_ PHASE IV. DUST OF THE ACTUAL
CHAPTER V
"Her best is bettered with a more delight."--SHAKSPERE.
The great Gymkhana was almost over. The last event--bare-back feats of horsemanship--had been an exciting affair; a close contest between Lance and Roy and an Indian Cavalry officer. But it was Roy who had carried the day, by his daring and dexterity in the test of swooping down and snatching a handkerchief from the ground at full gallop. The ovation he received went to his head like champagne. But praise from Lance went to his heart; for Lance, like himself, had been 'dead keen' on this particular event. He had carried off a tent-pegging cup, however; and appropriately won the V.C. race. So Roy considered he had a right to his triumph; especially as the handkerchief in question had been proffered by Miss Arden. It was reposing in his breast pocket now; and he had a good mind not to part with it. He was feeling in the mood to dare, simply for the excitement of the thing. He and she had won the Gretna Green race--hands down. He further intended--for her honour and his own glory--to come off victor in the Cockade Tournament, in spite of the fact that fencing on horseback was one of Lance's specialities. He had taught Roy in Mesopotamia, during those barren, plague-ridden stretches of time when the war seemed hung up indefinitely and it took every ounce of surplus optimism to keep going at all.
Roy's hope was that some other man might knock Lance out; or--as teams would be decided by lot--that luck might cast them together. For the ache of compunction was rather pronounced this afternoon; perhaps because the good fellow's aloofness from the grand
shamianah[24] was also rather pronounced, considering....
He seemed always to be either out in the open, directing events, or very much engaged in the refreshment tent--an earthly Paradise, on this blazing day of early April, to scores of dusty, thirsty, indefatigable men.
Between events, as now, the place was thronged. Every moment, fresh arrivals shouting for 'drinks.' Every moment the swish of a syphon, the popping of corks; ginger-beer and lemonade for Indian officers, seated just outside, and permitted by caste rules to refresh themselves 'English-fashion,' provided they drank from the pure source of the bottle. Not a Sikh or Rajput of them all would have sullied his caste-purity by drinking from the tumbler used by some admired Sahib, for whom on service he would cheerfully lay down his life. Within the tent were a few--very few--more advanced beings, who had discarded all irksome restrictions and would sooner be shot than address a white man as 'Sahib.' Such is India in transition; a welter of incongruities, of shifting perilous uncertainties, of subterranean ferment beneath a surface that still appears very much as it has always been.
Roy--observant and interested as usual--saw, in the brilliant gathering, all the outward and visible signs of security, stability, power. Let those signs be shaken never so little, thought he--and the heavens would fall. But, in spite of grave news from Delhi--that might prove a prelude to eruption--not a ripple stirred on the face of the waters. The grand
shamianah was thronged with lively groups of women and men in the lightest of light attire. A British band was enlivening the interlude with musical comedy airs. Stewards were striding about looking important, issuing orders for the next event. And around them all--as close as boundary flags and police would allow--thronged the solid mass of onlookers: soldiers, sepoys, and sowars from every regiment in cantonments; minor officials with their families; ponies and
saises and dogs without number; all wedged in by a sea of brown faces and bobbing turbans, thousands of them twenty or thirty deep.
Roy's eyes, travelling from that vast outer ring to the crowded tent, suddenly saw the whole scene as typical of Anglo-Indian life: the little concentrated world of British men and women, pursuing their own ends, magnificently unmindful of alien eyes--watching, speculating, misunderstanding at every turn; the whole heterogeneous mass drawn and held together by the love of hazard and sport, the spirit of competition without strife that is the corner-stone of British character and the British Empire.
He had just been talking to a C.I.D.[25] man, who had things to say about subterranean rumblings that might have startled those laughing, chaffing groups of men and women. Too vividly his imagination pictured the scenes at Delhi, while his eyes scanned the formidable depths of alien humanity hemming them in, outnumbering them by thousands to one. What if all those friendly faces became suddenly hostile--if the laughter and high-pitched talk changed to the roar of an angry crowd...?
He shook off the nightmare feeling, rating himself for a coward. Yet he knew it was not fantastical, not even improbable; though most of the people around him, till they saw with their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, would not believe....
But thoughts so unsettling were out of place, in the midst of a Gymkhana with the grand climax imminent. So--having washed the dust out of his throat--he sauntered across to the other tent to snatch a few words with Miss Arden and secure his rose. It had been given to one of the '
kits,' who would put it in water and produce it on demand. For the affair of the favours was to be a private affair. Miss Arden, however, in choosing a Marechal Niel, tacitly avowed him her knight. Lance would know. All their set would know. He supposed she realised that. She was not an accidental kind of person. And she had a natural gift for flattery of the delicate, indirect order.
