The happiest years of Willie’s life were those that he spent in India. He had no doubt about it, when he reviewed the past. There he was able to recapture the nineteenth century, and enjoy life as he would have enjoyed it had he been born fifty years earlier. The days of the British Raj were already numbered, but a British cavalry officer could still be gloriously unconscious of the fact. On little more than his Army pay he could live like a prince, obedient servants at his beck and call, the best of everything the country could provide at his command, a string of polo ponies in the stable, and even an occasional shot at a tiger. Willie’s reduced income was wealth in India, and although sometimes, sweltering in the sunshine, he would have given much for a cold, grey day in the shires, he was on the whole as happy as it is given to mankind to be.
But, because men can never be quite happy for long, he suffered during these years from one continual source of irritation and experienced one great sorrow. The irritation came from a brother officer, who was a few years senior to him and whom he had never liked. Hamilton was his name. He was not popular in the regiment, but he was indifferent to popularity. He was extremely efficient, and he was working for the Staff College examination. His efficiency was reluctantly admired, but his professional ambitions were regarded with suspicion. The general feeling was that a man who prepared himself for the Staff College would be obliged to waste in study precious hours that might be spent in playing or practising polo.
During their stay in India Hamilton became adjutant, a position which enabled him to inflict many minor annoyances on junior officers whom he didn’t like. For some reason that would be hard to discover he had never liked Willie. Perhaps it was because everybody else liked him. Perhaps he secretly envied the popularity he affected to despise.
One of the reasons why Hamilton was not liked was that he had the courage to speak openly in favour of mechanisation, that fearful fate which hung like a shadow of doom over all cavalry regiments at this period.
‘I’d as soon be a chauffeur,’ exclaimed Willie passionately one evening, ‘as have to drive a dirty tank about and dress like a navvy.’
‘Of course,’ replied Hamilton blandly, ‘if all you care about is wearing fancy dress, playing games on horseback, and occasionally showing off at the Military Tournament, you’re perfectly right to take that view; but if you were interested in war, or ever hoped to take part in one, you’d be praying that your regiment might be mechanised before the next war comes.’
This was a cruel thing to say to Willie, and only Hamilton knew how cruel it was. Willie grew very red, then very white. He longed to throw something or to strike a blow. With difficulty he controlled himself, muttered a monosyllabic expletive and stalked from the room.
The wound that had been inflicted took long to heal. Hamilton had won a Military Cross in the war and was no doubt entitled to sneer at Willie, who had seen no fighting. But Willie would wake up in the night and recall the incident. He would think of clever answers that he might have made, and groan with rage. He knew all the arguments that had ever been put forward for the retention of horse cavalry, but he had forgotten them when he needed them. Hamilton had had the best of it. He always did, he always would, because he was clever. He was a good soldier too, there was no denying it, but he couldn’t really love the regiment, or be loyal to it, if he could speak of uniform as fancy dress, and if he wanted to see their horses taken away.
The misfortune that befell Willie in India was his first love affair. The opening act of this little drama was all that it should have been, and fitted perfectly into the nineteenth-century pattern of life. The heroine’s father was the Colonel of an Indian Cavalry regiment – an old regiment with honourable traditions – and the father and grandfather of Colonel Summers had served in it. Daisy was a pretty girl of a very English type, who looked prettier in India than she would have done at home. She was fair and fluffy, with large blue eyes and a complexion like a wild rose, the delicacy of which had not yet been dimmed by the Indian sun, for she had only recently arrived from Europe. She had finished her education at the same school in Brussels as Felicity Osborne, and it was the discovery of this fact that first brought her together with Willie. It gave them a subject of conversation, and Willie never found it easy to discover such subjects when he was brought into contact with young ladies.
