Kitabı oku: «Captain Desmond, V.C.», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XV.
GOOD ENOUGH, ISN'T IT?

"One crowded hour of glorious life."

– Scott.

The dusty parade-ground of Mian Mir, Lahore's military cantonment, vibrated from end to end with a rising tide of excitement.

On all sides of the huge square eight thousand spectators, of every rank and race and colour, were wedged into a compact mass forty or fifty deep: while in the central space, eight ponies scampered, scuffled, and skidded in the wake of a bamboo-root polo-ball; theirs hoofs rattling like hailstones on the hard ground.

And close about them – as close as boundary flags and distracted native policemen would permit – pressed that solid wall of onlookers – soldiers, British and native, from thirty regiments at least; officers, in uniform and out of it; ponies and players of defeated teams, manfully resigned to the "fortune o' war," and not forgetful of the obvious fluke by which their late opponents had scored the game; official dignitaries, laying aside dignity for the occasion; drags, phaetons, landaus, and dog-carts, gay as a summer parterre in a wind, with the restless parasols and bonnets of half the women in the Punjab; scores and scores of saïses, betting freely on the match, arguing, shouting, or shampooing the legs of ponies, whose turn was yet to come; and through all the confused hubbub of laughter, cheering, and mercifully incoherent profanity, a British infantry band hammering out with insular assurance, "We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again."

It was the last day of the old year – a brilliant Punjab December day – and the last "chukker" of the final match for the Cup was in full progress. It lay between the Punjab Cavalry from Kohat and a crack Hussar team, fresh from Home and Hurlingham, mounted on priceless ponies, six to each man, and upheld by an overweening confidence that they were bound to "sweep the board." They had swept it accordingly; and although anticipating "a tough tussle with those game 'Piffer'²⁵ chaps," were disposed to look upon the Punjab Cup as their own property for at least a year to come.

Desmond and his men – Olliver and two native officers – knew all this well enough; knew also that money means pace, and weight, and a liberal supply of fresh mounts, and frankly recognised that the odds were heavily against them. But there remained two points worth considering: – they had been trained to play in perfect unison, horse and man; and they were all in deadly earnest.

They had fought their way, inch by inch, through the tournament to this final tie; and it had been a glorious fight so far. The Hussars, whose self-assurance had led them to underrate the strength of the enemy, were playing now like men possessed. The score stood at two goals all, and electric shocks of excitement tingled through the crowd.

Theo Desmond was playing "back," as a wise captain should, to guard the goal and ensure the completest control over his team; and his mount was a chestnut Arab with three white stockings and a star upon his forehead.

This unlooked-for circumstance requires explanation.

A week earlier, on returning from his morning ride to the bungalow where Paul and his own party were staying, Desmond had been confronted by Diamond in a brand-new saddle-cloth marked with his initials; while Diamond's sais, with a smile that displayed every tooth in his head, salaamed to the ground.

"Well, I'm shot!" he exclaimed. "Dunni, – what's the meaning of this?"

The man held out a note in Colonel Buchanan's handwriting. Desmond dismounted, flung an arm over the Arab's neck, and opened the note with a strange quickening of his breath.

The Colonel stated, in a few friendly words, that as Diamond was too good a pony to be allowed to go out of the Regiment, he and his brother officers had decided to buy him back for the Polo Club. Major Wilkinson of the Loyal Monmouth had been uncommonly decent over the whole thing; and, as captain of the team, Desmond would naturally have the use of Diamond during the tournament, and afterwards, except when he happened to be away on leave.

It took him several minutes to grasp those half dozen lines of writing; and if the letters grew indistinct as he read, he had small cause to be ashamed of the fact.

On looking up, he found Paul watching him from the verandah; and dismissing the sais he sprang up the steps at a bound.

"Paul, – was it your notion?"

But the other smiled and shook his head.

"Brilliant inspirations are not in my line, old chap. It was Mrs Olliver. She and the Colonel did most of it between them, though we're all implicated, of course; and I don't know when I've seen the Colonel so keen about anything in his life."

"God bless you all!" Desmond muttered under his breath. "I'm bound to win the Cup for you after this."

And now, as the final "chukker" of the tournament drew to a close, it did indeed seem that the ambition of many years was on the eve of fulfilment. Excitement rose higher every minute. Cheers rang out on the smallest provocation. General sympathy was obviously with the Frontier team, and the suspense of the little contingent from Kohat had risen to a pitch beyond speech.