No easy matter to get near her again, once you left her side. As usual, she was surrounded by men; easily the Queen of Beauty and of Love. In honour of that high compliment, she wore her loveliest race gown; soft shades of blue and green skilfully blended; and a close-fitting hat bewitchingly framed her face. Nearing the tent, Roy felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. Where were they drifting to--he and she? Was he prepared to bid her good-bye in a week or ten days, and possibly not set eyes on her again? Would she let him go without a pang, and start afresh with some chance-met fellow in Simla? The idea was detestable; and yet...?
Half irritably he dismissed the intrusive thought. The glamour of her so dazzled him that he could see nothing else clearly.
Perhaps that was why he failed to escape Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, who skilfully annexed him in passing, and rained compliments on his embarrassed head. Fine horsemanship was common enough in India; but anything more superb----! Wide blue eyes and extravagant gesture expressively filled the blank.
"My heart was in my mouth! That handkerchief trick is
so thrilling. You all looked as if you
must have your brains knocked out the next moment----"
"And if we had, I suppose the thrill would have gone one better!" Roy wickedly suggested. He was annoyed at being delayed.
"You deserve 'yes' to that! But if I said what I
really thought, your head would be turned. And it's quite sufficiently turned already!" She beamed on him with arch significance, enjoying his impatience without a tinge of malice. There was little of it in her; and the little there was, she reserved for her own sex.
"I suppose it's a
dead secret ... whose favour you are going to wear?"
"That's the ruling," said Roy; but he felt his blood tingling, and hoped to goodness it didn't show through.
"Well, I've got big bets on about guessing right; and the biggest bet's on yours! Major Desmond's a good second."
"Oh, he bars the whole idea."
"I'm relieved to hear it. I was angelic enough to offer him mine, thinking he might be feeling out in the cold!" (another arch look) "and--he refused. My 'Happy Warrior' doesn't seem quite so happy as he used to be----"
The light thrust struck home, but Roy ignored it. If Lance barred wearing favours, he barred discussing Lance with women. Driven into a corner, he managed somehow to escape, and hurried away in search of his rose.
Mrs Ranyard, looking after him, with frankly affectionate concern, found herself wondering--was he really quite so transparent as he seemed? That queer visionary look in his eyes, now and then, suggested spiritual depths, or heights, that might baffle even the all-appropriating Rose? Did she seriously intend to appropriate him? There were vague rumours of a title. But no one knew anything about him, really, except the two Desmonds; and she would be a brave woman who tried to squeeze family details out of them. The boy was too good for her; but still....
Roy, reappearing, felt idiotically convinced that every eye was on the little spot of yellow in his button-hole that linked him publicly with the girl who wore a cluster of its fellows at her belt.
Time was nearly up. She had moved to the front now, and was free of men, standing very still, gazing intently....
Roy, following her gaze, saw Lance--actually in the tent--discussing some detail with the Colonel.
"What makes her look at him like that?" he wondered; and it was as if the tip of a red-hot needle touched his heart.
Next moment she saw him, and beckoned him with her eyes. He came, instinctively obedient; and her welcoming glance included the rosebud. "You found it?" she said, very low, mindful of feminine ears. "And--you deserve it, after that marvellous exhibition. You went such a pace. It--frightened me."
It frightened him, a little, the exceeding softness of her look and tone; and she added, more softly still, "My handkerchief, please."
"
My handkerchief!" he retorted. "I won it fairly. You've admitted as much."
"But it wasn't meant--for a prize."
"I risked something to win it anyway," said he, "and now----"
The blare of the megaphone--a poor substitute for heralds' trumpets--called the knights of the wire-mask and fencing-stick into the lists.
"Go in and win the rosebud too!" said she, when the shouting ceased. "Keep cool. Don't lose your head--or your feather!"
He had lost his head already. She had seen to that. And turning to leave her, he found Lance almost at his elbow.
"Come along, Roy," he said, an imperative note in his voice; and if
his glance included the rosebud, it gave no sign.
As they neared the gathering group of combatants, he turned with one of his quick looks.
"You're in luck, old man. Every inducement to come out top!" he remarked, only half in joke. "I've none, except my own credit. But you'll have a tough job if you knock up against
me."
"Right you are," Roy answered, jarred by the look and tone more than the words. "If you're so dead keen, I'll take you on."
