Chapter IX
“Well, what is it now,” said Quentin, not looking up from his papers as Graeme entered, “and what the devil’s all that row about? Damn it, De Boudoir, 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 you again. How are you?”
“All right, thank you, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you; I only came to——”
“Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you. Wait a minute, will you, till I’ve finished this letter, I’ve something to say to you. Sit down; smoke if you like; there are cigarettes.”
Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and lighting it sat back in his chair and waited till the other had finished. What on earth, he wondered, could the Adjutant-General have to say to him? Surely it didn’t mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted his application for leave home, and it had arrived at Headquarters, only to be refused? Yes, that must be it, and Quentin had now sent for him to inform 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 would speak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office, Adjutant-General though he was, that he had made up his mind...
Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen had ceased, and that Quentin was regarding him with the same unwinking stare with which he had favoured him three years before at Fort Hussein.
“Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme,” he asked abruptly, “now commanding at Gurrumbad?”
“I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last manoeuvres,” answered Graeme, his anger giving way to surprise at the unexpectedness of 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 had at the Staff College, they tell me; did well, too at last cold weather manoeuvres.”
“Indeed, sir,” muttered Graeme, his perplexity increasing.
“They’ve just given him the command of a brigade in South Africa, and he has 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 heard Quentin’s voice continuing:
“It’s a great chance, Graeme, for any soldier, and after consideration I’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 purely personal appointment, and if I choose to take the risk of recommending you in spite of unfavourable reports, well, that’s my lookout. And I’m prepared to take it, Graeme.”
Silence.
“I’m prepared to take it, Captain Graeme,” repeated Quentin, his eyes now 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 good three hours’ work here,” laying his hand on the papers before him. “I’ll wire to Bradford at once, and let you know his answer this afternoon; 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 the stone-flagged passage leading from it, till he found himself once more at the steps, on the top of which was seated Pushful, pensively smoking a pipe.
On seeing Hector he sprang up, with inquiry in his eye, but the other passed by unheeding. Declining an offer of his company in a manner that even Pushful recognised as final, he unhitched his pony from the rails, and rode off—Lucy, ribbons, and the Swaines’ luncheon party completely forgotten. Arrived at home, he entered the house, and deaf to the bearer’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 what had happened. “I am going out to South Africa; to-morrow at this time I shall be gone,” he repeated to himself for the hundredth time. But in vain—the words conveyed no meaning, and his thoughts wandered off into a 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 then gradually realisation came, and with it an intense feeling of remorse and unavailing regret. Oh, cursed unstable fool that he’d been, thus to allow himself to be driven into the very thing he had vowed to avoid. Where was his boasted strength, where the resolutions of the last three years? Gone, all gone. At a word from a stranger, he had betrayed the only being who loved him. From a weak-minded inability to refuse, he had accepted a thing for which he had not only no wish, but actual loathing, and brought misery on one whose only thought and wish were for his happiness. To leave her now, alone here amongst strangers, to get home as best she might, oh God! And, thoughts crowding thick upon Hector, he clenched his hands and cursed.
Then suddenly through the darkness shone a gleam, one of those that always come when the hour is blackest: the hope of the coup that haunts the ruined gambler; the dream of reprieve to the criminal on his way to the scaffold—false, always false, mere Will-o’-the-wisps, but clung to and believed in always. Perhaps he might not be sent after all, Quentin must have seen his disinclination, he had thought his manner cold when he said good-bye. No, he would choose someone else, someone who wanted to 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 been coming it would have been here by this time, and Lucy ought to be back by now from the Swaines—good heavens, he had forgotten all about the luncheon party. Never mind, he would make it up to her, he would show her 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,”19 said a voice at his elbow, and looking round he saw his bearer holding out a salver on which lay a letter.
“Jao,20” said Graeme, and snatching up the document strode away with it, the man looking curiously after him.
At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at the envelope, with dread 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 at Gurnimbad to-morrow night. You needn’t wait for official orders. Good luck.
“Yours, “C. QUENTIN.”
As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw wheels was heard coming along the road towards the house. It was Lucy returning from the Swaines’. For a moment he remained listening. Then, crushing the letter into his pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuary just as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.
“Where is the sahib,” he heard from where he stood hovering within, “and what has he had for lunch?” much outspoken indignation greeting the bearer’s answer that the master had not deigned to eat the meal provided.
“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 to meet 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 I refused; I didn’t feel like eating.”
“Hector, you’re ill; your voice is different somehow; come into the light, dear, and let me see,” but Hector hung back.
“I’m all right, Lucy,” he said hurriedly. “I’ve got rather a fit of the blues, that’s all.”
“And no wonder, being without food all this time. We’ll have tea at once. 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 at the 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-morrow night; you will come just for once, won’t you? He’s got a new song about Kruger, and I believe it’s too funny. Oh, heavens, though, I forgot, 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 a nice little dinner here together, just you and I, and go on to the play afterwards. 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 a cat for you, my birthday present, Hector. He’s a Persian, that’s why I call him Omar, not very brilliant I fear, but I’m not clever, as you know only too well.”
“Clever, you’re the dearest——”
“But not clever, Hector, don’t say so, because I know. Oh, I’d love to be clever like you.”
“Me? Good heavens!”
“Yes, but about Omar. I know how you missed poor Fop, and I’ve meant to get you another in his place for a long time, but couldn’t find one good enough. He’s white, Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspect him.”
“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 her eyes.
“South Africa,” she repeated; “you—are going to—South Africa,” and then suddenly she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees before him. “Hector, Hector,” she said wildly, “it’s not true, tell me it isn’t. You can’t leave me, you can’t, do you hear?” She tried to drag his hands from his face, but in vain. Then her mood changed, and she rose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her white face.
“So—so you’ve volunteered like the rest, you whom I called only this morning ‘the best husband in the world.’ You’ll go off and leave me as I 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 the evidences of his own weakness, insisting on the fact that, as Quentin had put the matter, he had no choice but to accept, that it had been less an offer than an order. He didn’t want to go, he repeated again and again, 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 was ill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his medicine-chest upstairs. And then he stopped bewildered, for Lucy was smiling at him, a smile oddly 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. It was that which hurt me, dear, and made me say what I did; and—and I know you despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they taught me a lesson this afternoon. She felt her nephew’s going—I know that, because I found her crying afterwards in her room—but she never showed it to him. She was all smiles before him and the others, as I shall be when—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 to your 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 feeling about this. I know somehow I ought not to go, that if I do, it will be an irrevocable step. Oh, I can’t explain, but—but I feel that—that this is my last chance. Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am being driven, God knows where! I have felt it before, I felt it only this morning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too that you and the 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’s everything to me your wanting to remain; but, dearest, I cannot let you—I should be wickedly selfish if I did; and what you say about that feeling 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 there will be the baby, and we—we shall be so happy, and we couldn’t be if we were to shirk our duty when it’s come. But I must leave you now, no, you stay 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 and looked back at the still figure watching him from the dripping verandah. For a moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to return, and then, mastering it once and for ever, galloped away through the downpour.
Notes
19 “Letter from the Military Offices, sir.”
20 Go.