Complete works of a e w.., p.536
Complete Works of a E W Mason, page 536
“You said that Harry had to join the army. What did you mean by that?”
Hillyard hesitated.
“Did he not tell you himself?”
“No.”
Hillyard stood between loyalty to his friend and the recollection of Stella Croyle’s tears. If Luttrell had not told her — why then ——
“Then I don’t well see how I can,” he said uncomfortably.
“But I want to know,” said Stella, bending her brows at him in astonishment that he should refuse her so small a thing. Then her manner changed. “Oh, I do want to know,” she cried, and Hillyard’s obstinacy broke down.
Men have the strangest fancies which compel them to do out of all reason, even the things which they hate to do, and to put aside what they hold most dear. Fancies unintelligible to practical people like women — thus Stella Croyle’s thoughts ran — but to be taken note of very carefully. High-flown motives from a world of white angels, where no doubt they are very suitable. But men will use them as working motives here below, with the result that they wreck women’s hearts and cause themselves a great deal of useless misery.
Stella’s hopes and her self-esteem had for long played with the thought that it might possibly be one of those impracticable notions which had whipped Harry Luttrell up to the rupture of their alliance; that after all, it was not that he was tired of a chain. Yes, she wanted to know.
“Luttrell only told me once, only spoke about it once,” said Hillyard shifting from one foot to the other. “The week after the eights. We rowed down to Kennington Island in a racing pair, had supper there — —”
“Yes, yes,” Stella Croyle interrupted. Oh, how dense men could be to be sure! What in the world did it matter, how or when the secret was told?
“I beg your pardon,” said Hillyard. “But really it does matter a little. You see, it was on our way back, when it was quite dark, so dark that really you could see little but the line of sky above the trees, and the flash of the water at the end of the stroke. I doubt if Luttrell would have ever told me at all, if it hadn’t been for just that one fact, that we were alone together in the darkness and out on the river.”
“Yes, I was wrong,” said Stella penitently. “I was impatient. I am sorry.”
More and more, just because of this detail, she was ready to believe that Harry Luttrell had left her for some reason quite outside themselves, for some other reason than weariness and the swift end of passion.
“Luttrell’s father, his grandfather and many others of his name had served in the Clayford Regiment. It was his home regiment and the tradition of the family binding from father to son, was that there should always be Luttrells amongst its officers.”
“And for that reason Harry — —” Stella interrupted impetuously.
“No, there is more compulsion than that in Harry’s case,” Hillyard took her up. “Much more! The Clayfords ran in the South African War, and ran badly. They returned to England a disgraced regiment. Now do you see the compulsion?”
Stella Croyle turned the problem over in her mind.
“Yes, I think I do,” she said, but still was rather doubtful. Then she looked at the problem through Harry Luttrell’s eyes.
“Yes, I understand. The regiment must recover its good name in the next war. It was an obligation of honour on Harry to take his commission in it, to bear his part in the recovery.”
“Yes. I told you, didn’t I? Harry Luttrell was cradled in tradition.”
Hillyard saw Mrs. Croyle’s face brighten. Now she had the key to Harry Luttrell. He had joined the Clayfords. And what was his fear at Stockholm? The slovenly soldier! Yes, he had given her the real reason after all during that dinner on the balcony at Hasselbacken. He feared to become the slovenly soldier if he idled longer in England. It was not because he was tired of her, that the separation had come. Thus she reasoned, and she reasoned just in one little respect wrong. She had the real secret without a doubt, that “something else,” which Sir Charles Hardiman divined but could not interpret. But she did not understand that Harry Luttrell saw in her, one of the factors, nay the chief of the factors which were converting him into that thing of contempt, the slovenly soldier.
“Thank you,” she said to Hillyard with a smile. She stood aside now from the door. “It was kind of you to bring me home and talk with me for a little while.”
