CHAPTER XII
ON THE POLO-GROUND
Violet Oliver travelled to India in the late autumn of that year, freefrom apprehension. Somewhere beyond the high snow-passes Shere Ali wouldbe working out his destiny among his own people. She was not of those whoseek publicity either for themselves or for their gowns in the dailypapers. Shere Ali would never hear of her visit; she was safe. She spenther Christmas in Calcutta, saw the race for the Viceroy's Cup run withouta fear that on that crowded racecourse the importunate figure of theyoung Prince of Chiltistan might emerge to reproach her, and a week laterwent northwards into the United Provinces. It was a year, now some whilepast, when a royal visitor came from a neighbouring country into India.And in his honour at one great city in those Provinces the troopsgathered and the tents went up. Little towns of canvas, gay with borderedwalks and flowers, were dotted on the dusty plains about and within thecity. Great ministers and functionaries came with their retinues andtheir guests. Native princes from Rajputana brought their elephants andtheir escorts. Thither also came Violet Oliver. It was, indeed, to attendthis Durbar that she had been invited out from England. She stayed in asmall camp on the great Parade Ground where the tents faced one anotherin a single street, each with its little garden of grass and flowersbefore the door. The ends of the street were closed in by posts, andoutside the posts sentries were placed.
It was a week of bright, sunlit, rainless days, and of starry nights. Itwas a week of reviews and State functions. But it was also a week duringwhich the best polo to be seen in India drew the visitors each afternoonto the club-ground. There was no more constant attendant than VioletOliver. She understood the game and followed it with a nice appreciationof the player's skill. The first round of the competition had been playedoff on the third day, but a native team organised by the ruler of aMohammedan State in Central India had drawn a by and did not appear inthe contest until the fourth day. Mrs. Oliver took her seat in the frontrow of the stand, as the opposing teams cantered into the field upontheir ponies. A programme was handed to her, but she did not open it. Foralready one of the umpires had tossed the ball into the middle of theground. The game had begun.
The native team was matched against a regiment of Dragoons, and from thebeginning it was plain that the four English players were the strongerteam. But on the other side there was one who in point of skilloutstripped them all. He was stationed on the outside of the fieldfarthest away from Violet Oliver. He was a young man, almost a boy, shejudged; he was beautifully mounted, and he sat his pony as though he andit were one. He was quick to turn, quick to pass the ball; and he neverplayed a dangerous game. A desire that the native team should win woke inher and grew strong just because of that slim youth's extraordinaryskill. Time after time he relieved his side, and once, as it seemed toher, he picked the ball out of the very goalposts. The bugle, sheremembered afterwards, had just sounded. He drove the ball out from thepress, leaned over until it seemed he must fall to resist an opponent whotried to ride him off, and then somehow he shook himself free from thetangle of polo-sticks and ponies.
"Oh, well done! well done!" cried Violet Oliver, clenching her hands inher enthusiasm. A roar of applause went up. He came racing down the verycentre of the ground, the long ends of his white turban streaming outbehind him like a pennant. The seven other players followed upon hisheels outpaced and outplayed. He rode swinging his polo-stick for thestroke, and then with clean hard blows sent the ball skimming throughthe air like a bird. Violet Oliver watched him in suspense, dreadinglest he should override the ball, or that his stroke should glance. Buthe made no mistake. The sound of the strokes rose clear and sharp; theball flew straight. He drove it between the posts, and the playersstreamed in behind as though through the gateway of a beleaguered town.He had scored the first goal of the game at the end of the firstchukkur. He cantered back to change his pony. But this time he rodealong the edge of the stand, since on this side the ponies waited withtheir blankets thrown over their saddles and the syces at their heads.He ran his eyes along the row of onlookers as he cantered by, andsuddenly Violet Oliver leaned forward. She had been interested merely inthe player. Now she was interested in the man who played. She was morethan interested. For she felt a tightening of the heart and she caughther breath. "It could not be," she said to herself. She could see hisface clearly, however, now; and as suddenly as she had leaned forwardshe drew back. She lowered her head, until her broad hat-brim hid herface. She opened her programme, looked for and found the names of theplayers. Shere Ali's stared her in the face.
"He has broken his word," she said angrily to herself, quite forgettingthat he had given no word, and that she had asked for none. Then she fellto wondering whether or no he had recognised her as he rode past thestand. She stole a glance as he cantered back, but Shere Ali was notlooking towards her. She debated whether she should make an excuse and goback to her camp. But if he had thought he had seen her, he would lookagain, and her empty place would be convincing evidence. Moreover, theteams had changed goals. Shere Ali would be playing on this side of theground during the next chukkur unless the Dragoons scored quickly. VioletOliver kept her place, but she saw little of the game. She watched ShereAli's play furtively, however, hoping thereby to learn whether he hadnoticed her. And in a little while she knew. He played wildly, hisstrokes had lost their precision, he was less quick to follow the twistsof the ball. Shere Ali had seen her. At the end of the game he gallopedquickly to the corner, and when Violet Oliver came out of the enclosureshe saw him standing, with his long overcoat already on his shoulders,waiting for her.
Violet Oliver separated herself from her friends and went forward towardshim. She held out her hand. Shere Ali hesitated and then took it. Allthrough the game, pride had been urging him to hold his head high andseek not so much as a single word with her. But he had been alone for sixmonths in Chiltistan and he was young.
"You might have let me know," he said, in a troubled voice.
Violet Oliver faltered out some beginnings of an excuse. She did not wantto bring him away from his work in Chiltistan. But Shere Ali was notlistening to the excuses.
"I must see you again," he said. "I must."
"No doubt we shall meet," replied Violet Oliver.
"To-morrow," continued Shere Ali. "To-morrow evening. You will be goingto the Fort."
There was to be an investiture, and after the investiture a greatreception in the Fort on the evening of the next day. It would be as gooda place as any, thought Violet Oliver--nay, a better place. There wouldbe crowds of people wandering about the Fort. Since they must meet, letit be there and soon.
"Very well," she said. "To-morrow evening," and she passed on andrejoined her friends.