Part 1

Produced by Al Haines.

HECTOR GRAEME

BY EVELYN BRENTWOOD

TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN LONDON: JOHN LANE MCMXII

THE ANCHOR PRESS LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX

*HECTOR GRAEME*

*BOOK I*

*Hector Graeme*

*CHAPTER I*

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.