Hector Graeme

by Evelyn Brentwood

The morning came, the white-rimed marshland glittered in the morning sun, kittiwake and plover renewed their battle with the wind. The daylight faded and was gone, a glow of pink and yellow appeared in the west, green of sky deepened to blue, the sound of unseen wings clove the violet dusk overhead, and dim shapes stole phantom-like across the moon. The first day of the new life was past, and the gloom was not lightened but had become deeper, ever deeper, with the flitting of the hours.

With Hector's coming, the peace and happiness reigning over that Norfolk home had spread their wings and fled. There was something wrong, and everyone knew it, despite Lucy's strivings after concealment; but the instinct of the servant class is a hard thing to baffle, and, ignore it as she might, only too well did the mistress know that there was not one member of the household but was fully aware that between her and the master all was not harmony.

Further, she knew—and to Lucy's proud soul this was perhaps the hardest of all to bear—that, with one exception, they were with her and against Hector. The exception, of course, was the nurse, who maintained stoutly that they were all a pack of fools, and if misunderstanding there were, though for her part she could not see it, it was the fault of the mistress, to whom in consequence her manner became somewhat cold and distant. And for this Lucy loved her, and hated her self-constituted allies, snubbing their advances on all occasions and showering unnecessary favours on the haughty nurse. In vain, however, for in both directions did she fail: her allies continued to smile and sympathise; the enemy declined to be mollified.

Day by day the clouds thickened, and she realised that that which she had thought but a rift between her and Hector—an ugly rent maybe and one that, though healed, must ever leave a scar behind—was in reality a chasm, the depths of which she was unable to fathom. Hard though she fought to bridge it and cross over to where he was standing, it was all in vain; for the planks she stretched out fell uselessly from the farther edge, receding as they touched it, and the figure on the other side grew daily smaller and more indistinct. And Lucy might hope to cross that yawning chasm in vain, for that which lurked within it, pushing its sides asunder, was a lie unconfessed. If Hector would only confess and pluck the lie from the depths, no longer would the gulf widen, but remain fixed for her to bridge, could she but find the plank. If it were left, however, like an iron wedge it would sink lower, ripping and rending as it sank.

Of such a confession from Hector there was little hope now: the lie was almost out of sight already, and he wished it so buried. His brain reeled at the thought of further explanations, every jangling nerve clamoured for peace—peace; for that odd paralysis, which had seized upon his will the first night, had not lifted, as he had hoped, in the morning, rather had it tightened its hold, till now all power of resistance had left him and he had fallen to drifting without mast or oars on a grey, horizonless sea. Something would happen; it was for that he lived now; not for ever could he wander on like this; land must be viewed at last; and at the thought a ray of hope would glimmer above the grey monotony, and its beam for an instant strike warm on his heart.

Yes, sooner or later the end would come; Lucy would see and insist on his going, and not only offer to let him go, as she had done before. He forgot, in his own blindness, that Lucy too could not see, for he himself had taken away her sight. The days dragged on, grey and purposeless, and at last Lucy also began to despair. Do what she would, it was all useless. Unhappiness, unkindness even, she had been prepared for and would have known how to meet, but this dull apathy, this total lack of interest in life, it was that which crushed her.

He was so changed, too, from the husband of former years; his whole nature and tastes seemed to have undergone some strange transformation. All his assertiveness and intolerance had left him: she might advance what views she liked now—and often she did in the vain hope of awakening the old Hector—it was all to no purpose; he never contradicted or opposed. Even the laudation of newspapers, from which only had Lucy learnt of a certain event on board the Dunrobin Castle, was ignored by its object, and it was she, not Hector, as it would have been in former years, who sent for every paper dealing with the subject, and having read their contents to the assembled household, cut out the paragraphs, and, tying them up with stout ribbon, put them carefully away with a certain honours' list and other treasures.

The shooting also, from which she had anticipated such joy, failed to arouse any enthusiasm, and the peace of marsh and pool remained almost undisturbed by the bang of the Purdys. True, on one or two occasions he had gone out in answer to her frequent urgings, but he was all the time obviously thinking of other things, and screeching snipe and quacking mallard flew away only too often unscathed, even unseen, by the erstwhile vigilant eyes. Then, while the sun was yet high in the heaven, he would suggest a return home, and, once there, would shut himself up in his room, and read uninterruptedly till dinner, and after that silent meal till well into the night.

This, perhaps, was the most disquieting change of all, the transformation of the former restless, energetic Hector into a bookworm. Such books too: no less than three works on the doings of an uninteresting and seemingly insane person called Suvarov; a collection of medical works, or such they appeared to Lucy; and another, one she had found on his dressing-table one morning, a thin daintily-bound volume called "The Heifer of the Dawn." What a strange name, she thought and, taking it up, opened it, and then stood rigid, with her eyes fixed on the title-page. For a moment she remained looking, then with sudden passion tore the book across, and, thrusting the halves into the fire, stamped them into the burning coals with her foot.

"Oh, it's no use—no use at all," she thought drearily, and from that day abandoned the struggle and left it to be fought out by Ruby. And in no better hands could she have entrusted it, for indifferent to all else as Hector had become there was yet one who, whatever his mood, was always sure of a glad welcome, that one being his small daughter.