"Certainly. I cannot tell you because I have promised not to mention it. You, of course, would not wish me to break my word?"
"Decidedly not," rejoined Miss Bloxam. "My curiosity has led me into a great indiscretion. But the game is getting interesting. Surely Jim's side are having the best of it now?" And Miss Bloxam, turning half-round in her seat, devoted her attention to the polo-players with laudable persistency. If Blanche Bloxam was showing herself somewhat childish and unreasonable—for there could be no doubt that the young lady had turned away from Lionel more or less in a huff—it must be remembered that she was very much in earnest in her love affair, that she was jealous of Sylla Chipchase, and that though she believed Lionel Beauchamp loved her, he had not as yet declared himself. She had foolishly, and perhaps whimsically, regarded this as a test question, and she had been answered in the negative. I do not know that she was out-of-the-way foolish. Maidens like Marguerite have played "He loves me, he loves me not," many a time with a flower; and Blanche's appeal was as wise as theirs, except in the one thing—you cannot quarrel with a flower, but it is very possible to do so with a lover. It is all very well for the gods to laugh at such quarrels, but those interested seldom see the humour of the situation, and in nineteen cases out of twenty the cause of their occurrence is trifling.
The band of the Guards is ringing out the most seductive of valses. Silken robes sweep the grass, and soft laughter floats upon the summer air. The polo-players are once more in the full tide of battle. The gaily-coloured jerseys are now here, now there, in pursuit of the ever-flying sphere, for the temporary possession of which each player seems as covetous as Atalanta was of the golden apple. Ever and anon comes a short, sharp, furious mêlée, and then from its midst flies the ball, with three or four horsemen riding their hardest in pursuit; while the back-player of the threatened goal warily prepares for the attack that is impending unless some one of his comrades should succeed in arresting it. One of the fiercest of these mêlées is now taking place in front of the promenade. From the confused surging knot suddenly shoots the ball, and skims along at an ominous pace in the direction of the goal of the scarlet and white. Jim Bloxam, slipping all the other players by a couple of lengths, leads the pursuit, with two of his antagonists riding their hardest to catch him. Jim makes the most of his opportunity, and it looks like a goal for the Hussars. He is riding a smartish pony, and feels that his followers will never catch him. He is bound to get first to the ball, and, if only he does not miss his stroke, should drive it clean through the goal-posts. But though he is so far right that he keeps his lead of his antagonists, there is another player to be taken into calculation, whom so far Jim has quite overlooked, and this is the crafty back-player of the scarlet and white men who is in charge of the goal. He is quite as alive as Jim to the gravity of the occasion. He knows that Bloxam's stroke must be prevented, if possible; and coming from the opposite direction, although lying somewhat to Jim's left, is striving his utmost to interfere. The ball has all but stopped, and it is palpable that the new-comer will cut Jim's course obliquely at the ball. It is a fine point. Each man's wiry little steed is doing its very best. But, ah, Jim has it! The Hussar's polo-mallet whirls high in the air, and, as he passes the ball, a well-aimed stroke sends it flying through the enemy's goal-posts; another second, and, unable to rein up their ponies, Jim and the back-player of the scarlet and white meet in full career and roll over in a heap on the ground, while Jim's two attendant antagonists are both brought to similar grief from tumbling over their leader.
"Good Heavens! there are four of them down!" exclaimed Lionel Beauchamp. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Bloxam: falls are not often serious at polo; see, there are two of them getting up already."
The last mêlée had taken place so close to the spectators that it had been quite easy to identify the players, and Miss Bloxam was therefore quite aware that her brother was one of the four men down; but she and Lady Mary were too habituated to the accidents of the hunting-field to feel that nervous terror at witnessing a fall that people not so accustomed are apt to experience. But there were other lookers-on with whom it was very different. It was a bad accident to look upon; and Mrs. Wriothesley suddenly felt her wrist gripped with a force that could hardly be supposed existent in the delicately-gloved fingers. She glanced round at her niece's face. The girl was white to her very lips. She had been educated abroad, and though, as we know, she had displayed plenty of courage when she had fallen into similar difficulties herself, accidents both in flood and field were a novel sight to her.
"He does not get up," she faltered at last, in low tones.
"For goodness' sake don't make a fool of yourself," replied Mrs. Wriothesley sharply. She honestly thought the girl was about to faint, and was filled with dismay at the prospect of finding her niece the centre of a scene. "Men don't get hurt at polo any more than they do at cricket. They will all be galloping past here again before five minutes are over."
But in this conjecture Mrs. Wriothesley was wrong; for although two of the fallen horsemen struggled promptly to their feet, Jim and the antagonist with whom he had come in collision had neither of them as yet done so. By this time all the players were collected round the spot where the accident had taken place, and an impression that some one was seriously hurt was rapidly gaining ground.
"Lionel," exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, the moment she dared take her eyes off her niece, "I am sure Lady Mary would be extremely obliged to you if you would run down and see what is the matter. For Heaven's sake, Sylla," she whispered into her niece's ear, "don't make an exhibition of yourself by fainting or any nonsense of that sort. Ridiculous! as if any one was ever hurt by falling off a pony!"
Lady Mary reiterated Mrs. Wriothesley's request, and Beauchamp at once slipped through the rails and ran down to the group. He found Jim resting his head upon his hand, lying on the grass and looking ghastly pale, but his brother-sufferer was still insensible.