Daisy spoke with enthusiasm of Felicity. She had been the beauty of the school and the favourite of the headmistress. Some of the girls found her proud and reserved, but she and Daisy had always got on well together, and had been the closest of friends. She was glad to talk of her school life, for with her also subjects of conversation were not always easy to find. So, at the various entertainments that the station offered – polo-matches, picnics, cocktail parties and dances – Willie came to be on the look out for Daisy and to spend with her the greater part of his time. It was a happy day when he discovered that, not only was she a friend of Felicity, but also that she took an interest in racing, and was quite well informed about the branch of that sport which he himself preferred. Endless vistas of conversation now lay before them, for the beauty of the turf as a conversational subject is that in racing, unlike art or philosophy, some important event has always just happened, or is just about to happen, and the daily Press is full of reports and speculations, which can be read and quoted.
Willie’s admiration for Daisy increased rapidly and, being a simple soul, he found it difficult not to talk of what was occupying his thoughts. One evening before dinner, when the officers were smoking on the veranda and the conversation was about horses, he remarked:
‘That young Miss Summers knows an awful lot about racing, both out here and at home.’
‘I suppose she gets her information from Coper Caffin,’ said Captain Hamilton, and there was something in his tone that Willie didn’t like.
‘Why, is he a pal of hers?’ he asked casually.
‘They’re inseparable,’ replied the other.
‘Oh,’ said Willie, ‘I’ve never seen them together.’
Then dinner was announced.
Caffin was a captain in the regiment which Daisy’s father commanded. To Willie he seemed an old man. In fact, he was barely forty. Willie was respectful to his seniors, and grateful if they were kind to him, which Caffin had always been. He had an attractive Irish brogue, and a full share of all those charming qualities that make Irishmen popular. Hamilton said of him that he was more like a stage Irishman than the genuine article. He was good looking, with light eyes and dark curly hair beginning to go grey, and he was a superb horseman.
Not only could he ride a horse, but he could sell one; and there were those who said that he was even more skilful in the latter activity than the former. Buying and selling horses certainly occupied a great deal of his time, and had earned him the nickname by which he was generally known. In the horse market honourable men accept a lower standard of integrity than elsewhere, but whether Coper Caffin always conformed even to that low standard was sometimes questioned; and there were young officers who long remembered with bitterness the deals they had done with him. Willie was not one of them. He had once bought a horse from Coper and he had paid a high price for it, but it had proved a good horse, and Willie was not one to complain of the price if he were satisfied with the purchase.
‘Do you know Coper Caffin?’ he asked Daisy the next time he met her.
‘Oh yes,’ she answered. ‘He’s sweet, don’t you think so?’
‘Sweet’ was not the adjective that Willie would have chosen. ‘He’s not a bad chap,’ he said, and added with greater conviction, ‘He’s jolly good on a horse.’
‘Yes, he rides beautifully, doesn’t he?’ she agreed, and added, ‘And he’s always been ever so sweet to me.’
‘You’ve known him some time, have you?’
‘Oh yes, ever since I was a flapper. And he came to Brussels when I was at school there and took me out to lunch.’
‘What was he doing in Brussels?’ Willie asked.
‘Selling horses, I suppose. He’s always selling horses. He’s going to leave the Army soon and set up on his own in Ireland. He’s got a lovely place there.’
‘Oh,’ said Willie dubiously. Nothing that he had heard of him previously had led him to believe that Coper Caffin belonged to the landed gentry.
Not long after this there was a dance to which Willie got permission from Daisy’s mother to escort her, together with another young lady who was staying with them. The party was well planned, it was a beautiful evening, the heat was not excessive and dancing went on until late. When they at last decided to leave, the other young lady could not be found, and after a search which caused further delay they were informed that she had left earlier with somebody else. So they drove home together, Willie at the wheel and Daisy’s pretty, tired head resting gently on his shoulder. When they reached the Colonel’s bungalow they got out of the car and without a word fell into one another’s arms. There was a broad seat upon the veranda, on which they prolonged their embrace. Those were moments Willie never forgot. It was the first time that he had held the yielding body of a young girl in his arms and felt soft lips pressed passionately to his.