But it seems that her recovery of spirits did not last out the night. Doubts assailed her — Harry Luttrell was beneath other skies with other preoccupations and no message from him had ever come to her. Even if his love was unchanged at Stockholm, it might not be so now. Hillyard rang her up on the telephone the next morning and warm in his sympathy asked her to lunch with him. But it was a pitiful little voice which replied to him. Stella Croyle answered from her bed. She was not well. She would stay in bed for a day and then go to a little cottage which she owned in the country. She would see Hillyard again next year when he returned from the East.
“Yes, that’s her way,” said Sir Charles Hardiman. He met Hillyard the day before he sailed for Port Said and questioned him about Stella Croyle discreetly. “She runs to earth when she’s unhappy. We shall not see her for a couple of months. No one will.”
CHAPTER V
Hillyard’s Messenger
HILLYARD TURNED HIS back upon the pools of the Khor Galagu at the end of April and wandered slowly down the River Dinder. From time to time his shikari would lead his camels and camp-servants out on to an open clearing on the high river bank and announce a name still marked upon the maps. Once there had been a village here, before the Kalifa sent his soldiers and herded the tribes into the towns for his better security. Now there was no sign anywhere of habitation. The red boles of the mimosa trees, purple-brown cracked earth, yellow stubble of burnt grass, the skimming of myriads of birds above the tree-tops and shy wild animals gliding noiselessly in the dark of the forest — there was nothing more now. It seemed that no human foot had ever trodden that region.
Hillyard’s holiday was coming to an end, for in a month the rainy season would begin and this great park become a marsh. He went fluctuating between an excited eagerness for a renewal of rivalry and the interchange of ideas and the companionship of women; and a reluctance to leave a country which had so restored him to physical well-being. Never had he been so strong. He had recaptured, after his five years of London confinement, the swift spring of the muscles, the immediate response of the body to the demand made upon it, and the glorious cessation of fatigue when after arduous hours of heat and exertion he stretched himself upon his camp-chair in the shadow of his tent. On the whole he travelled northwards reluctantly; until he came to a little open space ten days away from the first village he would touch.
He camped there just before noon, and at three o’clock on the following morning, in the company of his shikari, his skinner and his donkey-boy he was riding along a narrow path high above the river. It was very dark, so that even with the vast blaze of stars overhead, Hillyard could hardly see the flutter of his shikari’s white robe a few paces ahead of him. They passed a clump of bushes and immediately afterwards heard a great shuffling and lapping of water below them. The shikari stopped abruptly and seized the bridle of Hillyard’s donkey. The night was so still that the noise at the water’s edge below seemed to fill the world. Hillyard slipped off the back of his donkey and took his rifle from his boy.
“Gamus!” whispered the shikari.
Hillyard almost swore aloud. There was a creek, three hours’ march away, where the reed buck came down to drink in the morning. For that creek Hillyard was now making with a little Mannlicher sporting rifle — and he had tumbled suddenly upon buffalo! He was on the very edge of the buffalo country, he would see no more between here and the houses of Senga.
It was his last chance and he had nothing but a popgun! He was still reproaching himself when a small but startling change took place. The snuffling and lapping suddenly ceased; and with the cessation of all sound, the night became sinister.
The shikari whispered again.
“Now they in their turn know that we are here.” He enveloped the donkey’s head in a shawl that he was carrying. “Do not move,” he continued. “They are listening.”
Shikari, skinner, donkey-boy, donkey and Hillyard stood together, motionless, silent. Hillyard had come out to hunt. Down below the herd in its dumb parliament was debating whether he should be the hunted. There was little chance for any one of them if the debate went against them. Hillyard might bring down one — perhaps two, if by some miraculous chance he shot a bullet through both forelegs. But it would make no difference to the herd. Hillyard pictured them below by the water’s edge, their heads lifted, their tails stiffened, waiting in the darkness. Once the lone, earth-shaking roar of a lion spread from far away, booming over the dark country. But the herd below never stirred. It no more feared the lion than it feared the four men on the river bank above. An hour passed before at last the river water plashed under the trampling hoofs.
Hillyard threw his rifle forward, but the shikari touched him on the arm.
