Part 8

"O'Hagan," he called, "get up, man, get up," and then, no answer coming from the heap, he knelt down beside it, and tearing open the silken jacket felt for its heart. For a few seconds he remained kneeling, the clamour from behind growing rapidly louder, and then rose to his feet once more.

"You're right, Graeme," he said quietly; "quite right, you have done it."

"What's happened, who is it?" said a breathless voice, echoed by others. The spectators had arrived.

"O'Hagan, dead," answered Carson. "Oh, keep away, man; have you no sense of decency? Where's a doctor?"

"Who's the other? Rode right into him. Most deliberate thing I ever saw in my life. I saw it quite plainly through my glasses."

Carson spun round, facing the speaker, his eyes blazing.

"Who was it said that, who was it, I say? Don't stand skulking behind there, whoever you are, but come out and say it like a man. Some poor loser, I suppose, with five rupees on Matador, whining because he's lost. Come out, I say, if you've a spark of pluck in you," but to the invitation there was no response; the speaker declined to show himself.

"You want to know about it, do you? All right, you shall. I'll tell you as I told old Peter here. Three weeks ago in Fort Hussein I----"

"I know you did, old boy, you were quite right too; it was my fault for lending you an infernal one-eyed brute. Can't you see the man's had concussion, and don't know what he's saying?" he continued, addressing the crowd.

"One-eyed," said a voice, "that accounts for it then."

"That accounts for it, as you say. Thank God, here's a doctor at last. It's O'Hagan, Sarel."

"Bad?"

"Neck broken, I think."

"Good God! and what about Graeme there? He looks pretty queer."

"I'm not queer at all. I'm perfectly clear. I'll tell you how it happened. It's a long story, but----"

"Graeme, your wife's waiting for you. She's anxious naturally, and I promised her I'd bring you back at once, you can tell me all about it as we go, I'd like to hear. Out of the way, please," to the crowd, who obediently formed a lane, and still holding him firmly by the arm Peter hurried Graeme away to where Lucy was standing.

"Is the buggy ready, Mrs. Graeme?" he said, not looking at her. "Yes, there it is; well, get him home as quickly as possible. Keep him with you, don't let him speak to anyone. He's a bit light-headed, you see," he explained, looking away, "don't quite know what he's saying; been talking awful rot."

For a moment Lucy looked at the speaker, but still he refused to meet her eye.

"I ... understand, Captain Carson," she said at last, and then shivered slightly and turned away.

"Who's light-headed? What the devil do you mean, Peter, and where's Cyclops? Hullo, Lucy, what are you doing here?"

"You've had a fall, dear. The race is over."

"Over, where's O'Hagan?"

"And I want you to take me back. I--I'm cold," and again Lucy shivered.

"Matador, O'Hagan, what of them?"

"Never mind about that now, Hector."

"I will know, I must know, where are they?"

Lucy looked questioningly at Peter; the latter nodded in answer.

"Captain O'Hagan's hurt, Hector."

"Is he dead, is he dead?"

Again Carson nodded, but this time there was no response from Lucy; he looked quickly up, and then, moving forward, stood almost touching her.

"O'Hagan is dead, Graeme," he said; "you may as well know it now as later. Oh, for goodness' sake, get your wife into the trap and be off. Can't you see she's nearly fainting?"

"Dead," echoed Hector, a deep sigh rising from his breast; then suddenly his mouth closed firmly, and he straightened himself.

"God! what an awful thing," he said. "How did it happen?"

"Oh, never mind that now, you'll hear all about it later. Get your wife home."

"Why, what's the matter, Lucy, you look pretty bad, shaken I suppose? Come along." Putting his arm round her, he supported her towards the waiting buggy, and with Carson's help lifted her in and tucked the rugs round her.

"Good-bye, Peter," he said, taking up the whip, "and thanks for what you've done. Talked awful nonsense, I suppose, didn't I? Must have had concussion. By the way, what time will the funeral be to-morrow, early, do you think?"

Peter stared at him, but Graeme's eyes met his boldly.

"I suppose it will," he said at last. "I'll come round to-night and let you know."

"Oh, don't trouble. I shall get the orders."

"I'll be round at half-past nine. I want to know how your wife is. Good-bye, Mrs. Graeme," and Peter raised his hat and walked quickly away.

