Part 15

Again he looked around, and saw some distance away a white object, with pole attached, looming gigantic against the sky, as it rose and fell to the lift of the waves. Striking out, he swam towards it, and, seizing the cork circle, held on, his eyes searching the water about him, and then, with an exclamation, let go and struck out to where a black object had appeared for a moment above the surface and disappeared. Reaching the spot, he waited, peering down, until it again slowly rose, and a steel claw shot up from the depths, gripped his foot, and under went Hector in the hold of a drowning man. Then up once more, the two interlocked, till wrenching his arm free, Graeme beat on the other's head, and the frenzied struggling ceased. Then throwing himself on his back, and clutching the man's coat-collar, he slowly towed his prize back, and, reaching the buoy just as his strength was failing, held on gasping, the other's head falling forward into the water, where it lay.

For a minute Graeme remained contemplating him, and then hauling him up beside him, looked closely into his face.

"Dead, I think," he muttered, "and God knows I hope so. Anyway, I've saved what's left of you. I'm a hero now, thanks to you, you drunken sweep," and despite circumstances hardly calculated for mirth, something seemed to tickle Graeme, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

Suddenly he stopped, with a startled look in his eyes. "Now what was that?" he murmured. "I could have sworn something touched my foot." He looked down, and below him saw hanging a dark shadow: a dull eye was fixed upon his, and then the shadow was gone, hung poised for a moment, and whirling round, came back. A monstrous shape gleamed white through the green beneath him--a savage tug, and the burden he was holding was nearly torn from his grasp, and then became strangely light, trailed loose in the water, now no longer clear.

For a second, Graeme was seized with wild terror, a loud shuddering shriek burst from his lips and went echoing across the sea; a hoarse shout of encouragement, the rattle and bang of feet upon boards, coming in instant response from the boat rushing onwards. Well its crew knew the meaning of that cry, knew also that their efforts might be all in vain, and where rescuer and rescued now floated nothing might be found save a few torn rags and a swirl of bloody water.

With this vision before their eyes, they bent themselves to their work; rough hands closed on the great oars, and corded muscles stood out on forearms, till the heavy boat rushed through the water and foam flew up from her bows. But the shriek was not repeated, for already rage had conquered fear in Hector's heart, and with rage came not only the fierce determination to hold on to that which he had won, but to grapple with and destroy this new enemy who had dared to attack him.

Feverishly he sought for a weapon, and in his pocket found a small knife. With eyes as wicked as those beneath him he peered down, his arm drawn back to strike. On came the shape once more, down went Hector's hand, a curse escaping him as the enemy turned and fled. "Damn you!" he shouted to his burden, "but for you I'd go after him, I can't leave you, though; I've sworn to get you back and I will. Come on, come on!" he shrieked.

"It's all right, sir; you're safe now," sounded from close behind, and Graeme and his prize were seized, hauled up and placed gently in the boat, a horrified "Gawd!" rising from the crew as they saw what Hector was holding in his arms. For, as he himself had said, it was only what was left of Hayward that had been saved from the seas.

"Let me go, blast you, let me go!" screamed Graeme, struggling with a burly sailor. "I've not begun on that shark yet, let me go!"

"Strike me, but you're a masterpiece!" muttered a voice. "It's no use, though, sir; the bastard's gone. Look," and a hand pointed to a black triangle, swiftly moving through the water a hundred yards away.

"'Ark, sir, to that," cried another; "they've seed you, sir, from the ship," and for a moment the creaking of the oars ceased, all listening to a dull roar rolling across the water from the motionless _Dunrobin Castle_. "They're cheering you, sir; blow me if we don't cheer too," and seven lusty voices set up an answering shout, Graeme the while sitting frowning at the still open knife in his hand.

"Spoilt it all," he muttered, "that devil getting off."

Back across the sea the boat went springing, and, as she neared the grey side, from the whole ship's company--crew, passengers, stewards, even the white-aproned and behatted cooks waving ladles and frying-pans--renewed cheering arose, and then suddenly was hushed, for the boat was now under their eyes and they saw the grim heap in its stern.