“They are going,” he whispered, and again the four men waited, until the shikari raised his hand.
“It will be good for us to move! They are very near.” He looked towards the east, but there was no sign yet of the dawn.
“We will go very cautiously into the forest. We shall not know where they are, but they will know everything we are doing.”
In single file they moved from the bank amongst the mimosas, the donkey with his head covered, still led by the boy. Under the cavern of the branches it was black as pitch — so black that Hillyard did not see the hand which the shikari quietly laid upon his shoulder.
“Listen.”
On his left a branch snapped, ahead of them a bush that had been bent aside swished back on its release.
“They are moving with us. They are all round us,” the shikari whispered. “They know everything we do. Let us wait here. When the morning breaks they will charge or they will go.”
So once again the little party came to a halt. Hillyard stood listening and wondering if the morning would ever come; and even in that time of tension the habit of his mind reasserted its sway. This long, silent waiting for the dawn in the depths of an African forest with death at his very elbow — here was another sharp event of life in vivid contrast with all the others which had gone before. The years in London, the letter-box opposite the Abbey where he had posted his manuscripts at three in the morning and bought a cup of coffee at the stall by the kerb — times so very close to him — the terms at Oxford, the strange hungry days on the quays of Spain, the moonlit wanderings on the footpath over the rustic ridge and up the hill, when he composed poems to the moon and pithy short, great thoughts — here was something fresh to add to them if he didn’t go down at daybreak under the hoofs of the herd! Here was yet a further token, that out of the vicissitudes of his life something more, something new, something altogether different and unimagined was to come, as the crown and ultimate reason of all that had gone before. Once more the shikari’s hand touched him and pointed eastwards. The tree-trunks were emerging from the darkness. Beyond them the black cup of the sky was thinning to translucency. Very quickly the grey light widened beyond this vast palisade of trees. Even in here below the high branches, it began to steal vaporous and dim. About them on every side now the buffalo were moving. The shikari’s grip tightened on Hillyard’s arm. The moment of danger had come. It would be the smash of his breast-bone against the forehead of the beast, hoofs and knees kneading his broken body and the thrust and lunge of the short curled horns until long after he was dead, or — the new test and preparation to add to those which had gone before!
Suddenly the shikari cried aloud.
“They are off”; and while he spoke came a loud snapping of boughs, the sound of heavy bodies crashing against trees and for a moment against the grey light in that cathedral of a forest the huge carcases of the buffalo in mad flight were dimly visible. Then silence came again for a few moments, till the boughs above them shrilled with birds and the morning in a splendour of gold and scarlet, like a roar of trumpets stormed the stars.
Hillyard drew a breath.
“Let us go on,” he said.
They advanced perhaps fifty yards before the second miracle of that morning smote upon his eyes. A solitary Arab, driving a tiny, overladen donkey, was advancing towards him, his white robes flickering in and out among the tree-boles.
Hillyard looked at his shikari. But the shikari neither spoke nor altered the regularity of his face. Hillyard put no question in consequence. The Arab was ten days’ journey from the nearest village and, even so, his back was turned towards it. He was moving from solitude into solitude still more silent and remote. It was impossible. Hillyard’s eyes were playing him false.
He shut them for an instant and opened them again, thinking that the vision would have gone. But there was the Arab still nearer to them and moving with a swift agility. A ray of sunlight struck through the branches of a tree and burned suddenly like a dancing flame on something the man carried — a carbine with a brass hammer. And the next moment a sound proved beyond all doubt to Hillyard that his eyes did not deceive him. For he heard the slapping of the Arab’s loose slippers upon the hard-caked earth.
Oh yes, the man was real enough. For the shikari suddenly swerved from the head of the file towards the stranger and stopped. The two men talked together and meanwhile Hillyard and the rest of his party halted. Hillyard lit his pipe.
“Who is it, Hamet?” he cried, and the shikari turned with his companion and came back.
“It is the postman,” he said as though the delivery of letters along the Dinder River were the most commonplace of events.
“The postman!” cried Hillyard. “What in the world do you mean?”
