Читать книгу Hector Graeme - Evelyn Brentwood - Страница 3

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The dull November afternoon was fast drawing to a close. Patches of white mist lay in the hollows of the elm-dotted park; the outlines of stately tree and russet copse were rapidly merging into the surrounding grey.

Already a flicker of light was beginning to appear in the windows of Radford Hall, the home of Sir Thomas Caldwell, Baronet, a house—like its owner—solid, sturdy, and unimaginative-looking. Nearly a mile away, standing well back from a high ragged hedge of blackthorn, a line of sportsmen could be seen waiting for the last drive of the day to commence; behind each stood the waiting figure of a loader, ready with the second gun. Listless and inactive as were now these figures, they would shortly become possessed of a feverish energy; for in the turnip-field beyond the blackthorn hedge were many partridges, and, struggle later as they might with obstinate cartridges, their movements would be far too slow for their impatient masters, who with gun discharged would view, in helpless wrath, the easiest of shots pass unscathed overhead.

At one end of the line, comfortably seated on a grouse-stick, a young man was waiting with the rest. He was a young man whose face wore a look of great conceit, this appearance being enhanced by a somewhat pronounced eccentricity of attire. There was something about this youth that struck the observer as unusual; he was in some indescribable manner different from his fellows, though to the majority of mankind it must be owned the difference was not of a pleasing kind. This gentleman was Lieutenant Hector Graeme, senior subaltern of Her Majesty's 1st Regiment of Lancers, now on foreign service in India. In accordance with his usual habit of evading his duties—or so said his enemies, among whom might be included the greater part of his brother officers—Graeme had been successful in dodging the troopship; and, having been left behind with the depot at Canterbury, was on leave from that place and staying as a guest at Radford Hall, Sir Thomas being an old friend of his father's.

Standing behind him—for the idea of yielding up his seat had somehow not occurred to him—was Lucy Caldwell, Sir Thomas' only daughter and the mistress of his household, he having been a widower for many years. In her hand she was holding Hector's second gun, her obvious intention being to act as loader to the fortunate subaltern. This, it may be remarked, was a task Lucy was thoroughly capable of performing, the young lady having been born and bred amongst sportsmen; indeed, there was little concerning beasts and birds of the field with which she was not thoroughly familiar.

At the present moment, however, there was a somewhat annoyed expression on her usually good-tempered face, and her brow was knit as she stood listening to the shrill "tirwit, tirwit," rising from the turnip-field.

"Most provoking you should have the worst place for this drive, Mr. Graeme," she said at length; "it will be the best of the day, I know, and the birds always fly over the centre and right."

"Don't you worry about that, Miss Caldwell," answered Hector; "it's the luck of the draw; and anyway the birds will come to me all right, you see if they don't."

"Indeed they will not; they'll make for that field of roots over there, they always do."

"Not this time, I think. Birds are curious things; they like coming to the best shot; and that I am, here anyway. Gad, I don't believe I could miss to-day. Confess, Miss Caldwell, you don't often see such shooting as mine, now do you?"

Lucy frowned. She had been taught to look upon bragging of any sort as an impossible thing, and the remark jarred.

"Of course you're a good shot, Mr. Graeme," she said rather coldly; "but it's hardly necessary to proclaim the fact, is it? As for the birds coming to you, you may know better than I do. I've lived here twenty-one years, it's true, but——"

A sudden whir of wings cut her short, and away past Graeme sped an old French partridge, which was out of sight in the dusk behind before he had time to raise his gun.

"Damn!" said Hector, "what did I tell you? Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but that's rather annoying, an old Frenchman too; probably played that game many times before. Clean defeat, and I don't like it. Hullo, they've started," as through a gap in the hedge before them a distant line of white flags could be seen advancing. "Now, be quiet, like a good girl, and I promise you some fancy shooting."

"Over," "over," came faintly from the advancing flags, followed some seconds later by a humming sound, rapidly growing louder, till with a roar a large covey of birds topped the blackthorn hedge, and then, seeing Graeme, broke up and scattered in all directions. A breathless moment followed, the air resounding with the crack of guns and whirring of wings, and then silence.

"How many down, Mr. Graeme?" gasped Lucy, struggling with a stuck cartridge.

"Three, for goodness' sake keep count or we shan't know where we are. Notice that last shot of mine, by the way? Sixty yards at least, and stone dead. No. Pity. Look out, there are more coming, straight to me as usual." Another right and left. "Oh, please be quicker. Damn, my guns are getting red hot. See these four coming? I'll have 'em all, hanged if I don't." Two double shots followed, and then a cry of exultation. "Done it, by the Lord! What price De Grey now? I told you I couldn't miss. Only hope the others are looking, particularly old Persian War. Wish he was next me; I'd give a fiver to wipe his eye. How many down? Thirty I make it."

"Twenty-seven, Mr. Graeme, one a runner."

"Runner, not it. I'm not dealing in runners to-day. All dead as stones. There are two more for you," as a brace came swinging over and were promptly crumpled up dead in the air. "That makes twenty-nine by your counting, thirty-two by mine. Hang! here are the beaters, and the day's over. How many down, Fox?" to a keeper who had now come up. "Thirty-two all dead."

