A.E.W. Mason - The Summons

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"Yes, I see now," said Hillyard.

"You had an instance to-night," Luttrell added, as they went in at the
door. "It's a serious matter--the order of a Province and a great many
lives, and the cost of troops from Khartum, and the careers of all of us
are at stake. I think that I am right, and it is for me to say. They
disagree. Yes, Sir Chichester Splay saved us to-night, and"--a smile
suddenly broke upon his serious face--"I really should like to meet
him."

"I will arrange it when we are both in London," Hillyard returned.

He did not forget that promise. But he was often afterwards to recall
this moment when he made it--the silent hall, the door open upon the
hot, still night, the moon just beginning to gild the dark sky, and the
two men standing together, neither with a suspicion of the life-long
consequences which were to spring from the casual suggestion and the
careless assent.

"You are over there," said Luttrell, pointing to the other side of the
hall. He turned towards his own quarters, but a question from Hillyard
arrested him.

"What about that message for me?"

"I know nothing about it," Luttrell answered, "beyond what I wrote. The
telegram came from Khartum. No doubt they can tell you more at
Government House. Good night!"

CHAPTER VII

IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Just outside Senga to the north, in open country, stands a great walled
zareba, and the space enclosed is the nearest approach to the Garden of
Eden which this wicked world can produce. The Zoological Gardens of
Cairo and Khartum replenish their cages from Senga. But there are no
cages at Senga, and only the honey-badger lives in a tub with a chain
round his neck, like a bull-dog. The buffalo and the elephant, the
wart-hog and the reed-buck, roam and feed and sleep together. Nor do
they trouble, after three days' residence in that pleasant sanctuary,
about man--except that specimen of man who brings them food.

All day long you may see, towering above the wall close to the little
wooden door, the long necks and slim heads of giraffes looking towards
the city and wondering what in the world is the matter with the men
to-day, and why they don't come along with the buns and sugar. Once
within the zareba, once you have pushed your way between the giraffes
and got their noses out of your jacket-pockets, you have really only to
be wary of the ostrich. He, mincing delicately around you with his
little wicked red eye blinking like a camera shutter, may try with an
ill-assumed air of indifference to slip up unnoticed close behind you.
If he succeeds he will land you one. And one is enough.

Into this zareba Harry Luttrell led Martin Hillyard on the next morning.
Luttrell had an hour free, and the zareba was the one spectacle in
Senga. He kicked the honey-badger's tub in his little reed-house and
brought out that angry animal to the length of his strong chain and to
within an inch of his own calves.

"Charming little beast, isn't he? See the buffalo in the middle? The
little elephant came in a week ago from just south of the Khor Galagu.
You had something private to say to me? Now's your time. Mind the
ostrich, that's all. He looks a little ruffled."

They were quite alone in the zareba. The giraffes had fallen in behind
and were following them, and level with them, on Hillyard's side, the
ostrich stepped like a delicate lady in a muddy street. Hillyard found
it a little difficult to concentrate his thoughts on Stella Croyle's
message. But he would have delivered it awkwardly in any case. He had
seen enough of Harry Luttrell last night to understand that an ocean now
rolled between those two.

"On the first night of my play, 'The Dark Tower,'" he began, and
suddenly faced around as the ostrich fell back.

"Yes!" said Luttrell, and he eyed the ostrich indifferently. "That
animal's a brute, isn't he?"

He took a threatening step towards it, and the ostrich sidled away as if
it really didn't matter to him where he took his morning walk.

"Yes?" Luttrell repeated.

"I went to a supper-party given by Sir Charles Hardiman."

"Oh?"

Luttrell's voice was careless enough. But his eyes went watchfully to
Hillyard's face, and he seemed to shut suddenly all expression out of
his own.

"Hardiman introduced me to a friend of yours."

Luttrell nodded.

"Mrs. Croyle?"

"Yes."

"She was well?"

"In health, yes!"

"I am very glad." Unexpectedly some feeling of relief had made itself
audible in Luttrell's voice. "It would have troubled me if you had
brought me any other news of her. Yes, that would have troubled me very
much. I should not have been able to forget it," he said slowly.

"But she is unhappy."

Luttrell walked on in silence. His forehead contracted, a look of
trouble came into his face. Yet he had an eye all the while for the
movements of the animals in the zareba. At last he halted, struck out
at the ostrich with his stick, and turned to Hillyard with a gesture of
helplessness.

"But what can one do--except the single thing one can't do?"

