Six months afterwards, when the August sunshine was hot and yellow, and
the streets of Dublin were in a fever from the crowd of the Horse Show
week, a breeze was to be found under the elms by the polo ground in
Phœnix Park. It came from the south, where the Dublin mountains were
cool and blue; it was sweet with miles of warm grass, and it was nectar
to the polo ponies as they were led up and down with twitching tails and
soapy necks after their turn of play. The people who had driven out to
see the match sat in the shade, while men and ponies wheeled and raced
in the glaring heat, and stroke answered stroke, and the ball was
worried about in a medley of polo sticks and ponies’ legs.
Lady Susan was sitting on an outside car by the rails, never taking her
eyes off the game.
“I call that a brute of a pony,” she said, “don’t you, Captain Onslow?”
to a man who stood by the car. “I mean the roan that my husband is on.
Look there”--as the ball went skipping over the sunny sward, with the
roan pony and his rider heading the rush after it--“see how he’s
pulling, and if he gets his temper up he bolts, and there’s no holding
him. I can’t bear to see Hughie on him.”
“I don’t think you need be anxious about your husband,” said Captain
Onslow, inwardly a little piqued by this excessive attention to the game
and its dangers, “that pony’s about the best on the ground when he’s
properly played, and that’s just what is happening to him. Well hit,
indeed!” as Hugh turned the ball with a smooth and clean back-hander.
“I don’t care,” murmured Lady Susan, “I call polo a beastly dangerous
game.”
“It’s a true bill against Major Bunbury, isn’t it?” asked Captain
Onslow, presently, lifting an eyebrow in the direction of two people
standing by the rails.
“You go and ask them,” replied Lady Susan.
“Does that mean you want me to go away?” Captain Onslow said these sort
of things rather well, and he wanted Lady Susan to look at him and not
at the polo.
She glanced down at him in recognition. Her glance was charming.
“It means----” she began. But there came a thundering of ponies’ hoofs,
a race for the ball with the roan pony getting the best of it again, and
Captain Onslow had to do without knowing what Lady Susan meant.
Slaney sat by Lady Susan as they drove back, flying down through the
park with that exhilarating swing and swiftness that belong exclusively
to the Dublin outside car. The afternoon was more balmy sweet as the
shadows lengthened and the coolness came; beyond the beautiful miles of
grass and trees the western sky was gathering the warmth of sunset;
opposite in the east, the brown smoke of Dublin stained the tranquil
heaven, and above it a ghostly half-moon stood like a little white cloud
in the depths of blue.
There are moments in life when it is given to some hearts to know their
own happiness, and to know it trembling. Come what might, earth’s
greatest pleasure was Slaney’s now: she knew it with all the tenderness
and strong romance that were hidden in her nature, with all the
comprehension of herself that had grown out of a bitter experience. It
was a state of mind that seemed incompatible with the prosaic tweed
coat-sleeve that rested on the car as Major Bunbury leaned across from
the other side; but as he looked at her he understood that the exceeding
beauty of the evening had in some way touched her nearly as it was
touching him. As has been said, he kept a soul somewhere, and Slaney had
found it and entered in.
“I want to tell you, Slaney,” said Lady Susan, expressing the position
from her own point of view, “I never saw you look as well as you do
to-day. I’m awfully glad I made you get that hat. It makes your eyes
just the right colour.”
Lady Susan was beginning to think of getting out of her arm-chair to
dress for dinner that night when her husband came into the room. He did
not look as happy as a man ought who has hit two goals for his side and
has been at the club afterwards to hear it talked about, and he came and
sat on the arm of her chair without speaking.
“You don’t feel bad after all that play?” she said, taking his hand and
giving him that look of solicitude and affection that can be the best
thing in the world to receive.
“Not I--I’m as right as possible. I can’t remember that I ever was
hurt.”
“I hate you riding the grey to-morrow at the show,” she went on; “I
shall be miserable all the time. If I were riding him myself I shouldn’t
remember that there was any danger--and I suppose there isn’t
really--but it’s awfully different to look on. I know it’s very rotten
of me to be afraid, but you know I did get an awful fright about
you--that time.”
He laughed. “You mustn’t think about all that,” he said gently, “that
time is over and done with.”
There was a pause.
“I want to tell you a thing I saw at the club just now, a thing in the
paper----” He seemed rather at a loss how to go on. “It was about
Glasgow,” he said uncomfortably. The hand that was in his became rather
stiff. “Poor chap,” Hugh went on, “he was--he met with an accident--I
mean--in fact, he’s been killed.” There was silence. “He fell down the
shaft of a mine or waterworks or something that he was engineering out
in the Argentine Republic, and was killed on the spot. It’s a ghastly
sort of thing,” he ended nervously.
She turned her head till her eyes were hidden against his shoulder. “All
right, Hughie,” she said, in a muffled voice, “it’s all right. You know
I don’t mind. Not really. It’s only--it’s so horrible--and it makes me
think of all that time--and what they said of the bad luck, and
everything----”
“Yes, I know,” he said, putting his arm round her.
“You _do_ believe me still that I was only an idiot?” she said, looking
up at him with the tears in her eyes.
He kissed her.
THE END.
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Silver Fox, by Edith Somerville and Martin Ross