"Gum, but that's good shooting," answered Fox, while a murmur of approbation arose from a cluster of smock-frocked beaters. "Thought I saw someone a-cutting of 'em down, sir, and I said as 'ow I thought it must be the Captain. Only 'ope the other gentlemen 'ave done as well. Hi, Rover, seek lost, good dawg, good dawg. Ah, drop it, now, would you? Oh, thankye, sir, thankye very much," and the tactful Fox's hand closed on a five-pound note, a golden sovereign being likewise bestowed on the cluster of approving smock-frocks.

The courtiers thus rewarded, Graeme turned to Lucy. "And now we'll walk home across the park," he said; "no use waiting for the waggonette, what do you say, Miss Caldwell?"

"I don't think I will, Mr. Graeme. You go if you like. I must get back to make the tea. You know what my uncle is, if he's kept waiting."

"Do him good; he's a great deal too autocratic that old uncle of yours; thinks he's still commanding troops in Bugglaboo, or whatever his infernal Indian station was."

"Mr. Graeme!"

"Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but never mind him. Come along, we'll be home as soon as they are if we start now."

Lucy hesitated. She wanted to go, and for that very reason, being a woman, pretended she did not. The idea, moreover, though pleasing, was nevertheless in some unaccountable way rather alarming; for though ordinarily a walk home with one of her father's guests, however late the hour, would have caused her no qualms, with Graeme, it was different. She had known him but three weeks, and yet in that short time he had come to occupy a place in her thoughts, and, what was worse, to control her actions in a manner most disquieting to a girl as independent and freedom-loving as Lucy Caldwell. This too in spite of the fact that both her father and uncle, the General, had little liking for Mr. Graeme, and were, she knew, secretly rejoicing in the knowledge that he was leaving Radford Hall next day. Hector also was aware of this, and of the feelings of the rest of the house-party; but, having been accustomed to unpopularity since his childhood, their hostility disturbed him not at all.

"Better come, Miss Caldwell," he urged. "See, they'll be ages before they start. It's my last evening here too; I think you might."

Upon which Lucy decided that her reluctance was both prudish and absurd.

"Very well, Mr. Graeme," she answered; "just wait a minute, though, and I'll ask Mr. Robson to let my father know." This done, the two started on their walk, Lucy setting the pace, which was that of a good four miles an hour.

"Where's Lucy, Tom?" said the General, some ten minutes later, as, the bag having been inspected, the two moved off towards the waiting waggonette.

"She'll be here in a minute; she was down at the other end of the line. The last I saw of her she was helping Graeme to collect his birds. Gad, that fellow can shoot, Charles, quite like one of those fellows you read about in the Badminton Library."

"Yes, and we shall hear all about it to-night too—every blessed shot he made, and why he missed. Conceited, bumptious jackanapes."

"Curious thing old Jack Graeme having a son like that, one of the best, old Jack. Must take after his mother, I suppose, she was a queer wild sort—wrong too."

"He's not Jack's son at all; you know that well enough, Tom. Crawford was this fellow's father."

"Surely, you don't believe that old scandal, Charles?"

"Of course I do, this fellow's the dead spit of Crawford. The only difference between them is that he was a devilish good soldier, one of the best we had in the army. I didn't like the fellow, but I'll say that for him. This chap, though, is a waster, so his regiment say. They can't stand him there, and that, as you know, Tom, is a bad sign, a damn bad sign."

"I hope Lucy hasn't taken a fancy to him. It's worrying me a lot, Charles."

"Not she, she's far too sensible. If she did, we'd have to stop it, that's all. I tell you, Tom, I'd sooner see the girl in a convent, or—yes, I would—dead, begad, than see her married to that fellow."

"Oh come, Charles."

"Yes, I would. There's something wrong about the chap; he sets me all on edge; he—— Hullo, Robson, seen my niece?"

"She's walking home with Graeme, General, asked me to let you know. She said she'd be at the house before the waggonette."

"Oh!" said Sir Thomas.

"Damn!" muttered the General.

* * * * *

Meantime the pair under discussion were making their way homewards across the park, Lucy rather silent, Hector discoursing on Hector and that person's recent achievements. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself this evening, and, as a result, more than a little kindly towards his companion. At length, even the topic of self was exhausted, and a sudden rather awkward pause ensued, whereupon Lucy managed to find her voice.

"When do you expect to join your regiment in India, Mr. Graeme," she said, "soon, I suppose, now? How you must be looking forward to it."

Graeme's face clouded. "Next September, I believe, that is, if I do go out. Don't think I shall, though, I've more than half a mind to send in my papers and cut the whole show."

"Surely not, Mr. Graeme, at your age. What on earth would you do with yourself? You couldn't idle for the rest of your life."

"Couldn't I? I could idle very well, Miss Caldwell, besides, I should always find plenty to do with shooting, hunting, and golf. Those are my interests, and pretty good ones too, I think."

