” said the new-comer. “I came round to ask whether you and your husband would care to come round to lunch to-day. Rather short notice, I’m afraid, but my nephew has just received orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I’m inviting a few friends to give him a send-off.”
“Your nephew? oh, how dreadful for you, Mrs. Swaine, I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t know, after all, it’s what soldiers are for, and Tom’s really very fortunate to be selected. Everyone’s applying nowadays, you know, and nearly all are refused. They only take the best men, and Tom, though he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters.”
“They’d like my husband to go, I know,” said Lucy, up in arms at once, “he only has to apply.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know they’d take married men. Sir Henry told me the other day they wouldn’t. Anyway, I’m sure Captain Graeme wouldn’t think of leaving you... now,” with an arch smile at the frowning Hector, “the thing’s quite unthinkable. But about lunch, will you come?”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Swaine, I should like to, but I’m afraid my husband——”
“Oh, I’ll come,” said Hector.
“Capital,” said the lady. “Well, I must be off, I’ve got all sorts of things to see about. Good-bye, you two, so glad,” and away trotted Mrs. Swaine, leaving silence behind her.
“Hector dear,” said Lucy, after a pause, “you didn’t mind what that woman said? She’s a good soul really, only tactless.”
“Not I,” said Hector, “but you were saying something when she came in. You asked me if I knew——”
“Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector. They call him Golliwog here, and I should say he has about as much intelligence. Really, I don’t think I ever met such a dull person in my life before.”
“He’s one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion I respect. Also, he’s the only fellow in the army from whom I ever learnt anything.”
“Good gracious, Hector,” said Lucy, surprised, for such commendation of a military superior was something very novel. “I didn’t know you’d ever seen the man. Tell me about it.”
“Oh, it was after that Mortlock affair, he spoke to me then, snubbed Schofield too—did it jolly well.”
“That was nice of him, Hector, and of course I only saw him for a few minutes; he didn’t even know my name. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll invite him to dinner.”
“Certainly not, Lucy,” was the unexpected answer, “why, he’s Adjutant-General.”
“What does that matter? He’ll come, and you must have somebody to talk to besides me, we’ll ask him for to-morrow night; it’s your birthday, you know, though I suppose you’ve forgotten that. Had you, Hector?”
“I had. I’m a fool about dates, as you know; but, Lucy, please don’t ask Quentin.”
“No, I won’t please, I’m going to; you like him, and that’s enough. Oh, look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains at last. Now I’ll write the note, and you shall take it; the ride will do you good, and you can meet me at the Swaines.”
“Lucy, I’d much sooner stay here with you.”
“No, I’ve got things to do, I must get on with my sewing, and I can’t do that while you’re here.”
“Why not? I’m interested in that sewing. Oh, I do wish, Lucy, you’d let me know a little more about—about the infant. I really want to, and you never will talk about it.”
“Of course not, such things are not for a man to know about. I intend to keep everything of that sort from you, dear. When he or she comes it will be different, but till then you mustn’t ask questions.”
“But, Lucy, can’t you understand——?” began Hector.
“Perfectly, and it’s sweet of you to be interested, or rather appear to be, for of course you’re not really; no man could be in such details, and a woman would be a fool to expect it. Now go, like a good boy, and order the pony while I write the note.”
She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk, leaving Hector standing looking at her, with a baffled expression on his face. For a moment he remained irresolute, then walked slowly away to order the pony, and presently returned to Lucy.
“Here’s the letter, Hector,” handing it to him. “You’d better go to the Military Offices, you’ll find him there now; and I wonder, would you mind getting me some ribbons at Lace’s when you pass?”
“Yes, I’ll do that for you gladly, Lucy, but not the other.”
Lucy looked at him, and then suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
“Very well, Hector. It’s only a little thing I ask of you, but of course if you won’t; and I understand, you—you’d rather your friend didn’t see me like this. I—I know I’m dull and plain, but—but——”
“Give me the note, Lucy,” said Hector quietly. “I’ll take it, and enter the Military Offices for the first time since I’ve been here.” He went out, and, mounting the pony, departed on his mission.
