Hector Graeme

by Evelyn Brentwood

  *CHAPTER XIX*

  "Number One and All's Well."

  The cry of the night sentry wailed through the silent barracks, which nolonger looked bare and unlovely as when seen in the glaring African sun,but had been transformed by the moonlight into a city of silver wallsand roofs of lotus pink.

  "Number Two and All's Well," came in instant response, and then therewas a pause.

  "Number Two and All's Well," rang out once more, this time with the fullpower of lusty lungs, in the generous hope of arousing Number Three,happily dreaming in his nest of hay. In vain, however, though Four andFive, alive to the emergency, took up the call right quickly NumberThree did not answer, and the omission was at once noticed byexperienced ears.

  The guard-room door opened hurriedly, and an irate corporal, bearing alantern, emerged, followed by two men. The recumbent form of NumberThree was found, and, after being rudely awakened, was borne straightwayto durance vile, there to finish his slumbers. A door banged, a keygrated in the lock, and then there was silence once more. This wasbroken now and again by a sudden savage squeal from the stables, thesharp thudding of hoofs against wood and iron, and the angry growl of asentry.

  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 theverandah, and, leaning his arms on the rail, stood looking out over thesleeping barracks.

  "Lucky devil, Number Three, whoever you are," he muttered; "it's cellsfor 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 foryour brainlessness, my friend; if I'd been born like that, I too shouldnow be able to sleep. Yet you have your troubles too, I suppose, asgreat 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 yourone hundred and sixty-eight cheerfully, stone-breaking, shot-lifting, orwhatever amusement the prison warder provides, to have your peace ofmind.

  "Half-past three," as a sharp ting came from the room behind him; "fourhours before Murphy comes to call me, four hours of thinking, trying tofind some hole in the net I have thrown over myself, a hole whichdoesn't exist. I could tear it, and break through it that way, but thatI will not do; I gave her my word, love-struck fool that I was, andthere's enough on my soul now without adding perjury to the rest. Andyet 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 mychance staring at me at last, oh, it's too wicked, too cruel."

  He clenched his hands and paced restlessly up and down the woodenverandah. "My own fault too, all my own fault. I clamoured forfreedom, and I got it, only to bind himself hard and fast again. I wasbetter off with Lucy, for she expected little, but Stara wantseverything, 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 befinished. The regiment will go to war, and I shall not be with them. Ishall be a retired officer, living on my pension in some damned Frenchwatering-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 Icould 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 ablack hole before him; he hesitated, in sudden terror of the dark.Then, feeling in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he produced somematches, and, striking one, hurried into the room, where he snatched upa letter lying beside the bed, and rushed out again, glancing fearfullyover his shoulder.

  "There are ghosts in there," he muttered. "I've felt them about mebefore, but never like to-night; not for a thousand pounds would I goback again. Here I stay till dawn."

  He opened the crumpled letter, and, laying it on the rail, read it bythe light of the moon, or rather imagined he was reading it, for he knewevery word of the letter he now repeated by heart.

  "'My brother has found out at last, someone at home ... last mail. Heis furious, Hector, I have never seen him like it before, and he says Imust either swear never to see you again--as if I should!--or leave hereat once for ever. That I don't mind; not for fifty thousand brotherswould 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 youthat last morning three weeks ago, that's what I rode after you for, butsomething in your face stopped me; it was so hard and unsympathetic, notlike 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 haveno choice, I must ask you to keep your promise and take me away. Is itsuch a sacrifice, Hector? God knows I hate asking it of you, but perhapsit is for the best after all, our life in the future will not be the lieit is now. And I will make you happy. I will try to prevent yourregretting. 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, Iknow 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-erasedsentence, which, nevertheless, had been made out by Hector, as suchsentences, no matter at what toil, always are made out: "If not by thenI shall know, and settle things in my own way."

  Hector flung the letter down on the boards beside him, and crushed itunder his foot.

  "Is it a sacrifice?" he jeered. "Oh no, no sacrifice at all; and youpretend to understand me, and think I'm a man to be satisfied with thelife you propose. No; if I do it--and do it I must, I suppose--it willbe hell for both of us. I'll probably kill you in the end, and myselftoo. That will be the finish of our heaven, Stara, a heaven green withabsinth, most likely, that's the French remedy, I believe, for despair."

  Once more he took up the letter, and studied the sentence erased. "'Ifnot by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way,'" herepeated, and then his eyes darkened with anger. "A threat," hemuttered, "to show me up, I suppose, write to the Colonel, like forsakensweethearts do about their soldier-lovers. Do it then, by all means.God! but you make me laugh, Stara," and he laughed harshly at thethought.

  "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, Isuppose, put it in to add emphasis, and scratched it out on reflection.Four o'clock, another half-hour of Thursday gone, and still no nearersolution. Well, I may as well get it over, as it's got to be, and, byheaven, yes, there's just one chance--they may not accept my papers nowwar's only a question of days. It's a toss-up, let Fate decide; if I'mto be great, nothing can stop me; if a derelict, then that I shall bewhatever I do. I'll write that wire out now, and give it to Murphy totake 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 andwrote: "Yes--Hector."