"But surely a mere life of sport wouldn't content you. Don't you want to get on in your profession? Really, Mr. Graeme, I cannot understand a man holding such views."

"Perhaps not, but it's a fact all the same. I've no wish to get on, as you call it, indeed I loathe soldiering. What's the good of it after all, what can it lead to? I've no doubt if I chose I could be as good a soldier as any of them, but I don't choose. It's a life of slavery, the army, it's being at the beck and call of every silly fool who happens to have more gold lace on his hat than you have; and then the end—to become a general, a snuffy, purple-faced old ass, like——"

"Like whom, Mr. Graeme?"

"Oh, like Grampus, my present lord at Canterbury, who, when he gives a luncheon party, has the lot of us strutting past him on foot parade to show his importance and amuse his lady friends."

"But all generals are not like that, Mr. Graeme."

"All I've met. It's a natural consequence too, I suppose. When a man's young and in full possession of his faculties he's only a humble captain or major, but as he approaches imbecility he rises in rank, till in the height of senile decay he becomes a general."

"Mr. Graeme, you forget, I think, that my uncle's a——"

"He, of course, is one of the exceptions you just mentioned," said Hector with a rather nasty chuckle.

"Mr. Graeme, you're horrid; I don't wonder people dislike you."

"More do I, though perhaps if you'd been brought up as I have you'd be horrid too."

"What do you mean?"

Graeme hesitated for a moment, frowning, and then burst out, with a ring of passion in his voice:

"You've had a happy life. Miss Caldwell, parents who have been parents, I've not. My father, for some reason, would never look at me, while my mother alternately petted and neglected me. She was a queer being, my mother, mad on spiritualism and such like, and what's more used to drag me into her experiments. She said I was clairvoyant."

"Good heavens, Mr. Graeme, what an awful thing for a woman to do. I beg your pardon; I forget it's your mother I'm speaking of."

"Say what you like; I don't care. I hated her when she was alive, and do now she's dead. It's played the devil with me, Miss Caldwell. I used to lie awake at night often and shriek with terror, and I'm not much better now at times. That's the way I was brought up, nobody to care twopence about me; and gradually I got not to care too, till now I think I hate everybody just as they do me."

"Oh, surely, not everybody," began Lucy, and then stopped suddenly. At something in her voice, Graeme turned and looked at her, a queer thrill of excitement running through him. He tried to see her face, but it was turned from him; the feeling of excitement grew, and his heart began to beat fast.

For some time he too had been conscious of a growing feeling of attraction towards this girl; more, he felt himself to be in love with her—a not unusual experience, by the way, for Hector, to whom all feminine creatures were as magnets to his iron. This feeling, however, though materially contributing to the enjoyment of the past three weeks, had hitherto not been regarded by him as serious, indeed, the idea of proposing to Lucy Caldwell had never once presented itself to him. Now the charms of such a proceeding suddenly occurred to him. The isolation, in which he had hitherto gloried, seemed no longer desirable but hateful, and with this came a sudden longing for sympathy and the love denied him in his childhood. It would be glorious, he thought, to have someone to care for him; to be interested in what he did, to have a home of his own instead of the Mess, which he hated; and straightway Hector made up his mind to do it, and, flinging prudence to the winds, spoke.

"Miss Caldwell, Lucy, is there anyone who cares?"

"I—I shouldn't think so. I—I don't know."

"Do you care?—because I do. I—I love you most—damnably."

"Most damnably?"

"Yes, and if you'll marry me—I've meant to ask you for a long time, but I've funked it before. I'm not much of a catch, I know. I'll try and be different. I could be, I think, if you took me in hand. For God's sake say you will, Lucy."

"But are you sure, Hector? Do you really mean it? Oh, I never said you might, and look, there's an owl flown by; he saw us, I know he did. You might have waited till he'd gone. He has gone now, Hector."

* * * * *

The four miles an hour dwindled down to a bare half. The darkness deepened, owing to which possibly they lost their way, turning east instead of west. Away from the Hall they wandered, oblivious of a purple-faced gentleman who was awaiting them there, and whose wrath was rapidly rising as he viewed the still mistressless tea-table.

CHAPTER II

The fair valley of Kashmir lay drowsing in the August sunshine—a strip of green and gold nestling amid a waste of rocky mountains. All around rose the great hills, bare and sun-scorched for the most part towards the west and south—at which point enters the main road from India—but to the east draped with heavy mantles of fir and towering pine; far away, a glittering rampart of eternal snow and ice, the great mass of the Himalayas barred the way to the north, its jagged peaks and saw-like ridges fretting the deep cloudless blue of the sky.

Over the valley itself, now a riotous waste of colour, hung a shimmering vale of heat; through the warm heavy air, drowsy with the perfume of a thousand blossoms, gaudy dragon-flies darted to and fro, or hung poised with tremulous vibration of gauzy wings; while here and there orange and purple butterflies drifted lazily from flower to flower. Tiny rivulets murmured sleepily, as they threaded their way through woods of chestnut, apple and pear, interspersed with patches of golden millet and Indian corn, the sole worldly wealth of some Kashmiri husbandman, the roof of whose hut might be seen peering through the surrounding clump of trees.

