Part 21

"Dinner--not going to dinner," he replied to Lobbs's reminder that the dress trumpet had sounded and the hour of eight was close at hand. "Bring me a bottle of champagne here; that's all I want. Another damnable night," he muttered, the meal of liquor consumed, "only nine now, twelve hours at least before I can get an answer. I think I'll send for my pony and spend the night on the veldt." He walked to the door, and as he did so, nine o'clock struck. Then a strange thing happened, for with the ceasing of the strokes the fever of restlessness suddenly left him, and in its place he felt perfect peace and calm. For half an hour longer he remained contentedly resting in his chair, his eyelids gradually growing heavier, and then sleepily undressing he lay down on the bed and was almost instantly asleep. Nor through the night hours did he move, but slept dreamlessly on, till a hot deluge in his face awoke him to the fact that early morning tea had arrived, and also that it was Private Lobb, and not the experienced Murphy, who had brought him that tea.

"Beggy pardin, sir," said the perspiring soldier, rushing for a towel and proceeding to mop the soaking bedclothes and incidentally Hector's face, "very sorry, sir; caught my foot; can't think 'ow it happened; 'ere's a tallygram for you, sir," and Lobb fled hastily from the room. A faint rustle of paper was heard from within and then all was silent save for the ticking of the clock.

"Lobb."

"Sir?" and in rushed the soldier. Once more he unfortunately "caught his foot," this time against the water-jug, which breaking at the impact let out a flood of water over the wooden floor.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I'm sure," began Lobb, in an agony, and then stopped, for his master was speaking to him, and at the sound of the voice and look in the eyes of the speaker the disaster was forthwith forgotten.

"Never mind that now, Lobb, but go at once and tell the Adjutant to come here, and then fetch a Cape cart. Ten minutes I give you; don't be longer," and Hector rose from his bed and sat smiling at Lobb, a smile that sent the latter flying from the room, leaving Hector alone.

Still smiling, he unfolded the paper in his hand and remained curiously regarding the charcoal-written words: "Stara dead."

*CHAPTER XXI*

The train rocked wearily onward through the fast-gathering darkness. The purple moorland and rocky gorges of the Great Karoo were gone, and in their place there were great rolling plains of yellow grass, swelling hill and misty blue mountain. Onward it crawled, through lines of ruined blockhouses and crumbling earthworks, relics of bygone strife, now increasing its pace, till the groan and rattle of cars swelled to a roar, now slowing down to a crawl as it clanked cautiously over a girder-bridge spanned river, or pulled up with a jerk at some lonely veldt siding.

It was a very caterpillar of a train, express though it claimed to be, and crowded with humanity, black and white, bound for garish, golden Johannesburg. Nevertheless, packed as were its other dusty compartments, there was one in which a man sat solitary, his peace undisturbed by friendly chat and the rustle of turning pages. True, more than once passengers had entered it, sat there for a while--some even venturing on conversation with its inmate--but all, after a time had left, preferring heat and lack of elbow-room elsewhere to space and the company of one not only unsociable but "strange, most strange."

For many hours now Hector Graeme had been left alone, if alone he were; for if that were so why did he talk, not as one who speaks to himself, but to someone with him, someone whose voice he could hear, though all other ears were deaf to it? And this indeed was the case, for a strange thing had come to pass, and that other voice, heard for so many years, yet hitherto impersonal, had since the morning undergone a startling change, and was now become that of Stara, lying dead some thirty miles away.

Quite suddenly, too, recognition had come to him, almost simultaneously with the receipt of the wire telling him of her death. Since then they had spoken together without ceasing, and, tedious though the long journey might be to others, to him there had been no tedium, but a wild, mad happiness and gratitude.

Dead; yes, she was dead, but only her body; for her spirit lived on, and from now would be with him always, watching over him, guiding him on his path, as in the dreams he had dreamed. Never would he be in doubt again, never at a loss as he had been sometimes before; for death had rent the obstructing veil of flesh, and the soul at last was free to come to him where and whensoever he should call.

