FAR TO SEEK

A Romance of England and India

BYMAUD DIVER

AUTHOR OF 'CAPTAIN DESMOND, V. C. , ' 'LILÁMANI, ''DESMOND'S DAUGHTER, ' ETC. 

 "I am athirst for far-away things. My soul goes out in longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. . . . O Far-to-Seek! O the keen call of thy flute. . . !" --RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

 "His hidden meaning dwells in our endeavours; Our valours are our best gods. " --JOHN FLETCHER. 

William Blackwood & Sons Ltd. 

Edinburgh and London

 * * * * *

 _TO MY BLUE BIRD, BRINGER OF HAPPINESS TO MYSELF AND OTHERS, I DEDICATE THIS IDYLL OF A MOTHER AND SON. 

 M. D. _

 * * * * *

 "The dawn sleeps behind the shadowy hills, The stars hold their breath, counting the hours. . . . There is only your own pair of wings and the pathless sky, Bird, oh my Bird, listen to me--do not close your wings. " --RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE. 

As part of my book is set in Lahore, at the time of the outbreak, inApril 1919, I wish to state clearly that, while the main events are trueto fact, the characters concerned, both English and Indian, are purelyimaginary. At the same time, the opinions expressed by my Indiancharacters on the present outlook are all based on the written or spokenopinions of actual Indians--loyal or disaffected, as the case may be. 

There were no serious British casualties in Lahore, though there weremany elsewhere. I have imagined one locally, for purposes of my story. In all other respects I have kept close to recorded facts. 

 M. D. 

CONTENTS. 

 PAGE

PHASE I. THE GLORY AND THE DREAM 1

PHASE II. THE VISIONARY GLEAM 65

PHASE III. PISGAH HEIGHTS 135

PHASE IV. DUST OF THE ACTUAL 283

PHASE V. A STAR IN DARKNESS 417

PHASE I. 

THE GLORY AND THE DREAM

CHAPTER I. 

 "Thou art the sky, and thou art the nest as well. " --Tagore. 

By the shimmer of blue under the beeches Roy knew that summer--"reallytruly summer!"--had come back at last. And summer meant picnics andstrawberries and out-of-door lessons, and the lovely hot smell ofpine-needles in the pine-wood, and the lovelier cool smell of mosscushions in the beech-wood--home of squirrels and birds and bluebells;unfailing wonderland of discovery and adventure. 

Roy was an imaginative creature, isolated a little by the fact of beingthree and a half years older than Christine, and "miles older" thanJerry and George, mere babies, for whom the magic word adventure held nomeaning at all. 

Luckily, there was Tara, from the black-and-white house: Tara, whoshared his lessons and, in spite of the drawback of being a girl, hadlong ago won her way into his private world of knight-errantry andromance. Tara was eight years and five weeks old; quite a reasonable agein the eyes of Roy, whose full name was Nevil Le Roy Sinclair, and whowould be nine in June. With the exception of grown-ups, who didn'tcount, there was no one older than nine in his immediate neighbourhood. Tara came nearest: but _she_ wouldn't be nine till next year; and bythat time, he would be ten. The point was, she couldn't catch him up ifshe tried ever so. 

It was Tara's mother, Lady Despard, who had the happy idea of sharinglessons, that would otherwise be rather a lonely affair for both. But itwas Roy's mother who had the still happier idea of teaching themherself. Tara's mother joined in now and then; but Roy's mother--wholoved it beyond everything--secured the lion's share. And Roy was oldenough by now to be proudly aware of his own good fortune. Most otherchildren of his acquaintance were afflicted with tiresome governesses, who wore ugly jackets and hats, who said "Don't drink with your mouthfull, " and "Don't argue the point!"--Roy's favourite sin--and alwaystold you to "Look in the dictionary" when you found a scrumptious newword and wanted to hear all about it. The dictionary, indeed! Royprivately regarded it as one of the many mean evasions to whichgrown-ups were addicted. 

His ripe experience on the subject was gleaned partly from neighbouringfamilies, partly from infrequent visits to "Aunt Jane"--whom he hatedwith a deep unreasoned hate--and "Uncle George, " who had a kind, stupidface, but anyhow tried to be funny and made futile bids for favour withpen-knives and half-crowns. Possibly it was these uncongenial visitsthat quickened in him very early the consciousness that his ownbeautiful home was, in some special way, different from other boys'homes, and his mother--in a still more special way--different from otherboys' mothers. . . . 

And that proud conviction was no mere myth born of his young adoration. In all the County, perhaps in all the Kingdom, there could be found nomother in the least like Lilámani Sinclair, descendant of Rajput chiefsand wife of an English Baronet, who, in the face of formidable barriers, had dared to accept all risks and follow the promptings of his heart. One of these days there would dawn on Roy the knowledge that he was thechild of a unique romance, of a mutual love and courage that had run thegauntlet of prejudices and antagonisms, of fightings without and fearswithin; yet, in the end, had triumphed as they triumph who will notadmit defeat. All this initial blending of ecstasy and pain, ofspiritual striving and mastery, had gone to the making of Roy, who inthe fulness of time would realise--perhaps with pride, perhaps withsecret trouble and misgiving--the high and complex heritage that washis. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile he only knew that he was fearfully happy, especially in summertime; that his father--who had smiling eyes and loved messing withpaints like a boy--was kinder than anyone else's, so long as you didn'ttell bad fibs or meddle with his brushes; that his idolised mother, inher soft coloured silks and saris, her bangles and silver shoes, was the"very most beautiful" being in the whole world. And Roy's response tothe appeal of beauty was abnormally quick and keen. It could hardly beotherwise with the son of these two. He loved, with a fervour beyond hisyears, the clear pale oval of his mother's face; the coils of her darkhair, seen always through a film of softest muslin--moon-yellow orapple-blossom pink, or deep dark blue like the sky out of his window atnight spangled with stars. He loved the glimmer of her jewels, the sheenand feel of her wonderful Indian silks, that seemed to smell like thebig sandalwood box in the drawing-room. And beyond everything he lovedher smile and the touch of her hand, and her voice that could charm awayall nightmare terrors, all questionings and rebellions, of his excitablebrain. 

Yet, in outward bearing, he was not a sentimental boy. The Sinclairs didnot run to sentiment; and the blood of two virile races--English andRajput--was mingled in his veins. Already his budding masculinity badehim keep the feelings of 'that other Roy' locked in the most secretcorner of his heart. Only his mother, and sometimes Tara, caught aglimpse of him now and then. Lady Sinclair, herself, never guessed that, in the vivid imaginations of both children, she herself was theever-varying incarnation of the fairy princesses and Rajputni heroinesof her own tales. Their appetite for these was insatiable; and her storeof them seemed never ending: folk tales of East and West; true tales ofCrusaders, of Arthur and his knights; of Rajput Kings and Queens, in thefar-off days when Rajasthán--a word like a trumpet call--was holding herdesert cities against hordes of invaders, and heroes scorned to die intheir beds. Much of it all was frankly beyond them; but the colour andthe movement, the atmosphere of heroism and high endeavour quickenedimagination and fellow-feeling, and left an impress on both childrenthat would not pass with the years. 

To their great good fortune, these tales and talks were a part of hersimple, individual plan of education. An even greater good fortune--intheir eyes--was her instinctive response to the seasons. She shared tothe full their clear conviction that schoolroom lessons and a radiantday of summer were a glaring misfit; and she trimmed her sails, orrather her time-table, accordingly. 

"Sentimental folly and thoroughly demoralising, " was the verdict of AuntJane, overheard by Roy, who was not supposed to understand. "They willgrow up without an inch of moral backbone. And you can't say I didn'twarn you. Lady Despard's a crank, of course; but Nevil is a fool toallow it. Goodness knows _he_ was bad enough, though he was reared onthe good old lines. And you are not giving his son a chance. The soonerthe boy's packed off to school the better. I shall tell him so. "

And his mother had answered with her dignified unruffled sweetness--thatmade her so beautifully different from ordinary people, who got red andexcited and made foolish faces: "He will not agree. He shares mybelieving that children are in love with life. It is their first love. Pity to crush it too soon; putting their minds in tight boxes with nochink for Nature to creep in. If they first find knowledge by theiryoung life-love, afterwards, they will perhaps give up their life-loveto gain it. "

Roy could not follow all that; but the music of the words, matched withthe music of his mother's voice, convinced him that her victory overhorrid interfering Aunt Jane was complete. And it was comforting to knowthat his father agreed about not putting their minds in tight boxes. ForAunt Jane's drastic prescription alarmed him. Of course school wouldhave to come some day; but his was not the temperament that hankers forit at an early age. As to a moral backbone--whatever sort of anaffliction that might be--if it meant growing up ugly and'disagreeable, ' like Aunt Jane or the Aunt Jane cousins, he ferventlyhoped he would never have one--or Tara either. . . . 

But on this particular morning he feared no manner of bogey--not evenschool or a moral backbone--because the bluebells were alight under hisbeeches--hundreds and hundreds of them--and 'really truly' summer hadcome back at last!

Roy knew it the moment he sprang out of bed and stood barefoot on thewarm patch of carpet near the window, stretching his slim shapely body, instinctively responsive to the sun's caress. No less instinctive washis profound conviction that nothing possibly could go wrong on a daylike this. 

In the first place it meant lessons under their favourite tree. In thesecond, it was history and poetry day; and Roy's delight in both madethem hardly seem lessons at all. He thought it very clever of hismother, having them together. The depth of her wisdom he did not yetdiscern. She allowed them within reason, to choose their own poems: andRoy, exploring her bookcase, had lighted on Shelley's 'Cloud'--themusical flow of words, the more entrancing because only half understood. He had straightway learnt the first three verses for a surprise. Hecrooned them now, his head flung back a little, his gaze intent on agossamer film that floated just above the pine tops--'still as abrooding dove. '. . . 

Standing there, in full sunlight--the modelling of his young limbsveiled, yet not hidden, by his silk night-suit; the carriage of head andshoulders betraying innate pride of race--he looked, on every count, nounworthy heir to the House of Sinclair and its simple honourabletraditions: one that might conceivably live to challenge familyprejudices and qualms. The thick dark hair, ruffled from sleep, was hismother's; and hers the semi-opaque ivory tint of his skin. The clean-cutforehead and nose, the blue-grey eyes, with the lurking smile in them, were Nevil Sinclair's own. In him, at least, it would seem that love wasjustified of her children. 

But of family features, as of family qualms, he was, as yet, radiantlyunaware. Snatching his towel, he scampered barefoot down the passage tothe nursery bathroom, where the tap was already running. 

Fifteen minutes later, dressed, but hatless and still barefoot, he wasracing over the vast dew-drenched lawn, leaving a trail of grey-greensmudges on its silvered surface, chanting the opening lines of Shelley's'Cloud' to breakfast-hunting birds. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "Those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, . . . Are yet the fountain-light of all our day; Are yet the master-light of all our seeing. " --WORDSWORTH. 

The blue rug under Roy's beech-tree was splashed with freckles ofsunshine; freckles that were never still, because a fussy little windkept swaying the top-most branches, where the youngest beech-leavesflickered, like golden-green butterflies bewitched by some maliciousfairy, so that they could never fly into the sky till summer was over, and all the leaf butterflies in the world would be free to scamper withthe wind. 

That was Roy's foolish fancy as he lay full length, to the obviousdetriment of his moral backbone--chin cupped in the hollow of his hands. Close beside him lay Prince, his golden retriever; so close that hecould feel the dog's warm body through his thin shirt. At the foot ofthe tree, in a nest of pale cushions, sat his mother, in herapple-blossom sari and a silk dress like the lining of a shell. Nojewels in the morning, except the star that fastened her sari on oneshoulder and a slender gold bangle--never removed--the wedding-ring ofher own land. The boy, mutely adoring, could, in some dim way, feel theharmony of those pale tones with the olive skin, faintly aglow, and thedelicate arch of her eyebrows poised like outspread wings above thebrown, limpid depths of her eyes. He could not tell that she was stilllittle more than a girl; barely eight-and-twenty. For him she wasageless:--protector and playfellow, essence of all that was most real, yet most magical, in the home that was his world. Unknown to him, theEastern mother in her was evoking, already, the Eastern spirit ofworship in her son. 

Very close to her nestled Tara, a vivid, eager slip of a girl, withwild-rose petals in her cheeks and blue hyacinths in her eyes andsunbeams tangled in her hair, that rippled to her waist in a mass almosttoo abundant for the small head and elfin face it framed. Intemperament, she suggested a flame rather than a flower, this singularlyvital child. She loved and she hated, she played and she quarrelled withan intensity, a singleness of aim, surprising and a little disquietingin a creature not yet nine. She was the despair of nurses and had nevercrossed swords with a governess, which was a merciful escape--for thegoverness. Juvenile fiction and fairy tales she frankly scorned. Legendsof Asgard and Arthur, the virile tales of Rajputana and her warriorchiefs, she drank in as the earth drinks dew. Roy had a secret weaknessfor a happy ending--in his own phrase, "a beautiful marry. " Tara's rebelspirit rose to tragedy as a flame leaps to the stars; and there was nolack of high tragedy in the records of Chitor--Queen of cities--thricesacked by Moslem invaders; deserted at last, and left in ruins--a sacredrelic of great days gone by. 

This morning Rajputana held the field. Lilámani, with a thrill in herlow voice, was half reading, half telling the adventures of Prithvi Raj(King of the Earth) and his Amazon Princess, Tara--the Star of Bednore:verily a star among women for beauty, wisdom, and courage. Many princeswere rivals for her hand; but none would she call "lord" save the manwho restored to her father the Kingdom snatched from him by an Afghanmarauder. "On the faith of a Rajput, _I_ will restore it, " said PrithviRaj. So, in the faith of a Rajputni, she married him:--and together, bya daring device, they fulfilled her vow. 

Here, indeed, was Roy's 'beautiful marry, ' fit prelude for the tale ofthat heroic pair. For in life--Lilámani told them--marriage is thebeginning, not the end. That is only for fairy tales. 

And close against her shoulder, listening entranced, sat the child Tara, with her wild-flower face and the flickering star in her heart--acreature born out of time into an unromantic world; hands clasped roundher upraised knees, her wide eyes gazing past the bluebells and thebeech-leaves at some fanciful inner vision of it all; lost in it, as Roywas lost in contemplation of his Mother's face. . . . 

And this unorthodox fashion of imbibing knowledge in the very lap of theEarth Mother, was Lilámani Sinclair's impracticable idea of 'givinglessons'! Shades of Aunt Jane! Of governess and copy-books and rulers!

Happily for all three, Lady Roscoe never desecrated their paradise inthe flesh. She was aware that her very regrettable sister-in-law had'queer notions' and had flatly refused to engage a governess of highqualifications chosen by herself; but the half was not told her. Itnever is told to those who condemn on principle what they cannotunderstand. At their coming all the little private gateways into thedelectable Garden of Intimacy shut with a gentle, decisive click. So itwas with Jane Roscoe, as worthy and unlikeable a woman as ever organiseda household to perfection and alienated every member of her family. 

The trouble was that she could not rest satisfied with this achievement. She was afflicted with a vehement desire--she called it a sense ofduty--to organise the homes of her less capable relations. If theyresented, they were written down ungrateful. And Nevil's ingratitude hadbecome a byword. For Nevil Sinclair was that unaccountable, uncomfortable thing--an artist; which is to say he was no true Sinclair, but the son of his mother whose name he bore. No one, not even Jane, hadsucceeded in organising him--nor ever would. 

So Lilámani carried on, unmolested, her miniature attempt at the forestschool of an earlier day. Her simple programme included a good deal morethan tales of heroism and adventure. This morning there had beenrhythmical exercises, a lively interlude of 'sums without slates' andtheir poems--a great moment for Roy. Only by a superhuman effort he hadkept his treasure locked inside him for two whole days. And his mother'ssurprise was genuine: not the acted surprise of grown-ups, that was sopatent and so irritating and made them look so silly. The smile in hereyes as she listened had sent a warm tingly feeling all through him, asif the spring sunshine itself ran in his veins. Naturally he could notexpress it so; but he felt it so. And now, as he lay looking andlistening, he felt it still. The wonder of her face and her voice, andall the many wonders that made her so beautiful, had hitherto been asmuch a part of him as the air he breathed. But this morning, in some dimway, things were different--and he could not tell why. . . . 

His own puzzled thoughts and her face and her voice became entangledwith the chivalrous story of Prithvi Raj holding court in his hillfortress with Tara--fit wife for a hero, since she could ride and flinga lance and bend a bow with the best of them. When Roy caught him up, hewas in the midst of a great battle with his uncle, who had broken out inrebellion against the old Rana of Chitor. 

"All day long they were fighting, and all night long they were lyingawake beside great watch-fires, waiting till there came dawn to fightagain. . . . "

His mother was telling, not reading now. He knew it at once from thechange in her tone. 

"And when evening came, what did Prithvi Raj? He was carelesslystrolling over to the enemy's camp, carelessly walking into his Uncle'stent to ask if he is well, in spite of many wounds. And his uncle, fullof surprise, made answer: 'Quite well, my child, since I have thepleasure to see you. ' And when he heard that Prithvi had come evenbefore eating any dinner, he gave orders for food: and they two, whowere all day seeking each other's life, sat there together eating fromone plate. 

"'In the morning we will end our battle, Uncle, ' said Prithvi Raj, whentime came to go. 

"'Very well, child, come early, ' said Surájmul. 

"So Prithvi Raj came early and put his Uncle's whole army to flight. Butthat was not enough. He must be driven from the kingdom. So when Prithviheard that broken army was hiding in the depths of a mighty forest, there he went with his bravest horsemen, and suddenly, on a dark night, sprang into their midst. Then there was great shouting and fighting; andsoon they came together, uncle and nephew, striking at each other, yetnever hating, though they must make battle because of Chitor and theKingdom of Mewar. 

"To none would Suráj yield, but only to Prithvi, bravest of the brave. So suddenly in a loud voice he cried--'Stay the fight, nephew. If I amkilled, no great matter. But if _you_ are killed, what will become ofChitor? I would bear shame for ever. '

"By those generous words he made submission greater than victory. Uncleand nephew embraced, heart to heart, and all those who had been fightingeach other sat down together in peace, because Surájmul, true Rajput, could not bring harm, even in anger, upon the sacred city of Chitor. "

She paused--her eyes on Roy, who had lost his own puzzling sensations inthe clash of the fight and its chivalrous climax. 

"Oh, I love it, " he said. "Is that all?"

"No, there is more. "

"Is it sad?"

She shook her head at him--smiling. 

"Yes, Roy. It is sad. "

He wrinkled his forehead. 

"Oh dear! I like it to end the nice way. "

"But I am not making tales, Sonling. I am telling history. "

Tara's head nudged her shoulder. "_Go_ on--please, " she murmured, resenting interruptions. 

So Lilámani--still looking at Roy--told how Prithvi Raj went on his lastquest to Mount Abu, to punish the chief, who had married his sister andwas ill-treating her. 

"In answer to her cry he went; and climbing her palace walls in thenight, he gave sharp punishment to that undeserving prince. But whenpenance was over, his noble nature was ready, like before, to embraceand be friends. Only that mean one, not able to kill him in battle, putpoison in the sweets he gave at parting and Prithvi ate them, thinkingno harm. So when he came on the hill near his palace the evil work wasdone. Helpless he, the all-conqueror, sent word to Tara that he mightsee her before death. But even that could not be. And she, loyal wife, had only one thought in her heart. 'Can the blossom live when the treeis cut down?' Calm, without tears, she bade his weeping warriors buildup the funeral pyre, putting the torch with her own hand. Then, beforethem all, she climbed on that couch of fire and went through the leapingscorching flames to meet her lord----"

The low clear voice fell silent--and the silence stayed. The vaguethrill of a tragedy they could hardly grasp laid a spell upon thechildren. It made Roy feel as he did in Church, when the deepest notesof the organ quivered through him; and it brought a lump in his throat, which must be manfully swallowed down on account of being a boy. . . . 

And suddenly the spell was broken by the voice of Roger the footman, whohad approached noiselessly along the mossy track. 

"If you please, m'lady, Sir Nevil sent word as Lord and Lady Roscoe 'avearrived unexpected; and if convenient, can you come in?"

They all started visibly and their dream-world of desert and rose-redmountains and battle-fields and leaping flames shivered like asoap-bubble at the touch of a careless hand. 

Lilámani rose, gentle and dignified. "Thank you, Roger. Tell Sir Nevil Iam coming. "

Roy suppressed a groan. The mere mention of Aunt Jane made one feelvaguely guilty. To his nimble fancy it was almost as if her very personhad invaded their sanctuary, in her neat hard coat and skirt and herneat hard summer hat with its one fierce wing, that, disdaining thetenderness of curves, seemed to stab the air, as her eyes so oftenseemed to stab Roy's hyper-sensitive brain. 

"Oh dear!" he sighed. "Will they stop for lunch?"

"I expect so. "

He wrinkled his nose in a wicked grimace. 

"Bad boy!" said Lilámani's lips, but her eyes said other things. Heknew, and she knew that he knew how, in her heart, she shared his innateantagonism. Was it not of her own bestowing--a heritage of certainmemories--ineffaceable, unforgiveable--during her early days ofmarriage? But in spite of that mutual knowledge, Roy was never allowedto speak disrespectfully of his formidable aunt. 

"You can stay out and play till half-past twelve, not one minute later, "she said--and left them to their own delectable devices. 

Roy had been promoted to a silver watch on his eighth birthday, so hecould be relied on; and he still enjoyed a private sense of importancewhen the fact was recognised. 

Left alone they had only to pick up the threads of their game; a sort ofinterminable serial story, in which they lived and moved and had theirbeing. But first Tara--in her own person--had a piece of news to impart. Hunching up her knees, she tilted back her head till it touched thesatin-grey hole of the tree and all her hair lay shimmering against itlike a stream of pale sunshine. 

"What do you think?" she nodded at Roy with her elfin smile. "We've gota Boy-on-a-visit and his mother, from India. They came last night. He'srather a large boy. "

"Is he nine?" Roy asked, standing up very straight and slim, a defensivegleam in his eye. 

"He's ten and a half. And he looks bigger'n that. He goes to school. Andhe's been quite a lot in India. "

"Not my India. "

"I don't know. He called it 'Mballa. That letter I brought from Mummywas asking if she could bring them for tea. "

"Well, I don't want him for tea. I don't like your Boy-on-a-visit. I'lltell Mummy. "

"Oh, Roy--you mustn't. " She made reproachful eyes at him. "Coz then _I_couldn't come. And he's quite nice--only rather lumpy. And you can't notlike someb'dy you've never seen. "

"_I_ can, I often do. " The possibility had only just occurred to him. Hesaw it as a distinction and made the most of it. "Course if you're goingto make a fuss----"

Tara's eyes opened wider still. "Oh, Roy, you _are_----! 'Tisn't methat's making fusses. "

Though Roy knew nothing as yet about woman and the last word, heinstinctively took refuge in the masculine dignity that spurns descentto the dusty arena when it feels defeat in the air. 

"Girls don't never fuss--do they?" he queried suavely. "Let's get onwith the Game and not bother about your Boy-of-ten. "

"And a half, " Tara insisted tactlessly, with her sweetest smile. Butwhen Roy chose to be impassive pin-pricks were thrown away on him. 

"Where'd we stop?" he mused, ignoring her remark. "Oh--I know. TheKnight was going forth to quest the Elephant with golden tusks for theHigh Tower Princess who wanted them in her crown. Why _do_ Princessesalways want what the knights can't find?"

Tara's feminine intuition leaped at a solution. 

"I 'spec it's just to show off they are Princesses and to keep theKnights from bothering round. --So away he went and the Princess climbedup to her highest tower and waved her lily hand----"

In the same breath she, Tara, sprang to her feet and swung herselfastride a downward sweeping branch just above Roy's head. There sheperched like a slim blue flower, dangling her tan-stockinged legs andshaking her hair at him like golden rain. She was in one of her impishmoods; reaction, perhaps, --though she knew it not--from the high tragedyof that other Tara, her namesake, and the great greatest-possiblegrandmother of her adored 'Aunt Lila. ' Suddenly a fresh impulse seizedher. Clutching her bough, she leaned down and lightly ruffled his hair. 

He started and looked reproachful. "Don't rumple me. I'm going. "

"You needn't, if you don't want to, " she cooed caressingly. "_I_'m goingto the tipmost top to see out over the world. And the Princess doesn'tcare a bean about the Golden Tusks--truly. "

"She's jolly pleased with the knight that finds them, " said Roy with adeeper wisdom than he knew. "And you can't be stopped off quests thatway. Come on, Prince. "

At a bend in the mossy path, he looked back and she waved her lily hand. 

 * * * * *

To be alone in the deep of the wood in bluebell time was, for Roy, asensation by itself. In a moment, you stepped through some unseen doorstraight into fairy-land--or was it a looking-glass world? For here thesky lay all around your feet in a shimmer of bluebells: and highoverhead were domes of cool green light, where the sun came flickeringand filtering through millions of leaves. Always, as far as he couldremember, the magical feeling had been there. But this morning it cameover him in a queer way. This morning--though he could not quite make itout--there was the Roy that felt and the Roy that knew he felt, just asthere had suddenly been when he was watching his mother's face. And thismagical world was his kingdom. In some far-off time, it would all be hisvery own. That uplifting thought eclipsed every other. . . . 

Lost in one of his dreaming moods, he wandered on and on, with Prince athis heels. He forgot all about Tara and his knighthood and his quest;till suddenly--where the trees fell apart--his eye was arrested by twinshafts of sunlight that struck downward through the green gloom. 