"She gave me a message, if I should chance to meet you," answered
Hillyard.

Luttrell's face hardened perceptibly.

"Let me hear it, Martin."

"She said that she would like you to have news of her, and that from
time to time she would like to have a little line from you."

"That was all?"

"Yes."

Harry Luttrell nodded, but he made no reply. He walked back with
Hillyard to the door of the zareba, and the ostrich bore them company,
now on this side, now on that. The elephant was rolling in the grass
like a dog, the giraffes crowded about the little door like beggars
outside a restaurant. The two friends walked back towards the town in an
air shimmering with heat. The Blue Nile glittered amongst its sand-banks
like so many ribands of molten steel. They were close upon the house
before Luttrell answered Stella Croyle's message.

"All _that_," he cried, with a sharp gesture as of a man sweeping
something behind him, "all that happened in another age when I was
another man."

The gesture was violent, but the words were pitiful. He was not a man
exasperated by a woman's unseasonable importunity, but angry with the
grim, hard, cruel facts of life.

"It's no good, Martin," he added, with a smile. "Not all the king's
horses nor all the king's men----"

Hillyard was sure now that no little line would ever go from Senga to
the house in the Bayswater Road. The traditions of his house and of his
regiment had Harry Luttrell in their keeping. Messages? Martin Hillyard
might expect them, might indeed respond to and obey them, and with
advantage, just because they came out of the blue. But the men of
tradition, no! The messenger had knocked upon the doors of their
fathers' houses before ever they were born.

At the door of the Governor's house Harry Luttrell stopped.

"I expect you'll want to do some marketing, and I shall be busy, and
to-night we shall have the others with us. So I'll say now," and his
face brightened with a smile, as though here at all events were a matter
where the bitter laws of change could work no cruelties, "it has been
really good to see you again."

Certain excellent memories were busy with them both--Nuneham and Sanford
Lasher and the Cherwell under its overhanging branches. Then Luttrell
looked out across to the Blue Nile and those old wondrous days faded
from his vision.

"I should like you to get away bukra, bukra, Martin," he said.
"Half-past one at the latest, to-morrow morning. Can you manage it?"

"Why, of course," answered Hillyard in surprise.

"You see, I postponed that execution, whilst you were here. I think
it'll go off all right, but since it's no concern of yours, I would just
as soon you were out of the way. I have fixed it for eight. If you start
at half-past one you will be a good many miles away by then."

He turned and went into the house and to his own work. Martin Hillyard
walked down the road along the river bank to the town. Harry Luttrell
had said his last word concerning Stella Croyle. Of that he was sure and
was glad, though Stella's tear-stained face would rise up between his
eyes and the water of the Nile. Sooner or later Harry Luttrell would
come home, bearing his sheaves, and then he would marry amongst his own
people; and a new generation of Luttrells would hold their commissions
in the Clayfords. He had said his last word concerning Stella Croyle.

But Hillyard was wrong. For in the dark of the morning, when he had
bestridden his donkey and given the order for his caravan to march, he
was hailed by Luttrell's voice. He stopped, and Luttrell came down in
his pyjamas from the door of the house to him.

"Good luck," he said, and he patted the donkey's neck. "Good luck, old
man. We'll meet in England some time."

"Yes," said Hillyard.

It was not to speak these words that Harry Luttrell had risen, after
wishing him good-bye the night before. So he waited.

Luttrell was still, his hand on the little donkey's neck.

"You'll remember me to our honorary member, won't you?"

"Yes."

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

Nor was it for this reminder, either. So Hillyard still waited, and at
last the words came, jerkily.

"One thing you said yesterday.... I was very glad to hear it. That
Stella was well--quite well. You meant that, didn't you? It's the
truth?"

"Yes, it's the truth."

"Thank you ... I was a little afraid ... thank you!"

He took his hand from the donkey's neck, and Hillyard rode forward on
the long and dreary stage to the one camping ground between Senga and
Senaar.

For a little while he wondered at this insistence of Harry Luttrell upon
the physical health of Stella Croyle, and why he had been afraid. But
when the dawn came his thoughts reverted to his own affairs. The message
delivered to him in the forest of the River Dinder! It might mean
nothing. It was the part of prudence to make light of his hopes and
conjectures. But the hopes would not be stilled, now that he was alone.
This was the Summons, the great Summons for which, without his
knowledge, the experiences of his life, detail by detail, had builded
him.