Born in the snowy mountains to the north, the river Jhelum winds its way southwards through the centre of the valley, passing through the great lake of Kashmir, a vast sheet of burnished silver, on the still surface of which lie masses of coral-pink lotus. Onward the river crawls, lapping in sleepy caress the wooden piles and temple-steps of Srinagar, the country's capital, a ramshackle cluster of wooden, chalet-like houses, built on both sides of the river. Still half-asleep, it creeps on for some hundred miles through a land golden with crops and bright with flowers and fruit, on past Baramoula, the terminus of the tonga service from Rawal Pindi, and out by a gorge in the mountains, through which lies the road to India and the south. Then it awakes, and hemmed in by jutting crag and precipice, its course vexed by boulder and quicksand, becomes henceforth a wild torrent, roaring its way onward to Mother Indus and the sea.

Following a rough track leading eastward from Baramoula, and steadily rising as he goes, the traveller passes through some fifteen miles of thinly-wooded country, broken by fields of scanty millet and maize, till at length a large wooden temple is reached, situated in a clearing at the foot of a steep fir-clad ridge. Leaving this behind, he plunges into dense forest, and after an hour's stiff climb reaches the summit, where suddenly and unexpectedly he comes upon a native bazaar of rough wooden huts overlooking an expanse of grassy plain. Roughly circular in shape, this plain is girt on all sides with a thick belt of sombre firs, beyond which again tower the mountains. All around, either just inside the girdle of trees or at its edge, are dotted small wooden houses and clusters of white tents, while in the centre of the plain rises a large and more pretentious-looking edifice, around which one August afternoon a numerous and gaily-dressed crowd was to be seen assembled.

This is Shiraz, the hill-station of Kashmir, and here, when the valley below has become impossible owing to the heat and mosquitoes, flock the English visitors and officials of the country—both black and white. The houses and tents surrounding the plain, or Murg as it is called, are their temporary homes, while the building in the centre is the focus of Shiraz social life, serving indiscriminately as club, library, cricket or polo pavilion.

No ordinary event, however, was responsible for to-day's gathering of notabilities, no pagal gymkhana or crumpet snatch, but something much more serious, namely, the finals of the Shiraz Polo championship, and hence the brightest and best of frocks and frills were here on view, while hats and parasols were positively dazzling in their splendour.

Moreover, an additional incentive had been given to good fellowship, for was not Lady Wilford, the wife of Sir Reginald Wilford, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E. etc, etc., and present Resident of Kashmir, At Home this August afternoon? And no experienced Anglo-Indian lady will, as is well known, forego the delights of a free tea, nor for that matter, of any entertainment, for which someone else pays. Indeed, even one modest rupee gate money has been known in that country to frighten away the fair sex altogether from race-meetings, gymkhana or polo match. To-day, however, there was no such vexatious bar to pleasure, and hence it came about that all was light-hearted enjoyment and hilarity.

Mrs. Twiddell, wife of Major Twiddell of the Supply and Transport Corps, now absent in the plains, looked radiant as she chattered away to her best friend, Mrs. Passy Snorter. True, she had a grievance, though you might not have thought it, the said grievance being the reason that necessitated the wearing of her present attire of pink, instead of one of the ravishing confections of which she had so often made mention.

"Looks charming?" she said prettily, "sweet of you to try and comfort me, dear; it's Paris I know, but such a rag now, poor old pink. So annoying of my husband not to send my boxes up in time;" and her friend, as she sympathetically agreed, wondered how dear Mrs. T. could be such a liar, for had not she—and for that matter all Shiraz—observed the lady's dhirzi[#] stitching away at the despised pink for the last three days in the Twiddell verandah? She could even have told to an anna what the said garment had cost, and the wrangle there had been over the price. She further wondered, incidentally, whether Jack Twiddell had yet paid his club bill at Riwala, for Mrs. Snorter's husband was the secretary of that institution, and told his wife many valuable secrets anent mutual friends.

[#] Native tailor.

Lieutenant Crawler of the 1st Kala Jugas was evidently in his element as, blade of grass in mouth, he discoursed on the merits of the rival teams. Crawler, it is true, bestrode a pony for the first time in his life six months ago on joining his regiment, but he had a good deal to say on the subject of horsemanship, and was expressing his doubts as to the "hands" of most of the competitors. He went on to compare polo with hunting, and indulged in personal reminiscences of the Quorn and Pytchley, of which packs he had read in the papers. Important-looking officials for the nonce laid aside cares of State, and turned condescending ear to the trivial discourse of military acquaintances, or beamed seductively on feminine admirers. The Maharajah Sahib, his retinue of sable followers grouped around him, looked calmly on the scene, now and again bending courteously to some female flatterer, the expression in his dark eyes contrasting strangely with his respectful, almost humble, salutations.

There was a stir—and sudden commotion amongst the crowd. Polo was about to begin, and away surged the chattering throng, making hurriedly for the rows of chairs lining one side of the ground.