All the native officers and men who could get leave for the great occasion formed a picturesque group in the forefront of the crowd; Rajinder Singh towering in their midst, his face set like a mask; his eyes fierce with the lust of victory. Evelyn Desmond, installed beside Honor in a friend's dog-cart, sat with her small hands clenched, her face flushed to the temples, disjointed murmurs breaking from her at intervals. Honor sat very still and silent, gripping the iron bar of the box-seat, her whole soul centred on the game. Paul Wyndham, who had mounted the step on her side of the cart, and whose hand clasped the bar within half an inch of hers, had not spoken since the ponies last went out; and to all appearance his concentration equalled her own. But her nearness affected him as the proximity of iron affects the needle of a compass, deflecting his thoughts and eyes continually from the central point of interest.

And what of Frank Olliver?

Her effervescent spirit can only be likened to champagne just before the cork flies off. Perched upon the front seat of a drag, with Colonel Buchanan, she noted every stroke and counter-stroke, every point gained and lost, with the practised knowledge of a man, and the one-sided ardour of a woman. She had already cheered herself hoarse; but still kept up a running fire of comment, emphasised by an occasional pressure of the Colonel's coat-sleeve, to the acute discomfiture of that self-contained Scot.

"We'll not be far off the winning post now," she assured him at this juncture. "Our ponies are playing with their heads entirely, and the others are losing theirs because of the natives and the cheering. There goes the ball straight for the boundary again! – Well done, Geoff! But the long fellow's caught it – Saints alive! 'Twould have been a goal but for Theo. How's that for a fine stroke, now?"

For Desmond, with a clean, splitting smack, had sent the ball flying across three-fourths of the ground.

"Mind the goal!" he shouted to his half-back, Alla Dad Khan, as Diamond headed after the ball like a lightning streak, with three racers – maddened by whip and spur and their own delirious excitement – clattering upon his tail; and a fusilade of clapping, cheers, and yells broke out on all sides.

The ball, checked in mid career, came spinning back to them with the force of a rifle-bullet. The speed had been terrific, and the wrench of pulling up wrought dire confusion. Followed a sharp scrimmage, a bewildering jumble of horses and men, rattling of sticks and unlimited breaking of the third commandment; till the ball shot out again into the open, skimming, like a live thing, through a haze of fine white dust, Desmond close upon it, as before; the Hussar "forwards" in hot pursuit.

But their "back" was ready to receive the ball, and Desmond along with it. Both players struck simultaneously. Their cane-handled sticks met with a crack that was heard all over the ground. Then the ball leapt clean through the goal-posts, the head of Desmond's stick leapt after it, and the crowd scattered right and left before a thundering onrush of ponies. Cheer upon cheer, yell upon yell, went up from eight thousand throats at once. British soldiers flung their helmets in the air; the band lost its head and broke into a triumphant clash of discord; while Colonel Buchanan, forgetful of his Scottish decorum, stood up in the drag and shouted like any subaltern.

He was down in the thick of the melée, ready to greet Desmond as he rode off the battlefield, a breathless unsightly victor, covered with dust and glory.

"Stunningly played – the whole lot of you!"

"Thank you, sir. Good enough, isn't it?"

A vigorous handshake supplied the rest; and Desmond trotted forward to the dog-cart, where Evelyn greeted him with a rush of congratulation. Honor had no word, but Desmond found her eyes and smile sufficiently eloquent.

"Best fight, bar none, I ever had in my life!" he declared by way of acknowledgment. "We're all off to the B.C. Mess as soon as the L.G. has presented the Cup, and we've got some of the dust out of our throats. Come along, Paul, old man."

And he went his way in such elation of spirits as a captain may justly feel whose team has carried off the Punjab Cup in the face of overwhelming odds.

CHAPTER XVI.
SIGNED AND SEALED

 
"Leave the dead moments to bury their dead;
Let us kiss, and break the spell."
 

– Owen Meredith.

The Fancy Ball, given on Old Year's night by the Punjab Commission, was, in Evelyn's eyes, the supreme event of the week; and when Desmond, after a mad gallop from the Bengal Cavalry Mess, threw open his bedroom door, he was arrested by a vision altogether unexpected, and altogether satisfying to his fastidious taste.

A transformed Evelyn stood before the long glass, wrapt in happy contemplation of her own image. From the fillet across her forehead, with its tremulous wire antennæ, to the sandalled slipper that showed beneath her silken draperies, all was gold. Two shimmering wings of gauze sprang from her shoulders; her hair, glittering with gold dust, waved to her waist; and a single row of topaz gleamed on the pearl tint of her throat like drops of wine.

"By Jove, Ladybird, – how lovely you look!"

She started, and turned upon him a face of radiance.

