"The fountains of my hidden life,Are, through thy friendship, fair."—Emerson.
Notmany days later Desmond's advertisements appeared simultaneously in the only two newspapers of Upper India; and he set his face like a flint in anticipation of the universal remonstrance in store for him, when the desperate step he had taken became known to the regiment.
He was captain of the finest polo team on the frontier; the one great tournament of the year—open to every Punjab regiment, horse and foot—would begin in less than a fortnight; and he, who had never parted with a polo pony in his life, was advertising the pick of his stable for sale. A proceeding so unprecedented, so perplexing to all who knew him, could not, in the nature of things, be passed over in silence. Desmond knew—none better—that victory or defeat may hang on the turn of a hair; that, skilled player though he was, the introduction of a borrowed pony, almost at the last moment, into a team trained for months to play in perfect accord was unwise, to say the least of it; knew also that he would be called upon to justify his own unwisdom at so critical a juncture, when all hearts were set on winning the coveted Punjab Cup.
And justification was out of the question,—there lay the sting.
Loyalty to Evelyn sealed his lips; and even the loss of his best-loved pony was less hard to bear than the possibility of being misjudged by his brother officers, whose faith in him had come to be an integral part of his life.
In his present cooler frame of mind he saw that his action had been over-hasty; but with men of vehement temperament, to think is to feel, to feel is to act,—reflection comes last, if it ever comes at all. The first heat of vexation, the discovery of his wife's untrustworthiness and the sacrifice it entailed, had blinded him to all minor considerations.
But these were details that could not be put into words. The thing was done. To put a brave face on it, and to shield Evelyn from the result of her own misdoing—there lay his simple duty in a nutshell. The risk must be accepted, and the Punjab Cup carried off in its despite. This man owed more than he knew to the "beholden face of victory"; to his life-long determination that, no matter what happened, he must conquer.
In the meanwhile immediate issues demanded his full attention.
Harry Denvil, as might be expected, sounded the first note of protest.
He invaded the sacred precincts of his senior's study with audacious lack of ceremony.
"Forgive me, Desmond: but there was no one in the verandah, and I couldn't wait. Of course you know what's in the wind. The Colonel came on that advertisement of yours in 'The Pioneer' just before tiffin, and you should have heard him swear! He showed it to Major Wyndham, and asked: 'Was it a practical joke?' But the Major seemed quite cut up; said he knew nothing about it, and you would probably have good reasons to give. The rest didn't take it so quietly; but of courseIunderstood at once. For God's sake, old chap, cancel that confounded advertisement, and take back your eight hundred. I can borrow it again from theshroff, just for the present. Anything's better than letting you in for the loss of Diamond at a time like this."
He broke off more from lack of breath than lack of matter; and Desmond, who had risen to cope with the intruder, put both hands upon the Boy's shoulders, a great kindliness softening his eyes.
"My dear Harry, don't distress yourself," he said. "I appreciate your generosity a good deal more than I care to say. But you are not in any way to blame for the loss of Diamond."
"But, Desmond—I don't understand——"
"There are more things in heaven and earth...!" Desmond quoted, smiling. "It's like your impertinence to understand everything at four-and-twenty."
"Oh, shut up!" the other retorted, laughing in spite of himself. "Can't you see I'm in earnest? You don't mean to tell me——?"
"No, Harry, I don't mean to tell you anything about it. I'm not responsible to you for my actions. Stay and have a pipe with me to cool you down a bit. Not another word about my affairs, or I take you by the shoulders and put you outside the door."
Thus much for Denvil. But the rest could not be treated in this summary fashion.
Wyndham put in an appearance at polo that afternoon. He played fitfully; and at other times rode out to the ground, which lay a mile or so beyond the station. To-day it chanced—or possibly Paul so contrived it—that he and Desmond rode home together, a little behind the others.
A low sun stretched out all the hills; distorted the shadows of the riders; and flung a golden pollen of radiance over the barren land.
The habit of silence was strong between these two men; and for a while it lasted unbroken. Desmond was riding his favourite pony, a spirited chestnut Arab, swift as a swallow, sensitive as a child, bearing on his forehead the white star to which he owed his name. The snaffle hung loose upon his neck, and Desmond's hand rested upon the silken shoulder as if in a mute caress. He knew what was coming, and awaited Paul's pleasure with stoical resignation.
Wyndham considered the strong, straight lines of his friend's profile thoughtfully; then he spoke:
"You gave us all rather a shock this morning, Theo."
"I'm sorry for that. I was afraid there'd be some bother about it. But needs must—when the devil drives."
"The devil that drives you is your own incurable pride," Paul answered with unusual warmth. "You know, without forcing me to put it in words, that every rupee I possess is at your service. You might have given me a chance before going such lengths as this."
