Hector Graeme

by Evelyn Brentwood

  *CHAPTER II*

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

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

  Born in the snowy mountains to the north, the river Jhelum winds its waysouthwards through the centre of the valley, passing through the greatlake of Kashmir, a vast sheet of burnished silver, on the still surfaceof 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-likehouses, built on both sides of the river. Still half-asleep, it creepson for some hundred miles through a land golden with crops and brightwith flowers and fruit, on past Baramoula, the terminus of the tongaservice from Rawal Pindi, and out by a gorge in the mountains, throughwhich lies the road to India and the south. Then it awakes, and hemmedin by jutting crag and precipice, its course vexed by boulder andquicksand, becomes henceforth a wild torrent, roaring its way onward toMother Indus and the sea.

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

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

  No ordinary event, however, was responsible for to-day's gathering ofnotabilities, no pagal gymkhana or crumpet snatch, but something muchmore serious, namely, the finals of the Shiraz Polo championship, andhence 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, forwas 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 Augustafternoon? And no experienced Anglo-Indian lady will, as is well known,forego the delights of a free tea, nor for that matter, of anyentertainment, for which someone else pays. Indeed, even one modestrupee gate money has been known in that country to frighten away thefair sex altogether from race-meetings, gymkhana or polo match. To-day,however, there was no such vexatious bar to pleasure, and hence it cameabout 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 herbest friend, Mrs. Passy Snorter. True, she had a grievance, though youmight not have thought it, the said grievance being the reason thatnecessitated the wearing of her present attire of pink, instead of oneof the ravishing confections of which she had so often made mention.

  "Looks charming?" she said prettily, "sweet of you to try and comfortme, dear; it's Paris I know, but such a rag now, poor old pink. Soannoying 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 aliar, for had not she--and for that matter all Shiraz--observed thelady's dhirzi[#] stitching away at the despised pink for the last threedays in the Twiddell verandah? She could even have told to an anna whatthe said garment had cost, and the wrangle there had been over theprice. She further wondered, incidentally, whether Jack Twiddell had yetpaid his club bill at Riwala, for Mrs. Snorter's husband was thesecretary of that institution, and told his wife many valuable secretsanent mutual friends.

  [#] Native tailor.

  Lieutenant Crawler of the 1st Kala Jugas was evidently in his elementas, blade of grass in mouth, he discoursed on the merits of the rivalteams. Crawler, it is true, bestrode a pony for the first time in hislife six months ago on joining his regiment, but he had a good deal tosay on the subject of horsemanship, and was expressing his doubts as tothe "hands" of most of the competitors. He went on to compare polo withhunting, and indulged in personal reminiscences of the Quorn andPytchley, of which packs he had read in the papers. Important-lookingofficials for the nonce laid aside cares of State, and turnedcondescending ear to the trivial discourse of military acquaintances, orbeamed seductively on feminine admirers. The Maharajah Sahib, hisretinue of sable followers grouped around him, looked calmly on thescene, now and again bending courteously to some female flatterer, theexpression in his dark eyes contrasting strangely with his respectful,almost humble, salutations.

  There was a stir--and sudden commotion amongst the crowd. Polo wasabout to begin, and away surged the chattering throng, making hurriedlyfor the rows of chairs lining one side of the ground.

  The game to be played this afternoon promised to be an exciting one, therival players being a scratch quartette, calling themselves the DragonFlies, and four of the 1st Lancers who happened to be in Shiraz onleave. The Lancers were in no sense representative of their corps, oneof their number only, Ferrers, the captain, being a member of theregular regimental team, but, as they were better mounted than theiropponents, and having had a fair amount of practice together while inShiraz, they were quite confident of success. The other three wereKinley, Carruthers, and Graeme. The Dragon Flies, however, wereopponents not to be despised. True, their ponies were slow incomparison with those of the Lancers, but against this they were handyand well trained, and knew the game as well as their owners. The menalso, though hailing from different regiments, and being at thedisadvantage of not knowing each other's idiosyncrasies, were with oneexception individually far better players than their adversaries, MajorRocket, the captain, being generally considered one of the best NumberTwos, if not the best, in India.