CHAPTER VIII

HILLYARD HEARS NEWS OF AN OLD FRIEND

At Khartum, however, disappointment awaited him. He was received without
excitement by a young aide-de-camp at the Palace.

"I heard that you had come in last night. A good trip? Dine with me
to-night and you shall show me your heads. The Governor-General's in
England."

"There's a telegram."

"Oh yes. It came up to us from Cairo. Some one wanted to know where you
were. They'll know about it at Cairo. We just pushed it along, you
know," said the aide-de-camp. He dined with Hillyard, admired his heads,
arranged for his sleeping compartment, and assured him that the
execution had gone off "very nicely" at Senga.

"Luttrell made a palaver, and his patent drop worked as well as anything
in Pentonville, and every one went home cheered up and comfortable.
Luttrell's a good man."

Thus Hillyard took the train to Wadi Haifa in a chastened mood.
Obviously the message was of very little, if indeed of any, importance.
A man can hardly swing up to extravagant hopes without dropping to
sarcastic self-reproaches on his flightiness and vanity. He was not
aware that the young aide-de-camp pushed aside some pressing work to
make sure that he did go on the train; or that when the last carriage
disappeared towards the great bridge, the aide-de-camp cried, "Well,
that's that," like a man who has discharged one task at all events of
the many left to his supervision.

One consequence of Hillyard's new humility was that he now loitered on
his journey. He stayed a few days at Assouan and yet another few in
Luxor, in spite of the heat, and reached Cairo in the beginning of June
when the streets were thick with dust-storms and the Government had
moved to Alexandria. Hillyard was in two minds whether to go straight
home, but in the end he wandered down to the summer seat of government.

If Khartum had been chilly to the enthusiast, Alexandria was chillier.
It was civil and polite to Hillyard and made him a member of the Club.
But it was concerned with the government of Egypt, and gently allowed
Hillyard to perceive it. Khartum had at all events stated "There is a
cablegram." At Alexandria the statement became a question: "Is there a
cablegram?" In the end a weary and indifferent gentleman unearthed it.
He did not show it to Hillyard, but held it in his hand and looked over
the top of it and across a roll-top desk at the inquirer.

"Yes, yes. This seems to be what you are asking about. It is for us, you
know"--this with a patient smile as Hillyard's impatient hand reached
out for it. "Do you know a man called Bendish--Paul Bendish?"

"Bendish?" cried Hillyard. "He was my tutor at Oxford."

"Ah! Then it does clearly refer to you. Bendish has a friend who needs
your help in London."

Hillyard stared.

"Do you mean to say that I was sent for from the borders of Abyssinia
because Bendish has a friend in London who wants my help?"

The indifferent gentleman stroked his chin.

"It certainly looks like it, doesn't it? But I do hope that you didn't
cut your expedition short on that account." He looked remorsefully into
Hillyard's face. "In any case, the rainy season was coming on, wasn't
it?"

"Yes, my expedition was really ended when the message reached me,"
Hillyard was forced to admit.

"That's good," said the indifferent gentleman, brightening. "You will
see Bendish, of course, in England. By what ship do you sail? It's not
very pleasant here, is it?"

"I shall sail on the _Himalaya_ in a week's time."

"Right!" said the official, and he nodded farewell and dipped his nose
once more into his papers.

Hillyard walked to the door, conscious that he looked the fool he felt
himself to be. But at the door he turned in a sort of exasperation.

"Can't you tell me at all why Bendish's friend wants my help?" he asked.

It was at this moment that the indifferent gentleman had the inspiration
of his life.

"I haven't an idea, Mr. Hillyard," he replied. "Perhaps he has got into
difficulties in the writing of a revue."

The answer certainly drove Hillyard from the room without another word.
He stood outside the door purple with heat and indignation. Hillyard
neither overrated nor decried his work. But to be dragged away from the
buffalo and the reed-buck of the Dinder River in order to be told that
he was a writer of revues. No! That was carrying a bad joke too far.

Hillyard stalked haughtily along the corridor towards the outer door,
but not so fast but that a youth passed him with a sheet of paper in his
hand. The youth went into the room where Government cablegrams were
coded. The sheet of paper which he held in his hand was inscribed with a
message that Martin Hillyard would leave Alexandria in a week's time on
the s.s. _Himalaya_. And the message strangely enough was not addressed
to Paul Bendish at all. It was headed, "For Commodore Graham.
Admiralty." The great Summons had in fact come, although Hillyard knew
it not.