Up the lowered ladder went Graeme, the Captain himself standing at the gangway to meet him.

"You're a brave man, sir," he said; "it's not your fault it's been so ... little use."

Graeme said nothing, for again the ill-timed merriment was seething within him, and only with the greatest difficulty was held in check.

He hurried on, and then stopped, for Stara was before him, a new Stara to him, the grey eyes misty with tears and face white and quivering.

"I've brought him back, Stara, what's left of him, a shark tried to get the rest, but I fought him and won."

"God bless you, Hector. I--I----" and Stara burst out crying, whereupon the cheering was renewed, and Graeme, with exultation in his heart, went below.

* * * * *

"Can't--can't you forget it, Hector, it was wrung from me, is it fair to take advantage of a moment of weakness?"

Stara's form drooped before him, her whole attitude spoke defeat. Alone on the darkened decks the two were standing; eight bells had just clanged through the stillness.

Hector looked at her, his eyes glowing into hers, drew nearer and then suddenly bent and kissed her. Maddened at the touch of those soft lips, he caught her to him and repeated the offence a dozen times, Stara resting passive in his arms.

"Darling, why struggle any longer?" he whispered. "We love each other; it's no use fighting, Stara. Oh, my love my love;" and then stopped confounded, for the girl had done the best thing she could, and was sobbing violently on his shoulder.

At the sight, that which men call the better mood came upon Hector, passion yielding for the moment to tenderness, its child.

He laid his hand on the bowed head and stroked her hair.

"Stara, dearest, listen. It's true I love you, and you--it's no use denying it now--love me; but there's no harm in that. I won't hurt you, dear. You're safe with me. We don't injure that which we love, Stara."

Stara looked up at him, the grey eyes tear-dimmed and hair tumbled.

"It--it's not possible, Hector; I couldn't trust you or--or ... myself."

"I'm strong enough for both, Stara."

Stara stared into his eyes, searching for that she wished to find, and wishing, as always, found.

"I want to trust you, Hector."

"You can. You're sacred to me."

"If I do, will you promise to--to be as you were, before ... you ... knew, you won't make love to me, you--you'll never try to kiss me again, you'll be content with my friendship?"

"More than content, Stara."

"If--if you really mean that, dear, if you won't take advantage of what I've said, I--I ... will trust you, and ... for the last time I will say it again, I love you, Hector. Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, Stara." He turned away, his eyes looking out seawards. A touch on his shoulder roused him, and looking round, he saw Stara once more before him, her face scarlet and eyes shy.

"Hector."

"My dearest."

"I--I've come back to say ... good-night, dear; and ... as it's for the last time, and from now we're only ... friends, you may ... just for this once..."

For a moment she clung to him, returning kiss for kiss, and then, breaking free, hurried away, leaving Hector on fire behind her.

*CHAPTER XIV*

"What you venture to propose to me now, Colonel Graeme, is, in plain English, a double establishment, over one of which I am to have the honour of presiding, and this, I suppose," tapping a slip of paper in her hand, "is my first quarter's housekeeping allowance?"

Stara's voice was like the dropping of ice-cold water and her eyes steely as she stood up, straight and slim, every faculty alert and concentrated on the crushing of her opponent, who was carelessly lounging against the ship's rail, his half-closed eyes fixed on hers.

"The exact opposite, as of course you know; but 'even as the sepia darkens the water with ink, so does woman.'"

The thin ice of Stara's composure flew into a thousand sparkling fragments, the grey eyes darkened as she moved towards him, her small hands clenched.

"You, you stand there and jibe at me! You insult a girl you professed to--to care for, and then laugh at her. You ... devil!"

"I told you I loved you, if that's what you mean by professing. I say so now, and give you the greatest proof I can."

"How? By proposing to degrade me, me who you said was sacred to you, by a low intrigue? Your wife one day, I suppose, and me the next. I'm to be your toy, an amusement when you tire of her or want distraction from your soldiering. A proof of love, faugh! This cheque's another proof, I suppose you think."

