Far to Seek Part 56

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 s.h.i.+ft 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 G.o.d, 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 hoa.r.s.e; 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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, embarra.s.sed 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 cl.u.s.ter.

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 b.u.t.ton-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 fas.h.i.+on all her own.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 24: Marquee tent.]