  The above-mentioned exception was the "One"--Lieutenant Gubbins of the105th Native Foot, who, though extremely keen, was a far from expertperformer, and had a rooted aversion to keeping in his proper place. Hehad promised, however, on this afternoon to amend his ways, to leave thetempting ball to Number Two, and devote his energies solely to hamperingthe back--and these promises Gubbins, before starting, had everyintention of keeping.

  Some distance away from the chattering crowd, watching the saddling of afine grey Arab pony, stood Graeme and his wife Lucy, for despite thescoffi
ng incredulity of those who knew, or thought they knew, Hector theproposal made that November evening--nearly two years ago--had been dulyratified, and after an engagement of six months the two had been quietlymarried in Radford church.

  There had been opposition, bitter opposition too. Sir Thomas, theGeneral, indeed, the whole of Lucy's relations, having resolutelyopposed the match. In vain, however, their efforts had merely succeededin 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 herfather's opposition, though never that of her uncle. The latter for along time refused to meet Hector, and, but for the reluctance to causepain to his niece, would undoubtedly have refused to appear at thewedding. So far, the general anticipation of disaster had beensingularly at fault; the marriage had turned out a happy one, Hectorproving himself a good and considerate husband, while, far from slidingback into former ways, he had flown to the other extreme and become aPuritan, bitterly intolerant of even the mildest lapse from conjugalduty. This, as might be imagined, had not served to increase hispopularity, and it was almost universally agreed that, thoughobjectionable enough before his marriage, since that event he had becomealtogether impossible, and great was the commiseration bestowed on thatdear pretty little woman who had the misfortune to be tied to such anill-conditioned prig.

  "The dear pretty little woman," however, stood in no need of theirsympathy, being, on the contrary, perfectly and entirely happy. Sheadored Hector, admired him for his principles, so different from thoseof other men, and, generally speaking, thought him the most wonderfulperson in the world. At the present moment she was listening withinterest, her arm through his, as he discoursed on polo, moreparticularly on the part he was likely to take in the forthcomingcontest.

  Hector's love for this game, though of somewhat recent growth, hadbecome the temporary master-passion of his existence, and to theacquirement of proficiency in it he had flung himself with the violenceand concentration of purpose that were usual with him on taking up a newhobby. At home, it is true, he had shown no interest in the subject; itwas a feeble game, he had been wont to declare, and one much too easy toplay to be worth the learning. Since his arrival in India, however, hehad come to regard the matter in a different light. Here everybodyplayed polo; indeed, it was looked upon as the one serious business oflife, bar love-making, and straightway it had become Hector's businesstoo. Never would he admit that there could be anything in the way ofsports or games at which he could not excel if he chose, and he set towork to provide himself with ponies, first-class tournament ponies too;he would look at nothing else. He had now six, bought at a price farbeyond his means, the purchase of which had necessitated the assistanceof Ram Lai, the native banker of Riwala, and this done, and all otherpursuits 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 forthe pursuit were unbounded. Morning and evening he could be seenassiduously practising shots on the disused drill-ground at the back ofhis Riwala bungalow, while in odd moments he would employ the saises,khitmagars, and on one occasion--though Lucy had immediatelyintervened--the cook, in throwing him balls from every direction, whilehe, astride on a wooden horse, drove the said balls all over thecompound. The result of all this was on the whole gratifying, theprogress he made being generally conceded to be remarkable, though thisverdict was usually qualified by the remark that his proficiency wasmainly due to the excellence of his ponies. "Anyone could play who wasso well mounted as that bounder Graeme," men were wont to observe, forin India, even more than elsewhere, possessions in excess of one'sneighbours are wont to evoke caustic remarks.