"Hadn't you better be quiet and listen?"

The thicker ice of Graeme's self-control was now beginning to crack ominously.

"I won't. I hate you. You took advantage of a moment of weakness any other man would have respected, to--to make me say things. You swore I could trust you, and I, like a fool, believed it, and against my own judgment let things be as before. I've sat with you, tried to amuse you, dressed for you even, why, it was for you I put on this dress to-night, because you said you liked it and this was our last night together. And all the time you were thinking, planning ... this."

She stopped suddenly, for Graeme, all pretence of composure abandoned, had seized her by the shoulders and was shaking her. For a moment she faced him bravely, and then before his anger hers died. She began to tremble, and then broke down and sobbed.

"Now, will you listen to me? If I have to keep you here all night to do it, I'll make you in the end. You're wrong, altogether wrong."

"I won't. I don't want to hear; and how--how can I be wrong? You said you wanted me to belong to you, and how can I, except in--in the way I said? You're married, and--and ... you gave me money; it's the money which kills me!" And passion reawakening, she flung the cheque from her over the rail. For a moment it fluttered in the breeze, and then was blown back again to their feet. Hector picked it up, smoothed it out, and, after looking at it for a moment, put it in his pocket.

"Perhaps it's as well you did not present this, Stara," he said; "I forgot to date it, as I usually do. Now, if you're ready and won't interrupt, I'll explain."

"You can't. Don't try to. I shan't believe you whatever you say. Oh, go on then."

"I'll take the money first; that's a trifle, the other's not. You remember some time ago, when I told you I was always hard up, you offered me your quarter's allowance. Fifty pounds it was--all you had."

"That was different."

"And you said that surely one friend could do a little thing like that for another. Did I fly out at you then?"

"But you didn't take it."

"Because I didn't want the money. You do. There are those bills you told me about."

"I would never have told you, had I thought you'd take advantage like this. That's not what I did it for."

"I know that as well as you do, but all the same you did tell me, and you said that, when you reached London, they'd probably serve a writ on you. Now, I'm not going to have you bothered by beastly tradespeople, and so I did the little thing you said one friend might do for another--I wrote you a cheque."

"Hector, will you swear that was all you meant?"

"Certainly I will."

"Oh ... We'll let that pass, then, though I don't say I believe it, mind. And now for the other, rather more difficult of explanation, I imagine."

"I'm coming to that presently. First, you must take this money."

"I will not, the idea."

"I'll give you another cheque to-morrow morning. That's settled. Now..."

"Oh, please, please don't ask me. Well, if--if I do, I won't spend the money."

"Please yourself about that; and now for the other." He paused, and then again seizing her by the shoulders while the glow in his eyes became a leaping flame, went on: "We love each other, Stara, and love such as ours must be satisfied. What do conventions matter to you and me; leave them to the weak fools whose lives they trammel. Belong to me you shall, not, as you think, by paltry deceit, but openly, for the whole world to see. It's marriage I offer you, not dishonour."

Stara looked up at him bewildered.

"Are you mad, Hector, your wife?"

"What is she to me--what is anything to me? Stara, in the whole world I can see but one thing now, you, and you I swear to have."

"I don't understand. You're married; nothing can alter that. Oh, why talk about impossibilities?"

"There's nothing impossible to me. There never was from the time you told me you loved me. Listen and I'll tell you what I mean to do. To-morrow I shall see her--I will call her 'my wife' no longer, Stara--and I'll tell her it's you I love and not her. I'll say, too, I've come to break with her, that the past is finished and a new life begun. Oh, I've thought it all out; the thing's as good as done now."

"I won't be party to such a hateful bargain. Besides, what if--if she won't?"

"She will, she's a sensible woman; she will understand and set me free, and then, then, Stara, I shall claim you."

"You shall not, I won't be a party to this, I say. Oh Hector, dear, this is madness. Think what you're saying, think what it means, to abandon a wife of ten years for a woman you met but three weeks ago, the dragging of your name through the mud of the Divorce Court. Never, Hector, never!"

