CHAPTER XVIII

DELILAH

In consoling his friend, _Xanthias Phoceus_, for the result of a little flirtation, in which that Roman gentleman seems to have indulged without regard to station, Horace quotes for us a triad of illustrious persons whose brazen-plated armour, and bulls-hide targets were of no avail to fence them from the shaft of love. If neither petulant Achilles, nor Ajax, son of Telamon, nor the king of men himself, could escape, it is not to be supposed that a young cavalry officer in her Majesty's service, however simple in his habits and frank in his demeanour, should be without some weakness of the same nature, unacknowledged perhaps, yet none the less a weakness on that account.

"Soldier Bill," notwithstanding his kindly disposition and fresh comely face, seemed the last man in the world to be susceptible of female influence, yet "Soldier Bill" felt, to a certain extent, in the same plight as Agamemnon. Though in dress, manners and appearance, anything but what is usually termed a "ladies' man;" he was nevertheless a prime favourite with the sex, on such rare occasions as threw him in their way. Women in general seem most to appreciate qualities not possessed by themselves, and while they greatly admire all kinds of courage, find that which is mingled with good-humoured haphazard recklessness, perfectly irresistible. They worship their heroes too, and believe in them, with ludicrous good faith. Observe a woman in a pleasure boat. If there comes a puff of wind, she never takes her eyes off the boatman, and trusts him implicitly. The more frightened she feels, the more confidence she places in her guardian, and so long as the fancied danger lasts, clings devotedly to the pilot, be he the roughest, hairiest, tarriest son of Neptune that ever turned a quid.

Now the converse of this relation between the sexes holds equally good. To live entirely with men and horses; to _rough_ it habitually; from day to day enduring hardships, voluntary or otherwise, in the pursuit of field-sports; to share his studies with a dog, and take his pastime with a prize-fighter, does not necessarily unfit a man for the society of gentler, softer, sweeter, craftier creatures. On the contrary, in many natures, and those, perhaps, the strongest, such habits produce a longing for female society deeper and keener, that it has to be continually repudiated and repressed.

When he had started Daisy for the station, Bill renewed his toilet with peculiar care, and in spite of a few scars on his face, some the effects of falls, others, alas! of fights, a very good-looking young gentleman he saw reflected in his glass. Smoothing a pair of early moustaches, and sleeking a close-cropped head, he searched about in vain for a scent-bottle, and actually drew on a pair of kid gloves. Obviously, "Soldier Bill" was going to call on a lady. He could not help laughing, while he thought how the cornets would chaff him, if they knew. Nevertheless, with a farewell caress to the badger, fresh, radiant, and undaunted, he sallied forth.

It was quite in accordance with the doctrine of opposites, propounded above, that Bill should have experienced a sensation of refreshment and repose, in the society of a charming married woman, very much his senior, who made light of him no doubt, but amused, indulged, and instructed him while she laughed. Her boudoir was indeed a pleasant change from his barrack-room. He could not but admit that in her society tea seemed a more grateful beverage than brandy and soda; the tones of a pianoforte sweeter than any stable call; and the perfume that pervaded every article about her, far more delightful, if less pungent, than that which hung round his retiring friend "Benjamin," in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.

In his wildest moments, however, Bill never dreamed of making love to her; and it is not difficult to understand, that his goddess, being no less experienced a person than Mrs. Lushington, was well able to take care of herself.

"I like the boy," she used to say to any one who would listen, even to her husband, if nobody else could be found. "He is so fresh and honest, and he looks so _clean_! It's like having a nice child about one, and then I can do him so much good. I form his manners, teach him the ways of society, prevent his being imposed upon, and generally make him fit for civilised life. If there were no good-natured people like me, Frank, these poor young things would fall a prey to the first designing girl who comes across them on the war-path, looking out to catch a husband _coûte que coûte_. I'm sure his mother ought to be infinitely obliged to me. She couldn't take more pains with him herself! When he began coming here, he didn't know how to waltz or to take off his hat, or to answer a note even; in short, he couldn't say Boo to a goose! And now I've made him learn all these things, and he does them well, particularly the last. He's still absurdly shy, I grant you, but it's wearing off day by day. When I'm grown old, Frank, and wrinkled (though I'd sooner die first), he'll be grateful, and understand what care I've taken of him, and what a sad fate might have befallen him, but for _me_! Isn't there something in Dr. Watts, or somebody,

Regardless of their doom, The little victims play.

Frank! I don't believe you're listening!"

"Oh yes, I am," answers Frank, whose thoughts have wandered to Skindle's, Richmond, Newmarket--who knows where? "What you say is very true, my dear--very true--and nobody understands these things better than yourself. Good gracious! is that clock right! I had no idea it was so late! I must be off at once, and--let me see--I'll get back to dinner if I _can_; but don't wait."

So _exit_ Mr. Lushington on his own devices, and enter a footman with tea, closely followed by the butler ushering in "Soldier Bill."

"Talk of somebody," says the lady, graciously extending her hand, "and, we are told, he is sure to appear. How odd, I was abusing you not five minutes ago to Frank--you must have met him as you came in,--and, behold, here you are--not having been near me for a month!"

"A week," answered her visitor, who always stuck to facts. "You told me yourself one ought never to call again at the same house till after a decent interval. A week is decent surely! It seems a deuced long time, I know."

"You don't suppose I've missed you?" said she, pouring out the tea. "It's all for your own good I have you here. You'd get back to savage life again, if I neglected you for a fortnight; and it _is_ provoking to see all one's time and trouble thrown away! Now put your hat down, have some tea, make yourself agreeable, and you may stay here for exactly three-quarters of an hour!"