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

  After some delay, owing to young Gubbins' endeavours to secure a flyingstart, 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 _melee_ of sticks and ponies, followed bymuch wild hitting, much missing, and considerable dangerous riding,Graeme being neatly bowled over by Gubbins before three minutes hadelapsed. All were anxious to hit the ball, no matter where, so long asthey hit it, though the general tendency indubitably lay in thedirection 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 beowned, was chiefly due to the mistaken zeal of the Dragon Flies' NumberOne, who, forgetful of his good intentions, persisted in trying to hitgoals of which he was incapable, instead of devoting his energies to theopposing back and leaving the job to Major Rocket. Had it not been forthis, the score would by this time have been very heavy against theLancers. In the third chukker the disaster so long impending occurred.Rocket, who in the interval had spoken very seriously to Gubbins, atlength secured the ball, and with a resounding smack lifted it well overthe opposing back's head, when it rolled to within twenty-five yards ofthe Lancers' goal. Ferrers--the back in question--turned, and slippingthe enemy's Number One, made for the ball and ... missed it, leavingGubbins the chance of his life.

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

  Three to love, two more chukkers to go, and their opponents flushed withsuccess--truly, a bad business for the cavalry team; and faces weretroubled and brows gloomy, as they rode slowly away to change theirponies. So far Hector had not distinguished himself. His early upsetat the hands of Gubbins had ruffled him badly, and, this disaster havingbeen followed by frequent defeats at the hands of the tricky Rocket, hehad finally lost his temper in earnest, with consequent evil results tohis play. The recent reverses, however, had affected him verydifferently from his companions. They were disheartened; he, on thecontrary, was thirsting for revenge, and more than ever determined towin the contest, even if it meant the riding down of each individualmember of the enemy in turn--indeed, his tactics in the last chukker hadevoked more than one indignant cry of "Foul!"

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

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

  They stared at him, and, as they looked, something in his face causedtheirs to brighten, and hope once more to dawn in their hearts. In thehour of adversity man will cling to the rottenest straw, but here was arock, 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 askingadvice of a novice, of one, moreover, whom he had been wont to considera fool, so true it is that mere skill and experience must ever bow tostrength 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 themscoring, as we've been doing up till now. Look here, Ferrers, I'll takecharge: 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; butthis time a very different state of affairs was manifest. The DragonFlies, so far from attacking now, were soon solely occupied in theendeavour to save their goal from the furious and repeated attacks ofthe Lancers. For some time they were successful, but the latter wouldnot be denied, and quite outclassing their opponents at length triumphedover the defence, the goal being followed by a second, scored just asthe bell rang. Two goals to three, one more chukker to go, and theexcitement in the gallery rising, which excitement increased to frenzywhen Carruthers in the next few minutes scored one more goal for theLancers.

  Then an unlooked-for misfortune befell them, for Gubbins, by some happyaccident, managed to fluke a subsidiary, and for a moment demoralisationagain hovered over the cavalry team. Graeme, however, rallied his menin time, and for a while the game surged equally backwards and forwardsup the ground; but a few minutes only remained, and hope was rapidlydying in the hearts of the Lancers' supporters when the last chancearrived. Graeme slipped the opposing Number Three, and securing theball drove it clean and hard up the ground; galloping on, he followedthis up by another not quite so straight, the ball rising in the air andsettling within thirty yards of the Dragon Flies' goal. There it lay, afair 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 surroundingworld, the roar of the crowd, the thud of galloping hoofs had passedfrom sight and hearing, and nothing remained save that flying figurebefore him. "You shall not miss it," he breathed, "you shall not." Hesaw the uplifted arm descend, he heard a great shouting, mingled withthe 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 gaspingbeneath him. For a moment he sat, gazing vacantly around, and then,dismounting, slipped his arm through the reins, and led the sweatingbeast back to the waiting sais.