"Such things are nothing to me, but you do what you like, consent or not as you like. I shall do it all the same. Can't you see it's my love for you that has made it impossible for me to go back to her?"

"But, Hector, we--you would forget in time; you will come together again and--and be glad."

"Like they do in moral story books, I suppose, and why should we? We've got a chance of heaven now; we don't get many. D'you think I'm going to give up that for mere paltry scruples? Bah! you're but a weakling after all."

"I'm not, only I happen to have some sense of honour and the ordinary feelings of humanity. Oh, please, please, listen to me."

"Spare yourself the trouble; my mind's made up. It's but a small thing lies between us and happiness, and now you shrink from it, though you're not asked to do anything but look on."

"A small thing, great heavens, you call this a small thing!"

"Anything's small that stands between you and me."

Stara was silent, feeling the futility of further opposition.

"What--what is it you want me to do, then?" she said slowly.

"Marry me when I'm free."

"And if she refuses?"

"She will not, I tell you; but if she does, we'll have to content ourselves with platonics, I suppose. In any case I break with her."

"You'd be satisfied with--platonics?"

"No, I should not, but I won't ask more of you. I promise you that, and I keep my word, Stara."

Again the girl was silent.

"You really mean to do this thing, Hector--nothing I can say will stop you?"

"Oh, why go over old ground, Stara? Now, about you, will you wait in London till I return?

"No; I will go back to South Africa by the next boat. My brother will think me mad, but he'll be glad all the same. He always hated my nursing schemes. And there's something I want to say now, Hector, before I leave you." She paused and then went on hurriedly: "When--when it's over, definitely broken off, I mean--and, oh, for my sake, dear, try to get her to divorce you--you may come out to me then."

"Why do you say for your sake, Stara, isn't it for both our sakes?"

"Because--because--oh, I won't tell you now, but perhaps you'll find that I'm not quite the weak creature you think, and if you make this sacrifice for me I too may ... make a return. And, Hector, one thing more. Till then I don't want to see you again, to me it would seem like--like an intrigue. When you come you must be free. And so, when we land to-morrow, don't look for me, you won't find me if you do."

"How am I to give you that cheque, then?"

"Send it by a steward, if you must; and when it's all over, wire to me the one word "Coming." I shall understand and be waiting. Good-bye."

*CHAPTER XV*

The north wind blew keen and lusty over the Norfolk marshland, bending the lush grass and sedge and ruffling the surface of dyke and pool. Overhead there was a sky of pale blue dappled with white and grey, from which shone forth the yellow ball of a December sun.

Tossed in the wind, flocks of screaming plover and white kittiwake flew aimlessly over the green flat; the plaintive cry of a lonely curlew rang eerily as he scudded swiftly along the foreshore. Now and again a sturdy mallard could be seen stoutly battling his way against the wind towards some rush-covered sanctuary, quacking triumphantly as he hung for a moment over it, and then, dropping, was lost to view. Away to the east a low, ragged line of sandhills broke the green monotony, beyond which lay a foam-flecked jade-coloured sea, streaked and mottled with ever-shifting shadows of purple and ultramarine.

Some two miles inland the square, white shape of a house could be seen nestling in a clump of trees, an unpretentious-looking place, despite its appellation of Hall--Cuddingfold Hall, to give it its full title--but solidly built and comfortable, nevertheless. This was the home of which Lucy had written to her husband, and here for the last four months she had been installed, living now in one room, now in another, for painters, paperers and their kind had been plying their respective trades, and life had been full of discomforts.

Their work had been at last completed, and even to Lucy's exacting mind Cuddingfold Hall had been transformed from a ramshackle human warren into an almost perfect dwelling-place. In spite of the somewhat extensive improvements carried out, it was only for twelve months she had rented the Hall, but she had the option of taking it on at the end of that time for seven, twenty-one, or ninety-nine years, if she wished.

