Part 6

On receiving this application for his junior officer's services, the sole proviso being his own recommendation, Colonel Schofield had for some time hesitated. Against his own convictions--and they were strong ones--he had been impressed by what Colonel Quentin had said concerning Graeme, and, being a conscientious man and one who theoretically had no likes or dislikes among his subordinates, he had begun to ask himself whether it were not possible he had made a mistake about this junior. With this idea in his mind, he had laid himself out to find the hidden pearl in the oyster, even unbending so far as to ask Graeme to accompany him, in place of his adjutant, on one of his early morning rides, the result being that on that occasion he rode alone, Hector having unfortunately overslept himself. Stifling his annoyance, he tried again, but, though this time successful in securing his junior's company, the invitation was never renewed, Graeme's conversation, alternately silly and boastful, having tried the Colonel beyond endurance.

Major Rawson, privately spoken to on the subject, did not feel hopeful of ultimate improvement in his captain; he grew worse, he declared, instead of better, his squadron accounts were always in a muddle, while to give Graeme a duty to perform was for that duty to be scamped or, more likely, shirked altogether. True, in an emergency, such as the fire in the squadron store, he seemed to wake up--indeed, he extinguished the flames before the arrival of the engine; also the men liked him; but, for his part, he had no belief in these fly-away fellows, who only worked by fits and starts; give him the methodical straight-going officer, who was always the same and followed the rules laid down. And the Colonel, agreeing, had thereupon commenced his perusal of the morning's mail, amongst the letters being the above-mentioned application. For a day and a night Schofield wrestled with his doubts, and then, though with considerable misgiving, sent for Hector and informed him of his willingness to recommend him for the post.

"Only promise me, Graeme," he concluded, "that you really will put your back into this. Remember, it's not only yourself you have to think about, but also the credit of the regiment."

The concession--and to Colonel Schofield it was a great one--had been made in vain, for Hector then and there declined the chance offered him, giving no reason. Incredulous at first, his Chief soon lost his temper, for it was one thing, he felt, for him to hesitate to recommend a subordinate, but quite another for the latter, when so favoured, to refuse the offer. It would be far better now, he realised, for Graeme to go, even though he proved himself a failure, for, after all, he had been applied for by name, thus throwing responsibility on the shoulders of the applier; whereas his refusal to go would assuredly give rise to caustic remarks from authority, anent lack of keenness in his command, inability to influence his officers, etc.

With these harassing thoughts in his mind, he stifled his anger and proceeded to reason with Graeme, urging upon him the greatness of the opportunity offered, and pointing out the folly of refusal. In vain; Hector remained unmoved; he had made up his mind, and with him, that done, the matter was finished. The interview also afforded him a very real gratification. Well he knew--with that uncanny intuition of his--what was passing in his Colonel's mind, and was more than ever determined to thwart him. It was his turn now; he would make the most of it, and repay his Chief for the humiliation he had heaped upon him before a stranger, in this very room, three months before. Hector never forgot an injury, or a kindness for that matter, and the remembrance of that interview had been smouldering in his heart ever since. One word of praise then, or afterwards some acknowledgment of what he had done, might have been the making of Graeme; but this was not Colonel Schofield's way. Praise from him, if earned, was to be understood, blame to be expressed, and so he had seized upon what was wrong in his subordinate's conduct, ignoring the rest.

Graeme had shown gallantry, it was true, but it was not necessary to praise him for it; the sense of having done his duty, he considered, ought always to be sufficient reward for a soldier. It was not sufficient for Hector, however, to whom applause was as essential as the modicum of opium is to the well-being of a Chinaman, and the consequence of his Colonel's refusal to gratify this craving was to fill him with a bitter sense of grievance and determination to annoy his superiors in every possible way. They wanted him now, did they? he thought. Very well, they shouldn't have him, he was not going to risk his life a second time; he had done it once, and got nothing for it save abuse, and it would be the same again, for they were all alike; he would see them damned before he went. Schofield therefore was but wasting his breath, and, realising this at last, he abandoned the effort and dismissed Graeme from his presence, concluding the interview by remarking that an officer who refused the chance of active service was, in his opinion, best out of the regiment he commanded.