  No one noticed his movements, every one being too excited by the recentsensational finish, and engaged in the laudation of Ferrers, who was thehero of the hour. Justly too, for such a shot at such a crisis hadnever before been witnessed on the Shiraz ground. Even Crawler wasmollified and expressed satisfaction with the play on the whole, thoughhe was of opinion that the Lancers, being better mounted, ought to havewon by more, and would probably have done so but for Graeme, who, henoticed, had hardly once struck the ball. He was inclined to think thatFerrers' shot was a fluke, and this remark having given rise to somedifference of opinion, the hero himself was approached and asked to givean account of the circumstance. This proved somewhat vague andunsatisfactory.

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

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

  A chorus of assent arose, for the wise always took up Porky's bets. Amove was made back to the polo ground, and the ball placed in its formerposition, the succeeding events resulting in the speculator's return tohis 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 sillyfool over the bets I make."

  Graeme also came in for a share of the general applause, it being agreedthat he had played well; quite wonderfully for a beginner, though ofcourse he wanted experience and knowledge of the game. Still, he hadnot been the weakness they expected. Ferrers went even further,declaring that Graeme had been the stay of their side, and though, whenthe first feelings of gratitude had worn off, he recanted somewhat, henow proclaimed the fact aloud and announced his intention of proceedingforthwith 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 wereblind, and had flown forthwith across the ground to where Hector wasstanding slowly donning his coat and sweater.

  "What is it, Hector, what's the matter?" she said, looking anxiously atthe 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 lastgoal, I thought for a moment you were going to fall. Oh, this polo'stoo 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. Whenyou've played as long as he has you'll be quite as good, much better, Ithink. But here we are at the house, I'll just ask for a brandy andsoda, 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, whynot, Hector? I can easily arrange it with Lady Wilford."

  Graeme, however, though anathematising the dinner-party, refused toretire, and an hour afterwards was seated at Sir Reginald's hospitableboard, where a large and festive company was assembled, all chatteringof polo and the great contest of the afternoon. Hector took little partin the conversation, but sat silent and moody, the efforts of hispartner, a light-hearted grass-widow, being wholly powerless to rousehim to the smallest semblance of interest. Even Lucy, watching him inthe intervals of lively play with Mr. Carruthers, at length grewindignant, as she noted his air of deep abstraction. She felt sorry forMrs. Loveall, whose face by this time wore a look of boredom andchagrin, though it is true she would equally have hated that flirtatiouslady, had Hector responded in the slightest degree to her overtures.

  If he was tired, why had he not gone to bed, as she suggested? Thatwould have been infinitely better than putting in an appearance with thesole object, it seemed, of acting as damper on the general enjoyment.The other men were no doubt tired also, but they had the manners todisguise the fact; why could not Hector be like the rest, and make aneffort as they were doing? There, he was yawning; she would like tohave shaken him. Graeme, however, persisted in his offence, and if hehad succeeded in boring his partner, she in return had well-nighmaddened him. In fact, an almost irresistible impulse to flee wasrapidly coming over him; a wild longing to escape from the lights andchattering crowd and calm his shattered nerves in the cool night air. Afew minutes more, and he would have done so, but fortunately for his ownand Lucy's credit the signal for release came at length; whereuponHector sprang up, and, leaving Mrs. Loveall to find her handkerchief andother fallen trifles as best she might, made for the open window andfled out into the night, where he stood breathing deep sighs of relief.At his feet slept the now deserted Murg, glistening like some great lakein the light of the full moon. At its edge the huts and tents lookedwhite against the background of shadowy forest and gloomy pine-cladhill, while far away a vision of unearthly beauty glittered faintly, thewhite splendour of the snows, a spirit city of minarets and spires in asetting of blue. Over all lay the sp
ell of a dead world, that strangehaunting influence breathed by the moon wherein two elements arecommingled, seemingly apart yet inextricably interfused, the one deathand the other love. For, though from a perished universe it comes, itis not gloom but passion it stirs in most human hearts, and in thisalliance of Azrael and Eros can be read the great secret of theworld--that death is but the passing to another birth, and, withoutlove, birth cannot be.