How simple henceforth it would all be. He had only to ask and be told, for he had already proved that, by much questioning on points to which he knew the answer, and could have shouted with delight at the accuracy with which those questions were solved. Only on one point was she dumb, of her death she refused to speak, and, press as he might, no voice came back in reply.

Still, he would soon know, very soon now, and together they would stand looking down on the husk her spirit had left, and he would tell her; for she would understand, as living she never would have understood, how he had wearied of that husk and longed for the flesh-obscured soul.

He stretched his cramped limbs, and, rising, went over to the window and looked out. The train was slackening speed.

"Are we here, Stara?" he asked, and back flashed the answer, "Yes."

"Duikerpoort! Duikerpoort!" a voice was heard calling in the darkness, and obeying the summons the train stopped for a moment, and then, creaking and groaning, moved slowly forward once more.

The lighted cars glided by till all had passed; red and green tail-lights grew smaller and then vanished; the roar died to a murmur and was stilled. A drowsy porter passed, his lantern swinging as he went, and then he too was gone, and Hector Graeme stood alone, with the wide-eyed planets above him and the silent immensity of the African veldt around.

No one to meet him, thank God; he would have his walk alone. Ten mile trudge though it was, it did not matter; he was fresh and strong as never before, and Stara was there to keep him company.

"Come, Stara," he called, and at her response he started on his way, swiftly striding along the track, deep in sand though it was.

Mile after mile he covered, insensible to fatigue or hunger, though he had fasted since the night before; for he, like dead Stara, was nearly all spirit now, and for a time unconscious of fleshly claims. At last, far away, a speck of light shone through the black, and the man laughed happily, his outstretched hand guiding his silent companion's gaze to it.

"Home, Stara, at last," he cried, "the home where your body is lying. Tell me where, in what room?" She answered: "My old room, dear; you know it; hasten." Together they ran on, and did not stop till they stood before a farm-house, now as still and silent as one of its inmates.

"Stara, keep with me; follow me close," and Hector's fist crashed against the door, a muttered exclamation from within coming in answer. A flicker of light appeared, the sound of footsteps was heard, and then the door opened. Richard Selbourne stood before them, his eyes searching the darkness without.

"Who are you," he said, "and what do you want at this hour? This is no time----"

"It's we, Dick, Stara and I."

Richard fell back, with terror at his heart; then came recognition, and with it a hatred that banished fear.

"You," he said, "you?"

"We, Dick, Stara and I. We've run all the way here. Oh, don't stand staring there, but let us in," and Hector pressed forward.

"Damn you! Never!" began Richard, but Hector was past, easily thrusting the other, a man with twice his strength, aside, and was standing in the hall, his hand on the staircase rails.

"Take me to her," he said, "or I'll go alone."

Richard stared at him for a moment, measuring Hector's strength with his. "A weak creature," he thought; "he took me unawares just now; that was all. I could kill him easily enough, and, God knows, I've prayed for the chance; but yet, now that it's come, I can't--not with her lying dead above.

"Follow me," he said, and led the way to a small room, called by courtesy a study, but used by its master indiscriminately for the keeping of guns, fishing-tackle, and seeds.

"Untidy as ever, Dick, I see. Look, Stara, the same old mess."

Selbourne wheeled round, his grey eyes searching the other's face.

"Do you wish me to believe you mad," he said curtly, "is that your coward's refuge?"

Hector stared vacantly. "Mad, mad!" he repeated, "you may be, I'm not. Mad, what do you mean?" a look of anger appearing in his eyes.

"You must be to come here, I should think. Why have you done it?"

"You always were a dense fool, Dick. What do you think I've come for? To see the body, of course."

"To see the woman you murdered, you mean."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't? Then I'll tell you. My sister died last night by her own hand, why, you know, I only guess; but this I do know, that her death lies at your door. Of your villainy in making love to her when you had a wife at home I won't speak. She knew it, it seems, and I'm not going to blame the dead. But of the other, of the cowardly abandonment to her fate of a woman you professed to love, of that I will, Colonel Graeme."

"Say what you like, if it pleases you, Dick. I shan't defend myself."