‘I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time,’ he said, ‘but I never really knew it until this evening. When did you know you were in love with me? It seems so wonderful.’
That she was in love with him he had no doubt, else she would not have kissed him.
‘You are so very sweet,’ was her answer, and her arms stretched out to him again.
When next they spoke he put another question.
‘When shall we be married?’
Even in the dim light of very early dawn he could see she was surprised, but surely she would never have allowed him to kiss her so passionately unless she were prepared to marry him, and surely she would not have suspected him of being the kind of man who would treat a girl, a Colonel’s daughter, in that way, unless he meant to make her his wife.
‘Marry, marry, marry – oh, my sweet, it’s very late at night to talk of marriage.’ She laughed a little indulgent laugh, as though she were talking to a child. ‘How do you know that you’ll feel the same in the morning?’
‘I’m not tight, if that’s what you mean,’ said Willie. ‘You could see I wasn’t by the way I drove the car. And as for to-morrow morning, it’s that already. Look, the dawn is breaking. Could there be a better time of day to get engaged?’
Daisy was still bewildered. She was a child of her epoch, gay and shallow, not mercenary or scheming. She knew that she must get married. There were two younger sisters coming along, and two brothers at school, who were a heavy drain on the family resources, even while her father still drew full pay and lived in India. Willie, as she put it to herself, was very sweet – she had never met anyone sweeter. He was attractive, too; and yet she hesitated. He was so simple and so good – she had a curious unaccountable feeling that it would be rather a shame to marry him. She fell back on the excuse that one child gives to another.
‘But what would our people say?’
‘I haven’t got any people,’ answered Willie – ‘not even an aunt or an uncle. I’ll come and see your father to-morrow morning – this morning, I mean. Perhaps I should have done so before I asked you. I don’t see why he should object’ – and he added with some embarrassment, ‘I’ve got a little money, you know, as well as my pay.’
‘Oh, Daddy won’t object. He’ll be thankful to get rid of me, bless his heart. But are you sure, Willie, that you really want to marry me? You haven’t known me very long, and one always hears about boys who marry the Colonel’s daughter in India and spend the rest of their lives regretting it. Don’t you think you might come to regret it, Willie?’
But as she asked the question she moved closer into his arms, thereby dissolving any doubts that he might have had. It was almost daylight when they separated, and they were engaged to be married.
Willie remembered vividly the interview he had with Colonel Summers on the following day. Military duties occupied the earlier hours of the morning, and midday is not a suitable time in India for paying calls, so that it was about sundown when he arrived, by appointment, at the Colonel’s bungalow and was ushered into his presence. He had been feeling nervous, and had vaguely wondered whether he should not stand at attention, as in the orderly-room, and apply in official terms for permission to marry the Colonel’s daughter. But he was immediately put at his ease.
‘Help yourself to a glass of sherry, my dear fellow, and sit you down. It’s been damned hot all day, hasn’t it? But there’s a breeze this evening. Now tell me what I can do for you.’
Haltingly Willie told his story, confessing that he had already put the question to the young lady, and excusing himself for not having first obtained her father’s consent. The Colonel did not pretend to be surprised. He had known well enough that there could be but one subject on which Lieutenant Maryngton would ask for a private talk with him. Nor did he pretend to hesitate. His wife had already given him all the information which a prudent father might demand of a prospective son-in-law.
‘Well, my dear boy,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you frankly that, although I don’t know you very well, you seem to be just the sort of young fellow whom I’d like my daughter to marry. You have my consent and my blessing, and I hope she’ll make you a good wife. Let us shake hands on it, Willie.’
They shook hands and finished their sherry, half bowing towards each other and half muttering something about good luck. Lighting his pipe and leaning back in his chair, the Colonel continued:
‘It’s a funny thing, but you probably know Daisy better than I do. I’ve hardly seen her, because I’ve been out here most of her life. Girls are very different from what they used to be. I suppose every father has said that – especially stuffy old colonels in the Indian Army. But tell me now, does Daisy ever talk to you about anything except balldancing and the moving pictures?’