“Yes,” Hamet explained. “He carries letters between Abyssinia and Senga on the Blue Nile. He is now on his way back to Abyssinia.”
“But how long does it take him?” Hillyard asked in amazement.
“He goes and returns once a year. The journey takes him four months each way unless he meets with a party shooting. Then it takes longer for he goes with the party to get meat.”
Hillyard stared at the Arab in amazement. He was a lean slip of a man, almost as black as a negro, with his hair running back above the temples, and legs like walking-sticks. He stood wreathed in smiles and nodding confirmation of Hamet’s words. But to Hillyard, with the emotions of the dark hour just past still shivering about him, he seemed something out of nature. Hillyard leaned from his donkey and took the carbine from the postman’s hand. It was an ancient thing of Spanish manufacture, heavy as a pig of lead.
“But this can’t be of any use,” he cried. “Is the man never attacked?”
Hamet talked with the Arab in a dialect Hillyard did not understand at all; and interpreted the conversation.
“No. He has only once fired his rifle. One night — oh, a long way farther to the south — he waked up to see an elephant fighting his little donkey in the moonlight and he fired his rifle and the elephant ran away. You must know that all these little Korans he carries on his arms and round his neck have been specially blessed by a most holy man.”
The postman’s shoulders, elbows, wrists and neck were circled about by chaplets on which little wooden Korans were strung. He fingered them and counted them, smiling like a woman displaying her jewels to her less fortunate friends.
“So he is safe,” continued Hamet. “Yes, he will even have his picture taken. Yes, he can afford to suffer that. He will stand in front of the great eye and the machine shall go click, and it will not do him any harm at all. He has a letter for you.” Hamet dropped from his enthusiasm over the wonderful immunity of the postman from the dangers of photography into a most matter-of-fact voice.
“A letter for me? That’s impossible,” cried Hillyard.
But the Arab was thrusting his hand here and there in the load on the donkey’s back and finally drew out a goatskin bag. Hillyard, like other Englishmen, had been brought up in a creed which included the inefficiency of all Postmasters-general. A blight fell upon such persons, withering their qualities and shrivelling them into the meanest caricatures of bureaucrats. It could not be that the postal service was now to reveal resource and become the servant of romance. Yet the Arab drew forth a sealed envelope and handed it to Hillyard. And it bore the inscription of his name.
Oh, but it bore much more than that! It was written in a hand which Hillyard had not seen for seven years, and the mere sight of it swept him back in a glory of recollections to Oxford, its towers and tall roofs, which mean so much more to the man who has gone down than to the youth who is up. The forest, with its patterns of golden sunlight and its colonnades of trees crowding away into darkness, was less visible than those towers to Hillyard, as he stood with the envelope in his hand. Once more he swung down the High and across the Broad from a lecture with a ragged gown across his arm. Merton and the House, New College and Magdalen Tower — he saw the enchanted city across Christ Church meadows from the river, he looked down upon it from Headington, and again from those high fields where, at twilight, the scholar-gipsy used to roam. For the letter was in the hand of Harry Luttrell.
He tore it open and read:
“Some one in London is asking for you. Who it is I don’t know. But the message came through in a secret cipher and it might be important. I think you should pack your affs. and hurry along to Senga, where I shall expect you.”
Martin Hillyard folded the letter and put it away in his pocket.
“He will find food in our camp,” he said to Hamet, with a nod towards the postman. “We may as well go on.”
Even if he returned to camp at once, it would be too late to start that day. The sun would be high long before the baggage could be packed upon the camels. The little party went on to the creek and built a tiny house of reeds and boughs, in which Hillyard sat down to wait for the deer to gather. He had one of the green volumes of “The Vicomte de Bragelonne” in his pocket, but this morning the splendid Four for once did not enchain him. Who was it in London who wanted him — wanted him so much that cipher telegrams must find him out on the banks of the Dinder River? Was this letter the summons to the something more and something different? Was the postman to Abyssinia the expected messenger? The miracle of that morning predisposed him to think so.