"I intend to. It seems--I got that much out of my wife--Stara wrote you a letter five days ago, and that letter asked for a wire in answer. Even the most callous, I should have thought, would have sent something, but you did not. With that letter in your pocket, probably unread, you spent those five days loafing about barracks, too damned lazy even to walk to the telegraph-office and send the answer which would have saved a life."

"Right as usual, Dick; go on."

"For three days I had boys waiting at the Duikerpoort office, and last night she went there herself, and stayed till the place was shut. Then she came back and an hour afterwards was found on the veldt--dead."

"That was fine of you, Stara." The words were only breathed, but Richard heard them, heard too the unmistakable ring of gladness in Hector's voice. At the sound, decency and respect for the dead above him vanished, and in their place the primitive overmastering desire to kill prevailed. He stretched out his hand to a drawer, clutched something, and in one more second Graeme would have been lying dead, his spirit free to wander by Stara's side, but in that second a woman stood between them, and her eyes, dulled with tears, were lifted reproachfully to her husband's face.

"Dick," she said, "is this a time for quarrelling? Think, Dick."

"Let me go, Mary, such as he are better dead. My God! if you'd only heard."

"I did ... and ... he isn't worth it, Dick." She turned and faced Graeme, who was standing with a rapt look on his face, apparently unconscious of their presence.

"What do you want?" she said with level voice and eyes hard as flint.

Hector's wandering wits came back; for a moment he stood regarding her, and then, recognition dawning, held out his hand. Mary drew back, sweeping her skirts behind her.

Hector laughed, faintly amused. "So you're against me too, are you? You're as dense as Dick. Well, well, the battle's begun already, you and I, Stara, against the world."

"I repeat, what do you want?"

"To see her."

"He shall not, I say. Mary, if you've any respect for Stara's memory, you'll not sanction this outrage. Think what this man's done, think what Stara used to be and is now."

"Hush, Dick." Mary's eyes were fixed on Graeme's face and, more observant than her husband, she saw something there that made her hesitate; for the moment the hatred in her heart was lessened.

"If ... if I let you see her."

"Alone?"

"Mary!"

"Dick, I beg of you dear, to leave this to me. Alone, if you wish it, Colonel Graeme, for five minutes only."

"Half an hour."

There was a pause, while Mary's eyes rested unwaveringly on Graeme's face.

"Very well, half an hour. Will you promise me to go then?"

"Yes."

"Come then," and Mary passed out, leading the way upstairs to a closed door, where she stopped. "In there," she said. "I trust you," and left him.

* * * * *

"Stara! we're here, your spirit and I come to say good-bye to the body they're burying to-morrow. It's only for a few minutes; I mustn't stay. They won't let me, Stara, for they say I killed you. But I know better than that, for your spirit has told me the truth, and I honour you for it and adore you, Stara. Wiser than all, you knew that love for a body must die, but love for the spirit lives for ever. I wanted your soul, and you, knowing it, have given."

He paused, crept closer, and stood looking down.

"You beautiful thing," he whispered, "yet, beautiful as you are, I shall be glad when you're hidden away out of sight in the ground for then I shall see the soul whose voice only I now can hear. When will that be, my Star, when will that soul be revealed? To-morrow, yes, to-morrow it shall be, over your grave, when the sun is dead too, and all are gone. Promise me it now, dear, let those dead lips speak for the last time."

"Speak!" He stood towering above her, command in the eyes fixed on the rigid mouth. A gust of wind blew, the lamp flickered, and over the still face a shadow hovered and was gone.

Then through the silent house a mad cry went ringing; the two waiting below started apart, with terror in their eyes; and above a man was on his knees beside the bed, with a dead woman held to his heart, and the scent of crushed lilies rising to his brain.

The minutes passed, and still he knelt there, holding her, and then, slowly raising his head, gazed into the stiffly-smiling face.

"Good-bye, body beloved," he said. "Good-bye, earthly love, and welcome now the spiritual." He rose from his knees, and stood erect, one hand laid on the cold breast, the other raised aloft to heaven.

"Unseen soul of Stara," he breathed, "hear me now. May God's curse strike me, may my limbs rot and wither on my body, may the devil burn and tear me in the Hereafter, if but for a moment my love shall stray from you!"