To "make himself agreeable" at short notice, and to order, is a difficult task for any man. For Bill it was simply impossible. He fidgeted, gulped hot tea, and began to feel shy. She had considerable tact, however, and no little experience in the ways of young men. She neither laughed at him nor took notice of the blush he tried to keep down, but bade him throw the window open, and while he obeyed, continued carelessly, though kindly--

"In the first place, tell me all about yourself. How's Catamount?"

She knew every one of his horses by name, and even some of the men in his troop, leading him to talk on such congenial topics with considerable ingenuity. It was this tact of hers that rendered Mrs. Lushington such a pleasant member of society, enabling her to keep her head above water deep enough to have drowned a lady with less _savoir-faire_, and consequently fewer friends.

His face brightened. "As fresh as paint!" he replied. "I beg your pardon; I mean as well as can be expected. I rode him two-and-twenty miles to-day in an hour and a half, and I give you my word, when I got off him he looked as if he'd never been out of the stable."

"I should pity _you_ more than your horse," she replied, with a commendable air of interest; "only I know you are never so happy as when you are trying to break your neck. You've had the grace to dress since, I see, and not badly, for once, only that handkerchief is too light a shade of blue. Now, confess! Where does she live? and is she worth riding eleven miles, there and back, to see?"

"I never know whether you're chaffing or not!" responded Bill. "You cannot believe I would gallop Catamount twenty-two miles on a hard road for any lady in the world. I didn't suppose he'd take me if I wanted to go. _She_, indeed! There's no _she_ in the matter!"

"You might have made _one_ exception in common politeness," said Mrs. Lushington, laughing. "But I'm not satisfied yet. You and Catamount are a very flighty pair. I still think there's a lady in the case."

"A lady in boots and spurs, then," he answered; "six foot high, with grey moustaches and a lame leg from a sabre-cut--a lady who has been thirty years soldiering, and never gave or questioned an unreasonable order. Do you know _many_ ladies of that stamp, Mrs. Lushington? I only know one, and she has made _my_ regiment the smartest in the service."

"I _do_ know your colonel a little," said she. "I met him once at Aldershot, and though he is anything but an old woman, I consider him an old _dear_! So I am not very far wrong, after all. Now what did he want you for? Sent for you, of course, to have--what do you call it?--a _wigging_. I'm afraid, Master Bill, you're a sad bad boy, and always getting into scrapes."

"Wigging!" he repeated indignantly. "Not a bit of it; nothing could have been kinder than the Chief. He's the best old fellow in the world! I wasn't sent for. I didn't go on my own account; I went down about Daisy."

Then he stopped short, afraid of having committed himself, and conscious that at the present crisis of his brother-officer's affairs, the less said about them the better.

But who, since the days of Samson, was ever able to keep a secret from a woman resolved to worm it out? As the strong man in Delilah's lap, so was Bill in the boudoir of Mrs. Lushington.

"Daisy," she repeated; "do you know anything of Daisy? Tell me all about him. We're so interested, you can't think, and so sorry for his difficulties. I wish I could help him. Is there nothing to be done?"

Touched by her concern for his friend's welfare, he trusted her at once.

"You won't mention it," said he; "Daisy was with me at Kensington to-day. He can't show yet, you know; but still we hope to make it all right in time. He's got a month's leave for the present; and I packed him off, to start by the Irish mail to-night, just before I came to see you. He'll keep quiet over there, and people won't know where he is; so they can't write, and then say he doesn't answer their letters. Anything to put off the smash as long as possible. One can never tell what may turn up."

"You're a kind friend," she replied approvingly, "and a good boy. There! that's a great deal for me to say. Now tell me _where_ the poor fellow is gone."

"You won't breathe it to a soul," said honest Bill--"not even to Mr. Lushington?"

"Not even to Mr. Lushington!" she protested, greatly amused.

He gave her the address with profound gravity, and an implicit reliance on her secrecy.

"A hill-farmer in Roscommon!" she exclaimed. "I know the man. His name is Denis; I saw him at Punchestown."

"You know everything," he said, in a tone of admiration. "It must be very jolly to be clever, and that."

"It's much jollier to be 'rich and that,'" was her answer. "Money is what we all seem to want--especially poor Daisy. Now, how much do you suppose it would take to set him straight?"

He was not the man to trust any one by halves. "Three thousand," he declared, frankly: "and where he is to get it beats me altogether. Of course he can't hide for ever. After a time he must come back to do duty; then there'll be a show up, and he'll have to leave the regiment."

"And you will get your troop," said Mrs. Lushington. "You see I know all about that too."

His own promotion, however, as has been said, afforded this kind-hearted young gentleman no sort of consolation.

"I hope it won't come to that," was his comment on the military knowledge of his hostess. "I've great faith in luck. When things are at their worst they mend. Never say die till you're dead, Mrs. Lushington. Take your 'crowners' good-humouredly. Stick to your horse; and don't let go of the bridle!"

"You've been here more than your three-quarters of an hour," said Mrs. Lushington, "and you're beginning to talk slang, so you'd better depart. But you're improving, I _think_, and you may come again. Let me see, the day after to-morrow, if the Colonel don't object, and if you can find another handkerchief with a deeper shade of blue."

So Bill took his leave, and proceeded to "The Rag," where he meant to dine in company with other choice spirits, wondering whether it would ever be his lot to marry a woman like Mrs. Lushington--younger, of course, and perhaps, though he hardly ventured to tell himself so, with a little less chaff--doubting the while if he could consent so entirely to change his condition and his daily, or perhaps rather his _nightly_, habits of life. He need not give up the regiment, he reflected, and could keep Catamount, though the stud might have to be reduced. But what would become of Benjamin? Was it possible any lady would permit the badger to occupy a bottom drawer in her wardrobe? This seemed a difficult question. Pending its solution, perhaps he had better remain as he was!