He caught his breath and stood still. "I've _found_ them! The GoldenTusks!" he murmured ecstatically. 

The pity was he couldn't carry them back with him as trophies. He couldonly watch them fascinated, wondering how you could explain what youdidn't understand yourself. All he knew was that they made him feel'dazzled inside, ' and he wanted to watch them more. 

It was beautiful out in the open with the sunshine pouring down and abig lazy white cloud tangled in tree-tops. So he flung himself on themoss, hands under his head, and lay there, Prince beside him, lookingup, up into the far blue, listening to the swish and rustle of the windtalking secrets to the leaves, and all the tiny mysterious noises thatmake up the silence of a wood in summer. 

And again he forgot about Tara and the Game and the silver watch thatmade him reliable. He simply lay there in a trance-like stillness, thatwas not of the West, absorbing it all, with his eyes and his dazzledbrain and with every sentient nerve in his body. And again--as when hismother smiled her praise--the Spring sunshine itself seemed to flowthrough his veins. . . . 

 * * * * *

Suddenly he came alive and sat upright. Something was happening. TheGolden Tusks had disappeared, and the domes of cool green light and thefar blue sky and the lazy white cloud. Under the beeches it was almosttwilight--a creepy twilight, as if a giant had blown out the sun. Was itreally evening? Had he been asleep? Only his watch could answer that, and never had he loved it more dearly. No--it was daytime. Twenty pasttwelve--and he would be late----

A long rumbling growl, that seemed to shudder through the wood, sostartled him that it set little hammers beating all over his body. Thenthe wind grew angrier--not whispering secrets now, but tearing at thetree-tops and lashing the branches this way and that. And every minutethe wood grew darker, and the sky overhead was darkest of all--thecolour of spilled ink. And there was Tara--his forgottenPrincess--waiting for him in her high tower; or perhaps she had given upwaiting and gone home. 

"Come on, Prince, " he said, "we must run!"

The sound of his own voice was vaguely comforting: but the moment hebegan to run, he felt as if some one--or Something--was running afterhim. He knew there was nothing. He knew it was babyish. But what couldyou do if your legs were in a fearful hurry of their own accord?Besides, Tara was waiting. Somehow Tara seemed the point of safety. Hedidn't believe she was ever afraid----

All in a moment the eerie darkness quivered and broke into startlinglight. Twigs and leaves and bluebell spears and tiny patterns of mossseemed to leap at him and vanish as he ran: and two minutes after, highabove the agitated tree-tops, the thunder spoke. No mere growl now; butcrash on crash that seemed to be tearing the sky in two and set thelittle hammers inside him beating faster than ever. 

He had often watched storms from a window: but to be out in the verymiddle of one all alone was an adventure of the first magnitude. Thegrandeur and terror of it clutched at his heart and thrilled along hisnerves as the thunder went rumbling and grumbling off to the other endof the world, leaving the wood so quiet and still that the littlehammers inside seemed almost as loud as the plop-plop of the first bigraindrops on the leaves. But, in spite of secret tremors, he wantedtremendously to hear the thunder speak again. The childish feeling ofpursuit was gone. His legs that had been in such a fearful hurry, cameto a sudden standstill; and he discovered, to his immense surprise, thathe was back again----

There lay the rug and the cushions under the downward sweeping brancheswith their cascades of bright new leaves. No sign of Tara--and the heavydrops came faster, though they hardly amounted to a shower. 

Flinging down bow and arrows, he ran under the tree and peered up into amaze of silver grey and young green. Still no sign. 

"Tara!" he called. "Are you there?"

"'Course I am. " Her disembodied voice had a ring of triumph. "I'm at thetipmost top. It's rather shaky, but scrumshous. Come up--quick!"

Craning his neck he could just see one leg and the edge of her frock. Temptation tugged at him; but he could not bear to disobey hismother--not because it was naughty, but it was her. 

"I can't--now, " he called back. "It's late and it's raining. You _must_come down. "

"I will--if you come up. "

"I tell you, I can't!"

"Only one little minute, Roy. The storm's rolling away. I can see milesand miles--to Farthest End. "

Temptation tugged harder. You couldn't carry on an argument with one tanshoe and stocking and a flutter of blue frock, and he wanted badly totell about the Golden Tusks. Should he go on alone, or should he climbup and fetch her----?

The answer to that came from the top of the tree. A crack, a rustle anda shriek from Tara, who seemed to be coming down faster than she caredabout. 

Another shriek. "Oh, Roy! I'm stuck! Do come!"

Stuck! She was dangling from the end of a jagged bough that had caughtin her skirt as she fell. There she hung ignominiously--his High TowerPrincess--her hair floating like seaweed, her hands clutching at thenearest branches that were too pliable for support. If her skirt shouldtear, or the bough should break----

"_Keep_ stuck!" he commanded superfluously; and like a squirrel he spedup the great beech, its every foothold as familiar to him as the groundhe walked on. 

But to release her skirt and give her a hand he must trust himself onthe jagged bough, hoping it would bear the double weight. It lookedrather a dead one, and its sharp end was sticking through a hole inTara's frock. He set foot on it cautiously and proffered a hand. 

"Now--catch hold!" he said. 

Agile as he, she swung herself up somehow and clutched at him with bothhands. The half-dead bough, resenting these gymnastics, crackedominously. There was a gasp, a scuffle. Roy hung on valiantly, draggingher nearer for a firmer foothold. 

And suddenly down below Prince began to bark--a deep, booming note ofwelcome. 

"Hullo, Roy!" It was his father's voice. "Are you murdering Tara upthere? Come out of it!"

Roy, having lost his footing, was in no position to look down--or todisobey: and they proceeded to come out of it, with rather more hastethan dignity. 

Roy, swinging from a high branch for his final jump--a bit of purebravado because he felt nervous inside--discovered, with mingled terrorand joy, that his vagrant foot had narrowly shaved Aunt Jane's neat hardsummer hat: Aunt Jane--of all people--at such a moment, when youcouldn't properly explain. He half wished he _had_ kicked the fiercelittle feather and broken its back----

He was on the ground now, shaking hands with her, his sensitiveclean-cut face a mask of mere politeness: and Tara was standing byhim--a jagged hole in her blue frock, a scratch across her cheek, andher hair ribbon gone--looking suspiciously as if he had been trying tomurder her instead of doing her a knightly service. 

She couldn't help it, of course. But still--it was a distinct score forAunt Jane, who, as usual, went straight to the point. 

"You nearly kicked my head just now. A little gentleman wouldapologise. "

He did apologise--not with the best grace. 

"My turn next, " his father struck in. "What the dickens were you upto--tearing slices out of my finest tree!" His twinkly eyes were almostgrave and his voice was almost stern. ("Just because of Aunt Jane!"thought Roy. )

Aloud he said: "I'm awfully sorry, Daddy. It was only . . . Tara got in amuddle. I had to help her. "

The twinkle came back to his father's eyes. 

"The woman tempted me!" was all he said; and Roy, hopelessly mystified, wondered how he could possibly know. It was very clever of him. But AuntJane seemed shocked. 

"Nevil, be quiet!" she commanded in a crisp undertone; and Roy, simplyhating her, pulled out his watch. 

"We've got to hurry, Daddy. Mother said 'not later than half-past. ' Andit is later. "

"Scoot, then. She'll be anxious because of the storm. "

But though Roy, grasping Tara's hand, faithfully hurried ahead becauseof mother, he managed to keep just within earshot; and he listenedshamelessly, because of Aunt Jane. You couldn't trust her. She didn'tplay fair. She would bite you behind your back. That's the kind of womanshe was. 

And this is what he heard. 

"Nevil, it's perfectly disgraceful. Letting them run wild like that;damaging the trees and scaring the birds. "

She meant the pheasants of course. No other winged beings were sacred inher eyes. 

"Sorry, old girl. But they appear to survive it. " (The cool good-humourof his father's tone was balm to Roy's heart. ) "And frankly, with us, ifit's a case of the children or the birds, the children win, hands down. "

Aunt Jane snorted. You could call it nothing else. It was a soundpeculiarly her own, and it implied unutterable things. Roy would havegloried had he known what a score for his father was that delicatelyimplied identity with his wife. 

But the snort was no admission of defeat. 

"In _my_ opinion--if it counts for anything, " she persisted, "thisharum-scarum state of things is quite as bad for the children as for thebirds. I suppose you _have_ a glimmering concern for the boy's future, as heir to the old place?"

Nevil Sinclair chuckled. 

"By Jove! That's quite a bright idea. Really, Jane, you've a positiveflair for the obvious. "

(Roy hugely wanted to know what a "flair for the obvious" might be. Hiseager brain pounced on new words as a dog pounces on a bone. )

"I wish I could say the same for you, " Lady Roscoe retorted unabashed. "The obvious, in this case--though you can't or won't see it--is thatthe boy is thoroughly spoilt, and in September he ought to go to school. You couldn't do better than Coombe Friars. "

His father said something quickly in a low tone and he couldn't catchAunt Jane's next remark. Evidently he was to hear no more. What he hadheard was bad enough. 

"I don't care. I jolly well won't, " he said between his teeth--whichlooked as if Aunt Jane was not quite wrong about the spoiling. 

"No, don't, " said Tara, who had also listened without shame. And theyhurried on in earnest. 

"Tara, " Roy whispered, suddenly recalling his quest. "I _found_ theGolden Tusks. I'll tell it you after. "

"Oh, Roy, you are a wonder!" She gave his hand a convulsive squeeze andthey broke into a run. 

The "bits of blue" had spread half over the sky. The thunder stillgrumbled to itself at intervals and a sharp little shower whipped out ofa passing cloud. Then the sun flashed through it and the shadows creptround the great twin beeches on the lawn--and the day was as lovely asever again. 

And yet--for Roy, it was not the same loveliness. Aunt Jane's repeatedthreat of school brooded over his sensitive spirit, like thethundercloud in the wood that was the colour of spilled ink. And theBoy-of-ten--a potential enemy--was coming to tea. . . . 

Yet this morning he had felt so beautifully sure that nothing could gowrong on a day like this! It was his first lesson, and not by any meanshis last, that Fate--unmoved by 'light of smiles or tears'--is norespecter of profound convictions or of beautiful days. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Man am I grown; a man's work I must do. " --TENNYSON. 

Tara was right. The Boy-of-ten (Roy persistently ignored the half) wasrather a large boy: also rather lumpy. He had little eyes and frecklesand what Christine called a "turnip nose. " He wore a very new schoolblazer and real cricket trousers, with a flannel shirt and school tiethat gave Roy's tussore shirt and soft brown bow almost a girlish air. Something in his manner and the way he aired his school slang, madeRoy--who never shone with strangers--feel "miles younger, " which did nothelp to put him at ease. 

His name was Joe Bradley. He had been in India till he was nearly eight;and he talked about India, as he talked about school, in a ratherimportant voice, as befitted the only person present who knew anythingof either. 

Roy was quite convinced he knew nothing at all about Rajputana or Chitoror Prithvi Raj or the sacred peacocks of Jaipur. But somehow he couldnot make himself talk about these things simply for "show off, " becausea strange boy, with bad manners, was putting on airs. 

Besides, he never much wanted to talk when he was eating, though hecould not have explained why. So he devoted his attention chiefly to aplate of chocolate cakes, leaving the Boy-of-ten conversationally incommand of the field. 

He was full of a recent cricket match, and his talk bristled with suchunknown phrases as "square leg, " "cover point" and "caught out. " But forsome reason--pure perversity perhaps--they stirred in Roy no flicker ofcuriosity, like his father's "flair for the obvious. " He didn't knowwhat they meant--and he didn't care, which was not the least like Roy. Tara, who owned big brothers, seemed to know all about it, or looked asif she did; and to show you didn't understand what a girl understood, would be the last indignity. 

When the cricket show-off was finished, Joe talked India and raggedTara, in a big-brotherly way, ignored Christine, as if five and a halfsimply didn't count. That roused Roy; and by way of tacit rebuke, hebestowed such marked attention on his small sister, that Christine (whoadored him, and was feeling miserably shy) sparkled like a dewdrop whenthe sun flashes out. 

She was a tiny creature, exquisitely proportioned; fair, like herfather, yet in essence a replica of her mother, with the same wing-likebrows and dark limpid eyes. Dimly jealous of Tara, she was the only oneof the three who relished the presence of the intruder and wishedstrange boys oftener came to tea. 

Millicent, the nursery-maid, presided. She was tall and smiling andobviously a lady. She watched and listened and said little during themeal. 

Once, in the course of it, Lilámani came in and hovered round them, filling Roy's tea-cup, spreading Christine's honey--extra thick. HerEastern birthright of service, her joy in waiting on those she loved, had survived ten years of English marriage, and would survive ten more. It was as much an essential part of her as the rhythm of her pulses andthe blood in her veins. 

She was no longer the apple-blossom vision of the morning. She wore hermother-o'-pearl sari with its narrow gold border. Her dress, that wasthe colour of a dove's wing, shimmered changefully as she moved, and heraquamarine pendant gleamed like drops of sea water on its silver chain. 

Roy loved her in the mother-o'-pearl mood best of all; and he saw, witha throb of pride, how the important Boy-from-India seemed too absorbedin watching her even to show off. She did not stay many minutes and shesaid very little. She was still, by preference, quiet during a meal; andit gave her a secret thrill of pleasure to see the habit of her own racereappearing as an instinct in Roy. So, with merely a word or two, shejust smiled at them and gave them things and patted their heads. Andwhen she was gone, Roy felt better. The scales had swung even again. What was a school blazer and twenty runs at cricket, compared with theglory of having a mother like that?

But if tea was not much fun, after tea was worse. 

They were told to run and play in the garden; and obediently they ranout, dog and all. But what _could_ you play at with a superior being whohad made twenty runs not out, in a House Match--whatever that might be?They showed him their ring-doves and their rabbits; but he didn't evenpretend to be interested, though Tara did her best, because it was shewho had brought this infliction on Roy. 

"How about the summer-house?" she suggested, hopefully. For thesummer-house locker contained an assortment of old tennis-bats, malletsand balls, that might prove more stimulating than rabbits and doves. Royoffered no objection; so they straggled across a corner of the lawn to anarrower strip behind the tall yew hedge. 

The grown-ups were gathered under the twin beeches; and away at the farend of the lawn Roy's mother and Tara's mother were strolling up anddown in the sun. 

Again Roy noticed how Joe Bradley stared: and as they rounded the cornerof the hedge he remarked suddenly "I say! There's that swagger ayah ofyours walking with Lady Despard. She's jolly smart, for an ayah. Did youbring her from India? You never said you'd been there. "

Roy started and went hot all over. "Well, I _have_--just on a visit. Andshe's _not_ an ayah. She's my Mummy!"

Joe Bradley opened his mouth as well as his eyes, which made him lookplainer than ever. 

"Golly! what a tale! White people don't have ayahs for Mothers--not inmy India. I s'pose your Pater married her out there?"

"He didn't. And I tell you she's _not_ an ayah. "

Roy's low voice quivered with anger. It was as if ten thousand littleflames had come alight inside him. But you had to try and be polite tovisitors; so he added with a virtuous effort: "She's a really and trulyPrincess--so there!"

But that unspeakable boy, instead of being impressed, laughed in therudest way. 

"Don't excite, you silly kid. I'm not as green as you are. Besides--whocares----?"

It flashed on Roy, through the blur of his bewildered rage, that perhapsthe Boy-from-India was jealous. He tried to speak. Something clutched athis throat; but instinct told him he had a pair of hands. . . . 

To the utter amazement of Tara, and of the enemy, he silently sprang atthe bigger boy; grabbed him unscientifically by the knot of his superiorneck-tie and hit out, with more fury than precision, at cheeks and eyesand nose----

For a few exciting seconds he had it all his own way. Then theenemy--recovered from the first shock of surprise--spluttered wrathfullyand hit out in return. He had weight in his favour. He tried to bend Roybackwards; and failing began to kick viciously wherever he could get athim. It hurt rather badly and made Roy angrier than ever. In a whiteheat of rage, he shook and pummelled, regardless of choking sounds andfingers clutching at his hair. . . . 

Tara, half excited and half frightened, could only grab Prince's collar, to keep him from rushing into the fray; and when Joe started kicking, itwas all she could do not to let him go. But she knew Athol--her dearestbrother--would say it wasn't fair play. So she tugged, and Princetugged; while the boys, fiercely silent, rocked to and fro; andChristine sobbed piteously--"He's hurting Roy--he's _killing_ Roy!"

Tara, fully occupied with Prince, could only jerk out: "Don't be a baby, Chris. Roy's all right. He loves it. " Which Christine simply didn'tbelieve. There was blood on his tussore shirt. It mightn't be his, butstill----

It made even Tara feel rather sick; and when a young gardener appearedon the scene she called out: "Oh, Mudford, do stop them--or something'llhappen. "

But Mudford--British to the bone--would do nothing of the kind. He sawat once that Roy was getting the better of an opponent nearly twice hisweight; and setting down his barrow he shamelessly applauded his youngmaster. 

By now, the enemy's nose was bleeding freely and spoiling the brand-newblazer. He gasped and spluttered: "Drop it, you little beast!" But Roy, fired by Mudford's applause, only hit out harder. 

"'Pologise--'pologise! Say she isn't!"

His forward jerk on the words took Joe unawares. The edge of the lawntripped him up and they rolled on the grass, Joe undermost in a closeembrace----

And at that critical moment there came strolling round the corner of thehedge a group of grown-ups--Sir Nevil Sinclair with Mrs Bradley, LadyRoscoe, Lady Despard and Roy's godfather, the distinguished novelist, Cuthbert Broome. 

Mudford and his barrow departed; and Tara looked appealingly at hermother. 

Roy--intent on the prostrate foe--suddenly felt a hand on his shoulderand heard his father's voice say sharply: "Get up, Roy, and explainyourself!"

They got up, both of them--and stood there, looking shy and stupefiedand very much the worse for wear:--hair ruffled, faces discoloured, shirts torn open. One of Roy's stockings was slipping down; and, in themidst of his confused sensations, he heard the excited voice of MrsBradley urgently demanding to know what her "poor dear boy" could havedone to be treated like that. 

No one seemed to answer her; and the poor dear boy was too busycomforting his nose to take much interest in the proceedings. 

Lady Despard (you could tell at a glance she was Tara's mother) was onher knees comforting Christine; and as Roy's senses cleared, he saw witha throb of relief that his mother was not there. But Aunt Jane was--andUncle Cuthbert----

He seemed to stand there panting and aching in an endless silence, fullof eyes. He did not know that his father was giving him a few seconds torecover himself. 

Then: "What do you mean by it, Roy?" he asked; and this time his voicewas really stern. It hurt more than the bruises. "Gentlemen don't hammertheir guests. " This was an unexpected blow. And it wasn't fair. Howcould he explain before "all those"? His cheeks were burning, his headwas aching; and tears, that must not be allowed to fall, were prickinglike needles under his lids. 

It was Tara who spoke--still clutching Prince, lest he overwhelm Roy andupset his hardly maintained dignity. 

"Joe made him angry--he _did_, " she thrust in with feminineofficiousness; and was checked by her mother's warning finger. 

Mrs Bradley--long and thin and beaky--bore down upon her battered son, who edged away sullenly from proffered caresses. 

Sir Nevil, not daring to meet the humorous eye of Cuthbert Broome--stillcontemplated the dishevelled dignity of his own small son--half puzzled, half vexed. 

"You've done it now, Roy. Say you're sorry, " he prompted; his voice ashade less stern than he intended. 

Roy shook his head. 

"It's him to say--not me. "

"Did he begin it?"

"No. "

"Of course he didn't, " snapped the injured mother. "He's been properlybrought up, " which was not exactly polite, but she was besideherself--simply an irate mother-creature, all beak and ruffled feathers. "You deserve to be whipped. You've hurt him badly. "

"Oh, dry up, mother, " Joe murmured behind his sanguinary handkerchief, edging still further away from maternal fussings and possible catechism. 

Nevil Sinclair saw clearly that his son would neither apologise norexplain. At heart he suspected young Bradley, if only on account of hisinsufferable mother, but the laws of hospitality must be upheld. 

"Go to your own room, Roy, " he said with creditable severity, "and staythere till I come. "

Roy gave him one look--mutely reproachful. Then--to every one's surpriseand Tara's delight--he walked straight up to the Enemy. 

"I _did_ hammer hardest. 'Pologise!"

The older boy mumbled something suspiciously like the fatal word: asuspicion confirmed by Roy's next remark: "I'm sorry your blazer'sspoilt. But you made me. "

And the elders, watching with amused approbation, had no inkling thatthe words were spoken not by Roy Sinclair but by Prithvi Raj. 

The Enemy, twice humbled, answered nothing; and Roy, --his dignityunimpaired by such trifles as a lump on his cheek, a dishevelled tie andone stocking curled lovingly round his ankle--walked leisurely away, with never a glance in the direction of the "grown-ups, " who had noconcern whatever with this--the most important event of his life----

Tara--torn between wrath and admiration--watched him go. In her eyes hewas a hero, a victim of injustice and the density of grown-ups. 

She promptly released Prince, who bounded after his master. She wantedto go too. It was all her fault, bringing that horrid boy to tea. Shedid hope Roy would explain things properly. But boys were stupidsometimes and she wanted to make sure. While her mother was tactfullysuggesting a homeward move, she slipped up to Sir Nevil and insinuated asmall hand into his. 

"Uncle Nevil, _do_ believe, " she whispered urgently. "Truly it isn'tfair----"

His quick frown warned her to say no more; but the pressure of his handcomforted her a little. 

All the same she hated going home. She hated 'that putrid boy'--aforbidden adjective; but what else _could_ you call him? She was glad hewould be gone the day after to-morrow. She was even more glad his nosewas bleeding and his eye bunged up and his important blazer allbloodied. Girl though she was, there ran a fiercer strain in her than inRoy. 

As they moved off, she had an inspiration. She was given that way. 

"Mummy darling, " she said in her small clear voice, "mayn't I stay backa little and play with Chris. She's _so_ unhappy. Alice could fetchme--couldn't she? Please. "

The innocent request was underlined by an unmistakable glance throughher lashes at Joe. She wanted him to hear; and she didn't care if heunderstood--him and his beaky mother! Clearly her own Mummy understood. She was nibbling her lips, trying not to smile. 

"Very well, dear, " she said. "I'll send Alice at half-past six. Runalong. "

Tara gave her hand a grateful little squeeze--and ran. 

She would have hated the "beaky mother" worse than ever could she haveheard her remark to Lady Despard, when they were alone. 

"Really, a most obstinate, ungoverned child. His mother, of course--avery pretty creature--but what can you expect? Natives always ruinboys. "

Lady Despard--Lilámani Sinclair's earliest champion and friend--could betrusted to deal effectually with a remark of that quality. 

As for Tara--once "the creatures" were out of sight they were extinct. All the embryo mother in her was centred on Roy. It was a shame sendinghim to his room, like a naughty boy, when he was really a champion, aKing-Arthur's-Knight. But if only he properly explained, Uncle Nevilwould surely understand----

And suddenly there sprang a dilemma. How could Roy make himself repeatto Uncle Nevil the rude remarks of that abominable boy? And if not--howwas he going to properly explain----?

CHAPTER IV. 

 "What a great day came and passed; Unknown then, but known at last. " --ALICE MEYNELL. 

That very problem was puzzling Roy as he lay on his bed, with Prince'shead against his shoulder, aching a a good deal, exulting at thought ofhis new-born knighthood, wondering how long he was to be treated like asinner, --and, through it all, simply longing for his mother. . . . 

It was the conscious craving for her sympathy, her applause, thatawakened him to his dilemma. 

He had championed her with all his might against that lumpyBoy-of-ten, --who kicked in the meanest way; and he couldn't explain why, so she couldn't know ever. The memory of those insulting words hurt himso that he shrank from repeating them to anyone--least of all to her. Yet how could he see her and feel her and not tell her everything? Shewould surely ask--she would want to know--and then--when he tried tothink beyond that point he felt simply lost. 

It was an _impasse_ none the less tragic because he was only nine. Totell her every little thing was as simple a necessity of life as eatingor sleeping; and--till this bewildering moment--as much a matter ofcourse. For Lilámani Sinclair, with her Eastern mother-genius, hadforged between herself and her first-born a link woven of the tenderest, most subtle fibres of heart and spirit; a link so vital, yet sounassertive, that it bid fair to stand the strain of absence, the testof time. So close a link with any human heart, while it makes forbeauty, makes also for pain and perplexity, --as Roy was just realisingto his dismay. 

At the sound of footsteps he sat up, suddenly very much aware of hisunheroic dishevelment. He tugged at the fallen stocking and made hastydabs at his hair. But it was only Esther the housemaid with an envelopeon a tray. Envelopes, however, were always mysterious and exciting. 

His name was scribbled on this one in Tara's hand; and as Estherretreated he opened it, wondering. . . . 

It contained a half-sheet of note-paper, and between the folds lay acircle of narrow blue ribbon plaited in three strands. But only two ofthe strands were ribbon; the third was a tress of her gleaming hair. Roygazed at it a moment, lost in admiration, still wondering; then heglanced at Tara's letter--not scrawled, but written with labouredneatness and precision. 

 "DEAR ROY, --It was splendid. You are Prithvi Raj. I am sending you the bangel like Aunt Lila told us. It can't be gold or jewels. But I pulled the ribbin out of my petticote and put in sum of my hair to make it spangly. So now you are Braselet Bound Brother. Don't forget. From TARA. "

 "I hope you aren't hurting much. Do splain to Uncle Nevil properly and come down soon. I am hear playing with Chris. TARA. "

Roy sat looking from the letter to the bangle with a distinctly pleasantkind of mixed-up feeling inside. He was so surprised, so comforted, soelated by this tribute from his High Tower Princess, who was an exactingperson in the matter of heroes. Now--besides being a Knight and achampion he was Bracelet-Bound Brother as well. 