After that, Roy hoped exceedingly that luck might cast them in the same team.
But it fell out otherwise.
Lance drew red; Roy, blue. Lance and Major Devines, of the Monmouths, were chosen as leaders. They were the only two on the ground who wore no favours: and they fronted each other with smiles of approval, their respective teams--ten a side--drawn up in two long lines; heads caged in wire-masks, tufted, with curly feathers, red and blue; ponies champing and pawing the air. Not precisely a picturesque array; but if the plumes and trappings of chivalry were lacking, the spirit of it still nickered within; and will continue to flicker, just so long as modern woman will permit.
At the crack of a pistol they were off, full tilt; but there was no shock of lance on shield, no crash and clang of armour that 'could be heard at a mile's distance,' as in the days of Ivanhoe. There was only the sharp rattle of fencing-sticks against each other and the masks, the clatter of eighty-eight hooves on hard ground; a lively confusion of horses and men, advancing, backing, 'turning on a sixpence' to meet a sudden attack; voices, Indian and English, shouting or cheering; and the intermittent call of the umpire declaring a player knocked out as his feather fluttered into the dust. Clouds of dust enveloped them in a shifting haze. They breathed dust. It gritted between their teeth. What matter? They were having at each other in furious yet friendly combat; and, being Englishmen, they were perfectly happy; keen to win, ready to lose with a good grace and cheer the better man.
In none of them, perhaps, did the desire to win burn quite so fiercely as in Lance and Roy. But more than ever, now, Roy shrank from a final tussle between them. Surely there was one man of them all good enough to put Lance out of court.
For a time Major Devines kept him occupied. While Roy accounted for two red feathers, the well-matched pair were making a fine fight of it up and down the field, to the tune of cheers and counter-cheers.
But it was the blue feather that fell; and Lance, swinging round, charged into the melee--seven reds now, to six blue.
Twice, in the scrimmage, Roy came up against him, but managed to shift ground, leaving another man to tackle him. Both times it was the blue feather that fell. Steadily the numbers thinned. Roy's wrist and arm were tiring, a trifle; but resolve to win burned fiercely as ever. By now it was clear to all who were the two best men in the field, and excitement rose as the numbers dwindled....
Four to three; blues leading. Two all. And at last--an empty dusty arena; and they two alone in the midst, ringed in by thousands of faces, thousands of eyes....
Till that moment, the spectators had simply not existed for Roy. Now, of a sudden, they crowded in on him--tightly-wedged wall of humanity--expectant, terrifying....
The two had drawn rein, facing each other; and for that mere moment Roy felt as if his nerve was gone. A glance at the crowded tent, the gleam of a blue-green figure leaning forward....
Then Lance's voice, low and peremptory, 'Come on.'
In the same breath he himself came on, with formidable elan. Their sticks rattled sharply. Roy parried a high slicing stroke--only just in time.
Thank God, he was himself again; so much himself that he was beset by a sneaking desire to let Lance win. It was his weakness in games, just when the goal seemed in sight. Tara used to scold him fiercely....
But there was Miss Arden, the rosebud....
And suddenly, startlingly, Roy became aware that for Lance this was no game. He was fencing like a man inspired. There was more than mere skill in his feints and shrewd blows; more in it than a feather.
Two cuts over the arm and shoulder, a good deal sharper than need be, fairly roused Roy. Next moment they were literally fighting, at closest range, for all they were worth, to the accompaniment of yell on yell, cheer on cheer....
As the issue hung doubtful and excitement intensified, it became clear that Lance was losing his temper. Roy, hurt and angry, tried to keep cool. Against an antagonist so skilled and relentless, it was his only chance. Their names were shouted.
"Shahbash[26] Sinkin, Sahib," from the men of Roy's old squadron; and from Lance's men,
"Desmin Sahib ki jai!"[27]
Twice Roy's slicing stroke almost came off--almost, not quite. The maddening little feather still held its own; and Lance, by way of rejoinder, caught him a blow on his mask that made his head ache for an hour after.
Up went his arm to return the blow with interest. Lance, instead of parrying, lunged--and the head of a yellow bud dropped in the dust.
At that Roy saw red. His lifted hand shook visibly; and with the moment's loss of control went his last hope of victory....
Next instant his feather had joined the rosebud; the crowd were roaring themselves hoarse; and Roy was riding off the ground--shorn of plume and favour, furiously disappointed, and feeling a good deal more bruised about the arms and shoulders than anything on earth would have induced him to admit.