"You may think what you please," muttered Hector, on his way back to his quarters, "but I'm hanged if I will resign. I meant to once we returned to Riwala, but now I won't, just because you want me to."

Thenceforth Hector went his solitary way, shunning, and shunned by, his brother officers, and doing just sufficient regimental work to enable him to avoid a second interview with his Colonel, who was now, he knew, only waiting the opportunity to fall upon him.

To most men, his would have been an impossible existence, but Graeme had been at variance with his fellows since his childhood, and his ever-present feeling of grievance, coupled with the sense of battle against odds, served but to stimulate and harden him in his course. Indeed, had it not been for one thing, he would rather have enjoyed his present life, but that thing was a big one to him, intolerable even, namely, his total inability to cope with the slanders of Captain Robert O'Hagan, whose enmity he returned with a concentrated bitterness of hate, such as, had he been aware of it, would have possibly made that cautious person pause. Many times he had sought to bring his traducer to task, but always without success, for O'Hagan was cunning, popular too amongst his fellows, while Graeme was the reverse, and blank looks or even flat refusal was the sole response he met with in his frequent endeavours to elicit definite proof of calumny from the mouths of his brother officers.

Of wordy controversies in public--and only in the presence of others would O'Hagan condescend to address Graeme--there had been many, and violent ones, but invariably the result had been humiliating to Hector, for O'Hagan possessed the ready tongue of a cheap-jack, and easily reduced Graeme to impotent silence, the latter's feeble, though rude, rejoinders only awakening delighted titters from all present. One day, he sought out O'Hagan and threatened personal violence, to which menace his enemy, who was no hero save in public, where he was safe, replied by calling up a passing junior and requesting Hector to repeat his recent observations. This, Graeme, too angry or too careless to consider consequences, promptly did, whereupon O'Hagan at once reported him to the Colonel, producing his witness, and the Chief, glad of the chance, let himself go for a full ten minutes. Hector subsequently departed to his quarters, where he flung himself down on the bed, gritting his teeth, and tearing at the counterpane.

Thus engaged, he was suddenly brought to himself by a knock at the door, and Captain Carson, his one and only friend in the regiment, entered.

"Hullo," said the latter, looking at him, "what's the trouble? You seem put out."

"I'm busy, Peter, what do you want?" was the answer.

"Nothing much," said Carson, unruffled by his greeting. "I'll go if you want me to. Got some news for you, that's all."

"What is it?"

"Regiment's going back to Riwala, thought I'd tell you so that you could wire to your missus. She's back from Kashmir, isn't she?"

"Likely she'd stay up there in the snow, isn't it? What the devil are we moving for? I hate a move, the whole place upset and everybody fussing like blazes. Lord, how Rawson will fidget, shan't have a moment's peace now, I suppose."

"What an extraordinary fellow you are, Graeme. Don't you want to go back?"

"Of course I do, no one but a fool would wish to stay here. It's the moving I hate. Gad, but I'll be glad enough, I know, to have my own house again, and be quit of the cursed Mess and my brother officers for a while."

Carson frowned.

"Why do you always sneer at the fellows, Graeme? It's no wonder they dislike you."

"I hope they do, but I don't wish to talk about them. When are we off?"

"Three days from now, Ferrers says, just in time for the races."

Graeme's face darkened.

"Blast the races!" he said.

"In heaven's name, what for? You're hard to please this morning."

"O'Hagan's benefit, that's what Riwala racing means, Carson. O'Hagan----"

"Oh, shut up, you've got O'Hagan on the brain. 'Pon my soul, Graeme, I can't understand this hatred for the fellow. I don't like him much, I own, nor I believe do the others really, but I don't hate him. Why are you so infernally immoderate in everything, why not take things quietly, as I do? You'd find life much easier. After all, he's not a bad-hearted fellow."

"He's a low, cowardly blackguard, not one redeeming point about him."

"There's no fellow like that, Graeme; anyway, he's an officer of the regiment, and all our talking won't alter that fact."

"You're right, Peter, talking won't."

"Well, what else can you do? Hullo, what the---- Good Lord!" for the door had been suddenly kicked open--O'Hagan never knocked save at a senior's door--and the subject of their discussion stood on the threshold.