Only the other day his mother had told them a tale about this old customof bracelet-sending in Rajputana:--how, on a certain holy day, anywoman--married or not married--may send her bracelet token to any man. If he accepts it, and sends in return an embroidered bodice, he becomesfrom that hour her bracelet brother, vowed to her service, like aChristian Knight in the days of chivalry. The bracelet may be of gold orjewels or even of silk interwoven with spangles--like Tara's impromptutoken. The two who are bracelet-bound might possibly never meet face toface. Yet she, who sends, may ask of him who accepts, any service shepleases; and he may not deny it--even though it involve the risk of hislife. 

The ancient custom, she told them, still holds good, though it hasdeclined in use, like all things chivalrous, in an age deafened by theclamour of industrial strife; an age grown blind to the beauty ofservice, that, in defiance of "progress, " still remains the keynote ofan Indian woman's life. 

So these privileged children had heard much of it, through the medium ofLilámani's Indian tales; and this particular one had made a deeperimpression on Tara than on Roy; perhaps because the budding woman in herrelished the power of choice and command it conferred on her own sex. Certainly no thought of possible future commands dawned on Roy. It washer pride in his achievement, so characteristically expressed thatflattered his incipient masculine vanity and added a cubit to hisstature. He knew now what he meant to be when he grew up. Not a painter, or a soldier or a gardener--but a Bracelet-Bound Brother. . . . 

Gingerly, almost shyly, he slipped over his hand the deftly woven, trifle of ribbon and gleaming hair. As the first glow of pleasuresubsided, there sprang the instinctive thought--"Won't Mummy bepleased!" And straightway he was caught afresh in the toils of hisdilemma--How could he possibly explain----?

What was she doing? Why didn't she come----?

There----! His ear caught far-off footsteps--too heavy for hers. Heslipped off the Bracelet, folded it in Tara's letter and tucked it awayinside his shirt. 

Hurriedly--a little nervously--he tied his brown bow and got upon hisfeet, just as the door opened and his father came in. 

"_Well_, Roy!" he said, and for a few seconds he steadily regarded hissmall son with eyes that tried very hard to be grave and judicial. Scoldings and assertions of authority were not in his line: and the tugat his heart-strings was peculiarly strong in the case of Roy. Fairhimself, as the boy was dark, their intrinsic likeness of form andfeature was yet so striking that there were moments--as now--when itgave Nevil Sinclair an eerie sense of looking into his own eyes, --whichwas awkward, as he had come steeled for chastisement, if needs must, though his every instinct revolted from the mutual indignity. He hadonly once inflicted it on Roy for open defiance in one of his stormyebullitions of temper; and, at this moment, he did not seem to see ahumble penitent before him. 

"What have you got to say for yourself?" he went on, hoping the pausehad been impressive; strongly suspecting it had been nothing of thekind. "Gentlemen, as I told you, don't hammer their guests. It wasrather a bad hammering, to judge from his handkerchief. And you don'tlook particularly sorry about it either. "

"I'm not--not one littlest bit. "

This was disconcerting; but Nevil held his ground. 

"Then I suppose I've got to whack you. If boys aren't sorry for theirsins, it's the only way. "

Roy's eyelids flickered a little. 

"You better not, " he said with the same impersonal air of conviction. "You see, it wouldn't make me sorry. And you don't hurt badly. Not halfas much as Joe did. He was mean. He kicked. I wouldn't have stopped, allthe same--if _you_ hadn't come. "

The note of reproach was more disconcerting than ever. 

"Well, if whacking's no use, what am I to do with you? Shut you up heretill bedtime--eh?"

Roy considered that dismal proposition, with his eyes on the summerworld outside. 

"Well--you can if you like. But it wouldn't be fair. " A pause. "Youdon't know what a horrid boy he was, Daddy. _You'd_ have hit himharder--even if he _was_ a guest. "

"I wonder!" Nevil fatally admitted. "Of course it would all depend onthe provocation. "

"What's 'provication'?"

The instant alertness, over a new word, brought back the smile toNevil's eyes. 

"It means--saying or doing something bad enough to make it right for youto be angry. "

"Well, it was bad enough. It was"--a portentous pause--"about Mummy. "

"About Mummy?" The sharp change in his father's tone was at oncestartling and comforting. "Look here, Roy. No more mysteries. This ismy affair as much as yours. Come here. "

Pulling a bedside chair near the window, he sat down and drew Roy closeto him, taking his shoulders between his hands. 

"Now then, old boy, tell me just exactly what happened--as man to man. "

The appeal was irresistible. But--how could he----? The very change inhis father's manner made the telling at once more difficult and moreurgent. 

"Daddy--it hurts too much. I don't know how to say it----" he faltered, and the blood tingled in his cheeks. 

If Nevil Sinclair was not a stern father, neither was he a verydemonstrative one. Even his closest relations were tinged with somethingof the artist's detachment, and innate respect for the individual evenin embryo. But at sight of Roy's distress and delicacy of feeling, hisheart melted in him. Without a word, he slipped an arm round the boy'sshoulder and drew him closer still. 

"That better, eh? You've got to pull it through, somehow, " he saidgently, so holding him that Roy could, if he chose, nestle against him. He did choose. It might be babyish; but he hated telling: and it was awee bit easier with his face hidden. So, in broken phrases and in asmall voice that quivered with anger revived--he told. 

While he was telling, his father said nothing; and when it was over, hestill said nothing. He seemed to be looking out of the window, and Royfelt him draw one big breath. 

"Have you got to whack me--now, Daddy?" he asked, still in his smallvoice. 

His father's hand closed on his arm. "No. You were right, Roy, " he said. "I would have hit harder. Ill-mannered little beast! All the same----"

A pause. He, no less than Roy, found speech difficult. He had fanciedhimself, by now, inured to this kind of jar--so frequent in the earlyyears of his daringly unconventional marriage. It seemed he wasmistaken. He had been vaguely on edge all the afternoon. What young Joehad rudely blurted out, Mrs Bradley's manner had tacitly expressed. Hehad succeeded in smothering his own sensations, only to be confrontedwith the effect of it all on Roy--who must somehow be made tounderstand. 

"The fact is, old man, " he went on, trying to speak in his normal voice, "young Bradley and a good many of his betters spend years in Indiawithout coming to know very much about the real people over there. You'll understand why when you're older. They all have Indians forservants, and they see Indians working in shops and villages, just likeplenty of our people do here. But they don't often meet many of theother sort--like Mummy and Grandfather and Uncle Rama--except sometimesin England. And then--they make stupid mistakes--just because they don'tknow better. But they needn't be rude about it, like Joe; and I'm gladyou punched him--hard. "

"So'm I. Fearfully glad. " He stood upright now, his head erect:--proudof his father's approval, and being treated as "man to man. " "But, Daddy--what are we going to do . . . About Mummy? I _do_ want her to know. . . It was for her. But I _couldn't_ tell--what Joe said. Could you?"

Nevil shook his head. 

"Then--what?"

"You leave it to me, Roy. I'll make things clear without repeating Joe'srude remarks. She'd have been up before this; but _I_ had to see youfirst--because of the whacking!" His eye twinkled. "She's longing to getat your bruises----"

"Oh nev' mind my bruises. They're all right now. "

"And beautiful to behold!" He lightly touched the lump on Roy's cheek. "I'd let her dab them, though. Women love fussing over us when we'rehurt--especially if we've been fighting for them!"

"Yes--they do, " Roy agreed gravely; and to his surprise, his father drewhim close and kissed his forehead. 

 * * * * *

His mother did not keep him waiting long. First the quick flutter of herfootsteps; then the door gently opened--and she flew to him, her sariblowing out in beautiful curves. Then he was in her arms, gathered intoher silken softness and the faint scent of sandalwood; while her lips, light as butterfly wings, caressed the bruise on his cheek. 

"Oh, what a bad, wicked Sonling!" she murmured, gathering him close. 

He loved her upside-down fashion of praise and endearment; neverguessing its Eastern significance--to avert the watchfulness of jealousgods swift to spy out our dearest treasures, that hinder detachment, andsnatch them from us. "Such a big rude boy--and you tried to kill himonly because he did not understand your queer kind of mother! That youwill find often, Roy; because it is not custom. Everywhere it is thesame. For some kind of people not to be like custom is much worse thannot to be good. And that boy has a mother too much like custom. Notsurprising if he didn't understand. "

"I made him though--I did, " Roy exulted shamelessly, marvelling at hisfather's cleverness, wondering how much he had told. "I hammered hard. And I'm not sorry a bit. Nor Daddy isn't either. "

For answer she gave him a convulsive little squeeze--and felt thecrackle of paper under his shirt. "Something hidden there! What is it, Sonling?" she asked with laughing eyes: and suddenly shyness overwhelmedhim. For the moment he had forgotten his treasure; and now he waswondering if he could show it--even to her. 

"It is Tara--I think it's rather a secret----" he began. 

"But I may see?" Then as he still hesitated, she added with gravetenderness: "Only if you are wishing it, son of my heart. To-day--youare a man. "

From his father that recognition had been sufficiently uplifting. Andnow--from her. . . ! The subtle flattery of it and the deeper prompting ofhis own heart demolished his budding attempt at reserve. 

"I am--truly, " he said: and she, sitting where his father had sat, unfolded Tara's letter--and the bangle lay revealed. 

Roy had not guessed how surprised she would be--and how pleased! Shegave a little quick gasp and murmured something he could not catch. Thenshe looked at him with shining eyes, and her voice had its low seriousnote that stirred him like music. 

"Now--you are Bracelet-Bound, my son. So young!"

Roy felt a throb of pride. It was clearly a fine thing to be. 

"Must I give a 'broidered bodice'?"

"I will broider a bodice--the most beautiful; and you shall give it. Remember, Roy, it is not a little matter. It is for always. "

"Even when I'm a grown-up man?"

"Yes, even then. If she shall ask from you any service, you must notrefuse--ever. "

Roy wrinkled his forehead. He had forgotten that part of it. Tara mightask anything. You couldn't tell with girls. He had a moment ofapprehension. 

"But, Mummy, I don't think--Tara didn't mean all that. It's only--oursort of game of play----"

Unerringly she read his thoughts, and shook her head at him with smilingeyes, as when he made naughty faces about Aunt Jane. 

"Too sacred thing for only game of play, Roy. By keeping the bracelet, you are bound. " Her smile deepened. "You were not afraid of the big rudeboy. Yet you are just _so_ much afraid--for Tara. " She indicated theamount with the rose-pink tip of her smallest finger. "Tara--almost likesister--would never ask anything that could be wrong to do. "

At this gentle rebuke he flushed and held his head a shade higher. 

"I'm not afraid, Mummy. And I will keep the bracelet--and I _am_ bound. "

"That is my brave son. "

"She said--I am Prithvi Raj. "

"She said true. " Her hand caressed his hair. "Now you can run down andtell you are forgiven. "

"You too, Mummy?"

"In a little time. Not just now. But see----" Her brows flew up. "I wascoming to mend your poor bruises!"

"I haven't got any bruises. "

The engaging touch of swagger delighted her. A man to-day--in very deed. Her gaze dwelt upon him. It was as if she looked through the eyes ofher husband into the heart of her son. 

Gravely she entered into his mood. 

"That is good. Then we will just make you tidy--and one littlest dab forthis not-bruise on your cheek. "

So much he graciously permitted: then he ran off to receive the ovationawaiting him from Tara and Chris. 

CHAPTER V. 

 "Thy bosom is endearéd with all hearts, For there reigns love, and all love's loving parts. " --SHAKSPERE. 

 "Women are not only deities of the household fire, but the flame of the soul itself. "--RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

Left to herself, Lilámani moved back to the window with her innate, deliberate grace. There she sat down again, very still, resting hercheek on her hand; drinking in the serenity, the translucent stillnessof clear green spaces robed in early evening light, like a bride arrayedfor the coming of her lord. The higher tree-tops were haloed with glory. Young leaves of beeches and poplars gleamed like minted gold; and on thelawn, the great twin beeches cast a stealthily encroaching continent ofshadow. Among the shrubs, under her window, birds were trilling outtheir ecstasy of welcome to the sun, in his Hour of Union withEarth--the Divine Mother, of whom every human mother is, in Easterneyes, a part, a symbol, however imperfect. 

Yet, beneath her carven tranquillity, heart and spirit were deeplystirred. For all Nevil's skill in editing the tale of Roy'schampionship, she had read his hidden thoughts as unerringly as she haddivined Mrs Bradley's curiosity and faint hostility beneath the veneerof good manners, not yet imparted to her son. 

Helen Despard--wife of a retired Lieut. -Governor--had scores ofAnglo-Indian friends; but not all of them shared her enthusiasm forIndia, --her sympathetic understanding of its peoples. Lilámani had toosoon discovered that the ardent declaration, "I love India, " was apt tomean merely that the speaker loved riding and dancing and sunshine andvast spaces, with 'the real India' for a dim effective background. Andby now, she could almost tell at a glance which were the right and whichthe wrong kind of Anglo-Indian, so far as she and Nevil were concerned. It was not like Helen to inflict the wrong kind on her; but it had allbeen Mrs Bradley's doing. She had been tactlessly insistent in herdemand to see the beautiful old garden and the famous artist-Baronet, who had so boldly flouted tradition. Helen's lame excuses had beenairily dismissed, and the discourtesy of a point-blank refusal wasbeyond her. 

She had frankly explained matters to her beloved Lilámani as theystrolled together on the lawn, while Roy was enlightening Joe on thefarther side of the yew hedge. 

His championship had moved her more profoundly than she dared let himsee without revealing all she knew. For the same reason, she could notshow Nevil her full appreciation of his tact and delicacy. Howuseless--trying to hide his thoughts--he ought to know by now: but howbeautiful--how endearing!

That she, who had boldly defied all gods and godlings, all claims ofcaste and family, should have reaped so rich a harvest----! Forher--high priestess of the inner life--that was the miracle of miracles:scarcely less so to-day than in that crowning hour when she had placed, her first man-child in the arms of her husband--still, at heart, lord ofher being. For the tale of her inner life might almost be told in twowords--she loved. 

Even now--so many years after--she thrilled to remember how, in that onemagical moment, without nearness or speech or touch, the floatingstrands of their destinies had become so miraculously entangled, thatneither gods nor godlings, nor household despots of East or West, hadpower to sever them. From one swift pencil sketch, stolen withoutleave--he sitting on the path below, she dreaming on the Hotel balconyabove--had blossomed the twin flower of their love: the deeper revealingof marriage--its living texture woven of joy and pain; and the wonder oftheir after-life together--a wonder that, to her ardent, sensitivespirit, still seemed new every morning, like the coming of the sun. Apoet in essence, she shared with all true poets that sense of eternalfreshness in familiar things that, perhaps, more than any other gift ofGod, keeps the bloom on every phase and every relation of life. By hertemperament of genius, she had quickened in her husband the flickeringspark that might else have been smothered under opposing influences. Each, in a quite unusual degree, had fulfilled the life of the other, and so wrought harmony from conflicting elements of race and religionthat seemed fated to wreck their brave adventure. To gain all, they hadrisked all: and events had amazingly justified them. 

Within a year of his ill-considered marriage Sir Nevil had astonishedall who knew him with the unique Exhibition of the now famous Ramayánapictures, inspired by his wife: a series of arresting canvases, settingforth the story of India's great epic, her confession of faith in thetwo supreme loyalties--of the Queen to her husband, of the King to hispeople. His daring venture had proved successful beyond hope. Artisticand critical London had hailed him as a newcomer of promise, amountingto genius: and Lilámani Sinclair, daughter of Rajputs, had only escapedbecoming the craze of the moment by her precipitate withdrawal toAntibes, where she had come within an ace of losing all, largely throughthe malign influence of Jane--her evil genius during those wonderful, difficult, early months of marriage. 

Nevil had returned to find himself a man of note; a prophet, even in hisown county, where feathers had been ruffled a little by his erraticproceedings. Hence a discreetly changed attitude in the neighbourhood, when Lilámani, barely nineteen, had presented her husband with a son. 

But--for all the gracious condescension of the elderly, and the frankcuriosity of the young--only a discerning few had made any real headwaywith this attractive, oddly disconcerting child of another continent;this creature of queer reserves and aloofness and passionate pride ofrace. The friendliest were baffled by her incomprehensible lack ofsocial instinct, the fruit of India's purdah system. Loyal wives andmothers who 'adored' their children--yet spent most of their day inpursuit of other interests--were nonplussed by her complete absorptionin the joys and sanctities of home. Yet, in course of time, her patentsimplicity and sincerity had disarmed prejudice. The least perceptivecould not choose but see that she was genuinely, intrinsicallydifferent, not merely in the matter of iridescent silks and saris, butin the very colour of her soul. 

Not that they would have expressed it so. To talk about the soul and itscolour savoured of being psychic or morbid--which Heaven forbid! Thesoul of the right-minded Bramleigh matron was a neutral-tinted, decentlyveiled phantom, officially recognised morning and evening, also onSundays, but by no means permitted to interfere with the realities oflife. 

The soul of Lilámani Sinclair--tremulous, passionate and aspiring--was aliving flame, that lighted her thoughts, her prayers, her desires; andburned with clearer intensity because her religion had been stripped ofall feastings and forms and ceremonies by a marriage that set her forever outside caste. The inner Reality--free of earth-born mists andclouds--none could take from her. 

God manifest through Nature, the Divine Mother, must surely accept herincense and sacrifice of the spirit, since no other was permitted. Herfather had given her that assurance; and to it she clung, as a child ina crowd clings confidingly to the one familiar hand. 

She was none the less eager to glean all she could assimilate of thereligion to which her husband conformed, but in which, it seemed, he didnot ardently believe. Her secret pangs on this score had been eased alittle by later knowledge that it was he who shielded her from tacitpressure to make the change of faith expected of her by certain membersof his family. Jane--out of regard for his wishes--had refrained fromfrontal attacks; but more than one flank movement had been executed bymeans of the Vicar (a second cousin) and of Aunt Julia--a mild elderSinclair, addicted to foreign missions. 

She had not told Nevil of these tentative fishings for her soul, lestthey annoy him and he put a final veto on them. Being well versed intheir Holy Book, she wanted to try and fathom their strange illogicalway of believing. The Christianity of Christ she could accept. It was afaith of the heart and the life. But its crystallised forms and dogmasproved a stumbling-block to this embarrassing slip of a Hindu girl, whocalmly reminded the Reverend Jeffrey Sale that the creed of his Churchhad not really been inspired by Christ, but dictated by Constantine andthe Council of Nicea; who wanted to know why, in so great a religion, was there no true worship of woman--no recognising, in the creativeprinciple, the Divine Motherhood of God? Finally, she had scandalisedthem both by quarrelling with their exclusive belief in one singleinstance, through endless ages, of the All-embracing, and All-creatingrevealed in terms of human life. Was not that same idea a part of herown religion--a world-wide doctrine of Indo-Aryan origin? Was everyother revealing false, except that one made to an unbelieving race onlytwo thousand years ago? To her--unregenerate but not unbelieving--themessage of Krishna seemed to strike a deeper note of promise. "Whereverirreligion prevails and true religion declines, there I manifest myselfin a human form to establish righteousness and to destroy evil. "

So she questioned and argued, in no spirit of irreverence, but simplywith the logic of her race, and the sweet reasonableness that is a vitalelement of the Hindu faith at its best. But, after that finalconfession, Aunt Julia, pained and bewildered, had retired from thefield. And Lilámani, flung back on the God within, had evolved a privatecreed of her own;--shedding the husks of Christian dogmas and thegrosser superstitions of her own faith, and weaving together themystical elements that are the life-blood of all religious beliefs. 

For the lamps are many, but the flame is one. . . . 

 * * * * *

Not till the consummation of motherhood had lifted her status--in herown eyes at least--did she venture to speak intimately with Nevil onthis vital matter. Though debarred from sharing of sacred ceremonies, she could still aspire to be true _Sahardamini_--'spiritual helpmate. 'But to that end he also must co-operate; he must feel the deeperneed. . . . 

For many weeks after the coming of Roy she had hesitated, before shefound courage to adventure farther into the misty region of his faithor unfaith, in things not seen. 

"If I am bothering you with troublesome questions--forgive. But, in ourIndian way of marriage, it is taught that without sharing spiritual lifethere cannot arrive true union, " she had explained, not without secrettremors lest she fail to evoke full response. And what such failurewould mean, for her, she could hardly expect him to understand. 

But--by the blessing of Sarasvati, Giver of Wisdom--she had succeeded, beyond hope, in dispelling the shy reluctance of his race to talk of the'big little things. ' Even to-day she could recall the thrill of thatmoment:--he, kneeling beside the great chair in his studio--theirsanctuary; she holding the warm bundle of new life against her breast. 

In one long look his eyes had answered her. "Nothing _short_ of 'trueunion' will satisfy me, " he had said with a quiet seriousness moreimpressive than any lovers' fervour. "God knows if I'm worthy to enteryour inner shrine. But unwilling--never. In the 'big little things' youare pre-eminent. I am simply your extra child--mother of my son. "

That tribute was her charter of wifehood. It linked love with life; itset her, once for all, beyond the lurking fear of Jane; and gave hercourage to face the promised visit to India, when Roy was six monthsold, to present him to his grandfather, Sir Lakshman Singh. 

They had stayed nearly a year; a wonderful year of increasing knowledge, of fuller awakening . . . And yet!

The ache of anticipation had been too poignant. The foolish half-hopethat Mátaji might relent and sanctify this first grandchild with herblessing, was--in the nature of things Oriental--foredoomed to failure. And not till she found herself back among sights and sounds hauntinglyfamiliar, did she fully awake to the changes wrought in her by marriagewith one of another race. For, if she had profoundly affected Nevil'spersonality, he had no less profoundly influenced her sense of valuesboth in art and life. 

She had also to reckon with the insidious process of idealising theabsent. Indian to the core, she was deeply imbued with the higher tenetsof Hindu philosophy--that lofty spiritual fabric woven of moonlight andmysticism, of logic and dreams. But the new Lilámani, of Nevil's making, could not shut her eyes to debasing forms of worship, to subterraneancaverns of gross superstition, and lurking demons of cruelty anddespair. While Nevil was imbibing impressions of Indian Art, Lilámaniwas secretly weighing and probing the Indian spirit that inspired it;sifting the grain from the chaff--a process closely linked with herpersonal life; because, for India, religion and life are one. 

But no shadow had clouded the joy of reunion with her father; for bothwere adepts in the fine art of loving, the touchstone of every humanrelation. And in talk with him she could straighten out her tangle ofimpressions, her secret doubts and fears. 

Also there had been Rama, elder brother, studying at college and lovingas ever to the sister transformed into English-wife--yet sister still. And there had been fuller revelation of the wonders of India, in theirtravels northward, even to the Himalayas, abode of Shiva, where Nevilmust go to escape the heat and paint more pictures--always morepictures. Travelling did not suit her. She was too innately a creatureof shrines and sanctities. And in India--home of her spirit--thereseemed no true home for her any more. . . . 

 * * * * *

Five years later, when Roy was six and Christine two and a half, theyhad been tempted to repeat their visit, even in the teeth of sternprotests from Jane, who regarded the least contact with India as fatalto the children they had been misguided enough to bring into the world. That second time, things had been easier; and there had been the addeddelight of Roy's eager interest; his increasing devotion to thegrandfather, whose pride and joy in him rivalled her own. 

"In this little man we have the hope of England and India!" he wouldsay, only half in joke. "With East and West in his soul--the best ofeach--he will cast out the devils of conflict and suspicion and draw thetwo into closer understanding of one another. "

And, in secret, Lilámani dreamed and prayed that some day . . . Possibly. . . Who could tell----?

Yet, still there had persisted the sense of a widening gulf between herand her own people, leaving her doubtful if she ever wanted to see Indiaagain. The spiritual link would be there always; for the rest--was shenot wife of Nevil, mother of Roy? Ungrateful to grieve if a price mustbe paid for such supreme good fortune. 

For herself she paid it willingly. But--must Roy pay also? And in whatfashion? How could she fail to imbue him with the finest ideals of herrace? But how if the magnet of India proved too strong----? To hold thescales even was a hard task for human frailty. And the time of herabsolute dominion was so swiftly slipping away from her. Always, in theback of her mind, loomed the dread shadow of school; and her Easternsoul could not accept it without a struggle. Only yesterday, Nevil hadspoken of it again--no doubt because Jane made trouble--saying too longdelay would be unfair for Roy. So it must be not later than Septembernext year. Just only fifteen months! Nevil had told her, laughing, itwould not banish him to another planet. But it would plunge him into aworld apart--utterly foreign to her. Of its dangers, its ideals, itsmysterious influences, she knew herself abysmally ignorant. She mustread. She must try and understand. She must believe Nevil knewbest--she, who had not enough knowledge and too much love. But she wasupheld by no sustaining faith in this English fashion of school, withits decree of too early separation from the supreme influences of motherand father--and home. . . . 

 * * * * *

Later on, that evening, when she knelt by Roy's bed for good-night talkand prayer, his arms round her neck, his cool cheek against hers, therebellion she could not altogether stifle surged up in her afresh. Butshe said not a word. 

It was Roy who spoke, as if he had read her heart. 

"Mummy, Aunt Jane's been talking to Daddy again about school. Oh, I do_hate_ her!" (This in fervent parenthesis. )

She only tightened her hold and felt a small quiver run through him. 