Desmond shook his head. The man's fastidious soul revolted from the idea of using Paul's money to pay his wife's bills.
"Not in these circumstances," he said. "It wasn't pride that held me back; but a natural sense of the justice and—fitness of things. You must take that on trust, Paul."
"Why, of course, my dear chap. But how about the fitness of parting with that pony just before the tournament? As captain of the team, do you think you are acting quite fairly by the Regiment?"
The shot told. Among soldiers of the best sort the Regiment is apt to be a fetish, and to Desmond the lightest imputation of disregard for its welfare was intolerable.
"Is that how the other fellows look at it?" he asked, a troubled note in his voice.
"Well, if they do, one can hardly blame them. They naturally want to know what you mean to do about the tournament after you have let your best pony go? I take it for granted that you have some sort of plan in your head."
"Yes. I am counting on you to lend me Esmeralda. It's only the 6th now; and if I train her for all I'm worth between this and the 20th, I can get her up to the scratch."
Paul's answering smile was oddly compact of tenderness and humour.
"So that's your notion? You'll deign to make use of me so far? Upon my soul, Theo, you deserve that I should refuse, since you won't give me the satisfaction of doing what would be far more to the purpose."
Desmond looked his friend steadily in the eyes.
"You'll not refuse, though," he said quietly, and Paul shook his head. By way of thanks, Theo laid his hand impulsively upon Wyndham's arm.
"I'm sure you understand, dear old man, that it's not easy or pleasant for me to part with Diamond, or to shut you out and refuse your help; but I can't endure that the rest of them should think me slack or careless of their interests."
"They know you far too well to think anything of the sort. By the way, what arrangements are you making for Lahore?"
"None at all. Honor will go, I daresay; and I shall run down for the polo. But fifteen days' leave is out of the question."
Paul turned sharply in his saddle.
"Now, look here, Theo—you're going too far. I make no offer this time. I simply insist!"
Desmond hesitated. The thought of Evelyn was knocking at his heart.
"You know I hate accepting that sort of thing," he objected, "even from you."
Wyndham laughed.
"That's your peculiar form of selfishness, my dear chap. You want to keep the monopoly of giving in your own hands. Very wholesome for you to have the tables turned. Besides," urged the diplomatist, boldly laying down his trump card, "it would be a great disappointment to your wife not to go down with us all and see the matches."
"Yes. That's just the difficulty."
"I'm delighted to hear it! The Lahore week shall be my Christmas present to her and you; and there's an end ofthatdilemma."
"Thank you, Paul," Desmond said simply. "I'll tell her to-night. Come over to dinner," he added as they parted. "The Ollivers will be there; and I may stand in need of protection."
The sound of music greeted him from the hall, and he found Honor playing alone in the dusk.
"Please go on," he said, as she rose to greet him. "It's what I want more than anything at this moment."
The girl flushed softly, and turned back to the instrument. Any one who had heard her playing before Desmond came in, could scarcely have failed to note the subtle change in its quality. She made of her music a voice of sympathy, evolved from the heart of the great German masters; whose satisfying strength and simplicity—so far removed from the restless questioning of our later day—were surely the outcome of a large faith in God; of the certainty that effort, aspiration, and endurance, despite their seeming futility, can never fail to be very much worth while.
In this fashion Honor reassured her friend to his complete comprehension; and while he sat listening and watching her in the half light, he fell to wondering how it came about that this girl, with her generous warmth of heart, her twofold beauty of the spirit and the flesh, should still be finding her central interest in the lives of others rather than in her own. Was the inevitable awakening over and done with? Or was it yet to come? He inclined to the latter view, and the thought of Paul sprang to his mind. Here, surely, was the one woman worthy of his friend. But then, Paul held strong views about marriage, and it was almost impossible to picture the good fellow in love.
Nevertheless, the good fellow was, at that time, more profoundly, more irrevocably in love than Desmond himself had ever been, notwithstanding the fact of his marriage. His theories had proved mere dust in the balance when weighed against his strong, simple-hearted love for Honor Meredith. Yet the passing of nine months found him no nearer to open recantation. If a man has learnt nothing else by the time he is thirty-eight, he has usually gained possession of his soul, and at no stage of his life had Paul shown the least talent for taking a situation by storm. In the attainment of Honor's friendship, this most modest of men felt himself blest beyond desert; and watch as he might for the least indication of a deeper feeling, he had hitherto watched in vain. It never occurred to him that his peculiarly reticent form of wooing—if wooing it could be called—was hardly calculated to enlighten her as to the state of his heart. He merely reined in his great longing and awaited possible developments; accepting, in all thankfulness, the certain good that was his, and determined not to risk the loss of it without some hope of greater gain.
