V
Strangely enough, it was to his father's death that Hector eventually owed his opportunity to achieve the life for which he had been trained since birth—life in the service of the Queen; and the realization of his boyhood dreams of chivalry.
To this, too, he owed the fact that, when eventually he donned the scarlet tunic, that tunic was, not the gold-laced vestment of an officer, but the plain coat of a ranker, in the Mounted Police.
The status under which he entered the Service was a heavy disappointment. His early enlistments in the militia or the Rifles for the Red River had been merely preliminary canters regarded at the time as useful training for the future Commission. Hector was not ashamed of his ranker's uniform. He knew the true worth of the man who carries the rifle and pack. Though the sword points the way, the bayonet must follow—or there can be no victory. But the high heart aspires to the sword rather than the bayonet. It is not always easy to follow. It is always difficult to lead. He wished to lead—had been trained and moulded for leadership. To have to relinquish leadership or give up the Service altogether had been a terrible blow to him—how terrible only those who come of Service blood and have lived for years in a Service atmosphere can really appreciate.
For to such as these—to such as Hector—the Army is no machine, no hide-bound association of slaves marching in the lockstep of brutal discipline; nor is it a great dramatic society devoted to meaningless ritual and pompous display. At its worst, it is not the raving monster of ignorant fancy, revelling in sacrifice and blood. But it is something so wonderful that no pen on earth can picture it. It is a glorious brotherhood, a religion giving and demanding much of its votaries—demanding dauntless devotion, iron endurance, inflexible loyalty to God, King, division, battalion—giving the knowledge of work well done and petty selfishness voluntarily set aside for the good of the common cause. To such as these there is marvellous music in the wild voice of the bugle—hallowed by sacred memories and age-old traditions—and the majestic dignity and power in the mere sight of a brigade presenting arms will bring a lump to their throats, while the Colours, tattered, stained with the blood of heroes, emblazoned with the names of great victories, have about them something almost divine. They have one mistress—these Service men—one mother, one sister, whose honour is in their hands and for whom they will die without a murmur. She watches them, rewards them, punishes them, loves them, guards them, from the 'Reveille' of their first morning to the 'Last Post' and three rounds blank of the last night of all. She is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners. They call her The Regiment.
A place in this great brotherhood belongs to every soldier. But the officer is the High Priest of the order. It is for him to guide and encourage his men, to rally the broken line, halt the retreat, give fresh life to the failing charge and gather the spears into his breast to make a place for them to follow. Rob a boy trained for leadership of his birthright and he loses everything he considers worth while. Cut him off from The Regiment and—break his heart.
The Colonel had succumbed to a stroke. His fatal illness had not come suddenly. From the day of Nora's death, it had begun. Nora seemed to have taken away the Colonel's vigour with her. But the decline was not solely on her account. For years, though Hector had not known it till too late, the Colonel had laboured under a heavy financial burden—notes endorsed—bad harvests—family honour—the old, old story.
To this state of affairs, above everything, the change of plans for Hector's future had been due. The old gentleman had torn his heart out when he told his son that he must give up the idea of a Regular Commission or even of enlisting because it had become his duty to go into business and redeem the family fortune.
The hideous truth had revealed itself by slow degrees after the Colonel's death, when it was seen that practically nothing was left for Hector and his mother, that Silvercrest and everything in it must go, that Hector would have to get some kind of work at once and that Mrs. Adair must transfer herself to John's, for the time at least.
Came into Hector's hands, at this crisis, a clipping, like the blast of a trumpet sounding specially for him.