Of course he ought to go up and congratulate Lance; but just then it seemed a physical impossibility. Mercifully he was surrounded and borne off to the refreshment tent; sped on his way by a rousing ovation as he passed the
shamianah.
Roy, following after, had his full share of praise, and a salvo of applause from the main tent.
Saluting and looking round, he dared not meet Miss Arden's eye. Had he won, she might have owned him. As it was, he had better keep his distance. But the glimpse he got of her face startled him. It looked curiously white and strained. His own imagination, perhaps. It was only a flash. But it haunted him. He felt responsible. She had been so radiantly sure....
Arrived in the other tent--feeling stupidly giddy and in pain--he sank down on the first available chair. Friendly spirits ordered drinks, and soothed him with compliments. A thundering good fight. To be so narrowly beaten by Desmond was an achievement in itself; and so forth.
Lance and Paul, still surrounded, were at the other end of the long table; and a very fair wedge of thirsty, perspiring manhood filled the intervening space. Roy did not feel like stirring. He felt more like drinking half a dozen 'pegs' in succession. But soon he was aware of a move going on. The prizes, of course; and he had two to collect. By a special decree, the Tournament prize would be given first. So he need not hurry. The tent was emptying swiftly. He
must screw himself up to congratulations....
The screwing was still in process when Lance crossed the tent--nearly empty now--and stopped in front of him.
"See here, Roy--I apologise," he said hurriedly, in a low tone. "I lost my temper. Not fair play----"
Instantly Roy was on his feet, shoulders squared, the last spark of antagonism extinct.
"If it comes to that, I lost mine too," he admitted, and Lance smiled.
"You
did! But--I began it." There was an instant of painful hesitation, then, "It--it was an accident--the favour----"
"Oh, that's all right," Roy muttered, embarrassed and overcome.
"It's not all right. It put you off." Another pause. "Will you take half the Purse?"
"Not I." Glory apart, he knew very well how badly Lance needed the money. "It's yours. And you deserve it."
They both spoke low and rapidly, as if on a matter of business, for there were still some men at the other end of the tent. But at that, to Roy's amazement, Lance held out his hand.
"Thanks, old man. Shake hands--here, where the women can see us. You bet ... they twigged.... And they chatter so infernally.... Unfair--on Miss Arden----"
Roy felt himself reddening. It was Lance all over--that chivalrous impulse. So they shook hands publicly, to the astonishment of interested
kitmutgars, who had been betting freely, and were marvelling afresh at the strange ways of Sahibs.
"I'll doctor your bruises to-night!" said Lance. "And I accept, gratefully,
your share of the purse. She won't relish--giving it to the wrong 'un." The last, barely audible, came out in a rush, with a jerk of the head that Roy knew well. "Come along and see how prettily she does it."
To Roy's infatuated eyes, she did it inimitably. Standing there, tall and serene, in her pale-coloured gown and bewitching hat, instinct with the mysterious authority of beauty, she handed the prize to Desmond with a little gracious speech of congratulation, adding, "It was a close fight; but you won it--fairly."
Roy started. Did Lance notice the lightest imaginable stress on the word?
"Thanks very much," he said; and saluted, looking her straight in the eyes.
Roy, watching intently, fancied he saw a ghost of a blush stir under the even pallor of her skin. She had told him once, in joke, that she never blushed; it was not one of her accomplishments. But for half a second she came perilously near it; and although it enhanced her beauty tenfold, it troubled Roy.
Then--as the cheering died down--he saw her turn to the Colonel, who was supporting her, and heard her clear deliberate tones, that carried with so little effort: "I think, Colonel Desmond, every one must agree that the honours are almost equally divided----"
More applause; and Roy--scarcely crediting his ears or eyes--saw her pick a rose from her cluster.
The moment speech was possible, she leaned forward, smiling frankly at him before them all.
"Mr Sinclair, will you accept a mere token by way of consolation prize? We are all agreed you put up a splendid fight; and it was no dishonour to be defeated by--such an adversary."
Fresh clapping and shouting; while Roy--elated and overwhelmed--went forward like a man walking in a dream.
It was a dream-woman who pinned the rosebud in his empty button-hole, patting it into shape with the lightest touch of her finger-tips, saying, "Well done indeed," and smiling at him again....
Without a word he saluted and walked away.
She had done it prettily, past question; and in a fashion all her own.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 24: Marquee tent.]
[Footnote 25: Criminal Investigation Department.]
[Footnote 26: Well done.]
[Footnote 27: Victory to Desmond Sahib.] _