"You here, Carson?" he said, his eyebrows lifted in seeming surprise at the latter's being in such company. "Come and play bridge."

"Not now, thank you, O'Hagan; as you see, I'm talking to Graeme."

"That won't keep you. Graeme's in for it again, cutting stables this time. Rawson wants you, Graeme, at once, going to wheel you up before the C.O., I believe."

"All right, O'Hagan, thank you."

Hearing the gentle answer instead of the outburst he expected, Peter Carson looked up in surprise, with a curious feeling of uneasiness. Surprised also was Captain O'Hagan, but pleasantly, for at last he thought he saw his enemy cowed and conscious of the futility of further resistance. His dark eyes gleamed and a bullying note came into his husky voice.

"It's not all right, I can tell you," he said. "Rawson says, of all the slack, useless----"

"Quite so, and now--get out."

"Get out, who the devil are you talking to? Keep away, d'you hear? Carson, you're the senior officer here, you're witness----"

"Sit down, Graeme, and you, O'Hagan, be off. You've given your message, and I should say made the most of it. Clear out."

"Oh, very well, though I must say it's a nice way to treat a brother officer. The Colonel shall hear of this, I promise you, both of you."

"If you stay another minute, I'll throw you out myself, by God, I will," said Peter, the Carson temper suddenly blazing up, and rising he advanced towards the other, who, however, did not await his approach, but fled hastily.

"Riling fellow that," said Peter, resuming his seat and proceeding to relight his pipe, which had gone out. "Very near lost my temper. What the devil are you laughing at, Graeme, at me?"

"No, at him."

"Him, what for?"

"To think what a fool he is, hammering away like that."

"Hammering?"

"Yes, driving the nails in."

"Don't know what on earth you're talking about, don't suppose you do either. Well, I'm off, there's a busy time ahead for all of us," and Peter rose and went out, leaving Graeme deep in thought. For some minutes he sat there, and then walked across to the window, where he stood looking down on the squadron lines below, already permeated with the spirit of unrest, born of the news of the coming move.

Hurrying to and fro, pointing with his stick and explaining the obvious, Major Rawson could be seen, two harassed-looking subalterns and the Sergeant-Major in close attendance; while some distance away, grave-faced and dignified, Colonel Schofield was standing, issuing orders to the alert Ferrers, who was zealously taking down the same in a large note-book.

A feeling of angry contempt was aroused in Graeme as he looked. "Fussy fools," he muttered, "the whole regiment turned upside down because of a move of a few hundred miles. God! there's Rawson lifting a saddle and weighing it. Why don't he take his coat off and groom the horses and pack the kits while he's about it? And you're worse," he continued scornfully, apostrophising his unconscious C.O., "you're a damned humbug, you are; for only the other day you agreed with Quentin when he told me that to make others work and not work yourself was the thing, and now you see the exact reverse going on you stand there and say nothing. Make me sick, the whole lot of you do. Wish to God I had the running of the show; I'd soon stop all that, and at the same time get them off with no bother at all."

He turned from the window and threw himself down on the bed once more, where he lay evolving schemes of fussless removal, and then, his interest in the subject growing, he seized pencil and paper and committed his ideas to writing. And, as it happened, the idle occupation of a few minutes was not wasted, for Major Rawson, possibly from over-anxiety, was that same evening laid low by fever, and the command of the squadron consequently devolved upon Hector, who thereupon proceeded to put his newly-hatched plans into execution. Ignoring hourly messages and instructions from the sick-bed, he the next morning summoned his non-commissioned officers to his quarters, and after an hour's conversation dismissed them, he himself departing for the day in quest of Cee Cee.[#] Nor, except for half an hour daily, did he subsequently visit the lines, though in the other squadrons all the officers were in attendance throughout the day.

[#] A kind of rock partridge.