"I'm the Golden Butterfly. Do you like me, Theo, really?"

"I do; – no question. Where on earth did you get it all?"

"At Simla, last year. Muriel Walter invented it for me." Her colour deepened, and she lowered her eyes. "I didn't show it to you before, – because – "

"Yes, yes, – I know what you mean. Don't distress yourself over that. You'll have your triumph to-night, Ladybird! Remember my dances, please, when you're besieged by the other fellows! Upon my word, you look such a perfect butterfly that I shall hardly dare lay a hand on you!"

"You may dare, though," she said softly. "I won't break in pieces if you do."

Shy invitation lurked in her look and tone; but apparently her husband failed to perceive it.

"I'll put you to the test later on," he said, with an amused laugh. "I must go now, and translate myself into Charles Surface, or I'll be late."

Left alone again, she turned back to her looking-glass and sighed; but a single glance at it comforted her surprisingly.

"He was in a hurry," she reflected, by way of further consolation, "and I've got four dances with him after all."

Theo Desmond inscribed few names on his programme beyond those of his wife, Mrs Olliver, and Honor Meredith.

"You must let me have a good few dances, Honor," he said to her, "and hang Mrs Grundy! We are outsiders here, and you and I understand one another."

She surrendered her programme with smiling submission. "Do you always order people to give you dances in that imperative fashion?"

"Only when I'm set on having them, and daren't risk refusal! I'll go one better than Paul, if I may. I didn't know he had it in him to be so grasping."

And he returned the card on which the initials P. W. appeared four times in Wyndham's neat handwriting.

Never, in all his days had Paul asked a woman to give him four dances; and as he claimed Honor for the first of them, he wondered whether his new-found boldness would carry him farther still. Her beauty and graciousness, her enthusiasm over the afternoon's triumph, exalted him from the sober levels of patience and modesty to unscaled heights of aspiration. But not until their second valse together did an opening for speech present itself.

They had deserted the packed moving mass, in whose midst dancing was little more than a promenade under difficulties, and stood aside in an alcove that opened off the ballroom.

"Look at Evelyn. Isn't she charming in that dress?" Honor exclaimed, as the Golden Butterfly whirled past, like an incarnate sunbeam, in her husband's arms. "I feel a Methuselah when I see how freshly and rapturously she is enjoying it all. This is my seventh Commission Ball, Major Wyndham! No doubt most people think it high time I hid my diminished head in England. But my head refuses to feel diminished," – she lifted it a little in speaking, – "and I prefer to remain where I am."

"On the Border?"

"Yes. On the Border for choice."

"You were keen to get there, I remember," he said, restraining his eagerness. "And you are not disappointed, after nine months of it?"

"Disappointed? – I think they have been almost the best months of my life."

She spoke with sudden fervour, looking straight before her into the brilliant, shifting crowd.

Paul's pulses quickened. He saw possibilities ahead.

"Do you mean – ? Would you be content to live there – for good?"

His tone caught her attention, and she turned to him with disconcerting directness of gaze.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I would be quite content to live on the Frontier – with John, if only he would have me. Now we might surely go on dancing, Major Wyndham."

Paul put his arm about her in silence. His time had not yet come; and he took up his burden of waiting again, if with less hope, yet with undiminished resolve.

Honor, meanwhile, had leisure to wonder whether she had imagined that new note in his voice. If not, – and if he were to repeat the question in a more definite form – how should she answer him?

In truth she could not tell. Sincere admiration is not always easy to distinguish from love of a certain order. But Paul's bearing through the remainder of the dance convinced her that she must have been mistaken, and she dismissed the subject from her mind.

Leaving her in charge of Desmond, Wyndham slipped on his greatcoat, and spent half an hour pacing to and fro, in the frosty darkness, spangled with keen stars. Here, forgetful of expectant partners, he took counsel with his cigar and his own sadly sobered heart. More than once he asked himself why those months on the Frontier had been among the best in Honor Meredith's life. The fervour of her tone haunted him with uncomfortable persistence; yet, had he put the question to her, it is doubtful whether she could have given him a definite answer, even if she would.

But although the lights and music and laughter had lost their meaning for him, the great ball of the year went forward merrily in regular alternations of sound and silence, of motion and quiescence, to its appointed end.

It was during one of the intervals, when eye and ear enjoyed a passing respite from the whirling wheel of things, that Desmond, coming out of the cardroom – where he had been enjoying a rubber and a cigarette – caught sight of a gleaming figure standing alone in the pillared entrance to the Hall, and hurried across the deserted ballroom. His wife looked pathetically small and unprotected in the wide emptiness of the archway, and the corners of her mouth quivered as though tears were not far off.