* * * * *

Nine o'clock had struck. Once more Hector and Lucy sat together in the softly lighted drawing-room, the former a trifle pale, but otherwise in no way changed from the man of twenty-four hours before, the latter haggard-faced, with dark lines under the eyes that stared into the flames.

Now and again she would glance up furtively at her husband, her eyes curiously wondering as they took in the sheen of silk and velvet, the cat slumbering on his knee, and the air of placid content pervading his whole being; then, with a shiver, she would turn away and resume her contemplation of the fire. For, like Peter, Lucy failed to understand. Suddenly her lips began to tremble and her eyes to fill with tears; for a moment she remained fighting against it, and then, abandoning the effort, flung herself on her knees beside Hector, sobbing wildly:

"Oh, Hector, speak, say something; it's awful to see you, I can't bear it, I can't, I can't."

Graeme stroked her hair, and, bending down, kissed her.

"Hush, dear," he said gently, "you'll only make yourself ill, and after all, Lucy, it wasn't you who did it; it was I. Take it as I do. I don't..."

"It's that which is killing me, Hector, your not caring. Oh dear, can't you realise the--the--horror of it all?"

Hector frowned.

"I'm not a hypocrite, Lucy," he said slowly, "why should I pretend to care when I don't? I hated the fellow, so did you. Why this fuss then now?"

"Fuss, oh, my God, Hector, are you human, that you can talk of it like that?"

"I honestly don't understand you, Lucy, are you going to say now you wish the man back?"

"I'd give all I've got, Hector, for him to be alive again. I'd give even my sight, and there's nothing worse than blindness. Hate him, of course I hated him. I hate him now more than ever, because this afternoon was his fault. Oh, can't you understand it's not of him I'm thinking, but of you, Hector, you?"

"You think they--there'll be unpleasantness over this, Lucy? Well, if there is, I'm ready for it. They can't call you as a witness, though, that's one thing. A wife, you know----"

"I would insist on being called. I would force my way in."

Hector stared.

"You--you mean you'd give me away, Lucy? Jeanie Dean's conscience, eh?"

"And I'd lie and lie and lie! I'd go through hell for you, Hector, you can trust me, dear, not to fail you."

Again Hector stared.

"You beat me, Lucy," he said, "you go for me for doing it, and then want to perjure yourself to pull me through. But, look here, indiscriminate lying won't help us, we must have the story pat, and stick to it like bird-lime. Hullo, someone outside, come for me already, have they?"

"It's only Captain Carson, Hector; he said he'd be here, you know, at the half-hour."

"Did he? I forgot. Think he knows, Lucy? I can't remember what I said. I was off my head at the time."

"He knows everything, but he won't speak; you can trust him. Here he is."

"Leave us, Lucy; we must have this out together."

"But you won't lose your temper, Hector, you won't abuse him?"

"Not I, I'm like an angel to-night. Go, Lucy, please," and Lucy went, Peter entering by the other door as the curtain dropped behind her.

"Glad to see you, Peter. Have a drink?"

"No, thank you, Graeme."

"Cigarette, then? No, I know you won't. Fill that old pipe of yours and sit down. Match? Here you are."

A pause.

"Well, Peter?"

"How's Mrs. Graeme?"

"All right, thank you; you've not asked after my health, though."

Another pause.

"So that's what you wanted Cyclops for, Graeme?"

"I'll give you the pick of my stable, if that's what you're after, Peter."

"Was it a sudden idea?"

"No, that afternoon at Fort Hussein. I saw it was the only way, since then I've been waiting. If I'd failed this time I'd have done it later. I knew, though, I shouldn't fail, I meant it, you see."

"Good God!"

"Why do you say that?" burst out the other with sudden passion. "I only did what you and half the others wanted in your hearts. Oh, I'll be candid with you; you know most of it, anyway, and you played the game this afternoon. That fellow was a plague spot, Peter; he was ruining the regiment, though for that I don't care two pins; it was when he put himself up against me that I took a hand. And he did attack me, you know that, Peter, insulted me, blackguarded me behind my back, said I was a coward, and vowed he'd have me out of the regiment."

He paused. Peter said nothing, only watched the other's face, for this was a changed Graeme to him, and, as he looked, he began to understand a thing he had never quite been able to before: how Private Mortlock's body had been recovered that August morning, six months before.