He travelled in consequence leisurely by sea. He started from Alexandria
after half the month of June had gone, and he was thus in the Bay of
Biscay on that historic morning of June the twenty-eighth, when the
Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophia Duchess of Hohenberg, were
murdered in the streets of Saravejo. London, when he reached it, was a
choir of a million voices not yet tuned to the ringing note of one. It
was incredible that the storm, foreseen so often over the port wine,
should really be bursting at last. Mediation will find a way. Not this
time; the moment has been chosen. And what will England do? Ride safe in
the calm centre of the hurricane? No ship ever did, and England won't.

A few degenerate ones threw up their hands and cried that all was
over--_they knew_.

Of these a gaunt-visaged man, stubborn and stupid and two generations
back a German, held forth in the hall of Hillyard's club.

"German organisation, German thoroughness and German brains--we are no
match for them. The country's thick with spies--wonderful men. Where
shall _we_ find their equals?"

A sailor slipped across the hall and dropped into a chair by Hillyard's
side.

"You take no part in these discussions? The crackling of thorns--what?"

"I have been a long time away."

"Thought so," continued the sailor. "A man was inquiring for you
yesterday--a man of the name of Graham."

Hillyard shook his head.

"I don't know him."

"No, but he is a friend of a friend of yours."

Hillyard sat up in his chair. He had been four days in London, and the
engrossing menace of those days had quite thrust from his recollections
the telegram which had, as he thought, befooled him.

"The friend of mine is possibly Paul Bendish," he said stiffly.

"Think that was the name. Graham's the man I am speaking of," and the
sailor paused. "Commodore Graham," he added.

Hillyard's indignation ebbed away. What if he had not been fooled? The
quenched hopes kindled again in him. There was all this talk of
war--alarums and excursions as the stage-directions had it. Service!
Suddenly he realised that ever since he had left Senga, a vague envy of
Harry Luttrell had been springing up in his heart. The ordered life of
service--authority on the one hand, the due execution of details on the
other! Was it to that glorious end in this crisis that all his life's
experience had slowly been gathering? He looked keenly at his companion.
Was it just by chance that he had crossed the hall in the midst of all
this thistle-down discussion and dropped in the chair by his side?

"But what could I do?"

He spoke aloud, but he was putting the question to himself. The sailor,
however, answered it.

"Ask Graham."

He wrote an address upon a sheet of notepaper and handed it to Hillyard.
Then he looked at the clock which marked ten minutes past three.

"You will find him there now."

The sailor went after his cap and left the club. Hillyard read the
address. It was a number in a little street of the Adelphi, and as he
read it, suspicion again seized upon Hillyard. After all, why should a
Commodore want to see him in a little street of the Adelphi. Perhaps,
after all, the indifferent official of Alexandria was right and the
Commodore had ambitions in the line of revues!

"I had better go and have it out with him," he decided, and, taking his
hat and stick, he walked eastwards to Charing Cross. He turned into a
short street. At the bottom a stone arch showed where once the Thames
had lapped. Now, beyond its grey-white curve, were glimpses of green
lawns and the cries of children at their play. Hillyard stopped at a
house by the side of the arch. A row of brass plates confronted him, but
the name of Commodore Graham was engraved on none of them. Hillyard rang
the housekeeper's bell and inquired.

"On the top floor on the left," he was told.

He climbed many little flights of stairs, and at the top of each his
heart sank a little lower. When the stairs ended he confronted a mean,
brown-varnished door; and he almost turned and fled. After all, the
monstrous thing looked possible. He stood upon the threshold of a set of
chambers. Was he really to be asked to collaborate in a revue? He rang
the bell, and a young woman opened the door and barred the way.

"Whom do you wish to see?" she asked.

"Commodore Graham."

"Commodore Graham?" she repeated with an air of perplexity, as though
this was the first time she had ever heard the name.

Across her shoulder Hillyard looked into a broad room, where three other
girls sat at desks, and against one wall stood a great bureau with many
tiny drawers like pigeon-holes. Several of these drawers stood open and
disclosed cards standing on their edges and packed against each other.
Hillyard's hopes revived. Not for nothing had he sat from seven to ten
in the office of a shipping agent at Alicante. Here was a card-index,
and of an amazing volume. But his interlocutor still barred the way.

"Have you an appointment with Commodore Graham?" she asked, still with
that suggestion that he had lunched too well and had lost his way.

"No. But he sent for me across half the world."