As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for a while the dense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay in sullen banked-up masses girdling the horizon. A blue sky glared overhead, from which shone a bright sun, its rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground, forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth, reeking fern, and rotting leaves.
The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint murmur of tiny rills, threading their way through emerald moss and tangled undergrowth, to the roar of swollen torrents thundering down the hillside on their way to parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing at intervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the valley depths. Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer parched and bare as three weeks before, but clad in velvet green, veined with silver threads glittering in the sunlight, as they too danced on their way to the river below.
Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression of the morning had now deepened to heavy gloom, and with it had come a sense of foreboding, the feeling of being driven on by destiny, which, struggle as he might, he was powerless to resist.
Two or three times, in obedience to a faint far-off and in some way strangely reproachful voice, he reined in his pony and paused, the inclination to return strong upon him, but then, cursing himself for an irresolute fool, he rode on. As he passed through the Mall, crowded with folk, who, like butterflies, had emerged from seclusion to desport themselves in the welcome sunshine, the feeling of foreboding grew, till, on reaching the Military Offices, so loud had the voice become that he then and there determined to obey it and return. Arriving at this decision, he experienced a sense of great relief; the cloud of gloom lifted from his mind, and, feeling strangely light-hearted, he was turning his horse about, when the animal suddenly stumbled, recovered himself, and then went on; but he was dead lame. “Picked up a stone,” muttered his rider, and, dismounting, was proceeding to extract a sharp, three-cornered flint wedged between the frog and shoe, when a voice hailed him.
“Good morning, Graeme, what are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” answered Hector, “a ride, that’s all. Just going back. Curse this stone.”
Captain Pushful, for that person it was, winked solemnly.
“‘Nothing,’” he said, “‘only a ride,’ just so, that’s what I’m here for, that’s what we all come to the Offices for; it’s no use, though, Golliwog won’t see you, none of ’em will. I ought to know, for I’ve tried most of ’em. Going to have a go at his Excellency, though, this afternoon; we’ll see what that will do. Another choking off, I suppose, but no matter.”
“What on earth for?”
“Same old thing, to get out to South Africa. I’ll do it yet, though, in spite of ’em all.”—It may here be remarked that Captain Pushful was eventually sent out; De Boudoir, indeed, offered to pay his passage to get rid of him—“But surely you’re not having a shot? It’s no earthly use for you, believe me, you’re married. He won’t see you, I tell you,” as, the stone extracted, Hector moved away.
“He certainly would, if I wanted him to,” said Graeme, stopping; “but, as it happens, I don’t.”
“I’ll bet you he doesn’t.”
“Oh, all right then, we’ll see,” and Hector, tying up his pony to the rails, mounted the steps leading to the Offices.
“Which way?” he asked; “d’you know?”
“Do I know,” answered Pushful, with some scorn, “couldn’t I draw a plan of the whole rotten place by now? You come with me; I’ll have another try too. I’ll ask him if he’s got my application.”
“Hang it, we can’t both go.”
“Oh yes, we can,” and, regardless of Graeme’s protests, Pushful led the way to the door of De Boudoir’s room, and, without knocking, entered.
“Can I see——” began both simultaneously.
“No, you can’t. Oh Lord, it’s you again,” said De Boudoir wrathfully, seeing Pushful, who had thrust himself ahead of Graeme. “By the Poker, but I’ll have you out of this double quick,” and, springing up, he seized Pushful, who was stealing past to the Adjutant-General’s door, by the collar, and after a short but sharp struggle succeeded in putting him outside.
“And now for you,” he began, turning to the other visitant. “It’s no use, I tell you beforehand; the Chief won’t see anyone. Oh, it’s you, Graeme; I beg your pardon. I was just writing a note to you, asking you to come round. The General wants to see you. That door; go in quietly; he’s a bit upset this morning.”
Upon which Graeme knocked, and a testy “Come in” answering him, entered.