Colonel Bradford made speeches, roared lion-like at social entertainments, and spoke of the British flag, and the well-known loyalty of Gethsemane inhabitants, sentiments greeted with loud and unanimous applause by his hearers.
On all faces were smiles, in all hearts joy, save in the case of Hector Graeme, who was, as usual, in antagonism with his fellows. "Confound it, man," said Bradford to him one morning, Hector having been more than usually unresponsive to his Chief's good-humour, "what an ungracious fellow you are, one would think, by Gad, you were sorry instead of glad at our recent success, why, last night at dinner you were infernally rude to the Mayor. I tell you I don't like it, Graeme, and, what's more, I won't have it," and Bradford stalked away in dudgeon, another black mark registered in his mind against his unsatisfactory A.D.C.
Had it not been for Major Godwin, events would long before this have come to a head between the two, for, since the capture of the commando, Hector had once more relapsed into his former irritating ways of slackness and inattention; and had, moreover, recently added another fault to the list, that of almost continual absence, passing his days, to the neglect of his Chief, in long solitary rides about the surrounding country.
This in itself was not distasteful to the Colonel, rather was it a relief, for his former feelings of annoyance at Hector's ignorance and casualness had of late become replaced by another—that of dislike, even hatred, for his subordinate. He felt that peculiarly bitter hatred we feel for those to whom, in a moment of expansion, we have revealed some jealously-hidden weakness, and who have responded to the revelation by a counter-display of strength, comforting possibly at the time, but becoming an intolerable and rankling memory once that hour is passed and security attained. To all save Hector—and perhaps one other—Bradford was a hero, one who had accomplished the hitherto impossible, and daily the longing grew, not so much to get rid of this one witness of his hour of humiliation—for that, for reasons of his own, he shrank from doing—as to crush him, stamp on him, and load him with obloquy. This he did to the full extent of his power, depriving Graeme of the smallest show of independence, ruthlessly snubbing him, and countermanding even such orders as in his position he was entitled to give, fearful lest they should be construed by those outside into his management by a subordinate, and that this suspicion would finally culminate in the belief that it was not he, but Hector, who had in reality brought about the recent capture.
If Bradford, on his part, cherished these feelings towards his aide, Hector was even more bitter against his Chief, the main reason for this being the Colonel's refusal to acknowledge or even allude to the services rendered to him by Hector on that momentous occasion. "Damn it," he muttered, watching the hero's gracious acceptation of congratulations on one occasion, "it was I, not you, who caught the beggar; but for me, you would have slunk back with your tail between your legs, and instead of addresses and flags, it's hooting would have met you from this same loyal town of Gethsemane. Lord," yawning and turning away, "how infernal slow that honours' list is in appearing, six weeks, at least, since the names went in. I wonder what they'll do for me? Brevet, I suppose, and probably a D.S.O. as well; can't very well do less, they might give me a column too, and then, Bradford, you ass, you can run your own show, and we'll see what sort of success you'll have. Gad, what a show-up it will be for the impostor, doing all right when I'm there, but coming to grief once I'm gone," and Hector, comforted at the thought, called for his horse and rode away into the mountains.
At last the long looked-for honours' list arrived, in which Bradford's name appeared as a Major-General and C.B., and Godwin's as Lieut.-Colonel and C.M.G. Many others were rewarded with Brevets and D.S.O.'s—amongst the latter being Rufford, of the Veldt Rifles. Of Hector Graeme, however, there was no mention, peruse and reperuse the list as he might; and, incredulity at last giving way to certainty, his face grew suddenly livid, and a look came into his eyes, which caused Godwin, who, with Bradford, was in the room, to spring up, and, seizing Hector by the arm, lead him outside, before the words trembling on his lips were uttered. "I know, I know," he said hastily, "but don't be a fool, Graeme; there's time enough yet. Go for a ride; curse the veldt if you like, but not the..." Hector, obeying him, went, and riding fiercely away into the mountain flung himself down on the ground, where he lay, a prey to one of those secret wild fits of passion, the first he had given way to for four years—in his room at Fort Hussein.
Limp and white-faced, he returned to his quarters, to find Godwin awaiting him; and a long conversation followed, the first of many, for the long-nosed man had taken a liking to Graeme, one of those occasionally awakened—which are almost invariably strong and lasting—by the universally unpopular. This liking, however, was in no way returned by its object, who considered the other a bore, the more so as he was continually harping upon one subject, that of the necessity of military reading to a soldier, a pursuit for which Hector had no liking, especially for the class of literature recommended by Godwin.
"Two things are necessary to make a leader," his self-appointed counsellor would urge, his pale-green eyes lighting up with enthusiasm as he spoke, "one the natural qualities of character, which cannot be acquired; the other, knowledge of one's profession, which can, by books. The qualities—I may be wrong, of course—I think you have; you're certainly aggressive, the great thing; but the knowledge you have not; indeed, you're one of the most ignorant officers it has ever been my fortune to meet. And you may be the strongest man in the world, Graeme," he concluded, "but, if you can't box, the fellow, with half your strength, who can will knock you out in the first round."
"Not necessarily," was the answer, "the cleverest professors with the gloves are often useless in the ring. Their hearts are wrong, they don't mean smashing their men, and never lead, only wait to be knocked out. And it's just the same, I imagine, in war. Take this last show, for instance; you know as well as I do, Godwin, that——"
"That but for the—information you brought in that night," interrupted the latter hastily, "Van der Tann would probably still be at large. That, of course, is a matter, Graeme, I must decline to discuss, and if you take my earnest advice you'll forget the episode as quickly as you can. Believe me, you'll ruin your career if you don't. But what you say, about the finest boxer being useless in the ring, proves nothing beyond the fact that character is the most essential of the two things I spoke of. Make the two boxers equal, or, as that's impossible, make them nearly equal in that respect, and the victory goes to the one with most science. Take Blücher, for instance, as strong a character as there has ever been, but, because he was ignorant, he lost army after army till Gneisenau took him in hand, and, acting as his brain, told him what to do. He, a general, Graeme, had to rely on another man's knowledge; he admitted it himself when he said, 'Ah, Gneisenau, what a general I should have been had I only read!'"