He stopped, his eyes alight with ecstasy, then, bending down, kissed the dead lips once, and went swiftly out into the star-gemmed night.

*CHAPTER XXII*

The red glow of a dying sun framed in masses of angry storm-cloud; a group of dark-clad figures standing in a roughly-walled enclosure, in their midst a white-clothed priest. Around, the sunlit veldt and mountain mocking the shortness of human life, their own tenure, though but a span, an immortality compared with that of mankind.

"I am the resurrection and the life." The high-pitched voice rose on the evening air, chanting words that had been millions of times repeated, yet always sounding new, for of death they form the song, and neither Azrael nor Eros can ever weary humanity. Apart from the throng, close to the grave's brink, a man was standing. Dully the words beat on his brain, but conveyed no meaning, for physical endurance had reached its limit, and understanding for the time was dead.

Vaguely he listened, wondering what it all might mean, now and again raising his eyes to the chasm's far side, where stood the chanting priest, and beyond him the group of black-clothed figures. What was he doing here, what were these people doing here, and this dark hole at his feet, what was its meaning? Vacantly he looked around, seeking for something to lay hold of, some landmark to link the present with the past, but in vain, all were but as symbols on an ever-flying wheel, seen for a second, gone, seen again and lost once more.

Then for a space the whirling circle stopped, and the figures came to a rest and stood steady before his eyes. Ah, there were two he recognised, a man and a woman, the former rigid-faced and stern, the latter weeping. Yes, he knew them; they were Richard Selbourne and Mary, but why was she crying? There was no reason for it that he could see. He looked hard at them, trying to attract their notice, but in vain, almost it seemed as though they would not see. Ah last Richard looked up, met his eyes full, and without recognition lowered his own again. "Cut me, intentionally too, what, in God's name for, what have I done? Confound that other fellow too, with them, staring like that; what the devil does he find in me, a stranger, to interest him? Never takes his eyes off me, damn him! Looks like a doctor, well, if you are, go back to your pills, you fool, and leave me alone. I want none of your drugs."

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" Ah, he recognised that. They were burying someone then, and this hole at his feet was a grave. But whose, and what, had it to do with him? Faintly curious, he moved forward and peered down. Yes, there was a coffin, a name on it too, if he could but read:

STARA.

Then back rushed remembrance; he knew, and laughed aloud. Everybody looked up; the man with the deep-set eyes made a half step forward; Mary clutched her husband's arm; and the priest, scandalised, stopped, and then went hurriedly on: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes dust to dust."

Graeme's head nodded slowly in approval, for here were words of sense at last, little as the mumbling fool that uttered them knew it. To him they were but a formula, the fine words spoken by the hero of some stage drama, the finale bringing down the curtain to a burst of hysterical applause. He alone knew how true they were, and that in death lay no sting and in the grave no victory, but defeat, and in an hour from now the proof of that truth would be given him.

The throng melted away, and moved slowly homeward across the veldt. Two men approached, spade in hand, glanced at Graeme, and then set swiftly to work. The dull thud of earth on wood sounded from below, then earth on other earth, till the yawning chasm had gone and only a brown scar remained.

One final stamp on the loosened soil, and they too, shouldering their tools, went homeward, and Graeme was alone in the fast-falling night. The sun had long since died--to be born again in another world--and over his fiery western grave a pall of blue storm-cloud hung, rapidly rising and spreading over the heavens. The wind moaned fretfully, and the low mutter of thunder came from the distant mountains.

The hour was at hand, its herald the tempest, the birth-pangs of earth in travail of a soul.

A sudden fearful excitement shook Graeme. His knees knocked together, he rocked and swayed, and then the mood passed, and, steady once more, he strode forward till he stood over the lifeless body below, his livid face raised to the darkened sky.

"Stara!" he called, but only the thunder of an outraged God responded. "Stara! Stara!" he shouted again, and then stopped, for the answer had come.