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

  For a moment the idea of studying his profession came to him, but at thethought his mind instantly revolted. The _role_ of smart soldier had nocharms for Graeme; that he knew required a different nature from his, anunimaginative, methodical character, one content to follow the pathdictated, not to proceed to the goal by short cuts, as he had done, andalways would do, to the annoyance of his military superiors. No, hewould leave that to such as Ferrers and Rocket, both reckoned promisingcandidates for advancement, the former being Adjutant of his regiment,the latter Brigade-Major to the Inspector-General of Cavalry. They wereand always would be followers; as for him, he would be leader ornothing.

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

  "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; itreminds me of board ship. Do you remember?"

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

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

  "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 ofscoring 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 abouta mere game. Hang it, there are other things in life besides polo."

  Lucy was silent. Accustomed as she was to her husband's frequentchanges, this was a little too sudden and unaccountable. Sheendeavoured 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 Ibegan."

  "Bah, my profession."

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

  "And after that, Lucy?"

  "Oh well, that's as high as I go. I think I should then like you toretire, 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 youin hand myself when we return to Riwala. Till then you may play as muchas you like. And now I've got some news for you. How would you like toshoot a bear?"

  "Bear, where is he?"

  "About twelve miles from here, I believe. A native's just come in totell 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 timegoing. Still, I think we might persuade him if you'd care for it."

  "Rather, of course I would," said Hector, and perchance at the suddenreturn 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 andresolutions he may--man must dance when the master-hand chooses to pullthe strings and call the tune, though till then he is seemingly free toact as he pleases. And so Hector was allowed to become his ownconfident self once more, and, feeling rather ashamed of his recentlapse from common sense, hurried off with Lucy to the coercion of hisunwilling host.

  "Oh, Sir Reginald," he said, entering the drawing-room, "my wife tellsme 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'tsuppose there's a bear near the place."

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

  [#] Information.

  "Oh, please let's go, Sir Reginald," said Lucy. "It would be a day outwhether we shot anything or not. Lady Wilford will come too, and we'llhave a ripping time. I should love it."

  The Resident hesitated. He knew perfectly well that what Graeme hadsaid was true, and that no Kashmiri would have dared to bring him falseinformation, but he had secret and most important reasons for notwishing to leave his post at the time. That morning's mail had broughtin news of serious trouble on the North West Frontier, hinting,moreover, at the possibility of its being necessary to recall to theirregiments all officers now on leave in Shiraz. This information, beingconfidential, could not be given as a reason for refusing Graeme and hiswife. The latter continued to press the attack.

  "I have never seen a bear except in the Zoo," she pleaded, "and Ipromise to be very good and quiet, and not get in the way. Oh, do go."

  "I have never had a chance with that new .303 of mine," said Hector,"and I badly want to give that lazy devil of a shikari of mine somethingto do, and see if he's the wonder he makes himself out to be, simplyeating and smoking his head off in idleness, the brute."

  "My dear fellow, I should like it as much as you do, but we're ratherbusy in the office just now, and..."

  "Why not go, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford. "It would be a day out, asMrs. Graeme says, and anything urgent could be sent after you by apeon;[#] it's only twelve miles."

  [#] Native Messenger.

  The Resident capitulated straightway, as was his habit with his wife.After all, she was right, he thought, and most likely no letter ofimportance would come. If it did, well, his secretary could give outthe necessary orders to the officers. He would chance it and go.

  "Very well, my dear," he said, "if you're set upon it; only don't blameme if the bears fail to appear, that's all. I'll go now, and start offthe servants with the tents, etc. You'd better go to bed at once, younglady," turning to Lucy; "we'll have to leave here by five at latest, youtoo, Graeme, you must be tired after your exertions to-day. By the way,Latimer," to his secretary, "you might give me a few minutes in mystudy, there are one or two things I want to see you about," and SirReginald went off to make his preparations for the morrow.

  Graeme, having first inspected the aforementioned .303, proceeded tointerview his shikari, to whom he imparted the unwelcome news of theforthcoming expedition. This done, he acted upon his host's advice,and, making his way to his room, was soon in bed and asleep.