"Will it be fearfully soon? Has Daddy told you?"

"Yes, my darling. But not too fearfully soon, because he knows I don'twish that. "

"When?"

"Not till next year, in the autumn. September. "

"Oh, you good--_goodest_ Mummy!"

He clutched her in an ecstasy of relief. For him a year's respite was alifetime. For her it would pass like a watch in the night. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Thou knowest how, alike, to give and take gentleness in due season . . . The noble temper of thy sires shineth forth in thee. "--PINDAR. 

It was a clear mild Sunday afternoon of November;--pale sunlight, palesky, long films of laminated cloud. From the base of orange-tawnycliffs, the sands swept out with the tide, shining like rippled silk, where the sea had uncovered them; and sunlight was spilled in pools andtiny furrows: the sea itself grey-green and very still, with streaks andblotches of purple shadow flung by no visible cloud. The beauty and themystery of them fascinated Roy, who was irresistibly attracted by thething he could not understand. 

He was sitting alone, near the edge of a wooded cliff; troublesforgotten for the moment; imbibing it all. . . . 

His fifteen months of reprieve had flown faster than anyone could havebelieved. It was over--everything was over. No more lessons with Taraunder their beech-tree. No more happy hours in the studio, exploring themysteries of 'maths' and Homer, of form and colour, with his father, whoseemed to know the 'Why' of everything. Worse than all--no more Mummy, to make the whole world beautiful with the colours of her saris and theloveliness and the dearness of her face, and her laugh and her voice. 

It was all over. He was at school: not Coombe Friars, decreed by AuntJane; but St Rupert's, because the Head was an artist friend of hisfather, and would take a personal interest in Roy. 

But the Head, however kind, was a distant being; and the boys, who couldnot exactly be called kind, hemmed him in on every side. His shysensitive spirit shrank fastidiously from the strange faces and bodiesthat herded round him, at meals, at bedtime, in the schoolroom, on theplayground; some curious and friendly; others curious and hostile:--avery nightmare of boys, who would not let him be. And the more theyhemmed him in, the more he felt utterly, miserably alone. 

As the endless weeks dragged on, there were interesting, even excitingmoments--when you hardly felt the ache. But other times--evenings andSundays--it came back sharper than ever. And in the course of thoseweeks he had learnt a number of things not included in the schoolcurriculum. He had learnt that it was better to clench your teeth andnot cry out when your ears were tweaked or your arm twisted, or anunexpected pin stuck into the soft part of your leg. But, inside him, there burned a fire of rage and hate unsuspected by his tormentors. Itwas not so much the pain, as the fact that they seemed to enjoy hurtinghim, that he could neither understand nor forgive. 

And by now he felt more than half ashamed of those early letters to hismother, pouring out his misery of loneliness and longing; of franticthreats to run away or jump off the cliff, that had so strangely failedto soften his father's heart. It seemed, he knew all about it. He hadbeen through it himself. But Mummy did not know; so she got upset. AndMummy must not be upset, whatever happened to Roy, who was advised to'shut his teeth and play the man' and he would feel the happier for it. That hard counsel had done more than hurt and shame him. It had steadiedhim at the moment when he needed it most. He _had_ somehow managed toshut his teeth and play the man; and he _was_ the happier for italready. 

So his faith in the father who wouldn't have Mummy upset, had increasedten-fold: and the letter he had nearly torn into little bits wastreasured, like a talisman, in his letter-case--Tara's parting gift. 

 * * * * *

It was on the Sunday of the frantic threats that he had wandered offalone and discovered the little wood on the cliff in all its autumnglory. It was a very ordinary wood of mixed trees with a group of tallpines at one end. But for Roy any wood was a place of enchantment; andthis one had trees all leaning one way, with an air of crouching andhurrying that made them seem almost alive; and the moment they closed onhim he was back in his old familiar world of fancy, where nothing thathappened in houses mattered at all. . . . 

Strolling on, careless and content, he had reached a gap where the treesfell apart, framing blue deeps and distances of sea and sky. For somereason they looked more blue, more beautiful so framed than seen fromthe open shore; and there--sitting alone at the edge of all things, hehad felt strangely comforted; had resolved to keep his discovery aprofound secret; and to come there every Sunday for 'sanctuary'; tothink stories, or write poetry--a very private joy. 

And this afternoon was the loveliest of all. If only the shelteringleaves would not fall so fast!

He had been sitting a long time, pencil in hand, waiting for words tocome; when suddenly there came instead the very sounds he had fledfrom--the talk and laughter of boys. 

They seemed horribly close, right under the jutting cliff; and theirlaughter and volleys of chaff had the jeering note he knew too well. Presently his ear caught a high-pitched voice of defiance, that brokeoff and fell to whimpering--a sound that made Roy's heart beat in quickjerks. He could not catch what they were saying, nor see what they weredoing. He did not want to see. He hated them all. 

Listening--yet dreading to hear--he recognised the voice of Bennet Ma. , known--strictly out of earshot--as Scab Major. Is any school, at anyperiod, quite free of the type? It sounded more like a rough than anill-natured rag; but the whimpering unseen victim seemed to have no kickin him: and Roy could only sit there wondering helplessly what peoplewere made of who found it amusing to hurt and frighten other people, whohad done them no harm. . . . 

And now the voice of Scab Major rang out distinctly: "After _that_exhibition, he'll jolly well salaam to the lot of us, turn about. Ifhe's never learnt, we'll show him how. "

The word salaam enlightened Roy. Yesterday there had been a buzz ofcuriosity over the belated arrival of a new boy--anIndian--weedy-looking and noticeably dark, with a sullen mouth andshifty eyes. Roy, though keenly interested, had not felt drawn to him;and a new self-protective shrinking had withheld him from proferringadvances that might only embroil them both. He had never imagined theboy's colour would tell against him. Was _that_ what it meant--makinghim salaam?

At the bare suspicion, shrinking gave place to rage. Beasts, they were!If only he could take a flying leap on to them, or roll a few stonesdown and scare them out of their wits. But he could not stir withoutgiving away his secret. And while he hesitated, his eye absentlyfollowed a moving speck far off on the shining sand. 

It was a boy on a bicycle--hatless, head in air, sitting very erect. There was only one boy at St Rupert's who carried his head that way andsat his bicycle just so. From the first Roy had watched him covertly, with devout admiration; longing to know him, too shy to ask his name. But so far the godlike one, surrounded by friends, had hardly seemedaware of his existence. 

Swiftly he came nearer; and with a sudden leap of his pulses, Roy knewhe had seen----

Springing off his bicycle, he flung himself into the little group oftormentors, hitting out vigorously right and left. Sheer surprise andthe fury of his onslaught gave him the advantage; and the guiltyconsciences of the less aggressive were his allies. . . . 

This was not cruelty, but championship: and Roy, determined to see all, lay flat on his front--danger of discovery forgotten--grabbing the edgeof the cliff, that curved inward, exulting in the triumph of thedeliverer and the scattering of the foe. 

Bennet Major, one of the first to break away, saw and seized theprostrate bicycle. At that Roy lost his head; leaned perilously over andshouted a warning, "Hi! Look out!"

But the Scab was off like the wind: and the rest, startled by a voicefrom nowhere, hurriedly followed suit. 

Roy, raising himself on his hands, gave a convulsive wriggle ofjoy--that changed midway, into a backward jerk . . . Too late!

The crumbling edge was giving way under his hands, under his body. Notime for terror. His jerk gave the finishing touch. . . . 

Down he went--over and over; his Sunday hat bouncing gaily on before;nothing to clutch anywhere; but by good luck, no stones----

The thought flashed through him, "I'm killed!" And five seconds later herolled--breathless and sputtering--to the feet of the two remainingboys, who had sprung back just in time to escape the dusty avalanche. 

There he lay--shaken and stupefied--his eyes and mouth full of sand; andhis pockets and boots and the inside of his shirt. Nothing seemed to bebroken. And he wasn't killed!

Some one was flicking the sand from his face; and he opened his eyes tofind the deliverer kneeling beside him, amazed and concerned. 

"I say, that was a pretty average tumble! What sort of a lark were youup to? Are you hurt?"

"Only bumped a bit, " Roy panted, still out of breath. "I spec' itstartled you. I'm sorry. "

The bareheaded one laughed. "You startled the Scab's minions a jollysight more. Cleared the course! And a rare good riddance--eh, Chandranath?"

To that friendly appeal the Indian boy vouchsafed a muttered assent. Hestood a little apart, looking sullen, irresolute, and thoroughlyuncomfortable, the marks of tears still on his face. 

"Thanks veree much. I am going now, " he blurted out abruptly; and Royfelt quite cross with him. Pity had evaporated. But the other boy'sgood-humour seemed unassailable. 

"If you're not in a frantic hurry, we can go back together. "

Chandranath shook his head. "I don't wish--to go back. I wouldrather--be by myself. "

"As you please. Those cads won't bother you again. "

"If they do--I will _kill_ them. "

He made that surprising announcement in a fierce whisper. It was thevoice of another race. 

And the English boy's answer was equally true to type. "Right you are. Give me fair warning and I'll lend a hand. "

Chandranath stared blankly. "But--they are of _your_ country, " he said;and turning, walked off in the opposite direction. 

"A queer fish, " Roy's new friend remarked. "Quite out of water here. Awfully stupid sending him to an English school. "

"Why?" asked Roy. He was sitting up and dusting himself generally. 

"Oh, because----" the boy frowned pensively at the horizon. "That takessome explaining, if you don't know India. "

"D'_you_ know India?" Roy could not keep the eagerness out of his tone. 

"Rather. I was born there. North-West Frontier. My name's Desmond. Weall belong there. I was out till seven and a half, and I'll go back likea bird directly I'm through with Marlborough. "

He spoke very quietly; but under the quietness Roy guessed there waspurpose--there was fire. This boy knew exactly what he meant to do inhis grown-up life--that large, vague word crowded with excitingpossibilities. He stood there, straight as an arrow, looking out to sea;and straight as an arrow he would make for his target when school andcollege let go their hold. Something of this Roy dimly apprehended: andhis interest was tinged with envy. If they all 'belonged, ' were theyIndians, he wondered; and decided not, because of Desmond's copperybrown hair. He wanted to understand--to hear more. He almost forgot hewas at school. 

"We belong too----" he ventured shyly; and Desmond turned with akindling eye. 

"Good egg! What Province?"

"Rajputana. "

"Oh--miles away. Which service?"

Roy looked puzzled. "I--don't know You see--it's my mother--thatbelongs. My grandfather's a Minister in a big Native State out there. "

"Oh--I say!"

There was a shadow of change in his tone. His direct look was a littleembarrassing. He seemed to be considering Roy in a new light. 

"I--I wouldn't have thought it, " he said; and added a shade tooquickly: "_We_ don't belong--that way. We're all Anglo-Indians--FrontierForce. " (Clearly a fine thing to be, thought Roy, mystified, butimpressed. ) "Is your father in the Political?"

More conundrums! But, warmed by Desmond's friendliness, Roy grew bolder. 

"No. He hates politics. He's just--just a gentleman. "

Desmond burst out laughing. 

"Top hole! He couldn't do better than that. But--if your mother--he musthave been in India?"

"Afterwards--they went. I've been too. He found Mother in France. Hepainted her. He's a rather famous painter. "

"What name?"

"Sinclair. "

"Oh, I've heard of him. --And your people are always at home. Luckybeggar!" He was silent a moment watching Roy unlace his boot. Then heasked suddenly, in a voice that tried to sound casual: "I say--have youtold any of the other boys--about India--and your Mother?"

"No--why? Is there any harm?" Roy was on the defensive at once. 

"Well--no. With the right sort, it wouldn't make a scrap of difference. But you can see what some of 'em are like--Bennet Ma. And his crew. Making a dead set at that poor blighter, just because he isn't theircolour----"

Roy started. "Was it only because of _that_?" he asked with emphasis. 

"'Course it was. Plain as a pike-staff. I suppose they'd bullied himinto cheeking them. And they were hacking him on to his knees--forcinghim to salaam. " Twin sparks sprang alight in his eyes. "That sort ofthing--makes me feel like a kettle on the boil. Wish I'd _had_ a boilingkettle to empty over Bennet. "

"So do I--the mean Scab! And he's pinched your bicycle. "

"No fear! You bet we'll find it round the corner. He wouldn't have thespunk to go right off with it. But look here--what I mean is"--hesitant, yet resolute, he harked back to the main point--"if any of that lotcame to know--about India and--your mother, well--they're properskunks, some of them. They might say things that would make _you_ feellike a kettle on the boil. "

"If they did--I would kill them. "

Roy stated the fact with quiet deliberation, and without noticing thathe had repeated the very words of the vanished victim. 

This time Desmond did not treat it as a joke. 

"'Course you would, " he agreed gravely. "And that sort of shindy's nogood for the school. So I thought--better give you the tip----"

"I--see, " Roy said in a low voice, without looking up. He did not see;but he began dimly to guess at a so far unknown and unsuspected state ofmind. 

Desmond sat silent while he shook the sand out of his boots. Then heremarked in an easier tone: "Quite sure there's no damage?"

Roy, now on his feet, found his left leg uncomfortably stiff--and saidso. 

"Bad luck! We must walk it off. I'll knead it first, if you like. I'veseen them do it on the Border. "

His unskilled manipulation hurt a good deal; but Roy, overcome withgratitude, gave no sign. 

When it was over they set out for their homeward tramp, and found thebicycle, as Desmond had prophesied. He refused to ride on; and Roylimped beside him, feeling absurdly elated. The godlike one had come toearth indeed! Only the remark about his mother still rankled; but hefelt shy of returning to the subject. The change in Desmond's manner hadpuzzled him. Roy glanced admiringly at his profile--the straight nose, the long mouth that smiled so readily, the resolute chin, a little inthe air. A clear case of love at sight, schoolboy love; a passing phaseof human efflorescence; yet, in passing, it will sometimes leave a markfor life. Roy, instinctively a hero-worshipper, registered a newambition--to become Desmond's friend. 

Presently, as if aware of his thought, Desmond spoke. 

"I say, Sinclair, how old are you? You seem less of a kid than most ofthe new lot. "

"I'm ten and a half, " said Roy, wishing it was eleven. 

"Bit late for starting. I'm twelve. Going on to Marlborough next year. "

Roy felt crushed. In a year he would be gone! Still--there were threemore terms: and _he_ would go on to Marlborough too. He would insist. 

"Does Scab Ma. Bother you much?" Desmond asked with a friendly twinkle. 

"Now and then--nothing to fuss about. "

Roy's nonchalance, though plucky, was not quite convincing. 

"Righto! I'll head him off. He isn't keen to knock up against me. " Apause. "How about sitting down my way at meals? You don't look awfullygay at your end. "

"I'm not. It would be ripping. "

"Good. We'll hang together, eh? Because of India; because we bothbelong--in a different way. And we'll stick up for that miserable littledevil Chandranath. "

"Yes--we will. " (The glory of that 'we. ') "All the same, --I don't muchlike the look of him"

"No more don't I. He's the wrong 'ját. ' He won't stay long--you'll see. But still--he shan't be bullied by Scabs, because he's not the samecolour outside. You see that sort of thing in India too. My father'sfearfully down on it, because it makes more bad blood than anything;I've heard him say that it's just the blighters who buck about thesuperior race who do all the damage with their inferior manners. Ratherneat--eh?"

Roy glowed. "Your father must be a splendid sort. Is he a soldier?"

"Rath_er_! He's a V. C. He got it saving a Jemadar--a Native Officer. "

Roy caught his breath. 

"I would awfully like to hear how----"

Desmond told him how. . . . 

It was a wonderful walk. By the end of it Roy no longer felt a lonelyatom in a strange world. He had found something better than hisSanctuary--he had found a friend. 

Looking back, long afterwards, he recognised that Sunday as theturning-point. . . . 

Later in the evening he poured it all out to his mother in fourclosely-written sheets. 

But not a word about herself, or Desmond's friendly warning, whichstill puzzled him. He worried over it a little before he fell asleep. Itwas the very first hint--given, in all friendliness--that the mere factof having an Indian mother might go against you, in some people's eyes. Not the right ones, of course; but still--in the nature of things, --hecouldn't make it out. That would come later. 

At the time its only effect was to deepen his private satisfaction athaving hammered Joe Bradley; to quicken his attitude of championshiptowards his mother and towards India, till ultimately the glow of hisfervent devotion fused them both into one dominant idea. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "He it is--the innermost one who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. "--TAGORE. 

Lilámani read and re-read that letter curled among her cushions in thedeep window-seat of the studio, a tower room with tall windows lookingnorth, over jagged pine tops, to the open moor. 

And while she read, Nevil stood at his easel, seizing and recording, theunconscious grace of her pose, the rapt stillness of her face. He wasnever weary of painting her--never quite satisfied with the result;always within an ace of achieving the one perfect picture that shouldimmortalise a gleam from her inner uncaptured loveliness--the essence ofpersonality that eternally foils the sense, while it sways the spirit. Impossible, of course. One might as well try and catch the fragrance ofa rose, the bloom of an April dawn, or any other fragment of the world'sunseizable beauty But there remained the joy of pursuing--and pursuing, not achieving, is the salt of life. 

Something in her pose, her absorption--lips just parted, shadow oflashes on her cheek, primrose-pale sari against the green velvetcurtain--had fired him, lit a spark of inspiration. . . . 

If he made a decent thing of it, Roy should have it for a companion tothe Antibes pastel: her two aspects--wife of Nevil; mother of Roy. Lateron, the boy would understand. His star stood higher than usual, justthen. For Nevil had detested writing that letter of rebuke; had notdared show it to his wife; and Roy had taken it like a man. No morelamentations, so far. Certainly not on this occasion, judging by herrapt look, her complete absorption that gave him the chance of catchingher unawares. 

For, in truth, she was unaware; lost to everything but the joy ofcontact with her son. The pang of parting had been dulled to a hiddenache; but always the blank was there, however amply filled with otherclaims on heart and spirit. A larger schoolroom now: and Nevil, with hisnew Eastern picture on hand, making constant demands on her--asusual--in the initial stages; till the subject of the moment eclipsedeverything, every one--sometimes even herself. Her early twinges ofjealousy, during that phase, rarely troubled her now. As wife andmother, she better understood the dual allegiance--the twofold strain ofthe creative process, whether in spirit or flesh. Now she knew that, when art seemed most exclusively to claim him, his need was greater, notless, for her woman's gift of self-effacing tenderness, of personalphysical service. And through deeper love, came clearer insight. She sawNevil--the artist--as a veritable Yogi, impelled to ceaseless strivingfor mastery of himself, his atmosphere, his medium: saw her wifely loveand service as the life-giving impetus without which he might flag andnever reach the heights. 

Women of wide social and intellectual activities might raise perplexedeyebrows over her secluded life, still instinct with the 'spirit ofpurdah. ' She found the daily pattern of it woven with threads so richlyvaried that to cherish a hidden grief seemed base ingratitude. Yetalways--at the back of things--lurked her foolish mother-anxieties, herdeep unuttered longing. And letters were cold comfort. In the first fewweeks she had come to dread opening them. Always the bitter cry ofloneliness and longing for home. What was it Nevil had said to make sosurprising a change? Craving to know, she feared to ask; and more thansuspected that he blessed her for refraining. 

And now came this long, exultant letter, written in the first flush ofhis great discovery----

And as she read on, she became aware of a new sensation. This wasanother kind of Roy. On the first page he was pouring out his heart incareless unformed phrases. By the end of the second, his tale had holdof him; he was enjoying--perhaps unaware--the exercise of anewly-awakened gift. And, looking up, at last, to share it with Nevil, she caught him in the act of tracing a curve of her sari in mid-air. 

With a playful movement--pure Eastern--she drew it half over her face. 

"Oh, Nevil--you wicked! I never guessed----"

"That was the beauty of it. I make my salaams to Roy! What's he been upto that it takes four sheets to confess?"

"Not confessing. Telling a tale. It will surprise you. "

"Let's have a look. "

She gave him the letter; and while he read it, she intently watched hisface. "The boy'll write--I shouldn't wonder, " was his verdict, handingback her treasure, with an odd half-smile in his eyes. 

"And you were hoping--he would paint?" she said, answering his thought. 

"Yes, but--scarcely expecting. Sons are a perverse generation. I'm gladhe's tumbled on his feet and found a pal. "

"Yes. It is good. "

"We'll invite young Desmond here and inspect him, eh?"

"Yes--we will. "

He was silent a moment, considering her profile--humanly, notartistically. "Jealous, is she? The hundredth part of a fraction?"

"Just so much!" she admitted in her small voice. "But underneath--I amglad. A fine fellow. We will ask him--later. "

The projected invitation proved superfluous. Roy's next letter informedthem that after Christmas Desmond was coming for ten whole days. He hadpromised. 

He kept his promise. After Christmas he came and saw--and conquered. Atfirst they were all inclined to be secretly critical of the new elementthat looked as if it had come to stay. For Roy's discreetly repressedadmiration was clear as print to those who could read him like an openpage. And, on the whole, it was not surprising, as they were graduallypersuaded to admit. There was more in Lance Desmond than mere grace andgood looks, manliness and a ready humour. In him two remarkablepersonalities were blended with a peculiarly happy result. 

They discovered, incidentally, his wonderful gift of music. "Got it offmy mother, " was his modest disclaimer. "She and my sister are simplytop-hole. We do lots of it together. "

His intelligent delight in pictures and books commended him to Nevil;but, at twelve and a half, skating, tramping, and hockey matches heldthe field. Sometimes--when it was skating--Tara and Chris went withthem. But they made it clear, quite unaggressively, that the real pointwas to go alone. 

Day after day, from her window, Lilámani watched them go, across theradiant sweep of snow-covered lawn; and, for the first time, where Roywas concerned, she knew the prick of jealousy, --a foretaste of the daywhen her love would no longer fill his life. Ashamed of her ownweakness, she kept it hid--or fancied she did so; but the littlestabbing ache persisted, in spite of shame and stoic resolves. 

Tara and Christine also knew the horrid pang; but they knew neithershame not stoic resolves. Roy mustn't suspect, of course; but they toldeach other, in strictest confidence, that they hated Desmond; firmlybelieving they spoke the truth. So it was particularly vexatious to findthat the moment he favoured them with the most casual attention, theywere at his feet. 

But that was their own private affair. Whether they resented, or whetherthey adored, the boys remained entirely unconcerned, entirely absorbedin each other. It was Desmond's opinion of them that mattered supremelyto Roy; in particular--Desmond's opinion of his mother. After thosefirst puzzling remarks and silences, Roy had held his peace; had noteven shown Desmond her picture. His invitation accepted, he had simplywaited, in transcendent faith, for the moment of revelation. And now hehad his reward. After a prelude of mutual embarrassment, Lance hadsuccumbed frankly to Lady Sinclair's unexpected charm and her shyirresistible overtures to friendship:--so frankly, that he was able, now, to hint at his earlier perplexity. 

He had seen no Indian women, he explained, except in bazaars or inservice; so he couldn't quite understand, until his own mother madethings clearer to him and recommended him to go and see for himself. Nowhe had seen--and succumbed: and Roy's very private triumph wasunalloyed. Second only to that triumph, the really important outcome oftheir glorious Ten Days was that, with Desmond's help, Roy fought thebattle of going on to Marlborough when he was twelve--and won. . . . 

It was horrid leaving them all again; but it did make a wonderfuldifference knowing there was Desmond at the other end; and together theywould champion that doubtfully grateful victim--Chandranath. Their zealproved superfluous. Chandranath never reappeared at St Rupert's. Perhapshis people had arrived at Desmond's conclusion, that he was not theright "ját" for an English school. In any case, his disappearance was arelief--and Roy promptly forgot all about him. 

Years later--many years later--he was to remember. 

 * * * * *

After St Rupert's--Marlborough:--and just at first he hated it, as hehad hated St Rupert's, though in a different fashion. Here it was not somuch the longing for home, as a vague yet deepening sense that, in somevital way--not yet fully understood--he was different from his fellowsBut once he reached the haven of Desmond's study, the good days began inearnest. He could read and dream along his own lines. He could scribbleverse or prose, when he ought to have been preparing quite other things;and the results, good or bad, went straight to his mother. 

Needless to say, she found them all radiant with promise; here and therea flicker of the divine spark: and, throughout the years of transition, the locked and treasured book that held them was the sheet-anchor towhich she clung, till the new Roy should be forged out of thebackslidings and renewals incidental to that time of stress andbecoming. What matter their young imperfections, when--for her--it wasas if Roy's spirit reached out across the dividing distance and touchedher own. In the days when he seemed most withdrawn, that dear illusionwas her secret bread. 

And all the while, subconsciously, she was drawing nearer to the givenmoment of religious surrender that would complete the spiritual linkwith husband and children. As the babies grew older, she saw, withincreasing clearness, the increasing difficulty of her position. Frankly, she had tried not to see it. Her free spirit, having reachedthe Reality that transcends all forms, shrank from returning to thedogmas, the limitations of a definite creed. In her eyes, it seemed astep backward. Belief in a personal God, above and beyond the Universe, was reckoned by her own faith a primitive conception; a stage on the wayto that ultima Thule where the soul of man perceives its own inherentdivinity, and the knower becomes the Known, as notes become music, asthe river becomes the sea. It was this that troubled her logical mindand delayed decision. 

But the final deciding factor--though he knew it not--was Roy. By reasonof her own share in him, religion would probably mean more to him thanto Nevil. For his sake--for the sake of Christine and Tara and thebabies, fast sprouting into boys--she felt at last irresistiblyconstrained to accept, with certain mental reservations, the tenets ofher husband's creed; and so qualify herself to share with them all itsoutward and visible forms, as already she shared its inward andspiritual grace. 