But of all these things Desmond guessed nothing as he sat, in the dusk of that December evening, speculating on the fate of the girl whose friendship he frankly regarded as one of the goodliest gifts of life.
When at last she rose from the piano, he rose also.
"Thankyou," he said with quiet emphasis. "How well you understand!"
"Don't let yourself be troubled by anything the Ollivers may say or think," she answered softly. "You are doing your simple duty, Theo, and I am sure Major Wyndham, even without knowing all the facts, will understand quite as well—as I do."
With that she left him, because the fulness of her understanding put a check upon further speech.
That night, when the little party had broken up without open warfare, and Desmond stood alone with his wife before the drawing-room fire, he told her of Wyndham's generosity.
"You'll get your week at Lahore, Ladybird," he said. "And you owe it to Paul. He wishes us to accept the trip as his Christmas present."
"Oh, Theo...!" A quick flush revealed her delight at the news, and she made a small movement towards him; but nothing came of it. Six months ago she would have nestled close to him, certain of the tender endearments which had grown strangely infrequent of late. Now an indefinable shyness checked the spontaneous caress, the eager words upon her lips. But her husband, who was looking thoughtfully into the fire, seemed serenely unaware of the fact.
"You're happy about it, aren't you?" he asked at length.
"Yes—of course—very happy."
"That's all right; and I'm glad I wasn't driven to disappoint you. Now get to bed; and sleep soundly on your rare bit of good luck. I have still a lot of work to get through."
She accepted his kindly dismissal with an altogether new docility; and on arriving in her own room gave conclusive proof of her happiness by flinging herself on the bed in a paroxysm of stifled sobbing.
"Oh, if only I had told him sooner!" she lamented through her tears. "Now I don't believe he'll ever really forgive me, or love me properly again."
And, in a measure, she was right. Trust her he might, as in duty bound; but to be as he had been before eating the bitter fruit of knowledge was, for the present at all events, out of his power.
Since their momentous talk nearly a week ago, Evelyn had felt herself imperceptibly held at arms' length, and the vagueness of the sensation increased her discomfort tenfold. No word of reproach had passed his lips, nor any further mention of Diamond or the bills; nothing so quickly breeds constraint between two people as conscious avoidance of a subject that is seldom absent from the minds of both. Yet Theo was scrupulously kind, forbearing, good-tempered—everything, in short, save the tender, lover-like husband he had been to her during the first eighteen months of marriage. And she had only herself to blame,—there lay the sharpest pang of all. Life holds no anodyne for the sorrows we bring upon ourselves.
As the days wore on she watched Theo's face anxiously, at post time, for any sign of an answer to that hateful advertisement; and before the week's end she knew that the punishment that should have been hers had fallen on her husband's shoulders.
Coming into breakfast one morning, she found him studying an open letter with a deep furrow between his brows. At sight of her he started and slipped it into his pocket.
The meal was a silent one. Evelyn found the pattern of her plate curiously engrossing. Desmond, after a few hurried mouthfuls, excused himself and went out. Then Evelyn looked up; and the tears that hung on her lashes overflowed.
"He—he's gone to the stables, Honor," she said brokenly. "He got an answer this morning;—I'm sure he did. But he—he won't tell me anything now. Where's theuseof being married to him if he's always going on like this? I wish—I wish he could sell—meto that man, instead of Diamond. He wouldn't mind ithalfas much——"
And with this tragic announcement—which, for at least five minutes, she implicitly believed—her head went down upon her hands.
Honor soothed her very tenderly, realising that she sorrowed with the despair of a child who sees the world's end in every broken toy.
"Hush—hush!" she remonstrated. "You mustn't think anything so foolish, so unjust. Theo is very magnanimous, Evelyn. He will see you are sorry, and then it will all go smoothly again."
"But there's the—the other thing," murmured the pretty sinner with a doleful shake of her head. "He won't forgive me that; and hedoesn'tseem to see that I'm sorry. I wanted to tell him this morning, when I saw that letter. But he somehow makes me afraid to say a word about it."
"Better not try yet awhile, dear. When a man is in trouble, there is nothing he thanks one for so heartily as for letting him alone till it is well over."
Evelyn looked up again with a misty smile.
"I can't think why you know so much about men, Honor. How do you find out those sort of things?"
"I suppose it's because I've always cared very much for men,"—she made the statement quite unblushingly. "Loving people is the only sure way of understanding them in the long-run."
"Isit?... You are clever, Honor. But it doesn't seem to help me much with Theo."
Such prompt, personal application of her philosophy of the heart was a little disconcerting. The girl could not well reply that in love there are a thousand shades, and very few are worthy of the name.