To the disappointment of his _confreres_, no hitch occurred in B Squadron arrangements; on the contrary, while all around fuss and confusion reigned, in Hector's command there was clock-like precision, and to the minute on the day appointed for departure, their kits and tents packed away before daylight on bubbling camels, his men stood waiting beside their saddled horses, with quiet enjoyment on their faces as they viewed the agitated throng on either side. Nor did an extra-minute inspection by a cold-faced Colonel reveal the deficiencies he hoped in his heart to find, and a distinct feeling of injury was in the Chief's heart as he found himself forced to order B Squadron to move off first--A, the leaders by right, not being yet ready. At the station, however, disaster at last arose, Williams and Rogers profiting by the occasion to slip away to the bazaar, where next day they were found by the garrison police very drunk. The consequence of this mishap was severe censure for Hector, Schofield remarking that such disgraces were to be expected in a squadron left to the care of non-commissioned officers.

*CHAPTER VI*

A few evenings later, with the dream-like rapidity with which life's scenery is constantly shifting behind its players, Hector was once more back in his Riwala home. Gone--flitted into the past--were the bare mud walls, stinking lanterns and camp-chairs of the Fort Hussein Mess; in their place the soft comfort and luxury of a drawing-room, each detail of which had been personally superintended by Lucy herself. Here now, warm and comfortable, he reclined in a huge arm-chair, his eyes dreamily gazing into the crackling log-fire before him, and his mind in the beatific state induced by the consumption of an excellent dinner and the subsequent inhaling of a Turkish cigarette.

Beside him, busy with the knitting of a yellow silk waistcoat, sat Lucy, a dainty figure in tea-gown of lemon and white, which was quite in harmony with the soft lights and colouring of her surroundings. Like the hen-pheasant, however, in gorgeousness of plumage she was quite out-shone by her lord, whose smoking-jacket of amethyst velvet, with buttons of pink crystal, amber silk shirt, and Russia leather slippers of the same hue, formed a somewhat striking picture. On his knee reposed a somnolent white cat, a species of animal he loved, which he was caressing with much tender solicitude.

"Hector, dear," said Lucy, suddenly breaking the silence, "I've got an idea."

"Have you, Lucy? Ow!" to the cat, "you old beggar you, put your claws out at father, would you? Come and tickle this chap's tummy, Lucy, and see him kick."

"Oh, put the thing down, it worries me to see you. Really, Hector, how a sporting person like yourself can adore a cat as you do is beyond me. If it was a dog now, I could sympathise, but--a cat."

"A dog, nasty fidgeting brutes; besides, every fellow in the regiment's got one, that alone's enough. As for my being sporting, so's a cat, the finest sportsman in the world, a genuine one too, hunts for his own pleasure, not to be thought a good fellow, like most men. What about that big lizard we caught this morning, eh, old Nimrod?" again addressing the unresponsive animal.

"To me they're like spiteful women, Hector."

"Just where you're wrong, Lucy, a cat's not a bit like a woman. They're restful, which a woman's not; they're independent; know what they want and get it, while a woman not only don't know her own mind, but always does the very reverse of what she preaches."

"Really, Hector, I'm sure you can't say that of me."

"There you are, Lucy, can't discuss a thing without taking it personally. Besides, you're as bad as any of them. You're always at me to become a keen soldier, yet, when the chance of active service comes along, you----"

"Dear, that's not fair, as I've told you before. You surely wouldn't like me not to care, Hector, like some wives?"

"I don't suppose I should, but it's not that I'm talking about, it's the inconsistency. But, about cats and women a cat only takes what it wants, a woman, on the contrary----"

"Oh, bother the cats! I want to talk about something else, the Regimental Cup to-morrow."

"When I propose to be ten miles away at Rarkat Jheel, quail shooting."

"Oh, but, Hector, you can't really. The regiment's At Home, and we must put in an appearance; besides, I should like it."

"Like it, a fifth-rate race-meeting?"

"Yes, I should. I'm not a hundred, Hector, and every woman wants a little gaiety at times. Of course I love going out shooting with you and all that, but I think just occasionally we might vary the programme a little."

"Oh, of course, if you're set upon it, Lucy, that's another matter, but it's a weary business."

"Only because you make it so, and take no part in things, Hector. The Regimental Cup, for instance, every officer but you is running something, no matter whether it's got a chance or not. You only are out of it, and I hate it--it looks so odd and unsporting. I know, of course, it's not that, but the others think so."

"Let them think what they like, I don't care. I'm not competing because I can't win. I'll play second fiddle to no one, least of all to O'Hagan, and nothing I've got could beat Matador, he's a racehorse, the rest are only polo ponies."