The game to be played this afternoon promised to be an exciting one, the rival players being a scratch quartette, calling themselves the Dragon Flies, and four of the 1st Lancers who happened to be in Shiraz on leave. The Lancers were in no sense representative of their corps, one of their number only, Ferrers, the captain, being a member of the regular regimental team, but, as they were better mounted than their opponents, and having had a fair amount of practice together while in Shiraz, they were quite confident of success. The other three were Kinley, Carruthers, and Graeme. The Dragon Flies, however, were opponents not to be despised. True, their ponies were slow in comparison with those of the Lancers, but against this they were handy and well trained, and knew the game as well as their owners. The men also, though hailing from different regiments, and being at the disadvantage of not knowing each other's idiosyncrasies, were with one exception individually far better players than their adversaries, Major Rocket, the captain, being generally considered one of the best Number Twos, if not the best, in India.

The above-mentioned exception was the "One"—Lieutenant Gubbins of the 105th Native Foot, who, though extremely keen, was a far from expert performer, and had a rooted aversion to keeping in his proper place. He had promised, however, on this afternoon to amend his ways, to leave the tempting ball to Number Two, and devote his energies solely to hampering the back—and these promises Gubbins, before starting, had every intention of keeping.

Some distance away from the chattering crowd, watching the saddling of a fine grey Arab pony, stood Graeme and his wife Lucy, for despite the scoffing incredulity of those who knew, or thought they knew, Hector the proposal made that November evening—nearly two years ago—had been duly ratified, and after an engagement of six months the two had been quietly married in Radford church.

There had been opposition, bitter opposition too. Sir Thomas, the General, indeed, the whole of Lucy's relations, having resolutely opposed the match. In vain, however, their efforts had merely succeeded in turning Hector's somewhat indefinite intentions into a fixed resolve. Even Lucy was surprised at the strength of purpose shown by her lover, and, warmly seconding him, between them they finally overcame her father's opposition, though never that of her uncle. The latter for a long time refused to meet Hector, and, but for the reluctance to cause pain to his niece, would undoubtedly have refused to appear at the wedding. So far, the general anticipation of disaster had been singularly at fault; the marriage had turned out a happy one, Hector proving himself a good and considerate husband, while, far from sliding back into former ways, he had flown to the other extreme and become a Puritan, bitterly intolerant of even the mildest lapse from conjugal duty. This, as might be imagined, had not served to increase his popularity, and it was almost universally agreed that, though objectionable enough before his marriage, since that event he had become altogether impossible, and great was the commiseration bestowed on that dear pretty little woman who had the misfortune to be tied to such an ill-conditioned prig.

"The dear pretty little woman," however, stood in no need of their sympathy, being, on the contrary, perfectly and entirely happy. She adored Hector, admired him for his principles, so different from those of other men, and, generally speaking, thought him the most wonderful person in the world. At the present moment she was listening with interest, her arm through his, as he discoursed on polo, more particularly on the part he was likely to take in the forthcoming contest.

Hector's love for this game, though of somewhat recent growth, had become the temporary master-passion of his existence, and to the acquirement of proficiency in it he had flung himself with the violence and concentration of purpose that were usual with him on taking up a new hobby. At home, it is true, he had shown no interest in the subject; it was a feeble game, he had been wont to declare, and one much too easy to play to be worth the learning. Since his arrival in India, however, he had come to regard the matter in a different light. Here everybody played polo; indeed, it was looked upon as the one serious business of life, bar love-making, and straightway it had become Hector's business too. Never would he admit that there could be anything in the way of sports or games at which he could not excel if he chose, and he set to work to provide himself with ponies, first-class tournament ponies too; he would look at nothing else. He had now six, bought at a price far beyond his means, the purchase of which had necessitated the assistance of Ram Lai, the native banker of Riwala, and this done, and all other pursuits abandoned for the nonce, he laid himself out to learn the game.

Henceforth his conversation, his thoughts, his very dreams were of polo, while his contempt for and intolerance of those who had no liking for the pursuit were unbounded. Morning and evening he could be seen assiduously practising shots on the disused drill-ground at the back of his Riwala bungalow, while in odd moments he would employ the saises, khitmagars, and on one occasion—though Lucy had immediately intervened—the cook, in throwing him balls from every direction, while he, astride on a wooden horse, drove the said balls all over the compound. The result of all this was on the whole gratifying, the progress he made being generally conceded to be remarkable, though this verdict was usually qualified by the remark that his proficiency was mainly due to the excellence of his ponies. "Anyone could play who was so well mounted as that bounder Graeme," men were wont to observe, for in India, even more than elsewhere, possessions in excess of one's neighbours are wont to evoke caustic remarks.

Whether this were true or not, Graeme was now able to hold his own in most companies, and was anticipating a veritable triumph this afternoon, when he intended to show the spectators how polo should be played, even though by a novice. His conversation was brought to an end by the loud ringing of a bell, followed by the appearance of Ferrers, fussy and important, summoning his men to the fray. With a hasty farewell to Lucy, and final examination of his stirrup-leathers, Hector mounted the grey pony and cantered into the field, where the rival teams were drawn up in two lines facing each other.