The conviction sprang from no mere sentimental impulse. It was theunhurried work of years. So--when there arose the question of Roy'sconfirmation, and Tara's, at the same Easter-tide, conviction blossomedinto decision, as simply and naturally as the bud of a flower opens tothe sun. That is the supreme virtue of changes not imposed from without. When the given moment came--the inner resolve was there. 

Quite simply she spoke of it to Nevil, one evening over the studio fire. And behold a surprise awaited her. She had rarely seen him more deeplymoved. From the time of Roy's coming, he told her, he had cherished thehidden hope. 

"Yet too seldom you have spoken of such things--why?" she asked, movedin her turn and amazed. 

"Because from the first I made up my mind I would not have it, exceptin your own way and in your own time. I knew the essence of it was inyou. For the rest--I preferred to wait till you were ready--Sita Devi. "

"Nevil--lord of me!" She slipped to her knees beside him. "I _am_ ready. But oh, you wicked, how _could_ I know that all the time you were caringthat much in your secret heart. "

He gathered her close and said not a word. 

So the great matter was settled, with no outward fuss or formalities. She would be baptized before Roy came home for the Easter holidays andhis confirmation. 

"But not here--not Mr Sale, " she pleaded. "Let us go away quietly toLondon--we two. Let it be in that great Church, where first the thoughtwas born in my heart that some day . . . This might be. "

He could refuse her nothing. Jeffrey might feel aggrieved when he knew. But after all--this was their own affair. Time enough afterwards to letin the world and its thronging notes of exclamation. 

Roy was told when he came home. For imparting such intimate news, shecraved the response of his living self. And if Nevil's satisfactionstruck a deeper note, it was simply that Roy was very young and hadalways included her Hindu-ness in the natural order of things. 

Wonderful days! Preparing the children, with Helen's help; preparingherself, in the quiet of her "House of Gods"--a tiny room above thestudio--in much the same spirit as she had prepared for the greatconsecration of marriage, with vigil and meditation and unobtrusivefasting--noted by Nevil, though he said no word. 

Crowning wonder of all, that golden Easter morning of her firstCommunion with Roy and Tara, with Nevil and Helen:--unfolding of heartand spirit, of leaf and blossom; dual miracle of a world new made. . . . 

END OF PHASE I. 

PHASE II. 

THE VISIONARY GLEAM

CHAPTER I. 

 "Youth is lifted on Wings of his strong hope and soaring valour; for his thoughts are above riches. "--PINDAR. 

Oxford on a clear, still evening of June: silver reaches of Isis andCher; meadows pied with moon daisies and clover, and the rose madderbloom of ripe grasses; the trill of unseen birds tuning up for evensong;the passing and repassing of boats and canoes and punts, gay withcushions and summer frocks; all bathed in the level radiance that stealsover earth like a presence in the last hours of a summer day. . . . 

Oxford--shrine of the oldest creeds and the newest fads--given over, forone hilarious week, to the yearly invasion of mothers and sisters andcousins, and girls that were neither; especially girls that wereneither. . . . 

Two of the punts, clearly containing one party, kept close enoughtogether for the occupants to exchange sallies of wit, or any blissfulfoolishness in keeping with the blissfully foolish mood of a moonlightpicnic up the river in 'Commem. '

Roy Sinclair's party boasted the distinction of including one mother, Lady Despard; and one grandfather, Cuthbert Broome; and Roy himself--aslender, virile figure in flannels, and New College tie--was poling thefirst punt. 

As in boyhood, so now, his bearing and features were Nevil incarnate. But to the shrewd eye of Broome the last seemed subtly overlaid with thespirit of the East--a brooding stillness wrought from the clash ofopposing forces within. When he laughed and talked it vanished. When hefell silent, and drifted away from his surroundings, it reappeared. 

It was precisely this hidden quality, so finely balanced, thatintrigued the brain of the novelist, as distinct from the heart of thegodfather. Which was the real Roy? Which would prove the decisive factorat the critical corners of his destiny? To what heights would it carryhim--into what abyss might it plunge him--that gleam from the ancientsoul of things? Would India--and his young glorification of India--be, for him, a spark of inspiration or a stone of stumbling?

Broome had not seen much of the boy, intimately, since the New Year; andhe did not need spectacles to discern some inner ferment at work. Roywas more talkative and less communicative than usual; and Broome let himtalk, reading between the lines. He knew to a nicety the moment when achance question will kill confidence--or evoke it. He suspected one ofthose critical corners. He also suspected one of those Indian cousins ofhis: delightful, both of them; but still. . . . 

The question remained, which was it--the girl or the boy?

The girl, Arúna--student at Somerville College--was reclining among vastblue and pink cushions in the bows, pensively twirling a Japaneseparasol, one arm flung round the shoulders of her companion--afellow-student; fair and stolid and good-humoured. Broome summed her upmentally: "Tactless but trustworthy. Anglo-Saxon to the last button onher ready-made Shantung coat and the blunted toe of her white sučdeshoe. "

Arúna--in plain English, Dawn--was quite arrestingly otherwise. Notbeautiful, like Lilámani, nor quite so fair of skin; but what the facelacked in symmetry was redeemed by lively play of expression, piquantetilt of nose and chin, large eyes, velvet-dark like brown pansies. Themodelling of the face--its breadth and roundness and upturnedaspect--gave it a pansy-like air. Over her simple summer frock ofcarnation pink she wore a paler sari flecked with gold; and two ropes ofcoral beads enhanced the deeper coral of her full lower lip. Not yeteighteen, she was studying "pedagogy" for the benefit of her lessadventurous sisters in Jaipur. 

Clearly a factor to be reckoned with, this creature of girlish laughterand high purpose; a woman to the tips of her polished finger nails. YetBroome had by no means decided that it _was_ the girl----

After Desmond--Dyán Singh: each, in his turn and type, own brother toRoy's complex soul. Broome--in no insular spirit--preferred the earlierinfluence. But Desmond had sped like an arrow to the Border, where hiseldest brother commanded their father's old regiment; and DyánSingh--handsome and fiery, young India at its best--reigned in hisstead. The two were of the same college. Dyán, twelve months younger, looked the older by a year or more. Face and form bore the Rajput stampof virility, of a racial pride, verging on arrogance; and the Rajputinsignia of breeding--noticeably small hands and feet. 

He was poling the second punt with less skill and assurance than Roy. His attention was palpably distracted by a vision of Tara among thecushions in the bows; an arm linked through her mother's, as thoughdefending her against the implication of being older than any one else, or in the least degree out of it because of that triflingdetail--tacitly admitted, while hotly denied; which was Tara all over. 

Certainly Lady Despard still looked amazingly young; still emanated thevital charm she had transmitted to her child. And Tara at twenty, insoft butter-coloured frock with roses in her hat, was a vision alluringenough to distract any young man from concentration on a punt pole. Vivid, eager and venturesome, singularly free from the bane ofself-consciousness; not least among her graces--and rare enough to benotable--was the grace of her chivalrous affection for the oldergeneration. In Tara's eyes, girls who patronised their mothers andtolerated their fathers were anathema. It was a trait certain to impressRoy's Rajput cousin; and Broome wondered whether Helen was alive to thedisturbing possibility; whether, for all her genuine love of the East, she would acquiesce. . . . 

Only the other day, it seemed, he and she had sat together among therocks of the dear old Cap, listening to Nevil's amazing news. She it waswho had championed his choice of a bride: and Lilámani had justified herchampionship to the full. But then--Lilámani was one in many thousands;and this affair would be the other way about:--Tara, the apple of theireye; Tara, with her wild-flower face and her temperament of clearflame----?

How sharply they tugged at his middle-aged heart, these casual andopinionated young things, with their follies and fanaticisms, theirJacob's ladders hitched perilously to the stars; with their triumphs andfailures and disillusions all ahead of them; airily impervious toproffered help and advice from those who would agonise to serve them ifthey could. . . . 

A jarring bump in the small of his back cut short his flagrantlyVictorian musings. Dyán's punt was the offender; and Dyán himself, clutching the pole that had betrayed him, was almost pitched into theriver. 

His achievement was greeted by a shout of laughter, and an ironic"Played indeed!" from Cuthbert Gordon--Broome's grandson. Roy, tumbledfrom some starry dream of his own, flashed out imperiously: "Look alive, you blithering idiot. 'Who are you a-shoving'?"

The Rajput's face darkened; but before he could retort, Tara had risenand stepped swiftly to his side. Her fingers closed on the pole; and shesmiled straight into his clouded eyes. 

"Let _me_, please. I'm sick of lazing and fearfully keen. And I can'tallow my Mother to be drownded by anyone _but_ me. I'd be obliged tomurder the other body, which would be awkward--for us both!"

"Miss Despard--there is no danger----" he muttered--impervious tohumour; and--as if by chance--one of his hands half covered hers. 

"Let go, " she commanded, so low that no one else knew she had spoken; sosternly that Dyán's fingers unclosed as if they had touched fire. 

"Now, don't fuss. Go and sit down, " she added, in her lighter vein. "You've done your share. And you're jolly grateful to me, really. Buttoo proud to own it!"

"_Not_ too proud to obey you, " he muttered. 

She saw the words rather than heard them; and he turned away withoutdaring to meet her eyes. 

It all passed in a few seconds, but it left him tingling with repressedrage. He had made a fool of himself in her eyes; had probably given awayhis secret to the whole party. After all, what matter? He could notmuch longer have kept it hidden. By the touch of hands and his daringwords he had practically told her. . . . 

As he settled himself, her clear voice rang out: "Wake up, Roy! I'llrace you to the backwater. "

They raced to the backwater; and Tara won by half a length, amid cheersfrom the men. 

"Well, you see, I _had_ to let you, " Roy explained, as she confrontedhim, flushed with triumph. "Seemed a shame to cut you out. Not as if youwere a giddy suffragette!"

"_Qui s'excuse--s'accuse!_" she retorted. "Anyway--_I'm_ the winner. "

"Right you are. The way of girls was ever so. No matter what line youtake, it's safe to be the wrong one. "

"Hark at the Cynic!" jeered young Cuthbert. "Were you forty on the 9th, or was it forty-five?"

Roy grinned. "Good old Cuthers! Don't exhaust yourself trying to befunny! Fish out the drinks. We've earned them, haven't we--High TowerPrincess?" The last, confidentially, for Tara's ear alone. 

And Dyán, seeing the smile in her eyes, felt jealousy pierce him like ared-hot wire. 

The supper, provided by Roy and Dyán, was no scratch wayside meal, butan ambrosial affair:--salmon mayonnaise, ready mixed; glazed joints ofchicken; strawberries and cream; lordly chocolate boxes; sparklingmoselle--and syphons for the abstemious. 

It was a lively meal: Roy, dropped from the clouds, the film of the Eastgone from his face, was simply Nevil again; even as young Cuthbert, withhis large build and thatch of tawny hair, was a juvenile edition ofBroome. And the older man, watching them, bandying chaff with them, renewed his youth for one careless golden hour. 

The punts were ranged alongside; and they all ate together, English andIndian. No irksome caste rules on this side of the water; no hint ofcondescension in the friendly attitude of young Oxford. Nothing to jarthe over-sensibility of young India--prone to suspect slight where nothought of it exists; too often, also, treated to exhibitions ofill-bred arrogance that undo in an hour the harmonising work of years. 

Dyán sat by Tara, anticipating her lightest need; courage rising byleaps and bounds. Arúna, from her nest of cushions, exchanged livelysallies with Roy. Petted by a college full of friendly English girls, she had very soon lost what little shyness she ever possessed. Now andagain, when his eyes challenged hers, she would veil them and watch himsurreptitiously; one moment approving his masculine grace; the next, boldly asking herself: "Does he see how I am wearing the favouritesari--and how my coral beads make my lips look red?" And again: "Why dothey make foolish talk of a gulf between East and West?"

To that profound question came no answer in words; only in hiddenstirrings, that she preferred to ignore. Both brother and sister hadpersuaded themselves that talk of a gulf was exaggerated by unfriendlyspirits. They, at all events, having built their bridge, took itsstability for granted. Children of an emotional race, it sufficed todiscover that they loved the cool green freshness of England, thecareless kindly freedom of her life and ways; the hum of her restless, smoky, all-embracing London; her miles and miles of books and pictures. Above everything they loved Oxford, where all were brothers inspirit--with a proper sense of difference between the brothers of one'sown college and the mere outsider:--Oxford, at this particular hour ofthis particular June evening. And at this actual moment, they lovedsalmon mayonnaise and crushed strawberries fully as much as any othermanifestation of the delectable land. 

And down in subconscious depths--untroubled by the play of surfaceemotions--burned their passionate, unreasoned love of India that anychance breath might rekindle to a flame. 

Presently, as the sun drew down to earth, trees and meadows swam in agolden haze. Arrows of gold, stealing through alders and willows, conjured mere leaves into discs of pure green light. Clouds of pollenbrightened to dust of gold. In the near haze midges flickered; and, black against the brightness, swallows wheeled and dipped, uttering thincries in the ecstasy of their evening flight. 

On the two punts in the backwater a great peace descended after thehilarity of their feast. Clouds of cigarette smoke kept midges at bay. In the deepening stillness small sounds asserted themselves--piping ofgnats, the trill of happy birds, snatches of disembodied laughter andtalk from other parties in other punts, somewhere out of sight. . . . 

Only Arúna did not smoke; and Emily Barnard, her fanatic devotee, retired with her to the bank, where they made a lazy pretence of"washing up. " But Arúna's eyes _would_ stray toward the recumbent figureof Roy, when she fancied Emmie was not looking. And Emmie--who could seevery well without looking--wished him at the bottom of the river. 

Propped on an elbow, he lay among Arúna's cushions, his senses stirredby the faint carnation scent she used, enlarging on his latestenthusiasm--Rabindranath Tagore, the first of India's poet-saints tochallenge the ethics of the withdrawn life. When the mood was on, theveil of reserve swept aside, he could pour out his ardours, hisprotests, his theories, in an eloquent rush of words. AndArúna--absently wiping spoons and forks--listened entranced. He seemedto be addressing no one in particular; but as often as not his gazerested on Broome, as though he were indirectly conveying to him thoughtshe felt shy of airing when they were alone. 

A pause in the flow of his talk left a space of silence into which theencompassing peace and radiance stole like an inflowing tide. None lovedbetter than Roy the ghostly music of silence; but to-night his brain wasfilled with the music of words--not his own. 

"Just listen to this, " he said, without preamble. His eyes took on theirfar-away look; his voice dropped a tone. 

"The night is night of mid-May; the breeze is the breeze of the South. 

"From my heart comes out and dances the image of my Desire. 

"The gleaming vision flits on. 

"I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray. 

"I seek what I cannot get; I get what I do not seek. "

To that shining fragment of truth and beauty, his audience paid thefitting tribute of silence; and his gaze--returning to earth--caught, inTara's eyes, a reflection of his exalted mood. Dyán saw it also; andonce more that red-hot wire pierced his heart. 

It passed in a second; and Roy was speaking again--not to Tara, but toher mother. 

"Is there any poet, East or West, who can _quite_ so exquisitely capturethe essence of a mood, hold it lightly, like a fluttering bird, and aslightly let it go?"

Lady Despard smiled approval at the simile. "In that one, " she said, "hehas captured more than a mood--the very essence of life. --Have you methim?"

"Yes, once--after a lecture. We had a talk--I'll never forget. There'swonderful stuff in the new volume. I know most of it by heart. "

"Spare us, good Lord, " muttered Cuthbert--neither prejudiced norperverse, but British to the core. "If you start again, I'll retaliatewith Job and the Psalms!"

Roy retorted with the stump of an extinct cigarette. It smote theoffender between the eyebrows, leaving a caste-mark of warm ash toattest the accuracy of his aim. 

"Bull's eye!" Tara scored softly; and Roy, turning on his elbow, appealed to Broome. "Jeffers, please extinguish him!" ("Jeffers" being acorruption of G. F. , alias Godfather). 

Broome laughed. "I had a hazy notion he was your show candidate for theIndian Civil!"

"He's supposed to be. That's the scandal of it. A mighty lot of interesthe's cultivating in the people and the country he aspires toadminister. "

"High art and sloppy sentiment are not in the bond, " Cuthbert retorted, with a wink at Dyán Singh. 

That roused Lady Despard. "Insight and sympathy _must_ be in the bond, unless England and India are to drift apart altogether. The IndianCivilian should be caught early, like the sailor, and trained on thespot. Exams make character a side issue. And one might almost saythere's no _other_ issue in the Indian services. "

Cuthbert nodded. "Glorious farce, isn't it? They simply cram us likeChristmas turkeys. Efficiency's the war-cry, these enlightened days. "

"Too _much_ efficiency, " Dyán struck in, with a kindling eye. "Alreadyturning our ancient cities into nightmares like Manchester andBirmingham, killing the true sense of beauty, giving us instead thepoison of money and luxury worship. And what result? Just now, when theWest at last begins to notice our genius of colour and design--even tolearn from it--we find it slipping out of our own fingers. Nearly allthe homes of the English educated are like caricatures of yourvillas--the worst kind. Yet there are still many on both sides who wishto make life--not so ugly, to escape a little from gross superstition of_facts_----"

"Hear, hear!" Broome applauded him. "But I'm afraid, my dear boy, theTime Spirit is out to make tradesmen and politicians of us all. ThankGod, the soul of a race lives in its books, its philosophy and art. "

"Very well then"--Roy was the speaker, --"the obvious remedy lies ingetting the souls of both races into closer touch--philosophy, art, andall that--eh, Jeffers? That's what we're after--Dyán and I--on the linesof that society Dad belongs to. "

Broome looked thoughtfully from one to the other. "A tall order, " saidhe. 

"A vision splendid!" said Lady Despard. 

Roy leaned eagerly towards her. "_You_ don't sneer at dreams, AuntHelen. "

"Nor do I, my son. Dreamers are our strictly unpaid torch-bearers. Theylight the path for us; and we murmur 'Poor fools!' with a kind ofsneaking self-satisfaction, when they come a cropper. "

"'Which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me!'" quoted Roy, cheered by LadyDespard's approval. "Anyway, we're keen to speed up the betterunderstanding move--on the principle that Art unites and politicsdivide. "

"Very pithy--and approximately true! May I be allowed to proffer a soundworking maxim for youth on the war-path? 'Freedom and courage inthought--obedience in act. ' When I say obedience, I don't mean slavishconformity. When I say freedom, I don't mean licence. Only the bond arefree. "

"Jeffers, you're a Daniel! I'll pinch that pearl of wisdom! But whatabout democracy--Cuthers' pet panacea? Isn't it making for_dis_obedience in act--rebellion; and enslavement in thought--every manreared on the same catch-words, minted with the same hall-mark?"

That roused the much-enduring British Lion--in the person of CuthbertGordon. 

"Confound you, Roy! This is a picnic, not a bally Union debate. Youcan't argue for nuts; and when you start spouting you're the limit. Buttwo can play at that game!" He flourished a half-empty syphon oflemonade, threatening the handle with a very square thumb. 

"Fire away, old bean. " Roy opened his mouth by way of invitation. Cuthbert promptly pressed the trigger--and missed his mark. 

There was a small shriek from Tara and from the girls on the bank: thenthe opponents proceeded to deal with one another in earnest. . . . 

Dyán soon lost interest when India was not the theme; and, as the eldersfell into an undercurrent of talk, his eyes sought Tara's face. Heranswering smile spurred him to a bold move; and he leaned towards her, over the edge of the boat. "Miss Despard, " he said under his breath, "won't you come for a stroll in the field?--Do. "

She shook her head. "I'm too lazy! We've had enough exercise. Andthere's the walk home. "

Her refusal jarred him; but desire overruled pride. "You couldn't callit exercise. Do come. "

"Truly--I'm tired, " she insisted gently, looking away from him towardsher mother. 

It was Lady Despard's boast that she could listen to three conversationsat once; but even Tara was surprised when she casually put out a handand patted her knee. "Wise child. Better keep quiet till we start home. "

The hand was not removed. Tara covered it with her own, and furthermaddened the discomfited Dyán by saying, with her very kindest smile:"I'm so sorry. Don't be vexed. "

Vexed! The bloodless word was insult piled on injury. All the pride andpassion of his race flamed in him. Without answering her smile or herplea, he drew abruptly away from her; stepped out of the punt and wentfor his stroll alone. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "Who knows what days I answer for to-day. . . ? Thoughts yet unripe in me, I bend one way. . . . " --ALICE MEYNELL. 

While Broome and Lady Despard were concerned over indications of acritical corner for Roy, there was none--save perhaps Arúna--to beconcerned for the dilemma of Dyán Singh, Rajput--half savage, halfchivalrous gentleman; idealist in the grain; lover of England and India;and now--fiercely, consumedly--lover of Tara Despard, with her Indianname and her pearl-white English skin and the benign sunshine of Englandin her hair. 

It is the danger-point for the young Indian overseas, unused to freeintercourse with women other than his own; saddled, very often, with agirl-wife in the background--the last by no means a matter of course inthese enlightened days. In Dyán Singh's case the safeguard was lacking. His mother being dead, he had held his own against a rigidlyconventional grandmother, and insisted on delaying the inevitable tillhis education was complete. Waxing bolder still, he had demanded thesame respite for Arúna; a far more serious affair. For months they hadwaged a battle of tongues and temper and tears, withMátaji--high-priestess of the Inside--with the family matchmaker and thefamily _guru_, whom to offend was the unforgiveable sin. Had he notpower to call down upon an entire household the curse of the gods?

More than once Arúna had been goaded to the brink of surrender; till herbrother grew impatient and spurned her as a weakling. Yet her ordeal hadbeen sharper than his own. For him, mere moral suasion and threats ofostracism. For her, the immemorial methods of the Inside; forbidden bySir Lakshman, but secretly applied, when flagrant obstinacy demandeddrastic measures. So neither Dyán nor his grandfather had suspected thatArúna, for days together, had suffered the torment of Tantalus--food setbefore her so mercilessly peppered that a morsel would raise blisters onher lips and tongue; water steeped in salt; the touch of the'fire-stick' applied where her skin was tenderest; not to mention themore subtle torment of jibes and threats and vile insinuations thatsuffused her with shame and rage. A word to the menfolk, threatenedMátaji, and worse would befall. If _men_ cared nothing for familyhonour, the women must vindicate it in their own fashion. For the twowere doing their duty, up to their lights. Only the knowledge that Dyánwas fighting her battle, as well as his own, had kept the girl unbrokenin spirit, even when her body cried out for respite at any price. . . . 

All this she had confided to him when, at last, they were safe on thegreat ship, with miles of turbulent water between them and the ruthlessdominion of _dastúr_. That confession--with its unconscious revealing ofthe Rajput spirit hidden in her laughter-loving heart--had drawn theminto closest union and filled Dyán with self-reproach. Small wonder ifOxford seemed to both a paradise of knowledge and of friendly freedom. Small wonder if they believed that, in one bold leap, they had bridgedthe gulf between East and West. 

At Bramleigh Beeches, Lilámani--who knew all without telling--hadwelcomed them with open arms: and Lady Despard no less. It was here thatDyán met Tara, who had 'no use' for colleges--and, in the course of afew vacation visits, the damage had been done. 

At first he had felt startled, even a little dismayed. English educationand delayed marriage had involved no dream of a possible English wife. With the Indian Civil in view, he had hoped to meet some girl student ofhis own race, sufficiently advanced to remain outside purdah and torealise that a modern Indian husband might crave companionship from hiswife no less than motherhood, worship, and service. 

And now . . . _this_----!

Striding across the field, in the glimmer of a moon just beginning totake colour, he alternately raged at her light rebuff, and applauded hermaidenly hesitation. As a Hindu and a man of breeding, his naturalinstinct had been to approach her parents; but he knew enough of modernyouth, by now, to realise that English parents were a side issue inthese little affairs. For himself, the primitive lover flamed in him. Hewanted to kneel and worship her. In the same breath, he wanted simply topossess her, would she or no. . . . 

And in saner moods, uncertainty racked him. What did they amount to, hersmiles and flashes of sympathy, her kind, cousinly ways? What did Roy'scousinly kindness amount to, with Arúna? If in India they suffered fromtoo much restriction, it dawned on him that in England trouble mightarise from too much freedom. Always, by some cause, there would besuffering. The gods would see to it. But not through loss of her--hemutely implored them. Any way but that!

Everything hung on the walk home. Those two must have finished theirsparring match by now. . . . 

They had. Roy was on the bank, helping Arúna pack the basket; andCuthbert in possession of Tara--not for long. 

He was called upon to punt back; and at the boat-house, where a taxiremoved the elders and the picnic impedimenta, he essayed a futilemanoeuvre to recapture Tara and saddle Dyán with the solid Emily. Failing, he consoled himself by keeping in touch with Arúna and Roy. 

Dyán patently delayed starting, patently lagged behind. Unskilled anddesperately in earnest, he could not lead up to his moment. He waslaboriously framing the essential words when Tara scattered them with alight remark, rallying him on his snail's pace. 

"You _would_ go for that stroll; and you strolled so violently----!"

"Because my heart in me was raging--aching, violently!" he blurted outwith such unexpected vehemence, that she started and stepped back apace. 

"Of course I knew--there must be difficulties--so I have been waitingand hoping . . . " An idiotic catch in his throat brought a sudden hotwave of self-consciousness. He flung out both hands. "Tara----!"