That, however, was for her husband to decide--the husband who was arriving that evening after more than three years' absence. Of his decision she had no doubt whatever, but Lucy, in her own way, was wise, and refrained from signing any lease; she knew that to do so without his consent would be more than likely to inspire him with an instant distaste for the place--partridges and ducks notwithstanding. To bind Hector, meant for him to chafe against his bonds and the certain rupture of them.

She would leave him to do it, and, if she knew him aright, that very night would see a letter, nay, a telegram, despatched to the land agent, to the effect that Colonel Graeme would take Cuddingfold Hall for a term of ninety-nine years. Take it? No, he would certainly insist on buying it, and rush up next morning to his bankers, for the purpose of raising the necessary sum. She could hear him say, "What's the good of paying rent, Lucy? Much better buy; it's always cheaper in the end."

Well, if he wanted to, why not? He must certainly not be allowed to raise the money, for that would not be cheaper in the end. It would only result in a financial crisis, as had happened once before, and an ignominious abandonment of their new home before the year was out; and here, at the thought of her husband's business capacity, an irrepressible smile stole over Lucy's face.

No, she had her plan, that being to buy the place herself and give it to him as a present. She had a little money of her own, which had come to her from her mother, and already Lucy had approached the trustees on the subject of reinvestment. They had demurred, it is true, her uncle, the General, being strongly averse to any scheme giving Hector control over his wife's property; but Lucy, as once before, had conquered, and eventually he, with his co-trustee, had agreed. After all, they decided, it was house property, this proposed new investment, and as such allowable under the trust; and, at any rate, the General would take good care that the place was settled upon his niece and that that fellow, as he always designated Hector, should have no chance of laying his hands on it. And so the matter had been left till Graeme's arrival.

On the afternoon of that event, Lucy was sitting on a rush-covered bank, happily dreaming of the time when this estate of marsh and sandhill would be their own. Here, she thought complacently, watching the wheeling birds, they would settle down for life, and partings and war scares would be nightmares of the past. She would have her rose garden, Hector his shooting, and later, she hoped, a seat in the House, and perhaps in time they might--oh Heaven, how she prayed for it--be given a son. Here Lucy's smile died and the blue eyes clouded. A son, a strong, straight-limbed boy, not like Ruby; and at the thought of her, their only child, a sudden passionate feeling of revolt came over Lucy and her eyes filled with angry tears.

"Why," she thought bitterly, "should such a thing have happened to me? I was so looking forward to her coming too, and was so very very careful. It was not my fault, or that of my ancestry; we have always been strong and healthy. Oh, my God, how am I to tell him? I was mad to keep it from him, but it looked so awful in a letter. What will he say when he sees her--he so intolerant of weakness and disliking children at any time? And all these years I expect he's been wondering what she's like, picturing her as a round, rosy child, who'll want to romp with him and pull his hair. Ruby, romping! Oh," a sudden revulsion of feeling coming over her, "what a brute I am, wicked and unnatural. It's not her fault, poor mite; and if I, her mother, run her down, who's to take her part? And perhaps Hector won't take it so hardly; he'll be kind to her, even if he can't love her--Hector could never be anything else. And he won't see much of her; she'll be in her nursery all day; this cold would kill her at once, poor child."

With a sigh, she rose from the bank and made her way back to the house, when for the hundredth time that day she ran through the preparations for her husband's coming, and then, after a short visit to the nursery, went to her room to dress. The sudden chiming of the clock startled her, and hurrying over the last stages of her toilet she flew downstairs, impatiently calling for the pony-cart, though it was not due for a quarter of an hour. Rapidly her anxiety was becoming a fever from waiting when at length the trap appeared. Hastily mounting, she took the reins, and, whipping up the white pony, sent him along at his best pace to the station.

Here, as she might have known, had excitement not rendered reflection impossible, she arrived a good half-hour too soon, a time of waiting that would certainly be prolonged to at least one hour--the trains on that line being remarkable for a monotonous unpunctuality. However, with the aid of a little conversation with the station-master, a thorough perusal of the texts decorating the one dingy waiting-room, and some twenty minutes of sentry-go up and down the platform, the time was at length got through.