After some delay, owing to young Gubbins' endeavours to secure a flying start, the ball was at length thrown in between the lines by the umpire, and the battle for the Cup had begun.

Straightway arose a confused mêlée of sticks and ponies, followed by much wild hitting, much missing, and considerable dangerous riding, Graeme being neatly bowled over by Gubbins before three minutes had elapsed. All were anxious to hit the ball, no matter where, so long as they hit it, though the general tendency indubitably lay in the direction of the gallery, where the various divinities sat enthroned, watching the doings of their own particular twin souls.

For the first two chukkers there was no score, though this, it must be owned, was chiefly due to the mistaken zeal of the Dragon Flies' Number One, who, forgetful of his good intentions, persisted in trying to hit goals of which he was incapable, instead of devoting his energies to the opposing back and leaving the job to Major Rocket. Had it not been for this, the score would by this time have been very heavy against the Lancers. In the third chukker the disaster so long impending occurred. Rocket, who in the interval had spoken very seriously to Gubbins, at length secured the ball, and with a resounding smack lifted it well over the opposing back's head, when it rolled to within twenty-five yards of the Lancers' goal. Ferrers—the back in question—turned, and slipping the enemy's Number One, made for the ball and ... missed it, leaving Gubbins the chance of his life.

Exultantly the youth raised his stick, and was about to add one more to his already lengthy list of failures, when his arm was paralysed by a roar from behind of "Leave it, you infernal young idiot, leave it, out of the way, confound you!" Though hurt at being thus addressed, the more so as the opprobrious epithet must have reached the owner of a certain pink parasol in the gallery yonder, Gubbins this time managed to restrain his ardour, and obediently sheering off to one side was rewarded by hearing a good clean crack behind him, as the skilful Rocket sent the ball whizzing through the Lancers' goal-post. Instantly arose loud and prolonged applause from the excited gallery, and thus encouraged the Dragon Flies set to work with a will, and by the end of the chukker had scored again twice.

Three to love, two more chukkers to go, and their opponents flushed with success—truly, a bad business for the cavalry team; and faces were troubled and brows gloomy, as they rode slowly away to change their ponies. So far Hector had not distinguished himself. His early upset at the hands of Gubbins had ruffled him badly, and, this disaster having been followed by frequent defeats at the hands of the tricky Rocket, he had finally lost his temper in earnest, with consequent evil results to his play. The recent reverses, however, had affected him very differently from his companions. They were disheartened; he, on the contrary, was thirsting for revenge, and more than ever determined to win the contest, even if it meant the riding down of each individual member of the enemy in turn—indeed, his tactics in the last chukker had evoked more than one indignant cry of "Foul!"

He was now gloomily debating in his mind on whom to commence operations when he came upon the other three standing together, and at sight of the despondency on their faces wrath boiled up in Hector's breast.

"What the devil are you looking so sick for, all of you?" he said angrily. "What if they have got three goals, we can beat them all right. Damme, I'll give you this pony, if we don't!"

They stared at him, and, as they looked, something in his face caused theirs to brighten, and hope once more to dawn in their hearts. In the hour of adversity man will cling to the rottenest straw, but here was a rock, solid and unmoved by the seas in which they were drowning.

"What do you suggest then, Graeme?" said Ferrers, after a pause, oblivious of the fact that he, the hero of many contests, was now asking advice of a novice, of one, moreover, whom he had been wont to consider a fool, so true it is that mere skill and experience must ever bow to strength of personality.

"Do?" said Graeme, seizing the reins of government thus abandoned. "Why, go for them, attack all we know, not merely try to prevent them scoring, as we've been doing up till now. Look here, Ferrers, I'll take charge: you go up 'Two,' I'll take your place at 'Three.' Now, come on, and remember what I say. Force the game for all you're worth. Knock 'em over, doesn't matter, but win we will."

Thus saying, and without a word of protest from his erstwhile captain, Hector led the way into the field, and once more the game started; but this time a very different state of affairs was manifest. The Dragon Flies, so far from attacking now, were soon solely occupied in the endeavour to save their goal from the furious and repeated attacks of the Lancers. For some time they were successful, but the latter would not be denied, and quite outclassing their opponents at length triumphed over the defence, the goal being followed by a second, scored just as the bell rang. Two goals to three, one more chukker to go, and the excitement in the gallery rising, which excitement increased to frenzy when Carruthers in the next few minutes scored one more goal for the Lancers.

Then an unlooked-for misfortune befell them, for Gubbins, by some happy accident, managed to fluke a subsidiary, and for a moment demoralisation again hovered over the cavalry team. Graeme, however, rallied his men in time, and for a while the game surged equally backwards and forwards up the ground; but a few minutes only remained, and hope was rapidly dying in the hearts of the Lancers' supporters when the last chance arrived. Graeme slipped the opposing Number Three, and securing the ball drove it clean and hard up the ground; galloping on, he followed this up by another not quite so straight, the ball rising in the air and settling within thirty yards of the Dragon Flies' goal. There it lay, a fair white sphere, right in front of Ferrers; a possible near-side shot, but most unlikely.