Instinctively, she drew her own out of reach. A ghost of a shiver ranthrough her. "No--no. I don't . . . I never have. . . . If I've misled you, I'm ever so sorry. "

"If you are sorry--_give me hope_, " his voice, his eyes implored her. "You come so near--then you draw back; like offering a thirsty man a cupof water he must not drink. Give me only a little time--a littlechance----"

She shook her head. "Please believe me. I'm _not_ the wavering kind. I'mkeen to go on being friends--because of Roy. But, truthfully, it's nouse hoping for anything more--ever. "

Her patent sincerity, the sweet seriousness of her face, carriedconviction. And conviction turned his ardour to bitterness. 

"Why no use--_ever_?" he flung out, maddened by her emphasis on theword. 

"I suppose--because I know my own mind. "

"No. Because--_I_ am Indian. " His voice was changed and harsh. "We areall British subjects--oh yes--when convenient! But the door is openedonly--so far. If we make bold to ask for the best, it is slammed in ourfaces. "

"Dyán Singh, if I have hurt you, it was quite unintentional. You knowthat. But now, _with_ intention, you are hurting me. " Her dignity andgentleness, the justice of her reproof, smote him silent; and she wenton: "You forget, it is the same among your own people. Aunt Lila wascast out--for always. With an English girl that could never be. "

Too distraught for argument, he harked back to the personal issue. "With_you_ there would be no need. I would live altogether like anEnglishman----"

"Oh, _stop_!" she broke out desperately. "Don't start all overagain----"

"Look alive, you two slackers, " shouted Roy, from the far corner of theroad. "I'm responsible for keeping the team together. "

"Coming!" called Tara, and turned on Dyán a final glance of appeal. "I'm_sorry_ from the bottom of my heart. I can't say more. "--And settingthe pace, she hurried forward. 

For the fraction of a second, he hesitated. An overmastering impulseseized him to walk off in the opposite direction. His eager love forthem all had suddenly turned to gall. But pride forbade. He would notfor the world have them guess at his rebuff--not even Arúna. . . . 

 * * * * *

He slept little that night; and it was not Dyán Singh of New College whoawoke next morning. It was Dyán Singh, Rajput, Descendant of the Sun. Yet the foolish round of life must go on as if no vital change had cometo pass. 

That afternoon, he was going with Roy to a select drawing-room meeting. A certain Mr Ramji Lal had been asked to read a paper on the revival ofIndian arts and crafts. Dyán had been looking forward to it keenly; butnow, sore and miserable as he was--all sense of purpose and directiongone--he felt out of tune with the whole thing. 

He would have been thankful to cry off. Roy, however, must not suspectthe truth--Roy, who himself might be the stumbling-block. The suspicionstung like a scorpion; though it soothed a little his hurt pride ofrace. 

Embittered and antagonistic, he listened only with half his mind to hisown countryman's impassioned appeal for renewal of the true Swadeshi[1]spirit in India; renewal of her own innate artistic culture, her faithin the creative power of thought and ideas. That spirit--said thespeaker--has no war-cries, no shoutings in the market-place. It is a wayof looking at life. Its true genesis and inspiration is in the home. Like flame, newly-lit, it needs cherishing. Instead, it is in danger ofbeing stamped out by false Swadeshi--an imitation product of the West;noisy and political, crying out for more factories, more councils;caring nothing for true Indian traditions of art and life. It will notbuy goods from Birmingham and Manchester; but it will create Birminghamand Manchester in India. In effect, it is the age-old argument whetherthe greatness of a nation comes from the dominion of men ormachinery. . . . 

For all this, Dyán had cared intensely twenty-four hours ago. Now itseemed little better than a rhapsody of fine phrases--'sounding brassand tinkling cymbals. '

Could the mere word of a woman so swiftly and violently transform themind of a man? His innate masculinity resented the idea. It succumbed, nevertheless. He was too deeply hurt in his pride and his passionateheart to think or feel sanely while the wound was still so fresh. He wasscarcely stirred even by the allusion to Rajputana in Mr Ramji Lal'speroration. 

"I ask you to consider, in conclusion--my dear and honoured Englishfriends--the words of a veteran lover of India, who is also a son ofEngland. It was his conviction--it is also mine--that 'the still livingart of India, the still living chivalry of Rajputana, the still livingreligion of the Hindus, are the only three points on which there is anypossibility of regenerating the national life of India--the India of theHindus. . . . '"

Very fine; doubtless very true; but what use--after all--their eternaltalk? By blowing volumes of air from their lungs, did they shift themountains of difficulty one single inch?

More talk followed; tea and attentions that would have flattered himyesterday. To-day it all passed clean over his head. They were readyenough to pamper him, like a lap-dog, these good ladies; forgetting hewas a man, with a man's heart and brain, making demand for somethingmore than carefully chosen sugar-plums. 

He had never been so thankful to get away from that hospitable house, where he had imagined himself so happy. . . . 

They were out in the street again, striding back to New College:Roy--not yet alive to the change in him--full of it all; talkingnineteen to the dozen. But Dyán's urgent heart spoke louder than hiscousin's voice. And all the while he kept wondering consumedly--_Was_ itRoy?

He could not bring himself to ask outright. The answer would madden himeither way. And Goodness--or Badness--knew he was miserable enough:hurt, angry with Fate, with England, even with Tara--lovely andunattainable! She had spoilt everything: his relation with her, with herpeople, with Roy. She had quenched his zeal for their joint crusade. Allthe same, he would hold Roy to the India plan; since there was just achance--and it would take him away from her. He hated himself for thethought; but jealousy, in the East, is a consuming fire. . . . 

Roy's monologue ceased abruptly. "Your innings, old chap, I think!" hesaid. "You're mum as a fish this afternoon. I noticed it in there--Ithought you'd have lots to say to Ramji Lal. "

Dyán frowned. He could not for long play at pretences with Roy. 

"Those ladies did all the saying. They would not have liked it at all ifI had spoken my true thought, "--he paused and added deliberately--"thatwe are all cracking our skulls against stone walls. "

"My dear chap----!" Roy stared in frank bewilderment. "What's gonewrong? Your liver touched up? Too much salmon mayonnaise and cream?"

His light tone goaded Dyán to exasperation. "Quite likely, " he retorted, a sneer lurking in his tone. "Plenty of mayonnaise and cream, for allparties. But when we make bold to ask for more satisfying things, wefind 'No Indians need apply. '"

"But--my good Dyán----!"

"Well--it's true. Suppose I wish to promote that closer union we allchatter about by marrying an English girl--what then?"

Up went Roy's eyebrows. "Are _you_ after an English wife?"

"I am submitting a case--that might easily occur. " He spoke with a touchof irritation; and fearing self-betrayal, swerved from the main issue. "Would _you_ marry an Indian girl?"

"I believe so. If I was keen. I'm not at all sure, though, if it'ssound--in principle--mixing such opposite strains. And in yourcase--hypothetical, I suppose----?"

Dyán's grunt confessed nothing and denied nothing. 

"Well--from what one hears, an English wife, out there, might make a bitof complication, if you get the 'Civil. '"

Dyán started. "I shan't go up for it. I've changed my mind. "

"Good Lord! And you've been sweating all this time. "

Dyán's smile was tinged with bitterness. 

"Well--one lives and learns. I can make good use of my knowledge withoutturning myself into an imitation Englishman. An Indian wife might makeequal difficulty. So--with all my zeal--I am between two grindstones. Myfather joined the Civil. He was keen. He did well. But--no promotion;and little friendliness, except from very few. I believe he was neverhappy. I believe--it killed him. I was cherishing a hope that, now, things might be better. But I am beginning to see--I may be wrong. Saferto see it in time----"

Roy looked genuinely distressed. "Poor old Dyán. Perhaps you're right. Idon't know much about British India. But it does seem hard lines--andbad policy--to choke off men like you. "

"Yes. They might consider _that_ more, if they heard some of ourfire-eaters. One was at me last week. He gave the British ten years tosurvive. Said their lot could raise a revolution to-morrow if they hadmoney--a trifle of five millions! He was swearing the Indian princes arenot loyal, in spite of talk and subscriptions; that the Army will joinwhichever side gives best pay. We who _are_ loyal need _some_encouragement--some recognition. We are only human----!"

"Rather. But _you_ won't go back on our little show, old chap. Just whenI'm dead keen--laying my plans for India----"

He took hold of Dyán's upper arm and gave it a friendly shake. 

"No, I'll stick to that. But are you sure you can work it--with yourpeople? If _you_ back out, I swear, by the sin of the sack of Chitor, I'll join the beastly crowd who are learning to make bombs in Berlin. "

At that--the most solemn oath that can pass the lips of a Rajput--Roylooked startled. Then he laughed. 

"'Commem' seems to have disagreed with you all round! But I won't beintimidated. Likewise--I won't back out. I intend opening diplomaticconversations with Jeffers to-night. Recherché dinner for two in myroom. All his little weaknesses! He'd be a strong ally. Wish me luck. "

Dyán wished him luck in a rather perfunctory tone, considering hisvehemence of a moment earlier. All the fire seemed suddenly to have goneout of him. 

They had just entered the college gate; and a few yards ahead, theycaught sight of Lady Despard and Tara--the girl's hand linked throughher mother's arm. 

"Oh, I clean forgot, " remarked Roy. "I said they could look in. "

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Own country. ]

CHAPTER III. 

 "It is the spirit of the quest which helps. I am the slave of this spirit of the quest. "--KABIR. 

Roy's recherché little dinner proved an unqualified success. With soleand chicken sauté, with trifle and savoury, he mutely pleaded his cause;feeling vaguely guilty, the while, of belittling his childhood's idol, whom he increasingly admired and loved. But this India business wastremendously important, and the dear old boy would never suspect----

Roy watched him savouring the chicken and peas; discussing the decay offalling in love, its reasons and remedies; and thought, for thehundredth time, what a splendid old boy he was; so big and breezy, nothing bookish or newspapery about him. Quite a masterpiece ofmodelling, on Nature's part; the breadth and bulk of him; the massivehead, with its thatch of tawny-grey hair that retreated up the sides ofhis forehead, making corners; the nose, rugged and full of character;the beard and the sea-blue eyes that gave him the sailor aspect Roy hadso loved in nursery days. Now he appraised it consciously, with theartist's eye. A vigorous bust of his godfather was his acknowledgedmasterpiece, so far, in the modelling line, which he preferred to brushor pencil. But first and foremost, literature claimed him: poetry, essays, and the despised novel--truest and most plastic medium forinterpreting man to man and race to race: the most entirely obviousmedium, thought Roy, for promoting the cause he had at heart. 

Though his brain was overflowing with the one subject, he was reservingit diplomatically for the more intimate atmosphere of port wine, coffeeand cigars. Meantime they always had plenty to talk about, these two. Broome held the unorthodox view that he probably had quite as much tolearn from the young as they from him; and at the moment, the questionwhether Roy should take up literature in earnest was very much to thefore. 

Once or twice during a pause, he caught the shrewd blue eye watching himfrom under shaggy brows; but each kept his own counsel till the scouthad removed all superfluities. Then Broome chose a cigar, sniffed it, and beheaded it. 

"My particular weakness!" he remarked pensively, while Roy filled hisglass. "What an attentive godson it is! And after this intriguingprelude--what of the main plot? India?"

Under a glance as direct as the question Roy reddened furiously. The'dear old boy' had done more than suspect; he had seen through the wholeshow--the indignity of all others that youth can least abide. 

At sight of his crestfallen countenance, Broome laughed outright. "Bearup, old man! Don't grudge me a fraction of the wits I live by. Weren'tyou trying to give me an inkling yesterday?"

Roy nodded, mollified a little. But his self-confidence wilted under thefalse start. "How about arm-chairs?" he remarked tentatively, very muchengaged with a cigarette. 

They removed their coffee-cups, and sipped once or twice in silence. "I'm waiting, " said Broome, encouragement in his tone. 

But Roy still hesitated. "You see----" he temporised, "I'm so fearfullykeen, I feel shy of gassing about it. Might seem to you mere soppysentiment. "

Broome's sailor eyes twinkled. "You pay me the compliment, my son, oftreating me as if I were a fellow-undergrad! It's only the 'teens andthe twenties of this very new century that are so mortally afraid ofsentiment--the main factor in human happiness. If you had _not_ a strongsentiment for India, you would be unworthy of your mother. You want togo out there--is that the rub?"

"Yes. With Dyán. "

"In what capacity?"

"A lover and a learner. Also--by way of--a budding author. I was hopingyou might back me up with a few commissions for my preliminary stuff. "

"You selected your godfather with unerring foresight! And preliminariesover--a book, or books, would be the end in view?"

"Yes--and other things. Whatever one can do--in a small way--to inspirea friendlier feeling all round; a clearer conviction that the destiniesof England and India are humanly bound up together. I'm sure thosecursed politics are responsible for most of the friction. It's art andliterature, the emotional and spiritual forces that draw men together, isn't it, Jeffers? _You_ know that----"

He leaned forward, warming to his subject; the false start forgotten;shyness dispelled. . . . 

And, once started, none was more skilful than Broome in luring him on tofuller, unconscious self-revealing. He knew very well that, on thistopic, and on many others, Roy could enlarge more freely to him than tohis father. Youth is made that way. In his opinion, it was all to thegood that Roy should aspire to use his double heritage, for thelegitimate and noble purpose of interpreting--as far as might be--Eastto West, and West to East: not least, because he would probably learn agood deal more than he was qualified to teach. It was in the process ofqualifying himself, by closer acquaintance with India, that the lurkingdanger reared its head. But some outlet there must be for the Easternspirit in him; and his early efforts pointed clearly to literaryexpression, if Broome knew anything of the creative gift. Himself adevotee, he agreed with Lafcadio Hearne that 'a man may do quite asgreat a service to his country by writing a book as by winning abattle'; and just so much of these thoughts as seemed fit he imparted toRoy, who--in response to the last--glowed visibly. 

"Priceless old Jeffers! I knew I could reckon on you to back me up--andbuck me up! Of course one will be hugely encouraged by the bleating ofthe practical crowd--Aunt Jane and Co. '_Why_ waste your time writingsilly novels?' And if you try to explain that novels _have_ a realfunction, they merely think _you've_ got a swelled head. "

"Never mind, Roy. 'The quest is a noble one and the hope great. ' And wescribblers have our glorious compensations. As for Aunt Jane----" Helooked very straight at her nephew--and winked deliberately. 

"Oh, of course--she's _the_ unlimited limit, " Roy agreed without shame. "I suppose if Dad plays up, she'll give him hell?"

"Good measure, pressed down. --By the way--have you spoken to _him_ yetof all this----?"

"No. Mother probably guesses. But you're the first. I made sure _you'd_understand----"

"You feel doubtful--about Father?"

"M-yes. I don't quite know why. "

Broome was silent a moment. "After all--it's natural. Put yourself inhis place, Roy. --He sees India taking a stronger hold of you each year. He knows you've a deal of your mother and grandfather in your make-up. He may very well be afraid of the magnet proving too strong at closequarters. And I suspect he's jealous--for England. He'd like to see yoursoul centred on Bramleigh Beeches: and I more than suspect they'd bothprefer to keep you nearer home. "

Roy looked distressed. "Hard lines. I hadn't got to that yet. But itwouldn't be for always. And--there's George and Jerry sprouting up. "

"I gather that George and Jerry are not precisely--Roy----"

"Jeffers--you old sinner! I can't flatter myself----!"

"Don't be blatantly British, Roy! You can flatter yourself--you know aswell as I do!"

"I know it's undiplomatic to contradict my elders!" countered Roy, lunging after pipe and pouch. 

"Especially convenient godfathers, with press connections?"

Roy fronted him squarely, laughter lurking in his eyes. "Are you _going_to be convenient--that's the rub! _Will_ you give Dad a notion I mayturn out something decent when I've scraped up some crumbs ofknowledge----?"

Broome leaned forward and laid a large reassuring hand on his knee. "Trust me to pull it off, old man--provided Mother approves. We couldn'tpress it against _her_ wish--either of us. "

"No--we couldn't. " There was a new gravity in Roy's tone. "As I said, she probably knows all about it. That's her way. She understandeth one'sthoughts long before. " The last in a lower tone--his eyes dwelling onher portrait above the mantelpiece: the one in the studio window-seat. 

And Broome thought: "With all his brains, the man's hardly astir in himyet; and the boy's still in love with her. This notion may be anunconscious outlet. A healthy one--if Nevil can be got to see it thatway. "

After a perceptible pause, he said quietly: "Remember, Roy, just becauseshe's unique, she can't be taken as representative. She naturally standsfor India in your eyes. But no country can produce beings of her qualityby the score----"

"I suppose not. " Roy reluctantly shifted his gaze. "But she doesrepresent what's best in the Indian spirit: the spirit that people overhere might take more pains to understand. "

"And you are peculiarly well fitted to assist them, I admit--if Father'swilling to bear the cost of your trip. It's a compact between us. Thesnare of your A1 dinner shall not have been laid in vain!"

They sat on together for more than an hour. Then Broome departed, leaving Roy to dream--in a blue mist of tobacco smoke--the opal-tintedego-centric dreams of one-and-twenty. 

 * * * * *

And to-night one dream eclipsed them all. 

For years the germ of it had lived in him like a seed indarkness--growing with him as he grew. All incidents and impressionsthat struck deep had served to vitalise it: that early championship ofhis mother; her tales of Rajputana; his friendship with Desmond andDyán; and, not least, his father's Ramayána pictures in the long galleryat home, that had seized his imagination in very early days, when theirappeal was simply to his innate sense of colour, and the reiteratewonder and beauty of his mother's face in those moving scenes from thestory of Sita--India's crown of womanhood. . . . 

Then there was the vivid memory of a room in his grandfather's house;the stately old man, with his deep voice, speaking words that he onlycame to understand years after; and the look in his mother's eyes, asshe clapped her hands without sound, in the young fashion he loved. . . . 

And Chandranath--another glimpse of India; the ugly side . . . And storiesfrom Tod's 'Rajasthán'--that grim and stirring panorama of romance andchivalry, of cruelty and cunning; orgies of slaughter and miracles ofhigh-hearted devotion. . . . 

Barbaric; utterly foreign to life, as he had lived it, those tales ofancient India most strangely awakened in him a vague, thrilling sense offamiliarity . . . He _knew_. . . ! Most clearly he knew the spirit that firedthem all, when Akbar's legions broke, wave on wave, against the mightyrock-fortress of Chitor--far-famed capital of Mewar, thrice sacked byIslam and deserted by her royal house; so that only the ghost of herglory remains--a protest, a challenge, an inspiration. . . . 

Sometimes he dreamed it all, with amazing vividness. And in the dreamsthere was always the feeling that he knew . . . It was a very queer, veryexciting sensation. He had spoken of it to no one but his mother andTara; except once at Marlborough, when he had been moved to try whetherLance would understand. 

Priceless old Desmond! It had been killing to watch hisface--interested, sceptical, faintly alarmed, when he discovered that itwas not an elaborate attempt to pull his leg. By way of reassuring him, Roy had confessed it was a family failing. When things went wrong hismother nearly always knew: and sometimes she came to him, in dreams thatwere not exactly dreams. What harm?

Desmond, puzzled and sceptical, was not prepared to hazard an opinion. If Roy was made that way, of course he couldn't help it. And Roy, halfindignant, had declared he wouldn't for worlds be made any other way. . . . 

To-night, by some freak of memory, it all came back to him through thedream-inducing haze of tobacco smoke. And there, on his writing-table, stood a full-length photograph of Lance in Punjab cavalry uniform. Soldiering on the Indian Border, fulfilling himself in his own splendidfashion, he was clearly in his element; attached to his father's oldregiment, with Paul for second-in-command; proud of his strapping Sikhsand Pathans; watched over, revered and implicitly obeyed by the sons ofmen who had served with his father--men for whom the mere name Desmondwas a talisman. For that is India's way. 

And here was he, Roy, still at his old trick of scribbling poems anddreaming dreams. For a fleeting moment, Desmond was out of the picture;but when time was ripe he would be in it again. The link between themwas indestructible--elemental. Poet and Warrior; the eternalcomplements. In the Rig Veda[2] both are one; both _Agni Kula_--'born offire'; no fulness of life for the one without the other. 

The years dominated by Desmond had been supreme. They had left schooltogether, when Roy was seventeen; and, at the time, their parting hadseemed like the end of everything. Yet, very soon after, he had foundhimself in the thick of fresh delights--a wander-year in Italy, Greece, the Mediterranean, with the parents and Christine----

And now, here he was, nearing the end of the Oxford interlude--dominatedby Dyán and India; and, not least, by Oxford herself, who counts herlovers by the million; holds them for the space of three or four yearsand sets her impress for life on their minds and hearts. For all hisdreamings and scribblings, he had played hard and worked hard. In thecourse of reading for Greats, he had imbibed large draughts of theclassics; had browsed widely on later literature, East and West; won theNewcastle, and filled a vellum-bound volume--his mother's gift--withverse and sketches in prose, some of which had appeared in the moreexclusive weeklies. He had also picked up Hindustani from Dyán, andlooked forward to tackling Sanskrit. In the Schools, he had taken aFirst in Mods; and, with reasonable luck, hoped for a First in theFinals. Once again, parting would be a wrench, but India glowed like aplanet on the horizon; and he fully intended to make that interlude thepick of them all. . . . 

What novels he would write! Not modern impressionist stuff; not meanstreets and the photographic touch. No--his adventuring soul, with itstinge of Eastern mysticism, craved colour and warmth and light;--not themere trappings of romance, but the essence of it that imparts a deepersense of the significance and mystery of life; that probes to themainsprings of personality, the veiled yet vital world of spiritualadventure . . . Pain and conflict; powers of evil, of doubt andindecision:--no evading these. But in any imaginative work he essayed, beauty must be the prevailing element--if only as a star in darkness. And nowadays Beauty had become almost suspect. Cleverness, cynicism, sexand sensation--all had their votaries and their vogue. Mere Beauty, likeCinderella, was left sitting among the ashes of the past; andRoy--prince or no--was her devout lover. 

To the son of Nevil and Lilámani, her clear call could never seem eithera puritanical snare of the flesh or a delusion of the senses; butrather, a grace of the spirit, the joy of things seen detached fromself-interest: the visible proof that love, not power, is the last wordof Creation. Happily for him, its outward form and inward essence hadbeen his daily bread ever since he had first consciously looked upon hismother's face, consciously delighted in his father's pictures. Theylived it, those two: and the life lived transcends argument. 

At this uplifted moment--whatever might come later--he blessed them forhis double heritage; for the perfect accord between them that inspiredhis hope of ultimate harmony between England and India, in spite ofbarriers and complexities and fomenters of discord; a harmony that couldnever arrive by veiled condescension out of servile imitation. Intimacywith Dyán and his mother had made that quite clear. Each must honestlywill to understand the other; each holding fast the essence ofindividuality, while respecting in the other precisely those bafflingqualities that strengthen their union and make it vital to the welfareof both. Instinctively he pictured them as man and woman; and on generallines the analogy seemed to hold good. He had yet to discover thatanalogies are often deceptive things; peculiarly so, in this case, since India is many, not one. Yet there lurked a germ of truth in hisseedling idea: and he was at the age when ideas and tremendous impulsesstir in the blood like sap in spring-time; an age to be a reformer, afanatic or a sensualist. 

Too often, alas, before the years bring power of adjustment, the livespark of enthusiasm is extinct. . . . 

To-night it burned in Roy with a steady flame. If only he could enthusehis father----!

He supposed he would go in any case: but he lacked the rebel instinct ofmodern youth. He wanted to share, to impart his hidden treasure; not toargue the bloom off it. And his father seemed tacitly to discouragerhapsodies over Indian literature and art. You couldn't say he was notkeen: only the least little bit unresponsive to outbursts of keenness inhis son; so that Roy never felt quite at ease on the subject. If only hecould walk into the room now, while Roy's brain was seething with itall, high on the upward curve of a wave. . . . 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Ancient Hindu Scriptures. ]

CHAPTER IV. 

 "You could humble at your feet the proudest heads in the world. But it is your loved ones . . . Whom you choose to worship. Therefore I worship you. " --RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

Roy, after due consideration, decided that he would speak first to hisfather--the one doubtful element in the home circle. But habit and theobsession of the moment proved too strong, when his mother came to 'tuckhim up, ' as she had never failed to do since nursery days. 

Seated on the edge of his bed, in the shaded light, she looked like somerare, pale moth in her moon-coloured sari flecked and bordered withgold; amber earrings and a rope of amber beads--his own gift; firstfruits of poetic earnings. The years between had simply ripened andembellished her; rounded a little the oval of her cheek; lent an addeddignity to her grace of bearing and enriched her wisdom of the heart. 

It was as he supposed. She had understood his thoughts long before. Heflung out his hand--a fine, nervous hand--and laid it on her knee. 

"You're a miracle. I believe you know all about it. "

"I believe--I do, " she answered, letting her own hand rest on his;moving her fingers, now and then, in the ghost of a caress:--anendearing way she had. "You are wishing--to go out there?"

"Yes. I simply must. _You_ understand?"

She inclined her head and, for a moment, veiled her eyes. "I am proud. But you cannot understand how difficult . . . For us . . . Letting you go. And Dad. . . . "

She paused. 

"You think he'll hate it--want to keep me here?"

"My darling--'hate' is too strong. He cares very much for all that makesfriendship between England and India. But--is it wonder if he cares morefor his own son? You will speak to him soon?"

"To-morrow. Unless--a word or two, first, from you----"

"No, not that!" She smiled at his old boyish faith in her. "Better tokeep me outside. You see--I _am_ India. So I am already too much in itthat way. "

"You are in it up to the hilt!" he declared with sudden fervour:and--his tongue unloosed--he poured out to her a measure of his pent upfeeling; how they had inspired him--she and his father; how he naturallyhoped they would back him up; and a good deal more that was for herprivate ear alone. . . . 