"Oh, Theo, – I am glad!" she said as he reached her side. "I wanted you – long ago, but I couldn't find you anywhere in the crowd."

"What's the trouble, little woman?" he asked. "Quite surprising to see you unappropriated. Any one been bothering you?"

"Yes – a man. One of the stewards introduced him – "

The ready fire flashed in his eyes.

"Confound him! Where is he? What did he do?"

"Nothing – very much. Only – I didn't like it. Come and sit down somewhere and I'll tell you."

She slipped her hand under his arm, and pressed close to him as they sought out a seat between the rows of glass-fronted book-shelves in which the Lawrence Hall library is housed.

"Here you are," he said. "Sit down and tell me exactly what happened."

She glanced nervously at his face, which had in it a touch of sternness that recalled their painful interview three weeks ago.

"I – I don't think he really knew what he was talking about," she began, her eyes on the butterfly fan, which she opened and shut mechanically while speaking. "He began by saying that fancy balls were quite different to other ones; that the real fun of them was that every one could say and do just what they pleased, and nothing mattered at all. He said his own dress was specially convenient, because no one could expect a Pierrot to be responsible for his actions. Then he – he said that by coming as a butterfly I had given every man in the room the right to – to catch me if he could. Wasn't that hateful?"

"Curse him!" muttered Desmond under his breath. "Well – was that all?"

She shook her head with a rueful smile.

"I don't half like telling you, Theo; you look so stern. I'm afraid you'll be very angry."

"Not with you, dear. Go on."

"Well, I told him I didn't see it that way at all, and he said of course not; butterflies never did see that people had any right to catch them; yet they got caught all the same. Then he took tight hold of my hands, and came so close to me that – I was frightened, and asked him to take me back to the ballroom at once. He said it wasn't fair, that the whole twelve minutes belonged to him, and he wouldn't be cheated out of any of it. Then when I was getting up to go away, he – he laughed, and put his arm round me, so that I couldn't move, though I tried to – I did, truly."

At that her husband's arm went round her, and she yielded with a sigh of satisfaction to its protective pressure.

"The brute didn't dare to – kiss you, did he, Ladybird?"

"Oh, no – no. The music began, and some people came by, and he had to let me go. Do men often behave like that at balls, Theo?"

"Well – no; not the right sort!" Desmond answered, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "But there's always a good sprinkling of the wrong sort in a crowd of this kind, and the stewards ought to be more careful."

"The trouble is that – I gave him two dances. The next one is his, and I can't dance with him again. That's why I so badly wanted to find you. Listen, they're tuning up now. Must I go and sit in the ladies' room till it's over?"

"Certainly not. Come out and dance it with me."

"Can I? How lovely! I was afraid you were sure to be engaged."

"Of course I am. But as you happen to need me, that doesn't count."

She leaned forward suddenly, and gave him one of her quick, half-shy kisses, that were still so much more like the kisses of a child than of a woman grown. "It is nice to belong to a man like you," she murmured caressingly. "You really are a dear, Theo! And after I've been so bad to you, too!"

"What's forgiven should be forgotten, Ladybird," he answered, tightening the arm that held her. "So that's a closed subject between us, – you understand? Only remember, there must be no more of that sort of thing. Do you want the compact signed and sealed?" he added, smiling.

"Yes – I do." And he sealed it accordingly.

Two bright tears glistened on her lashes, for she had the grace to realise that she was being blessed and trusted beyond her deserts. A sudden impulse assailed her to tell him everything – now, while his forgiveness enfolded her and gave her a transitory courage. But habit, and dread of losing the surpassing sweetness of reconciliation sealed her lips; and her poor little impulse went to swell the sum of unaccomplished things.

He frowned at sight of her mute signals of distress.

"No, no, little woman. That's forbidden also! Come along out; and if that cad attempts to interfere with us, I'll send him to the right about effectually, I promise you."

"But who is your real partner?" she asked, as they rose to go.

"You are, – who else? My permanent partner!" he answered, smiling down upon her. "I haven't a notion who the other is. Let's stop under this lamp and see."

He consulted his card, and his face clouded for a moment.

"It's Honor! That's rough luck. But at least one can tell her the truth, and feel sure she'll understand. There she is by that pillar, wondering what has come to me. Jove! How splendid she looks to-night! I wish the Major could set eyes on her."

The girl's tall figure, in its ivory and gold draperies, showed strikingly against a mass of evergreens, and the simple dignity of the dress she had herself designed emphasised the queenly element in her beauty.

"Did you think I had deserted you altogether?" Desmond asked, as they drew near.