A flash of blue light, a rending crash overhead, and, to the swell of harp and organ, the heavens yawned slowly asunder, and the dead woman, white fire rolling around her, stood looking down upon him. For a moment he remained, with face lit up and hands outstretched towards her, and then, with one loud triumphant cry of "Stara!" fell forward on his face, quivered for a moment, and was still.

Almost as quick as the lightning-flash, from behind the wall at the far side of the cemetery a man came running up, followed slowly and seemingly unwillingly by another.

"Quick, Selbourne," said the first, "fetch a Cape cart; look sharp, man, the storm will be on us in a minute. God! did you ever see anything like that last flash?"

Richard came slowly up to where the speaker was kneeling, with Graeme's head against his shoulder, while he was forcing the neck of a small phial between the clenched teeth.

"What's the matter," he said coolly, "lightning struck him? If so, he ought to be dead. Is he?"

"Nothing of the kind; he's as alive as you or I."

"What's wrong, then?"

"I don't quite know--fit of some sort, I should say."

"Leave him to get over it then. Rain will bring him to. I'm going, I was a fool to stay, don't know why I did, except that you made such a point of it."

The other looked up, frowning. "Look here, Selbourne, what your quarrel is with this fellow I don't know, and don't want to; but I'm a doctor, and if he's the biggest blackguard under the sun, he's my patient now, and I don't leave him. You go if you like, but in common humanity order the Cape cart."

"I'll ... see ... him ... rotting first."

"See here, Richard Selbourne, I'm a good friend of yours, and I think I've shown it, haven't I? I wasn't in time, I know, for ... but that was not my fault, I came as quick as I could, and there was nothing to be done, but you know what I risked over signing the certificate as I did."

"I do, and you've Mary's and my eternal gratitude, Lees ... but----"

"Show it now, then, by fetching that cart."

"If you knew what I do, Lees, you'd leave him here to die."

The other laughed. "Don't be a fool, Selbourne," he said.

"Where do you propose to take him? If it's my house you're thinking of, you can save yourself the trouble of a journey, I warn you."

"I'm not, I'll take him to the hotel, and get him away to-morrow or the day after. You shan't see him again, I give you my word."

Richard rose from the wall on which he was sitting.

"On that understanding then," he said, "I'll send a cart, but don't ask me to touch the fellow, because I won't. You and the boy can lift him, I suppose, or shall I send a man?"

"The boy and I can manage all right; he's light enough, poor devil. Please be quick, Selbourne."

The latter walked slowly away, leaving Dr. Lees looking down on the still unconscious figure in his arms.

"Good thing I was watching you, my friend," he muttered. "I knew when I saw you at the funeral you couldn't last much longer. I wonder what it all means, and what you saw just now? for you did see something, I know that, and probably will to the end of your days. You'll be an interesting study in the future, Colonel Graeme, or I'm much mistaken. 'Stara,' you called, and that was her name, poor girl; she poisons herself, and my friend Dick, the most amiable fellow I know, hates you, hates you so much that he'd leave you here to die. For you would die of exposure if I left you now; as it is, you'll be pretty bad for a day or two. Still, I think I've got the story all right; it's an old enough one, God knows. Oh yes, you're a bad lot, Colonel, right enough, but it's possible you're not quite so much to blame as they think. I doubt if you're quite ... responsible; not mad--I'm sure of that--but not quite responsible. Ah, the cart at last! Hi, you, this way; fasten the mules to the wall here, then come and help lift the Baas. Easy, that's right now." Together they lifted the light figure into the Cape cart, and, Lees still holding it in his arms, drove away to the Spring Bok Hotel, Duikerport, the mules shying and plunging at the lightning playing on the rocks around.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

"Oh, do hurry up, for heaven's sake, Graves; it's past three, and we're playing in the second chukker."

"Don't fidget me, but come in and sit down. Throw that dog out of the chair;" whereupon Captain Annesley, white-breeched and brown-booted, entered his friend's room, and having lifted the sleeping dachshund, and placed him carefully on his knee, sat down, his eyes resting morosely on the scantily-clad figure before him.

"We'll be late," he observed.

"You've said that before. I'm shoving on all I know. There's a drill-book on the table there; take it and read it for once. It will do you good."

Annesley declined the monstrous proposition.