Her immense capacity for listening, her eloquent silence and gentleflashes of raillery, her occasional caress--all were balm to him in hiselectrical mood. 

Were ever two beings quite so perfectly in tune----?

Could he possibly leave her? Could he face the final wrench?

When at last she stooped to kiss him, the faint clear whiff ofsandalwood waked a hundred memories; and he held her close a long time, her cheek against his hair. 

"Bad boy! Let me go, " she pleaded; and, with phenomenal obedience, heunclasped his hands. 

"See if you _can_ go now!"

It was his old childish game. The moment she stirred, his hands werelocked again. 

"Son of my heart--I must!"

"One more kiss then--for luck!"

So she kissed him, for luck, and left him to his midnight browsings. . . . 

 * * * * *

Next morning she sat among her cushions in the studio, ostensiblyreading a long letter from her father. Actually, her mind was intent onNevil, who stood at his easel absorbed in fragmentary studies for a newpicture--flying draperies; a man's face cleverly fore-shortened. 

Though nearing fifty, he looked more like five-and-thirty; his facesingularly free of lines; his fair hair scarcely showing the intrusionof grey. To her he seemed perennially young; and dearer than ever--ifthat could be--as the years mellowed and deepened the love on which theyhad boldly staked everything that counted most for them both. Yet, forall her skill in divination, she could not tell precisely how he wouldtake the things Roy had to say; nor whether Roy himself would say themin just the right way. With Nevil, so much depended on that. 

Till this morning, she had scarcely realised how unobtrusively she hadbeen, as it were, their connecting link in all difficult or delicatematters, where their natures were not quite in tune. But now, Roy beinga man, they must come to terms in their own fashion. . . . 

At the first far-off sound of his step on the stairs, she rose and cameover to the easel, and stood there a few moments--fascinated always bythe swift sure strokes. 

"Good--eh?" he asked, smiling into her serious eyes. 

She nodded. "Quite evident--you are in the mood!" Her fingers lightlycaressed the back of his hand. "I will come back later. _Such_ a tray ofvases waiting for me in the drawing-room!"

As Roy entered, she passed him and they exchanged a smile. Her eyes, mutely blessing him, besought him not to let his eager tongue run awaywith itself. Then she went out, leaving them together--the two who wereher world. 

Down in the drawing-room, roses and sweet-peas, cut by Christine--herfairy daughter--lay ready to hand. Between them they filled the loftyroom with fragrance and harmonies of delicate colour. Then Christineflew to her beloved piano; and Lilámani wandered away to her no lessbeloved rose-garden. Body and mind were restless. She could settle tonothing till she knew what had passed between Nevil and Roy. His boyishconfidences and adorations of the night before had filled her cup tooverflowing. She felt glad and proud that her first-born should have sethis heart on the high project of trying to promote deeper sympathybetween his father's great country and her own people, in this time ofdangerous antagonism and unrest. 

But beneath her pride and gladness, stirred a fear lest the scales shehad tried to hold even, should be inclining to tilt the wrong way. Forduty to his father's house was paramount. Too strong a leaning towardsIndia--no matter for what high purpose--would still be a tilt the wrongway. She had seen the same fear lurking in Nevil's heart also; and now, unerringly, she divined the cause of that hidden trouble which baffledRoy. Nevil feared that--if Roy went to India--history might repeatitself. She admitted the danger was real; and she knew his fear impliedno reflection on herself or her country. Best of all, she knewthat--because of his chivalrous loyalty that had never failed her--hewould not speak of it, even to his son. 

Clearly then, if Roy insisted on going to India, and if a word ofwarning must be spoken to ease Nevil's mind, only one person in theworld could speak it--herself. For all her sensitive shrinking she couldnot, at this critical turning-point, stand outside. She was "in it"--asRoy dramatically assured her--up to the hilt. . . . 

Time passed--and he did not come. Troubled, she wandered back towardsthe house; caught sight of him, lonely and abstracted, pacing the lawn:saw him stop near the great twin beeches--that embowered a hammock, chairs and rugs--and disappear inside. Then she knew her moment hadcome. . . . 

She found him prone in the hammock: not even smoking: staring up intothe cool green dome, fretted with graceful convolutions of trunk andbranches. One lightly clenched hand hung over the edge. Attitude andabstraction alike suggested a listless dejection that sharply caught ather heart. 

He started at sight of her. "Blessed little Mummy--no hiding from_you_!"

He flung out his left hand. She took it and laid it against her cheek: aform of caress all her own. 

"Were you wishing to hide? I was waiting among the roses, to show youthe new sweet-peas. "

"And I never came. Proper beast I am! And sprawling here----" He swunghis long legs over the side and stood up, tall and straight--taller thanNevil--smiling down at her. "I wasn't exactly hiding. I was shirking--alittle bit. But now you've found me, you won't escape!"

Pressing down the edge of the hammock, he half lifted her into it andsettled her among the cushions, deftly tucking in her silks and muslins. 

"Comfy?" he asked, surveying her, with Nevil's own smile in his eyes. 

"Comfy, " she sighed, wishing discreet warnings at the bottom of the sea. Just to be foolish with him--the bliss of it! To chime in with hismoods, his enthusiasms, his nonsense--she asked nothing better of life, when he came home. "Very clever, Sonling. But no, "--she lifted afinger--"that won't do. You are twenty-one. Too big for the small namenow. So far away up there!"

"If I shot up as high as a lamp-post, my heart would still be downthere--at your feet. "

He said it lightly--that was the Englishman. But he said it--that wasthe Rajput. And she knew not which she loved the best. Strange to lovetwo such opposites with equal fervour. 

She blew him a kiss from her finger-tips. "Very well. We will not beunkind to the small name and throw him on the rubbish-heap. But now sit, please--Sonling. You have been talking--you and Dad? Not any decision?Is he not wishing you should--work for India?"

"Mummy, I don't know. " He secured a chair and sat down facing her. "Heinsists that I'm officially free to kick over the traces, that he's notthe kind of father who 'thunders vetos from the family hearthrug!'"

Lilámani smiled very tenderly at that so characteristic touch; but shesaid nothing. And Roy went on: "All the same, I gathered that he'sdistinctly not keen on my going out there. So--what the devil am I todo? He rubbed it in that I'm full young, and no hurry--but I feelthere's something else at the back of his mind. "

He paused--and she could hesitate no longer. 

"Yes, Roy--there is something else----"

"Then _why_ can't he speak out?"

"Not to be so impatient, " she rebuked him gently. "It is because he sobeautifully remains--my lover, he cannot put in words--any thought thatmight give----" She flung out an appealing hand. "Oh, Roy--can you notguess the trouble? He is afraid--for your marriage----"

"My marriage!" It was clear he did not yet grasp the truth. "Really, Mummy, that's a trifle previous. I'm not even thinking of marriage. "

"No, Stupid One! But out there you might come to think of it! No man cantell when Kama, godling of the arrows, will throw magic dust in hiseyes. You might meet other cousins--like Arúna, and there would cometrouble, because"--she faced him steadily and he saw the veiled blushcreep into her cheeks--"that kind of marriage--for you--must not be. "

Now he understood; and, for all her high resolve, she thrilled at theswift flash of anger in his eyes. 

"Who says--it must not be?" he demanded with a touch of heat. "AuntJane--confound her! When I do marry, it will be to please myself--not_her_!"

"Oh, hush, Roy--and listen! You run away too fast. It is not AuntJane--it is _I_ who am saying must not, because I know--the difficultthought in Dad's heart. And I know it is right----"

"Why is it right?" He was up in arms again. Obstinate--but howlovable!--"Why mayn't I have the same luck as he had--if it comes myway? I've never met a girl or woman that could hold a candle to you forall-round loveliness. And it's the East that gives you--inside andout--a quality, a bloom--unseizable--like moonlight----"

"But, my darling! You make me blush!" She drew her sari across her face, hiding, under a veil of lightness, her joy at his outspoken praise. 

"Well, you made me say it. And I'm not sentimentalising. I'm telling ahome truth!"

His vehemence was guarantee of that. Very gently he drew back the sariand looked deep into her eyes. 

"Why should we only tell the ugly ones, like Aunt Jane? Anyway, I'vetold you my truest one now--and I'm not ashamed of it. "

"No need. It is a jewel I will treasure in my heart. "

She dropped the veil of lightness, giving him sincerity for sincerity ashe deserved. "But--Ancient one, have you seen so many girls and women inyour long life----?"

"I've seen a pretty good mixture of all sorts--Oxford, London, and roundhere, " he insisted unabashed. "And I've had my wits about me. Of coursethey're most of them jolly and straight. Good fellows in fact; talkingour slang; playing our games. No harm, of course. But it kills thecharm of contrast--the supreme charm. They understand _that_ in Indiabetter than we do here. "

The truth of that last Lilámani could not deny. Too clearly she saw inthe violent upheaval of Western womanhood the hidden germs of tragedy, for women themselves, for the race. 

"You are right, Roy, " she said, smiling into his serious face. "Fromour--from Hindu point of view, greatest richness of life come fromgreatest possible difference between men and women. And most of all itis so in Rajputana. But over here. . . . " She sighed, a small shiveringsigh. The puzzle and pain of it went too deep with her. "All thisscreaming and snatching and scratching for wrong kind of things hurts myheart; because--I am woman and they are women--desecrating that in uswhich is a symbol of God. Nature made women for ministering to Life andLove. Are they not believing, or not caring, that by struggling toimitate man (while saying with their lips how they despise him!) theyare losing their own secret, beautiful differences, so important forhappiness--for the race. But marriage in the West seems more forconvenience of lovers than for the race----"

"Yet your son, though he _is_ of the West--must not consider his owninclination or convenience----"

"My son, " she interposed, gently inflexible, "because he is _also_ ofthe East, must consider this matter of the race; must try and think itwith his father's mind. "

"All the same--making such a point of it seems like an insult--toyou----"

"No, Roy. _Not_ to say that----" The flash in her eyes, that was almostanger, startled and impressed him more than any spoken word. "No thoughtthat ever came in your father's mind could be--like insult to me. Oh, mydear, have you not sense to know that for an old English family likehis, with roots down deep in English soil and history, it is not goodthat mixture of race should come twice over in two generations. Toyou--our kind of marriage appears a simple affair. You see only howclose we are now, in love and understanding. You cannot imagine all thedifficulties that went before. We know them--and we are proud, becausethey became like dust under our feet. Only to you--Dilkusha, I couldtell . . . A little, if you wish--for helping you to understand. "

"Please tell, " he said, and his hand closed on hers. 

So, leaning back among her cushions--speaking very simply in the lowvoice that was music to his ears--she told. . . . 

 * * * * *

The telling--fragmentary, yet vivid--lasted less than half an hour. Butin that half-hour Roy gleaned a jewel of memory that the years would notdim. The very words would remain. . . . 

For Lilámani--wandering backward in fancy through the Garden ofRemembrance--revealed more than she realised of the man she loved and ofher own passionate spirit, compact of fire and dew, the sublimatedessence of the Eastern woman at her best. 

Yet in spite of that revealing--or rather because of it--rebellionstirred afresh. And, as if divining his thoughts, she impulsively raisedher hand. "Now, Roy, you must promise. Only so, I can speak to Dad andrest his mind. "

Seizing her hand, he kissed it fervently. 

"Darling--after all that, a mere promise would be a fatuous superfluity. If you say 'No Indian wife, ' that's enough for me. I suppose I must restcontent with the high privilege of possessing an Indian mother. "

Her radiant surprise was a beautiful thing to see. Leaning forward, shetook his head in her hands and kissed him between his eyebrows where thecaste-mark should be. 

"Must it be October--so soon?" she asked. 

He told her of Dyán, and she sighed. "Poor Dyán! I wonder? It is sodifficult--even with the best kind--this mixing of English education andIndian life. I hope it will make no harm for those two----"

Then they started, almost like lovers; for the drooping branches rustledand Tara stood before them--a very vision of June; in her straight frockof Delphinium blue; one shell-pink rose in her hat and its counterpartin her waist-belt. Canvas shoes and tennis-racquet betrayed her felldesign on Roy. 

"Am I despritly superfluous?" she queried, smiling from one to theother. 

"Quite too despritly, " Roy assured her with emphasis. 

She wrinkled her nose at him, so far as its delicate aquiline wouldpermit. "Speak for yourself, spoilt boy!"

But she favoured him with her left hand, which he retained, while shestooped over the hammock and kissed Lilámani on both cheeks. Then shestood up and gently disengaged her hand. 

"Christine's to blame. She guessed you were here. I came over in hopesof tennis. It's just perfect. Not too hot. "

"Still more perfect in here, lazing with Mummy, " said graceless Roy. 

"I disown you, I am ashamed!" Lilámani rebuked him only half in jest. "No more lazing now. I have done with you. Only you have to get me outof this. "

They got her out, between them; fussed over her and laughed at her; andthen went off together for Roy's racquet. 

She stood in the silvery sunlight watching them till they disappearedround the corner of the house. Not surprising that Nevil said--"Nohurry!" If he would only wait. . . ! He was still too young, too much inlove with India--with herself. Yet, had he already begun inditingsonnets, even to the most acceptable eyebrow, her perverse heart woulddoubtless have known the prick of jealousy--as in Desmond's day. 

Instead she suddenly knew the first insidious prick of middle age; feltdazed, for a mere moment, by the careless radiance of their youth; tothem an unconsidered thing: but to those who feel it relentlesslyslipping through their fingers . . . 

Her small fine hands clenched in unconscious response to her thought. She was nearing forty. In her own land she would be reckoned almost anold woman. But some magic in the air and way of life in this cool greenEngland seemed to keep age at bay: and there remained within aflame-like youth of the spirit--not so easy, even for the Arch-Thief tosteal away. . . . 

CHAPTER V. 

 "The bow saith to the arrow, 'Thy freedom is mine. '" --RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

And while Lilámani reasoned with the son--whose twofold nature they hadthemselves bestowed and inspired--Nevil was pacing his shrine of all theharmonies, heart and brain disturbed, as they had not been for years. 

Out of the troubled waters of family friction and delicate adjustments, this adventurous pair had slid into a haven of peace and mutualunderstanding. And now behold, fresh portent of trouble arising from thedual strain in Roy--the focal point of their life and love. 

Turning in his stride, his eye encountered a head and shoulders portraitof his father, Sir George Sinclair: an honest, bluff, unimaginativeface: yet suddenly, arrestingly, it commanded his attention. Checkinghis walk, he stood regarding it: and his heart went out to the kindlyold man in a quite unusual wave of sympathetic understanding. He sawhimself--the "damned unsatisfactory son, " Bohemian and dilettante, frankly at odds with the Sinclair tradition--now standing, more or less, in that father's shoes; his heart centred on the old place and on theboy for whom he held it in trust; and the irony of it twisted his lipsinto a rueful smile. By his own over-concentration on Roy, and hissecret dread of the Indian obsession, he could gauge what his own fathermust have suffered in an aggravated form, blind as he was to any pointof view save his own. And there was Roy--like himself in the twenties, but how much more purposeful!--drawn irresistibly by the lure of thehorizon; a lure bristling with dangers the more insidious because theysprang from the blood in his veins. 

Yet a word of warning, spoken at the wrong moment, in the wrong tone, might be disastrously misunderstood; and the distracting sense of beingpurely responsible for his own trouble, stung him to renewed irritation. All capacity for work had been dispelled by that vexatiously engagingson of his, with his heart in India and his head among the stars. . . . 

Weary of pacing, he took out his pipe and sat down in the window-seat tofill it. He was interrupted by the sound of an unmistakable footstep;and the response of his whole being justified to admiration Lilámani'sassurance that his hidden trouble implied no lightest reflection onherself. Lilámani and irritation simply could not co-exist within him;and he was on his feet when she opened the door. 

She did not come forward at once. Pushing it shut with both hands, shestood so--a hovering question in her eyes. It recalled, with a tenderpang, the earlier days of worshipful aloofness, when only by specialinvitation would she intimately approach her lord. 

That she might guess his thought he held out his arms. "Comealong--English wife!"

It had been their private password. But her small teeth imprisoned herlip. 

"No--King of me--Indian wife: making too much trouble again!"

"Lilámani! How dare you! Come here. "

His attempt at sternness took effect. In one swift rush--sari blownbackward--she came: and he, smitten with self-reproach, folded herclose; while she clung to him in mute passionate response. 

"Beloved, " she whispered. "Not to worry any more in your secret heart. Itold--he understands. "

"Roy----? My darling! But _what_----?" His incoherence was a shamelessadmission of relief. "You couldn't--you haven't told him----?"

"Nevil, I have told him all. I saw lately this trouble in your thoughts:and to-day it came in my mind that only I could speak--could givecommand that--one kind of marriage must _not_ be. "

He drew her closer, and she suppressed a small sigh. 

"Wasn't the boy angry?"

"Only at first--on account of me. He is--so very darling, soworshipping--his foolish little Mother. "

"A weakness he shares with his father, " Nevil assured her: and in thatwhispered confession she had her reward. For after twenty-three years ofmarriage, the note of loverly extravagance is as rare as the note of thecuckoo in July. 

"Sit, little woman. " He drew her down to the window-seat, keeping an armround her. "The relief it is to feel I can talk it all over with youfreely. Where the dickens would we be, Roy and I, without ourinterpreter? And she does it all unbeknownst; like a Brownie. I _have_been worrying lately. The boy's clean gone on his blessed idea. Noreasoning with him; and the modern father doesn't venture to command!It's as much as his place is worth! Yet _we_ see the hidden dangersclearer than he can. Wouldn't it be wiser to apply the curb discreetlybefore he slips off into an atmosphere where all the influences will tugone way?"

It was the sane masculine wisdom of the West. But hers--that wasfeminine and of the East--went deeper. 

"Perhaps it is mother-weakness, " she said, leaning against him andlooking away at a purple cloud that hung low over the moor. "But itseems to me, by putting on the curb, you keep only his body from thoseinfluences. They would tug all the stronger in his soul. Not healthy andalive with joy of action, but cramped up and aching, like your legs whenthere is no room to stretch them. Then there would come impatience, turning his heart more to India, more away from you. Father had thatkind of thwarting when young--so I know. Dearest one, am I too foolish?"

"You are my Wisest of Wise. --Is there more?"

"Yes. It is this. Perhaps, through being young and eager, he will makemistakes; wander too far. But even if he should wander to farthest end, all influence will _not_ tug one way. He will carry in his heart thestar of you and the star of me. These will shine brighter if he knowshow we longed--for ourselves--to keep him here; yet, for himself, we lethim go. I have remembered always one line of poetry you showed me atComo. 'To take by leaving, To hold by letting go. ' That is true truthfor many things. But for parents truest of all. "

High counsel indeed! Good to hear; hard to act upon. NevilSinclair--knowing they would act upon it--let out an involuntary sighand tightened his hold of the gentle, adoring woman, whose spirittowered so far above his own. 

"Lilámani--you've won, " he said, after a perceptible pause. "You deserveto win--and Roy will bless you. It's the high privilege of Mothers, Isuppose, to conjure the moon out of heaven for their sons. "

"Sometimes, by doing so, they nearly break their hearts, " she answeredvery low. 

He stooped and kissed her. "Keep yours intact--for me. I shall need it. "Her fingers closed convulsively on his--"England will seem sort ofempty--without Roy. Is he dead keen on going this autumn?"

"Yes--I am afraid. A little because of young impatience. A littlebecause he is troubled over Dyán; and he has much influence. There areso many now in India dragged two ways. "

Nevil sighed again. "Bless the boy! It's an undeniable risk. And whatthe family will say to our Midsummer madness, God knows! Jane can betrusted to make the deuce of a row. And we can't even smooth matters bytelling her of our private precaution----"

"No--not one little _word_. "

Lilámani sat upright, a gleam of primitive hate in her eyes. 

Nevil smiled, in spite of secret dismay. "You implacable little sinner!Can't you ever forgive her like a Christian?"

"No--not ever. " The tense quiet of her tone carried conviction. "Notonly far-off things, I can never forget--nearly killing me and--and Roy. But because she is always stabbing at me with sharp words and uglythoughts. She cannot ever forgive that I am here--that I make you happy, which she could not believe. She is angry to be put in the wrong by mereHindu wife----" She paused in her vehement rush of speech: saw the lookin Nevil's face that recalled an earlier day; and anger vanished like alight blown out. "King of me--I am sorry. Only--it is true. And _she_ isChristian born. But I--down in my deepest places I am still--Rajputni. Just the same as after twenty-three years of English wife, I am still inmy heart--like the 'Queen who stood erect!'"

On the word she rose and confronted him, smiling into his troubled eyes;grace of girlhood and dignity of womanhood adorably mingled in her pose. 

"Who was she?" Nevil asked, willingly lured from thoughts of Jane. 

"Careless one! Have you forgotten the story of my Wonder-Woman--how aKing, loving his Queen with all his soul, bowed himself in ecstasy, and'took the dust off her feet' in presence of other wives who, fromjealousy, cried: 'Shameless one, lift up the hands of the King to yourhead. ' But the Queen stood erect, smiling gladly. 'Not so: for both feetand head are my Lord's. Can I have aught that is mine?'"

The swiftness of transition, the laughing tenderness of her eyes somoved him--and so potent in her was the magical essence ofwomanhood--that he, Sir Nevil Sinclair, Baronet, of Bramleigh Beeches, came near to taking the dust of her feet in very deed. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Qui n'accepte pas le regret, n'accepte pas la vie. "

Nevil's fears were justified to the full. Lady Roscoe was one of thoseexasperating people of whom one can predict, almost to a word, a look, what their attitude will be on any given occasion. So Nevil, who shirkeda "scene"--above all when conducted by Jane--put off telling her theunwelcome news as long as he dared, without running the dire risk of itsreaching her "round the corner. "

Meantime he was fortified and cheered by a letter from CuthbertBroome--a shrewd, practical letter amounting to a sober confession offaith in Roy the embryo writer, as in Roy the budding man. 

"I don't minimise the risk, " he concluded, with his accustomed frankness(no relation to the engaging candour that dances a war-dance on otherpeople's toes), "but, on broad lines, I hereby record my conviction thatthe son of you two and the grandson of Sir Lakshman Singh can be trustedto go far--to keep his head as well as his feet, even in slipperyplaces. He is eager for knowledge, for work along his own lines. If youdam up this strong current, it may find other outlets, possibly lessdesirable. I came on a jewel the other day. As it's distinctlyapplicable, I pass it on. 

"'The sole wisdom for man or boy who is haunted with the hovering ofunseen wings, with the scent of unseen roses, and the subtle enticementof melodies unheard, is _work_. If he follow any of these, they vanish. If he work, they will come unsought . . . "

"Well, when Roy goes out, I undertake to provide him with work that willkeep his brain alert and his pen busy. That's my proposed contributionto his start in life; and--though I say it!--not to be despised. Tellhim I'll bear down upon the Beeches the first available week-end, andtalk both your heads off!--Yours ever, C. B. "

"After _that_, " was Nevil's heroic conclusion, "Jane can say what shedamn well pleases. "

He broke the news to her forthwith--by post; the usual expedient ofthose who shirk "scenes. " He furthermore took the precaution to add thatthe matter was finally settled. 

She replied next morning--by wire. "Cannot understand. Coming down atonce. "

And, in record time, on the wings of her new travelling car--she came. 

As head of the Sinclair clan--in years and worldly wisdom at least--shecould do no less. From her point of view, it was Nevil's clear duty todiscourage the Indian strain in the boy, as far as that sentimental, headstrong wife of his would permit. But Nevil's sense of duty neededconstant galvanising, lest it die of inanition. It was her sacredmission in life to galvanise it, especially in the matter of Roy; and noone should ever say _she_ shirked a disagreeable obligation. It maysafely be added that no one ever did!

Nevil--who would have given a good deal to be elsewhere--awaited her inthe library: and at the first shock of their encountering glances, hestiffened all through. He was apt to be restive under advice, andrebellious under dictation; facts none knew better than Jane, who throveon advice and dictation--given, not received! She still affected theneat hard coat and skirt and the neat hard summer hat that had sodistressed the awakening beauty-sense of nine-year-old Roy: only, inplace of the fierce wing there uprose in majesty a severely wired bow. Jane was so unvarying, outside and in; a worse failing, almost, in theeyes of this hopelessly artistic household, than her talent forpouncing, or advising or making up other people's minds. 

But to-day, as she glanced round the familiar room, her sigh--halfanger, half bitterness of heart--was genuine. She did care intensely, inher own way, for the brother whom she hectored without mercy. And hetoo cared--in his own way--more than he chose to reveal. But their lovewas a dumb thing, rooted in ancestral mysteries. Their surface clash oftemperament was more loquacious. 

"I suppose we're fairly safe from interruption?" she asked, with ominousemphasis; and Nevil gravely indicated the largest leather chair. 

"I believe the others are out, " he said, half sitting on the edge of thewriting-table and proceeding to light a cigarette. "But, upon my soul, Idon't know _why_ you put yourself out to come down all this way when Itold you plainly everything was fixed up. "

"You thought I'd swallow that--and keep my mouth shut?" she retorted, bristling visibly. "_I'm_ no fool, Nevil, if _you_ are. I _told_ you howit would be, when you went out in '99. You wouldn't listen then. Perhapsyou'll at least have the sense to listen _now_?"