With passionate, strained attention Hector watched Ferrers' approach, his whole will-power concentrated on the striker, till the surrounding world, the roar of the crowd, the thud of galloping hoofs had passed from sight and hearing, and nothing remained save that flying figure before him. "You shall not miss it," he breathed, "you shall not." He saw the uplifted arm descend, he heard a great shouting, mingled with the clang of the time-bell, and then for a moment all was darkness, till, the mists slowly lifting from his brain, he found himself alone, some fifty yards away from the ground, his pony heaving and gasping beneath him. For a moment he sat, gazing vacantly around, and then, dismounting, slipped his arm through the reins, and led the sweating beast back to the waiting sais.

No one noticed his movements, every one being too excited by the recent sensational finish, and engaged in the laudation of Ferrers, who was the hero of the hour. Justly too, for such a shot at such a crisis had never before been witnessed on the Shiraz ground. Even Crawler was mollified and expressed satisfaction with the play on the whole, though he was of opinion that the Lancers, being better mounted, ought to have won by more, and would probably have done so but for Graeme, who, he noticed, had hardly once struck the ball. He was inclined to think that Ferrers' shot was a fluke, and this remark having given rise to some difference of opinion, the hero himself was approached and asked to give an account of the circumstance. This proved somewhat vague and unsatisfactory.

"Truth is, you fellows," he said, "I really don't remember much about it. I recollect seeing the ball sittin' there, and thinking how bally awful it'd be to miss the beastly thing, and then, well, then I found I'd scored a goal. Rather extraordinary feelin' it was, couldn't do it again, I know."

"Rot, old boy," said Kinley, known in his regiment as "Porky," on account of his appearance and appetite, "of course you could do it again. Tell you what, give you a dozen tries now, and back you for a quid a time. Who'll take?"

A chorus of assent arose, for the wise always took up Porky's bets. A move was made back to the polo ground, and the ball placed in its former position, the succeeding events resulting in the speculator's return to his quarters an hour later a poorer man by twelve golden sovereigns. "Silly fool I was," he mused as he went, "but then I always am a silly fool over the bets I make."

Graeme also came in for a share of the general applause, it being agreed that he had played well; quite wonderfully for a beginner, though of course he wanted experience and knowledge of the game. Still, he had not been the weakness they expected. Ferrers went even further, declaring that Graeme had been the stay of their side, and though, when the first feelings of gratitude had worn off, he recanted somewhat, he now proclaimed the fact aloud and announced his intention of proceeding forthwith to Mrs. Graeme to inform her of his opinion. Lucy, however, was not to be found, for she had seen that to which the others were blind, and had flown forthwith across the ground to where Hector was standing slowly donning his coat and sweater.

"What is it, Hector, what's the matter?" she said, looking anxiously at the drawn haggard face and tired eyes.

"Nothing's the matter, Lucy. What should there be? I'm a bit done, that's all."

"But I saw you reel; it was just after Mr. Ferrers scored that last goal, I thought for a moment you were going to fall. Oh, this polo's too much for you, Hector."

"Fit of giddiness, that's all, I used to be subject to them, you know. I'm all right now; let's go home. What did you think of the game?"

"You played splendidly, all of you did."

"What about Ferrers' play?"

"He was wonderful, Hector, but then of course he's an old hand. When you've played as long as he has you'll be quite as good, much better, I think. But here we are at the house, I'll just ask for a brandy and soda, and then we'll go up to dress. There's a big dinner on to-night, you know. I wish there was not, I should like you to go to bed, oh, why not, Hector? I can easily arrange it with Lady Wilford."

Graeme, however, though anathematising the dinner-party, refused to retire, and an hour afterwards was seated at Sir Reginald's hospitable board, where a large and festive company was assembled, all chattering of polo and the great contest of the afternoon. Hector took little part in the conversation, but sat silent and moody, the efforts of his partner, a light-hearted grass-widow, being wholly powerless to rouse him to the smallest semblance of interest. Even Lucy, watching him in the intervals of lively play with Mr. Carruthers, at length grew indignant, as she noted his air of deep abstraction. She felt sorry for Mrs. Loveall, whose face by this time wore a look of boredom and chagrin, though it is true she would equally have hated that flirtatious lady, had Hector responded in the slightest degree to her overtures.

If he was tired, why had he not gone to bed, as she suggested? That would have been infinitely better than putting in an appearance with the sole object, it seemed, of acting as damper on the general enjoyment. The other men were no doubt tired also, but they had the manners to disguise the fact; why could not Hector be like the rest, and make an effort as they were doing? There, he was yawning; she would like to have shaken him. Graeme, however, persisted in his offence, and if he had succeeded in boring his partner, she in return had well-nigh maddened him. In fact, an almost irresistible impulse to flee was rapidly coming over him; a wild longing to escape from the lights and chattering crowd and calm his shattered nerves in the cool night air. A few minutes more, and he would have done so, but fortunately for his own and Lucy's credit the signal for release came at length; whereupon Hector sprang up, and, leaving Mrs. Loveall to find her handkerchief and other fallen trifles as best she might, made for the open window and fled out into the night, where he stood breathing deep sighs of relief. At his feet slept the now deserted Murg, glistening like some great lake in the light of the full moon. At its edge the huts and tents looked white against the background of shadowy forest and gloomy pine-clad hill, while far away a vision of unearthly beauty glittered faintly, the white splendour of the snows, a spirit city of minarets and spires in a setting of blue. Over all lay the spell of a dead world, that strange haunting influence breathed by the moon wherein two elements are commingled, seemingly apart yet inextricably interfused, the one death and the other love. For, though from a perished universe it comes, it is not gloom but passion it stirs in most human hearts, and in this alliance of Azrael and Eros can be read the great secret of the world—that death is but the passing to another birth, and, without love, birth cannot be.