Graeme resumed, in the same tone of concentrated purpose. "Well, Peter; when anyone goes for me, I hit back, not as most do, blow for blow, wasting their strength, but with one blow only, and I take care that one has not to be repeated, Peter, it settles the matter for good and all. That's what I've done with O'Hagan, and that I'll do with anyone or anything which comes up against me. It was him or me; can't you understand? There was no room for us both, I had to kill him, myself, or both. And now you know, what do you propose to do--give me away?

"'And Hector Graeme walked between With gyves upon his wrist.'

Is that it? Do, if you like and can."

"For God's sake, no levity, man."

"That's another thing. You, and my wife too, seem to expect me to show penitence, to cry over what I've done. Why? I'm glad, not sorry; why should I then pretend a sorrow, like the Walrus with the oysters?"

Peter stared at him, with bewilderment in his eyes, as there had been a few minutes before in Lucy's.

"Because," he said slowly, "because you're a human being, Graeme."

"Well, I don't feel it, not in the slightest degree, and I'm not going to sham."

Carson rose, and for a moment stood looking down at him.

"Graeme," he said, "you and I have been friends since you joined ten years ago, and, well, I stand by my friends, and do not give them away, whatever they do; their actions are matters for their own consciences, not mine. Of this afternoon I'll never speak again; it's a thing, I confess, beyond my understanding; let it remain at that and be buried. Only you--you must see it can never be quite the same between us again; you do see that, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"I can't help that; it is so, for me, at all events. But one thing I promise you: no one outside shall see it; they must not. We _must_ be careful, for ... your wife's sake. Good-night, Graeme."

"Good-night, Peter."

*CHAPTER VIII*

The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the summer rains. This queer, rambling place, the hot-weather capital of India, is a collection of houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and slopes of a fir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three miles in length and many thousand feet above the level of the plains. On all sides of the ridge the ground falls steeply away; on the south towards the plains, a haze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the horizon; on the north, east and west to a succession of forest-clad hills and valleys, beyond which rises a chain of snow-capped mountains. Running along the crest of the ridge lies the one metalled road, the main artery of the place, bordering which stand the various European dwellings. These are few and far apart towards the western extremity, but increase in number as the road runs on eastward, till finally they merge into the town itself, a heterogeneous mass of shops, Government buildings, and native bazaar.

Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence of British official might and majesty in India, and consequently, during that season, the resort of all that is most select and fashionable in the country. In the hot weather of the year 1900, however, thoughts other than those of social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of most men. The British Empire was at war in distant South Africa, and so far, though close on a year had elapsed since its beginning, no sign of the end was at hand, and the fate of England still rocked in the balance.

Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to interfere appreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to human nature it is not public but individual interests that matter; and even a toothache is of far greater moment to him who feels it than the fate of a hundred empires. Thus it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the war acted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth; the ever-present possibility of harrowing partings added zest to love-making between the sexes; waltz tunes gained in enchantment; and hearts thrilled in response to stirring martial ballad.

In high official quarters a somewhat different view prevailed, for here were men with a stake in the country, oldish men to whom waltz tune and martial ballad failed to appeal--their time for that was past. Unlike the others, they, being more largely interested, were able to take a larger view, and thus realised that England's downfall would certainly involve that of India, and consequently their own, a very serious matter indeed. Here faces were grave--the higher the official, the graver the face--as, deaf to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they sat in dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with increasing correspondence.

In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment, situated in the huge brick edifice forming the Military Offices of Chillata, a man sat busily writing one September morning--a thick-set man, with bristling black hair and round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in Fort Hussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to the Indian forces. On the table before him lay a pile of letters, fat-looking documents in long official envelopes, both white and blue, most of them marked "Urgent," "Very Urgent," or "Confidential." These he was opening in turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow paper, which he carefully pinned to the various documents, and threw into tin trays placed on the floor beside him for removal and subsequent engrossment by his clerks.

A knock at the door was heard. "Come in, come in," he muttered, and Captain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of the Chillata A.D.C., appeared. To prevent the departure of this officer for the plains, and consequent disappointment to the public, he had been retained as staff officer, despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the Intelligence Department--the natural refuge of such as he--being unfortunately full up at the time.