"I knew you would come the first moment you could."

"You have a large faith in your friends, Honor."

"I have a very large faith – in you!" she answered simply.

"That's good hearing. But I hardly deserve it at this minute. I have come to ask if I may throw you over for Ladybird?" And in a few words he explained the reason of his strange request.

One glance at Evelyn's face told Honor that the untoward incident had dispelled the last shadow of restraint between husband and wife; and the loss of a dance with Theo seemed a small price to pay for so happy a consummation.

The valse was in full swing now, – a kaleidoscopic confusion of colour, shifting into fresh harmonies with every bar; four hundred people circling ceaselessly over a surface as of polished steel.

Desmond guided his wife along the edge of the crowd till they came again to the pillared entrance. Here, where it was possible to stand back a little from the dancers, they were confronted by a thick-set, heavy-faced man wearing the singularly inept-looking costume of a Pierrot. Face and carriage proclaimed that he had enjoyed his dinner very thoroughly before setting out for the ball; and Evelyn's small shudder fired the fighting blood in Desmond's veins. It needed an effort of will not to greet his unsuspecting opponent with a blow between the eyes. But instead, he stood his ground and awaited developments.

The man bestowed upon Evelyn a bow of exaggerated politeness, which italicised his scant courtesy towards her partner.

"There's some mistake here," he said bluntly. "This is my dance with Mrs Desmond, and I've missed too much of it already."

"Mrs Desmond happens to be my wife," Theo made answer with ominous quietness. "I don't choose that she should be insulted by her partners; and I am dancing this with her myself."

The incisive tone, low as it was, penetrated the man's muddled brain. His blustering assurance collapsed visibly, increasing fourfold his ludicrous aspect. He staggered backward, muttering incoherent words that might charitably be construed as apology, and passed on into the library, making an ineffectual effort to combine an air of dignified indifference with the uncertain gait of a landsman in a heavy sea.

Desmond stood looking after him as he went in mingled pity and contempt; but Evelyn's eyes never left her husband's face.

His smouldering anger, and the completeness of his power to protect her by a few decisive words, thrilled her with a new, inexplicable intensity, – an emotion that startled her a little, and in the same breath lifted her to an unreasoning height of happiness.

Unconsciously she pressed close against him as he put his arm round her.

"You're all safe now, my Ladybird," he said with a low laugh. "And honour is satisfied, I suppose! The creature wasn't worth knocking down, though I could hardly keep my fists off him at the start."

And he swept her forthwith into the heart of the many-coloured crowd.

The valse was more than half over now, and as the music slackened to its close some two hundred couples vanished into the surrounding dimness, each intent on their own few minutes of enjoyment. Evelyn Desmond, flushed, silent, palpitating, remained standing at her husband's side, till they were left practically alone under one of the many arches that surround the great hall.

"That was much too short, wasn't it?" he said. "Now we must go and look up Honor, and see that she is not left in the lurch."

At that she raised her eyes, and the soft shining in them lent a quite unusual beauty to her face.

"Must we, Theo, – really? Honor's sure to be all right, and I'm so badly wanting to sit out – with you."

"Are you, really? That's a charming confession to hear from one's wife. You look different to-night, Ladybird. What's come to you?"

"I don't know," she murmured truthfully; adding so low that he could barely catch the words, "Only – I don't seem ever to have understood – till just now how much – I really care – "

"Why, —Evelyn!"

Sheer surprise checked further speech, and with a man's instinctive sense of reserve he looked hastily round to make sure that they were alone.

She misread his silence, and slipped a hand under his arm.

"You're not angry, are you – that I – didn't understand sooner?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"Then come – please come. Honor gave me the whole dance. Besides – look! – there she goes with Major Wyndham. She's always happy with him!"

Desmond smiled. "That's true enough. No need for us if Paul is in the field. Come this way, Ladybird. I know the Lawrence Hall of old."

They sought and found a sofa in a retired, shadowy corner.

"That's ever so nice," she said simply. "Sit down there."

He obeyed, and there was a momentary silence between them. Then the emotion astir within her swept all before it. Turning suddenly, she flung both arms round his neck and hid her face upon his shoulder, her breath coming in short, dry sobs, like the breath of an overwrought child.

Very tenderly, as one who touches that which he fears to bruise or break, he drew her close to him, his own pulses quickened by a remembrance of the words that gave the clue to her strange behaviour, and during those few minutes between dance and dance, Evelyn Desmond arrived at a truer knowledge of the man she had married, in the girlish ignorance of mere fascination, than two years of life with him had brought to her half-awakened heart.