The girl raised a pair of steady grey eyes to his.

"Will you write your name here?"

She allowed him to pass and showed him some slips of paper on a table in
the middle of the room. Hillyard obeyed, and waited, and in a few
moments she returned, and opened a door, crossed a tiny ante-room and
knocked again. Hillyard entered a room which surprised him, so greatly
did its size and the wide outlook from its windows contrast with the
dinginess of its approach. A thin man with the face of a French abbe sat
indolently twiddling his thumbs by the side of a big bureau.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Mr. Hillyard?"

"Yes."

Commodore Graham nodded to the girl, and Hillyard heard the door close
behind him.

"Won't you sit down? There are cigarettes beside you. A match? Here is
one. I hope that I didn't bring you home before your time."

"The season had ended," replied Hillyard, who was in no mood to commit
himself. "In what way can I help you?"

"Bendish tells me that you know something of Spain."

"Spain?" cried Hillyard in surprise. "Spain means Madrid, Bilbao, and a
host of places, and a host of people, politicians, merchants, farmers.
What should I know of them?"

"You were in Spain for some years."

"Three," replied Hillyard, "and for most of the three years picking up a
living along the quays. Oh, it's not so difficult in Spain, especially
in summer time. Looking after a felucca while the crew drank in a cafe,
holding on to a dinghy from a yacht and helping the ladies to step out,
a little fishing here, smuggling a box of cigars past the customs
officer there--oh, it wasn't so difficult. You can sleep out in comfort.
I used to enjoy it. There was a coil of rope on the quay at Tarragona;
it made a fine bed. Lord, I can feel it now, all round me as I curled up
in it, and the stars overhead, seen out of a barrel, so to speak!"

Hillyard's face changed. He had the spark of the true wanderer within
him. Even recollections of days long gone could blow it into clear, red
flame. All the long glowing days on the hot stones of the water-side,
the glitter of the Mediterranean purple-blue under the sun, the coming
of night and the sudden twinkling of lights in the cave-dwellings above
Almeria and across the bay from Aguilas, the plunge into the warm sea at
midnight, the glorious evenings at water-side cafes when he had half a
dozen coppers in his pocket; the good nature of the people! All these
recollections swept back on him in a rush. The actual hardships, the
hunger, the biting winds of January under a steel-cold sky, these things
were all forgotten. He remembered the freedom.

"There weren't any hours to the day," he cried, and spoke the creed of
all the wanderers in the world. "I saw the finest bull-fights in the
world, and made money out of them by selling dulces and membrilla and
almond rock from Alicante. Oh, the life wasn't so bad. But it came to an
end. A shipping agent at Alicante used me as a messenger, and finally,
since I knew English and no one else in his office did, turned me into a
shipping clerk."

Hillyard had quite forgotten Commodore Graham, who sat patiently
twiddling his thumbs throughout the autobiography, and now came with
something of a start to a recognition of where he sat. He sprang up and
reached for his hat.

"So, you see, you might as well ask a Chinaman at Stepney what he knows
of England as ask me what I know of Spain. I am just wasting your time.
But I have to thank you," and he bowed with a winning pleasantness, "for
reviving in me some very happy recollections which were growing dim."

The Commodore, however, did not stir.

"But it is possible," he said quietly, "that you do know the very places
which interest me--the people too."

Hillyard looked at the Commodore. He put down his hat and resumed his
seat.

"For instance?"

"The Columbretes."

Hillyard laughed.

"Islands sixty miles from Valencia."

"With a lighthouse," interrupted Graham.

"And a little tumble-down inn with a vine for an awning."

"Oh! I didn't know there was an inn," said Graham. "Already you have
told me something."

"I fished round the Columbretes all one summer," said Hillyard, with a
laugh.

Graham nodded two or three times quickly.

"And the Balearics?"

"I worked on one of Island Line ships between Barcelona and Palma
through a winter."

"There's a big wireless," said Commodore Graham.

"At Soller. On the other side of Mallorca from Palma. You cross a
wonderful pass by the old monastery where Georges Sand and Chopin stayed
and quarrelled."

The literary reminiscence left Commodore Graham unmoved.

"Did you ever go to Iviza?"

"For a month with a tourist who dug for ancient pottery."

Graham swung round to his bureau and drummed with the tips of his
fingers upon the leather pad. He made no sign which could indicate
whether he was satisfied or no. He lit a cigarette and handed the box to
Hillyard.

"Did you ever come across a man called Jose Medina?"

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