It was not of the latter that Hector was thinking now, but of that something within him, revealed that afternoon—though but in a paltry game. He knew now, ignore it though he might, that he was not quite as others were, that his was that strange gift of nature—will-power, personal magnetism, call it what you please—the possession of which marks the difference between those who lead and the herd which follows. And as he stood there, with the majesty of sleeping mountain and plumed forest around him, their greatness spoke to that something within him, reproaching it, and at its voice the curious restlessness and discontent born of the afternoon's awakening swelled to a flood of bitter self-contempt. How great was all this, and how very small he and his present aims. Vague longings came over him, a desire for the unattainable, for that it surely was. He, a married man, whose course of life was chosen—a life devoted to games and sport.

For a moment the idea of studying his profession came to him, but at the thought his mind instantly revolted. The rôle of smart soldier had no charms for Graeme; that he knew required a different nature from his, an unimaginative, methodical character, one content to follow the path dictated, not to proceed to the goal by short cuts, as he had done, and always would do, to the annoyance of his military superiors. No, he would leave that to such as Ferrers and Rocket, both reckoned promising candidates for advancement, the former being Adjutant of his regiment, the latter Brigade-Major to the Inspector-General of Cavalry. They were and always would be followers; as for him, he would be leader or nothing.

Well, perhaps his chance would be given him; it always was. Even now there were rumours of trouble on the frontier, and he might be sent. He would be, he would move heaven and earth, and then... "Damn, why the devil can't they leave me alone? Who is it? Oh, you. Lucy, do you want me?"

"Yes; what an unsociable person you are to rush away like this, everybody's gone home. Oh, what a lovely night; look at that moon; it reminds me of board ship. Do you remember?"

"Ship, what ship? Oh yes, of course, exactly like. The crowd too about the same in intelligence as that lot in there."

"Why do you sneer at them, Hector, what's the matter with you this evening?"

"Oh, nothing, only I'm sick to death of this chatter of polo. Hang it, to hear them talk one would think Ferrers had won the V.C. instead of scoring a miserable goal in a match."

"Surely, Hector, it's a little small to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous, Lucy, and what seems to me small is this raving about a mere game. Hang it, there are other things in life besides polo."

Lucy was silent. Accustomed as she was to her husband's frequent changes, this was a little too sudden and unaccountable. She endeavoured to fall in with his mood, however.

"Perhaps you're right, Hector, though I don't think you're quite fair. You know, I've often wished you to take a more serious view of things, your profession, for instance, but you've always snubbed me when I began."

"Bah, my profession."

"Well, why not, surely it's a good enough one for any man? And I believe, Hector, I really do, that you could be as good a soldier as any of them if you worked, perhaps even be adjutant after Mr. Ferrers, and in time command the regiment. Oh, I should love you to command the regiment."

"And after that, Lucy?"

"Oh well, that's as high as I go. I think I should then like you to retire, and perhaps go into Parliament."

"Colonel Graeme, M.P., Lord, what dizzy heights, Lucy."

"Don't sneer, Hector, I mean it, but you'll have to work. I'll take you in hand myself when we return to Riwala. Till then you may play as much as you like. And now I've got some news for you. How would you like to shoot a bear?"

"Bear, where is he?"

"About twelve miles from here, I believe. A native's just come in to tell Sir Reginald, I don't think he much believes in the story, though; he says these Kashmiris are such liars it would be only waste of time going. Still, I think we might persuade him if you'd care for it."

"Rather, of course I would," said Hector, and perchance at the sudden return to mundane interests the great mountains and forests laughed, quietly derisive, for well they knew the resistless force of which they, like him, were but the phenomena, and how—make what plans and resolutions he may—man must dance when the master-hand chooses to pull the strings and call the tune, though till then he is seemingly free to act as he pleases. And so Hector was allowed to become his own confident self once more, and, feeling rather ashamed of his recent lapse from common sense, hurried off with Lucy to the coercion of his unwilling host.

"Oh, Sir Reginald," he said, entering the drawing-room, "my wife tells me there are bears about. Why not have a go at them to-morrow?"

"I hardly think it worth while, Graeme," said the Resident, "I don't suppose there's a bear near the place."

"Surely, the fellow wouldn't dare bring you false khubber?"[#] said Hector. "Why, I'd fine his village a hundred rupees if he did, were I the Resident."