"In an hour, De Boudoir," said Quentin, "I'm not ready for you yet. No, it's no good asking for a morning off; I won't give it you for fifty rehearsals."

"But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency's coming. Hoped you would too, sir."

"Bah! You can't go, I tell you. What's that, a card? I won't see him, whoever he is."

"He won't go, sir; it's Captain Pushful; he's here every day."

"What does he want?"

"Usual thing, sir--South Africa."

"Tell him to go to blazes. I have work enough, as it is, without being worried by every fool who wants to go battle-fighting. Confound it, De Boudoir, what the devil's the good of you if you can't----. Hullo! what the--who the dickens is this?" for the door had gently opened, and a head appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said an insinuating voice, and thereupon a body followed the head, "but could you spare me a minute? I won't keep you long sir."

"Who the devil are you?"

"My name is Pushful, sir. I think, sir, I'm a connection of yours by marriage. My sister----"

"Turn him out, De Boudoir. Oh, damn it all, this is----"

"My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William. 'Boodles' we used to call him, because----"

"Really, sir, I fail to see----"

"And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up."

"Tell me what you want, sir, and go."

"I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get me out to South Africa, and----"

"Send in an application then. Good-day."

"I have, sir, six already."

"Send another then, and I'll consider it."

"Thank you, sir, and you will----"

"Oh yes, yes. Good-day, and De Boudoir," as the door closed behind the visitor, "when that application comes, put it where the others go, in the basket; d'ye understand?"

"Very good, sir, anything more?"

"No. Yes, there is. Do you know a Captain Graeme, 1st Lancers? I thought I saw him the other day."

"Yes, sir; he's here on two months' leave. She's been in Chillata since April, living at Dilkhusha, the house the Pennants had last year."

"If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him? If you don't, send a note."

"Very well, sir. I'll get my pony, and go there now."

"No, you won't; you'll stay where I can get at you, in your office. Go this afternoon if you like, till then work. That will do, thank you," upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully withdrew, cursing the fate that had placed him here, instead of with his friends in the Intelligence Department.

"I'd like to give the fellow a chance," muttered Quentin; "he was badly treated over that last affair. Colonel would not even recommend him for a transport billet"--for in this way had Schofield saved his face on Hector's refusal--"and he was wrong, I'm sure of it; the fellow's got stuff in him, if it can be got out, that I'll swear, though I only saw him for a few minutes. Well, I'll give it to him, and damn the recommendation." He sat thinking for a moment, then plunged once more into his correspondence.

* * * * *

Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging in the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lying among the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range. Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual to Anglo-Indians in India. Two more Regimental Cup races had been won and lost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been present as a spectator. With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut up their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills. During these three years Lucy's health had gradually declined, till she was now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long in India was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident, and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had little acquaintance before that event.

It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion of foul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary, much sympathy had been expressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling. A letter had also been received from O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, for it appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been a good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share in her son's death. It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, and from where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she herself did.

Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, had absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarette with it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to her room, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours. One consolation was hers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson. When they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more so even than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did not come to the house at odd times, as was his wont. Finally, he had left Riwala for a year's shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though the twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again--not for a long time, at any rate--for shortly she too would be gone, leaving the hateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few months hence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he could accompany her. At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield had agreed to Captain Graeme's going in October, three months ahead, not a day before.

A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, in addition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid--one for which she had always longed, but which in her present feeble condition threatened to overwhelm her. To all the doctors' entreaties, to go home in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused to listen, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata, instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originally intended.

Here he would be able to run up for the very few days' leave he could hope to obtain. They would be in the same country, at any rate, and if he were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him to come to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be between them, and anything might happen to him even without her knowing--things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.

Hector, on his part, had done his best. He had rented one of the best, though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personally superintended every detail for her comfort. He even accompanied her on the long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special comfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, instead of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to that place. This was a most unwonted attention on Hector's part, who had hitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be dealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed a consideration and affection of which even she would never have believed him capable. Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor did Hector himself know exactly. Remorse for O'Hagan's death was certainly not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife; nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself--the memory of which troubled him not at all--but by the revelation within him of some tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his fellows. The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his callous soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feel as they felt, to live as they lived.