"Hector, I do hate that Captain O'Hagan."

"Really, why? I thought he rather liked you."

"Oh, he's civil enough to me, it's because of his rudeness to you I hate him. Hector, do you know what he said the other evening at the Club?"

"That he meant having me out of the regiment? Yes, I heard of it, Lucy."

"He dared to say it, Hector. Oh, I could kill him for it," and Lucy's breast heaved and her blue eyes flashed.

Hector laughed. "Perhaps he will, Lucy; he has all the others behind him, you know."

"But you mustn't allow it, you must fight him. I'll help you all I can. The Colonel likes me, I know; let's have the old man to dinner, Hector, and do him really well. Oh, Hector, do rouse yourself, it's not like you to submit tamely."

Hector looked at her, and, as he did so, the curious glitter in his eyes vanished. Rising, he went across to his wife and kissed her.

"I believe you'd stand by me, no matter what I did, Lucy."

Some strange note in his voice startled her; she looked up. "Hector, what do you mean?" she said quickly. "Oh, Hector dearest, you won't, you don't mean to do anything mad?"

At the fear in her voice, Graeme's half-parted lips shut tight. He picked up the cat, and, returning to his chair, resumed his contemplation of the flames, his face expressionless.

"Don't be alarmed, Lucy," he said, and it seemed to her that there was a shade of contempt in his tone, "and as for O'Hagan and his paltry schemes, leave the poor fool to me. I'm only letting him play a little, and when the time comes--and it's pretty close now--it's Bob O'Hagan who'll go under, not me. But, about this idea of yours, what is it, to go to-morrow? If so, I will, as you want it."

"It's more than that, Hector, I want you to ride in the race for the Cup."

"But what on?"

"Hermes, Captain Carruther's second string. He'd give you the mount, I know, for I asked him this afternoon. He's a good pony, Hector, and jumps well, though of course he can't beat Matador."

"He'd be just about last, Lucy. I last, no thank you. Sorry, I'd like to please you, but it can't be done. I'll go to the races, as you wish it, but a ride on old Hermes is rather too humiliating a proceeding. Hullo," looking up at the clock, "past eleven, and an early parade to-morrow morning. Time for bed. Come on, Lucy. You too, Fop, old man, no tiles for Romeo to-night," Hector rose, and having lighted Lucy's candles, departed to his dressing-room, the cat hanging limply in his arms.

*CHAPTER VII*

"Sporting lot your fellows are, to be sure, Bob. Damme, the whole blessed regiment seems to be going for the Cup this afternoon."

The speaker, Captain Legge, a thin-faced rat of a man hailing from Bangalore, formed one of a group assembled in the ante-room of the Officers' Mess, 1st Lancers, discussing the past luncheon, coffee, cigars, and the race-card.

"Have to be, Tabby, or clear out," answered O'Hagan, glancing towards the far corner of the room, where Graeme was sitting, chuckling over the "Cat Derby," as depicted by Louis Wain. "Don't like unsporting fellows with us, don't keep 'em either. Hi! you," to a passing khitmagar[#] "liqueur brandy, jeldi, you soor,[#] d'ye hear?" his heavy eyes glaring at the man, who sullenly departed on his mission.

[#] A native waiter.

[#] "Quick, you pig."

"Grandee on the job to-day, Tabby?" asked Major Ramp, a racing gunner from Calcutta.

"Backing him myself, Barabbas, if that's any use to you," was the answer; "ought to be a pinch, now the Ferret's not goin'."

"Why didn't you buy him in the lotteries last night then, Tabby?" said another, drooping his eyelid at O'Hagan.

"I did, or rather Jackie did it for me, Cross; kept it quiet that way, and got him cheaper. That's right, ain't it, Jackie?"

"Quite," responded a squeaky voice, and Jackie, a meek-looking vet.--also hailing from Bangalore--thereupon produced a note-book from his pocket and began to turn over the pages.

"What about your own, though, Jackie," said Ramp; "he's in the same race, ain't he?"

"The old Tinker? No earthly, Ramp, been off his feed the last two days."

"Don't shout it to the Mess, hang it, man," said his patron, frowning at him.