  For a moment he sat staring at the words, with a peculiar smile on hisface. "Good-bye, Hector Graeme, conqueror of worlds," he murmured."Westminster Abbey is not for you, my friend; it's in Boulogne Cemeteryyour 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 theroom, stood once more on the verandah, with his eyes fixed on the darkblur of mountains appearing dimly through the grey. "Come down, comedown, you black devils yonder," he prayed; "begin your throat-cuttingto-day, and I'll bless you for it. It's only a few hours I've got--forthe love of God, come down!"

  For a while he remained watching. Then suddenly a great drowsiness cameover him: he swayed drunkenly, and, staggering back to his room, fellheavily on the bed and slept.

  * *
* * *

  "Beggy pardin, sir, your tea, sir, you're for the field, sir. What timewould you like the 'orse?"

  "And why the devil shouldn't I drink the stuff if I want to? It's allI'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 thepost-office. You can ride the second charger; and don't gallop himalong the road as you always do, you'll have him down if you do. Bathready? Right--get out," and Hector dragged himself wearily out of bed,and proceeded to dress for the coming field day. "My last show this," hemuttered, buckling on his belt, "and I'll make the most of it. I'llastonish 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 hedid, their thick heads wouldn't make anything out of it. Murphy's noSherlock Holmes, thank heaven; he's an unobservant beggar too, don'tsuppose 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 waitingcharger, and followed by his orderly and trumpeter, set off at a canterfor Grobler's Farm.

  Murphy, from the verandah of the servants' quarters, watched him go, andthen returned to his perusal of the telegram, a rather worried look onhis 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 swordscabbard close by.

  "What's up, Mickey?" said the latter; "bloke turned nasty about yer billor wot? You take my tip and tell him, as 'e don't seem to 'ave noconfidence in you, you prefer to return to yer dooty at once. It's whatI does with Ferrers when 'e gits uppish, and I never 'as no furthertrouble. ''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 putsdown to 'im."

  "'Ector never says nothing about 'is bills," answered Murphy, stillworried; "'e ain't got no cause. This ere's a tallygram to 'is girlStara, and I can't make it out, that's all. You see, Pen, when abloke'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 toput 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 lastletter I ain't been able to git 'old of, and there's something in thatletter 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 momentstopping hissing at a boot and holding it up for contemplation, his handacting 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 noletter from Lucy since 'e come back. It's my belief she's needled andgiven 'im the bag--she would do straight if she saw them letters ofStara'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'sletters is 'is own, 'is servant's different, of course."

  "'E's a rum 'un, is 'Ector," said Penrose. "Did you blokes 'ear of theturn up between 'im and Tim Molloy yesterday? Tim was up before him forusing disrespectful langwidge to the room corporal, and 'Ector was adressing of 'im down--'e can throw it abaat too can 'Ector--when Timloses 'is 'air, and ups and tells 'im 'e wouldn't talk to 'im like thatif so be 'e weren't an orfcer and 'im a private. And 'Ector 'e larfs andstops the Sergeant-Major wot was calling for a file to take Tim to theguard-room. 'Ho, wouldn't I?' 'e says, like that, and 'im and Tim goesorf together to the sick lines, when 'e orfs with 'is coat and the twoof 'em go at it, the Sergeant-Major keeping the time; and 'Ector 'as Timouted in the second round! Larf fit to bust theirselves did thesquadron 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 wasstinking?"

  "An' the lifting of them cabbages off Botha's farm to teach the menscoutin'? '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 blokesays, 'if not sooner,' 'e says. 'Ere Tomkins," to Graeme's secondservant, who was sitting on a iron bed-cot nursing a cat, "nip up to thestable and fetch the chestnut 'orse, while I change my costoom," andthereupon Murphy retired to his room, where he proceeded to transformhimself into as near a representation of his master as the state of hiswardrobe allowed.

  Having oiled his hair and fastened his collar with an imitation goldsafety-pin, he mounted the horse and rode away on his mission. Heproceeded at a walking pace till he was well clear of the barracks, buton reaching the hard high road he shook the old horse up, and at a goodsharp gallop made his way to the telegraph office.

  Hector, meanwhile, was rapidly nearing the place of rendezvous. On theway he overtook Graves--now Adjutant of the 1st Lancers--also bound forGrobler's Farm.

  "Morning, Colonel," he said, touching his helmet. "Heard the news? It'sall up with the war, Mahongas have caved in. Rotten, ain't it?" Acurse was the only answer, and Graeme rode on, disregarding his brotherofficer's "Hold hard, I'm coming too; there's plenty of time. Surlybeggar you are," continued Graves, looking after him, "but you're upagainst it this time all right. I'd have warned you too, if you'd beencivil, for I've a pretty good notion what to-day's 'scheme' is, afterwhat Johnson let out last night. Deuced unfair one it is too, got up byBumps solely to floor Graeme; Johnson owned as much. Well, if he isfloored, so much, the better; take him down a peg," and, somewhatconsoled, Graves cantered on. Turning off the path, he made his wayacross the veldt to where a dark mass of men and horses could be seen,assembled for what General Rivers was pleased to call "Instructive FieldOperations."