"Itwillhelp you in time," she said reassuringly. "It is one of the few things that cannot fail. And to-day, at least, you have learnt that when things are going hardly with Theo, it is kindest and wisest to leave him alone."
Evelyn understood this last, and registered a valiant resolve to that effect.
But the day's events gave her small chance of acting on her new-found knowledge. Desmond himself took the initiative: and save for a bare half-hour at tiffin, she saw him no more until the evening.
Perhaps only the man who has trained and loved a polo pony can estimate the pain and rebellion of spirit that he was combating, doggedly and in silence; or condone the passing bitterness he felt towards his uncomprehending wife.
He spent more time than usual in the stables, where Diamond nuzzled into his breast-pocket for slices of apple and sugar; and Diamond'ssaislifted up his voice and wept, on receipt of an order to start for Pindi with his charge on the following day.
"There is no Sahib like my Sahib in all Hind," he protested, his turban within an inch of Desmond's riding-boot. "The Sahib is my father and my mother! How should we serve a stranger, Hazúr,—the pony and I?"
"Nevertheless, it is an order," Desmond answered not unkindly, "that thou shouldst remain with the pony, sending word from time to time that all goeth well with him. Rise up. It is enough."
Returning to the house, he hardened his heart, and accepted the unwelcome offer from Pindi.
"What a confounded fool I am!" he muttered, as he stamped and sealed the envelope. "I'd sooner shoot the little chap than part with him in this way."
But the letter was posted, nevertheless.
He excused himself from polo, and rode over to Wyndham's bungalow, where he found Paul established in the verandah with his invariable companions—a pipe, and a volume of poetry or philosophy.
"Come along, and beat me at rackets, old man," he said without dismounting. "I'm 'off' polo to-day. We can go for a canter afterwards."
Wyndham needed no further explanation. A glance at Theo's face was enough. They spent four hours together; talked of all things in heaven and earth, except the one sore subject; and parted with a smile of amused understanding.
"Quite like old times!" Paul remarked, and Desmond nodded. For it was a habit, dating from early days, that whenever the pin-pricks of life chafed Theo's impatient spirit, he would seek out his friend, spend an hour or two in his company, and tell him precisely nothing.
Thanks to Paul's good offices, dinner was a pleasanter meal than the earlier ones had been. But Evelyn looked white and woe-begone; and Honor wisely carried her off to bed, leaving Desmond to his pipe and his own discouraging thoughts.
These proved so engrossing that he failed to hear a step in the verandah, and started when two hands came quietly down upon his shoulders.
No need to ask whose they were. Desmond put up his own and caught them in a strong grip.
"Old times again, is it?" he asked, with a short satisfied laugh. "Brought your pipe along?"
"Yes."
"Good business. There's your chair,—it always seems yours to me still. Have a 'peg'?"
Paul shook his head, and drew his chair up to the fire with deliberate satisfaction.
"Light up, then; and we'll make a night of it as we used to do in the days before we learned wisdom, and paid for it in hard cash."
"Talking of hard cash—what price d'you get?" the other asked abruptly.
"Seven-fifty."
"Will that cover everything?"
"Yes."
"Theo,—why, in Heaven's name, won't you cancel this wretched business, and take the money from me instead?"
"Too late now. And, in any case, it's out of the question, for reasons that you would be the first to appreciate—if you knew them."
"But look here—suppose I do know——"
Desmond lifted a peremptory hand.
"Whatever you think you know, for God's sake don't put it into words. I'm bound to go through with this, Paul, in the only way that seems right to me. Don't make it harder than it is already. Besides," he added, with a brisk change of tone, "this is modern history! We're pledged to old times to-night."
Evelyn's fantastic French clock struck three, in silver tones, before the two men parted.
"It's an ill wind that blows no good, after all!" Desmond remarked, as he stood in a wide splash of moonlight on the verandah steps. "I feel ten years younger since the morning. Come again soon, dear old man; it's always good to see you."
And Paul Wyndham, riding homeward under the myriad lamps of heaven, thanked God, in his simple devout fashion, for the courage and constancy of his friend's heart.
"One crowded hour of glorious life."—Scott.
Thedusty 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 ofsaïses, 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'ssais, 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 thesaishe 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'sthatfor 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 themelée, 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.
[25]Abbreviation of Punjab Irregular Frontier Force.
[25]Abbreviation of Punjab Irregular Frontier Force.
"Leave the dead moments to bury their dead;Let us kiss, and break the spell."—Owen Meredith.
TheFancy 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 haveyourtriumph 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,—Iamglad!" 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."
"Notwith you, dear. Go on."
"Well, I told him I didn't see it that way at all, and he said of course not; butterflies neverdidsee 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 Ican'tdance 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 beno moreof 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 whoisyour 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 ismydance 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.