Willie laughed. ‘Oh yes, sir; about hundreds of things. I think she’s very clever. She’s not highbrow, of course, but then I’m not quite what you’d call one of the intellectuals. She’s awfully interested in horses, for one thing, and so am I.’
‘Yes,’ said the Colonel meditatively. ‘I’ve noticed that. I’ve noticed that.’ But he didn’t seem particularly pleased about it.
That was a great evening for Willie. He was not sure afterwards whether it was he or Daisy who had let out the news. They agreed between them that it must have been her father. By dinner-time it was all over the station. Wherever he went he was congratulated, and the little bungalow which he shared with a brother officer was crowded with friends who dropped in to drink his health.
One of the earliest callers was Coper Caffin.
‘It’s you that have broken my heart,’ he said, ‘for I would have married the girl myself. But let the best man win has always been my motto. Would you not like to give your bride a lovely hack as a wedding present, for I think I know the animal?’
Willie laughed, and said he would be glad to inspect it. He thought to himself that Coper was joking. He could not really have hoped to marry Daisy. He was old enough to be her father.
Of the months that followed Willie’s recollection was faint and hazy. He was very happy, and the days slipped quickly away. He wrote his good news to Mrs. Osborne and asked her to tell the others whose addresses he no longer knew, and he also wrote to Felicity to tell her that he was going to marry one of her school friends, and that they often talked of her together and looked forward to seeing her when they came home. Mrs. Osborne sent him her congratulations, together with much family news, and a silver flask that had belonged to her husband. He received no reply from Felicity.
To buy a suitable engagement ring he made a journey to Calcutta, which he thought the most horrible place he had ever seen. Yet many of his friends said they had great fun there, and arranged short visits as often as they could. Daisy was pleased with the ring, and she seemed pleased with him. They saw each other very often, and they never quarrelled. Perhaps true lovers would have warned them that this was a bad sign, for those are wrong who believe that there are more quarrels after than before marriage. It was only when he looked back upon it all afterwards that he understood there had been something missing. They danced together, and rode together, and talked about dances and horses. She refused to accept the mare that Caffin had wanted to sell him as a wedding present, although she could give no good reason for doing so. She said she had heard of a better one, and that in any case there was no hurry. In spite of this continual companionship, Willie saw afterwards that they came no closer together. They knew no more of one another’s heart and mind, and even the rapturous caresses that had led to their engagement were not repeated. There never seemed to be any opportunity, or was it, as Willie sometimes thought, that Daisy deliberately avoided one? If it were so, he did not blame her, attributing reluctance, if it existed, to maiden modesty.
Of all the conversations that they had at this period he remembered only one distinctly. He had accompanied her home from a party, as on the other occasion, but this time it was in her father’s car and there was a chauffeur in the front seat. None the less when they reached the bungalow she drew him into the dark shadow of the veranda, and laid her hands on his shoulders.
‘Willie,’ she said, ‘I am very fond of you. I want you to believe that, and I want you to promise me something.’
‘Of course you’re fond of me, or you wouldn’t be marrying me, and of course I’ll promise you anything in the world,’ he said lightly, pressing forward to kiss her. But she still held him back.
‘No, this is something serious. I want you to promise me, because I know that if you make a promise you will keep it always.’
‘Fire away,’ he said.
‘I want you to promise that whatever I do you will always forgive me, and will believe that even if I hurt you I was sad to do it.’
‘Of course,’ he answered, ‘and you must promise me, too. I’m sure I’ll be a rotten husband.’
‘No,’ she persisted. ‘You have got to say “I promise that I will always forgive you, Daisy, and that even if you hurt me, I will believe that you were sad to do it.”
Solemnly he said the words, she repeating them under her breath, her hands still resting on his shoulders. When he had finished she drew him close to her and held him in a long embrace.
A few days later she ran away with Coper Caffin.