Nevil shrugged. "As you've come all this way for the satisfaction ofairing your views--I've not much choice in the matter. "

And the latitude, thus casually given, she took in full measure. Fortwenty minutes, by the clock, she aired her views in a stream ofvigorous colloquial English, lapsing into ready-made phrases ofmelodrama, common to the normally inexpressive, in moments ofexcitement. . . . 

To the familiar tuning-up process, Nevil listened unmoved. But his angerrose with her rising eloquence:--the unwilling anger of a cool man, moreformidable than mere temper. 

Such fine distinctions, however, were unknown to Jane. If you were in atemper, you were in a temper. That was flat. And she rather wanted torouse Nevil's. Heated opposition would stiffen her own. . . . 

"India of all countries in the world!" she culminated--a desperate noteinvading her wrath. "The one place where he should _not_ be allowed tosow his wild oats--if the modern anćmic young man has enough red bloodin his veins--for that sort of thing. And it's your obvious duty to bequite frank with him on the subject. If you had an ounce of common-sensein your make-up, you'd see it for yourself. But I always say the cleverpeople are the biggest fools. And Roy's in the same boat--being yourson. No ballast. All in the clouds. _That's_ the fruits of Lil's fancyeducation. And you can't say I didn't warn you. What he needs isdiscipline--a tight hand. Why not one of the Services? If he gets bittenwith India--at his age, it's quite on the cards that he may go turningHindu--or even repeat _your_ folly----"

She paused, simply for lack of breath--and became suddenly alive to theset stillness of her brother's face. 

"_My_ folly--as you are pleased to call it, " he said with concentratedscorn, "has incidentally made our name famous, and cleared the old placeof mortgage. For that reason alone, you might have the grace to refrainfrom insulting my wife. "

She flung up her head, like a horse at a touch of the curb. 

"Oh, if it's an insult to speak the simple truth, I'm _quite_ out of it. I never could call spades agricultural instruments: and I can't startnew habits at my time of life. I don't deny you've made a good thing outof your pictures. But no one in their senses _could_ call your marriagean act of wisdom. "

Nevil winced visibly. "I married for the only defensible reason, " hesaid, in a low controlled voice. "And events have more than justifiedme. "

"Possibly--so far as _you're_ concerned. But you can't get over the factthat--even if Roy marries the best blood of England--his son may revertto type. Dr Simons tells me----"

"_Will_ you hold your tongue!" Nevil blazed out, in a white fury. "I'llthank you _not_ to discuss my affairs--or Roy's--with your damnedDoctor. And the subject's barred between us--as you're very well aware. "

She blenched at the force and fire of his unexpected onslaught, neverdreaming how deeply her thrust had gone home. 

"Goodness knows it's as painful for me as it is for you----"

"I didn't say it was painful. I said it was barred. "

"Well, you goad me into it, with your unspeakable folly; too much underLil's thumb to check Roy, even for his own good. For heaven's sake, Nevil, put your foot down firmly, for once, and reverse your crazydecision. "

He gave her a long, direct look. "Sorry to disappoint, after all thetrouble you've taken, " he said in a level tone, "but I've already toldyou the matter's settled. My foot is down on that as firmly as even_you_ could wish. "

"You _mean_ it?" she gasped, too incredulous for wrath. 

"I mean it. "

"Yet you see the danger?"

"I see the danger. "

The fact that he would not condescend to lie to her eased a little herbitter sense of defeat. 

She rose awkwardly--all of a piece. 

"Then I have no more to say. I wash my hands of you all. Until you cometo your senses, I don't cross this threshold again. "

In spite of the threadbare phrases, genuine pain vibrated in her tone. 

"Don't rant, old thing. You know you'll never keep it up, " Nevil urgedmore gently than he had spoken yet. 

But anger still dominated pain. 

"When _I_ say a thing, I mean it, " she retorted stiffly, "as you willfind to your cost. " Without troubling to answer, he lunged for the doorhandle; but she waved him aside. "All humbug--playing atpoliteness--when you've spurned my advice. "

"As you please. " He stood back for her to pass. "Sorry it's upset youso. But we'll see you here again--when you've got over it. "

"The _boy_ would have got over it in no time, " she flung back at himfrom the threshold. "Mark my words, disaster will come of it. Thenperhaps you'll admit I was right. "

He felt no call to argue that point. She was gone. . . . And she hadcarefully refrained from slamming the door. Somehow that trifling act ofrestraint impressed him with a sense of finality oddly lacking in herdramatic asseveration. 

He stood a few moments staring at the polished oak panels. Then heturned back and sat down in the chair she had occupied; and all theinner tension of the last hour went suddenly, completely to pieces. . . . 

It was the penalty of his artist nature, this sharp nervous reactionfrom strain; and with it came crowding back all the insidious doubts andanxieties that even Lilámani's wisdom had not entirely charmed away. Hefelt torn at the moment between anger with Roy for causing all thispother; and anger with Jane, who, for all her lack of tenderness andtact, was right--up to a point. It was just Family Herald heroics about"not crossing the threshold. " At least--rather to his surprise--he foundhimself half hoping it was. Roy and Lilámani could frankly detesther--and there an end. Nevil--in spite of unforgiveable interludes--wasliable to be tripped up by the fact that, after all, she was his sister;and her aggression was proof that, in her own queer fashion, she lovedhim. Half the trouble was that the love of each for the other tookprecisely the form that other could least appreciate or understand: nouncommon dilemma in family life. At all events, he had achieved hisdeclaration of independence. And he had not failed to evoke the "deuceof a row. "

With a sigh of smothered exasperation, he leaned forward and hid hisface in his hands. . . . 

The door opened softly. He started and looked up. It was Roy--inflannels and blazer, his dark hair slightly ruffled: considereddispassionately (and Nevil believed he so considered him) a singularlyindividual and attractive figure of youth. 

At the look in his father's face, he hesitated, wrinkling his brows in away that recalled his mother. 

"Anything wrong, Daddums? I'm fearfully sorry. I came for a book. Isit"--still further hesitation--"Aunt Jane?"

"Why? Have you seen her?" Nevil asked sharply. 

"Yes. Was it a meteoric visitation? As I came up the path, she wasgetting into her car. --And she cut me dead!" He seemed more amused thanimpressed. Then the truth dawned on him. "Dad--_have_ you been tellingher? _Is_ she 'as frantic as a skit'?"

Their favourite Hardy quotation moved Nevil to a smile. "She'sangry--naturally--because she wasn't consulted, " he said (a happy idea). "And--well, she doesn't understand. "

"'Course she doesn't. Can she ever?" retorted impertinent youth. "Shelacks the supreme faculty--imagination. " Which was disrespectful, butunanswerable. 

Nevil had long ago recognised the futility of rebuke in the matter of"Aunt Jane"; and it was a relief to find the boy took it that way. So hesmiled, merely--or fancied he did. But Roy was quick-sighted; and hisfirst impression had dismayed him. 

No hesitation now. He came forward and laid a hand on his father'sshoulder. "Dads, don't get worrying over me--out there, " he said withshy tenderness that was balm after the lacerating scene Nevil had justpassed through. "That'll be all right. Mother explained--beautifully. "

But louder than Roy's comfortable assurance sounded within him theparting threat of Jane: "Disaster will come of it. _Then_ perhaps you'lladmit I was right. " It shook the foundations of courage. He simply couldnot stand up to the conjunction of disaster--and Roy. With an effort hefreed himself of the insidious thing, --and just then, to his immensesurprise, Roy stooped and kissed the top of his head. 

"Confound Aunt Jane! She's been bludgeoning you. And you _are_ worrying. You mustn't--I tell you. Bad for your work. Look here"--a portentouspause. "Shall I chuck it--for the present, anyhow?"

The parental attitude of the modern child has its touching aspect. Nevillooked up to see if Roy were chaffing; and there smote him the queerillusion (rarer now, but not extinct) of looking into his own eyes. 

Roy had spoken on impulse--a noble impulse. But he patently meant whathe said, this boy stigmatised by Jane as "all in the clouds, " andneeding a "tight hand. " Here was one of those "whimsical and perilousmoments of daily life" that pass in a breath; light as thistledown, heavy with complex issues. To Nevil it seemed as if the gods, withironical gesture, handed him the wish of his heart, saying: "It isyours--if you are fool enough to take it. " Stress of thought so warredin him that he came to himself with a fear of having hurt the boy byungracious silence. 

The pause, in fact, had been so brief that Roy had only just becomeaware that his cherished dream was actually trembling in thebalance--when Nevil stood up and faced him, flatly defying Jane andOlympian irony. 

"My dear old boy, you shall _not_ chuck it, " he said with smilingdecision. "I've never believed in the older generation being a drag onthe wheel. And now it's my turn, I must play up. What's life worthwithout a spice of risk? I took my own--a big one--family or no----"

He broke off--and Roy filled the gap. "You mean--marrying Mother?"

"Yes--just that, " he admitted frankly. "The greatest bit of luck in mylife. She shared the risk--a bigger one for her. And I'm damned if we'llcheat you of yours. There's a hidden key somewhere that most of us haveto find. Yours may be in India--who knows?"

He spoke rapidly, as if anxious to convince himself no less than theboy. And he had his reward. 

"Dad--you're simply stunning--you two, " Roy said quietly, but with clearconviction. 

At that moment the purring of the gong vibrated through the house, andhe slipped a hand through his father's arm. "That reminds me--I'm_starving_ hungry! If they're still out, let's be bold, and propitiatethe teapot on our own!"

Lady Roscoe was, after all, a benefactor in her own despite. Hermeteoric visitation had drawn these two closer together than they hadbeen since schoolroom days. 

CHAPTER VII

 "Ce que nous quittons c'est une partie de nous męme. II faut mourir ŕ une vie, pour entrer dans une autre. "--ANATOLE FRANCE. 

After all, human perversity decreed it should be Roy himself who shrankmost acutely from the wrench of parting, when it loomed near enough tobring him down from Pisgah heights to the dust of the actual. 

Dyán was overjoyed, of course, and untroubled by qualms. Towards the endof July, he and Arúna came for a brief visit. His excuses for itsbrevity struck Roy as a trifle 'thin'; but Dyán kept his secret and paidTara Despard the compliment of taking her answer as final. 

It was during his visit that Roy suffered the first incipient qualms;the first sharp contact with practical details:--date of sailing, details of outfit, the need for engaging a passage betimes. As regardshis destination, matters were simplified by the fact that the newResident of Jaipur, Colonel Vincent Leigh, C. S. I. , D. S. O. , veryconsiderately happened to be the husband of Desmond's delightful sisterThea. The schoolboy link between Lance and Roy had created a lastingfriendship between their respective families; and it was General SirTheo Desmond--now retired--who had invited Roy, in the name of his'Twin, ' to start with an unlimited visit to the Leighs; the sort ofcasual elastic visit that no one would dream of proposing outsideIndia, --unless it were Ireland, of an earlier, happier day. The prospectwas a secret consolation to Roy. It was also a secret jar to find heneeded every ounce of consolation available. 

Very carefully he hid his ignominious frame of mind--even from hismother; though she probably suspected it and would not fail tounderstand. What, precisely, would life be worth without that dear, daily intimacy--life uncoloured by the rainbow-tinted charm of hergentle, passionate, humorous, delicately-poised personality? Relationsof such rare quality exact their own pitiless price; and the womaninfluence would always be, for Roy--as for most men of genuine gifts andhigh purpose--his danger point or salvation. The dim and distantprospect of parting was thinkable--though perturbing. But all this talkof steamers and outfits startlingly illumined the fact that in Octoberhe was actually going--to the other end of the earth. 

 * * * * *

With Dyán's departure, realisation pounced upon his heart and brain. Vaguely, and quite unjustly, he felt as if his cousin were in some wayto blame; and for the moment, he was not sorry to be rid of him. Partings over, he went off for a lone prowl--hatless, as usual--to quiethis jangling sensations and tell that inner, irresolute Roy not to be atreble-distilled fool. . . . 

Nothing like the open moor to clear away cobwebs. The sweeps of headycolour and blue distances could be trusted to revive the winged impulsethat lured him irresistibly away from the tangible and assured. Is thereno hidden link--he wondered--between the wander-instinct of thehome-loving Scot and the vast spaces of moor and sky that lie about himin his infancy. . . ?

But first he must traverse the enchanted green gloom of his beech-wood, memory-haunted at every turn. Under his favourite tree, a wooden cross, carved by Tara and himself, marked the grave of Prince, dead these threeyears of sheer old age. And at sight of it there sprang to memory thatunforgotten day of May, --the fight with Joe; Tara's bracelet, stilltreasured in his letter-case, even as Tara treasured the "broideredbodice, " in a lavender-scented sachet, set apart from mere blouses andscarves. . . . 

And again that troublesome voice within urged--"What an utter fool youare--running away from them all. "

To him had fallen the privilege of knowing family life at its best--thefinest and happiest on earth; and he could not escape the priceexacted, when the call comes to act and decide and suffer alone. Associations that grow up with us are more or less taken for grantedwhile their roots lie deep in the heart. Only when the threat of partingdisturbs the delicate fibres, their depth and tenacity are revealed. Andso it was with Roy. Hurrying through his wood of knightly adventures hefelt besieged, in spirit, by the many loves that had hitherto simplybeen a part of his life; yet to-day pressed urgently, individually, uponhis consciousness, his heart. . . . 

And over against them was the counter-pull of deep ancestral stirrings;large vague forces of the outer world; the sense of ferment everywhere;of storm-clouds on the greater horizon, big with dramas that might rockthe spheres. . . . 

All these challenging forces seemed to dwarf his juvenile agitations;even to arraign his own beautiful surroundings as almost too peaceful, too perfect. Life could not be altogether made up of goodness andsweetness and poetry and philosophy. Somewhere--remote, unseen, implacable--there must lurk strong things, big things, perhaps inimicalthings, waiting to pounce on him, to be tackled and overcome. Anyhowthere could be no question, after all his vapourings, of playing thefool and backing out----

He was on the ridge now; clear space all about him, heather underfoot;his stride keeping pace with the march of his thoughts. Risks. . . ? Ofcourse there were risks. He recognised that more frankly now; and thetalk with his mother had revealed a big one that had not so much asoccurred to him. For Broome was right. Concentration on her had, in asense, delayed his emotional development; had kept him--for all hisartistry and his First in Greats--very much a boy at heart. Certainly, Arúna's grace and gaiety had struck him more consciously during thislast visit. No denying, the Eastern element had its perilousfascination. And the Eastern element was barred. As for Tara--sister andfriend and High Tower Princess in one--she was as much a part of home ashis mother and Christine. He had simply not seen her yet as a buddingwoman. He had, in fact, been too deeply absorbed in Oxford and writingand his dream, and the general deliciousness of life, to challenge thefuture definitely, except in the matter of going to India, somewhen, somehow. . . . 

Lost in the swirl of his thoughts and the exhilaration of light andcolour, he forgot all about tea-time. . . . 

It was after five when, at last, he swung round the yew hedge on to thelong lawn; and there, at the far end, was Tara, evidently sent out tofind him. She was wearing her delphinium frock and the big blue hat withits single La France rose. She walked pensively, her head bowed; and, inthat moment, by some trick of sense or spirit, he saw her vividly, asshe was. He saw the grace of her young slenderness, the wild-flowercolouring, the delicate aquiline of her nose that revealed breeding andcharacter; the mouth that even in repose seemed to quiver withsensibility. And he thought: "Good Lord! How lovely she is!"

Of course he had known it always--at the back of his mind. The odd thingwas, he had never thought it, in so many words, before. And from thethought sprang an inspiration. If only _she_ could come out withthem--for a time, at least. So imbued was he with a sense of theirbrother and sister relation, that the idea seemed as natural as if ithad concerned Christine. He had certainly been aware, the last year orso, of a gossamer veil dropped between them. He attributed this to meregrown-up-ness; but it made him feel appreciably shy at thought ofbroaching his brilliant idea. 

She raised her head at that point; saw him, and waved a commanding hand. Impelled by eagerness, he condescended to hurry. 

"Casual demon--what _have_ you been up to?" she greeted him with mockseverity. 

"Prowling on the ridge. It was gorgeous up there, " he answered, noticingin detail the curve of her eyelid and thick dark lashes. 

"Well, tea's half cold and most of it eaten; and Aunt Lila seemedwondering a little. So I offered to go and unearth you. "

"How could you tell?"

A dimple dipped in one cheek. "I couldn't! I was going to the wood, onchance. Come along. "

"No hurry. If tea's half cold, it can wait a bit longer. " He drew abreath, nerving himself; then: "Tara--I've got a proposal to make. "

"Roy!" Her lips quivered, just perceptibly, and were still. 

"Well, it's this. Wouldn't it be splendid if _you_ came along out--withus three?"

"Roy!" It was a changed intonation. "That's _not_ a subject for apractical joke. "

"But I'm in earnest. High Tower Princess, wouldn't you love to come?"

"Of course I would. " Was it his fancy, or did the blood stir ever solittle in her cheeks? "But it's utterly, crazily impossible. The sort ofthing only _you_ would suggest. So please let be--and come along in. "

"Not till you promise. I'm dead set on this. And I'm going to have itout with you. "

"Well, you won't have _me_ out with you--if you talk till midnight. "

"Why not?"

Her smile had its delicious tremulous quality. "Were you twenty-one lastbirthday--or twelve? If you think you'll be lonely, ask for Christine. She's your sister--I'm not!"

The emphasis and faint inflection of the last words had their intendedeffect. Roy's face fell. "O-oh, I see. But you've always been my sort ofsister. Thea would understand. And nowadays girls do all sorts ofthings. "

"Yes--they do!" Tara agreed demurely. "They scratch faces and burn downbeautiful harmless houses. But they don't happen to belong to mother. Roy--it's what I said--crazily--utterly---- If it wasn't, d'you supposeI'd say No?"

Then Roy knew he was beaten. Also he knew she was right and that he hadbeen an impulsive fool--depressing convictions both. For a moment hestood nonplussed while Tara fingered a long chain he had given her, andabsently studied a daisy-plant that had dared to invade the oldest, loveliest lawn in that part of the country. 

But Roy was little used to being thwarted--by home elements, at least:and when an idea seized him he could be pertinacious, even to the pointof folly. He was determined Tara should come with him. And Tara wantedto come. Add her permanent dearness and her newly-found loveliness, andthere sprang from the conjunction a second inspiration, even bolder thanthe first. 

"Tara--dear, " he ventured, in a changed tone that halted betweentenderness and appeal. "I'm going to say--something tremendous. "

She deserted the daisy and faced him, blue eyes wide; her tell-talelower lip drawn in. 

"Would it be--quite so 'crazily--utterly'--if . . . Well, if we wereengaged?"

The tremendous word was out; and the effect on her was unmistakable. Colour stirred visibly in her face. She straightened herself with an airthat seemed physically to increase the distance between them. 

"Really, Roy--have you _quite_ lost your senses to-day?"

He looked--and felt--crestfallen. "But, Tara, " he urged, "it's such asupreme idea. Wouldn't you--think of it, ever? We'd fit like a pair ofgloves. Mummy would love it--extravagantly. And we've been kindof--caring all these years. At least"--sudden doubt assailed him--"Isuppose you _do_ care still--a little bit?"

"Silly boy! Of course I--care . . . A lot. "

That was more like the Tara he knew. "Very well. _Why_ accuse me ofincipient lunacy? I care, too. Always have done. Think how topping itwould be, you and I together, exploring all the wonderland of our Gameand Mummy's tales--Udaipur, Amber, Chitor, perhaps the shrine of thereal Tara----"

Still demurely distant, she thought "how topping it would be"; and thethought kept her silent so long that he grew impatient. 

"High Tower Princess--do give over. Your grown-up airs are awfullysweet--but not to the point. You are coming? It'll spoil everything now, if you don't. "

She shook her head with a small wise smile that seemed to push him awayfrom her, gently yet inexorably; to make him feel little more than aschoolboy confronted by a woman; very young in her new shyness anddignity, but still--a woman. 

"No, Roy--I'm not coming. It's--dear of you to want me. But I can't--forlots of reasons. So please understand, once for all. And don't fuss. "

"But you said--you cared, " Roy murmured blankly. 

"Of course I do. Only--there's caring--and caring . . . Since you make mesay it. You must know that by now. Anyway, I know we simply can't getmarried just because we're very fond of each other and it would please'Mummy' and be convenient for India. "

Roy sighed portentously. He found himself feeling younger and youngerwith every smiling, reasonable word she uttered. It was all so unlikehis eager, fiery Tara that perplexity tempered a little his genuinedismay. 

"I s'pose you're right, " he grudgingly admitted. "But I'm fearfullydisappointed. "

"You are now. You won't be afterwards. It's not marrying time foryou--yet. You've lots of big things to do first. Go out to India and dothem. Then--when the time really comes, you'll understand--and you'll begrateful to me--for understanding now. There, what a lecture! But thepoint is--we can't: and I won't be badgered about it. _I'm_ going backto tea; and if you don't come, I'll have to tell Aunt Lila--why?"

He sighed. "I'll probably tell her myself to-night. Would you mind?"

"N-no, she'll understand. "

"Bet she won't. "

"She will. You're not the only person the darling understands, thoughyou _are_ her spoilt boy. "

She swung round on that impetuous little speech, more like her normalself; and her going was so swift that Roy had some ado to keep pace withher. He had still more ado to unravel his own tangle of thought andemotion. A few clear points emerged from a chaos of sensations, likemountain peaks out of a mist. He knew she was all of a suddendistractingly lovely; that her charm and obstinacy combined hadthoroughly churned him up; that all the same, she was right about hisunreadiness for marrying now; that he hoped she didn't utterly despisehim; that he hated the idea of leaving her more than ever. . . . 

Her pace, perhaps intentionally, made talk difficult; and he still had alot to say. 

"Tara--why _are_ you sprinting like this?" he broke out, reproachfully. "Are you angry with me?"

She vouchsafed him a small smile. 

"Not yet. But I soon will be, if you don't take care. And I'm dangerousin a temper!"

"Don't I know that? I once had a scratch that didn't heal for a month. But do walk slower. You're not chucking me--for good--eh?"

She slowed down a little, perforce; needing her breath for this new andhopelessly intractable Roy. 

"Really, I've never known you ask so many foolish questions in one hourbefore. You must have drunk some potion up on the moor! Have youforgotten you're my Bracelet-bound Brother?"

"But that doesn't bar--the other thing. It's not one of the Prayer-bookaffinities! I say, Tara--you might promise to think it over. If youcan't do that much, I won't believe you care a bean about me, for allyou say----"

Her blue eyes flashed at that--genuine fire; and she stood still again, confronting him. 

"Roy--be _quiet_! You make me furious. I want to slap you. First yousuggest a perfectly crazy plan; then you worry me into a temper bybehaving like a spoilt boy, who won't take 'No' for an answer. "

Roy straightened himself sharply. "I'm not spoilt--and I'm not a boy. I'm a man. "

"Well then, try and _behave_ like one. "

The moment her impulsive retort was spoken, she saw how sharply she hadhurt him, and, with a swift softening of her expressive face, she flungout a hand. He held it hard. And suddenly she leaned nearer; her lipstremulous; her eyes melting into a half smile. 

"Roy--darling, " she murmured, barely above her breath. "You arereally--a little bit of all three. That's part of your deliciousness andtroublesomeness. And it's not your fault--the spoiling. We've allhelped. I've been as bad as the others. But this time--please believe--Isimply, utterly can't--even for you. "

Words went from him. He could only cling to her hand. 

But with a deft movement she freed herself--and fled round the corner ofthe house; leaving him in a state of confusion worse confounded, to seekhis mother and the outraged teapot--alone. 

He found her, companioned by the ruins of tea, in the depths of hergreat arm-chair; eyes and fingers intent on a square of elaborateembroidery; thoughts astray with her unpunctual son. 

Bramleigh Beeches drawing-room--as recreated by Sir Nevil Sinclair forhis Indian bride--was a setting worthy of its mistress: lofty andspacious, light filled by three tall French windows, long gold curtainsshot through with bronze; gold and cream colour the prevailing tone;ivory, brass, and bronze the prevailing incidentals, mainly Indian; andflowers in profusion--roses, lilies, sweet-peas. Yet, in the midst of itall, the spirit of Lilámani Sinclair was restless, lacking the son, ofwhom, too soon, both she and her home would be bereft----

At the sound of his step she looked up. 

"Wicked one! What came to you?"

Impossible to hide from her the disarray of his emotions. So he spokethe simple truth. 

"Tara came to me----! I'd been prowling on the moor, and forgetting thetime. I met her on the lawn----"

"Yes--where is she?--And you----?"

He caught the note of apprehension. Next moment he was kneeling by herchair, confessing all. 

"Mummy, I've just asked her--to marry me. And she simply . . . Won't hearof it. I thought it would be so lovely, going out together--that itwould please you so----"

The smile in her eyes recalled Tara's own. "Did you say it that way--toher, my darling?"

"No--not exactly. Naturally I did mention you--and India. She admitsshe's fond of me. Yet she got quite angry. I can't make her out. "

A faintly aggrieved note in his voice, implied expectation of sympathy. To his inexpressible surprise she said pensively, as if to herself:"Such a wise Tara!"

"Well, _I_ don't see where the wisdom comes in, " he muttered a trifledisconcerted. 

"Not yet, son of my heart. Some day perhaps when your eyes are not toodazzled from the many-coloured sparkle of youth--of yourself--you willsee--many surprises. You are not yet ready for a wife, Roy. Your heartis reaching out to far-away things. That--_she_ has been woman enough toguess. "

"Perhaps, I'm not so sure. She seemed--not a bit like herself, part ofthe time. " He looked pensively at a slim vase overflowing with sprays ofblush rambler, that, for some reason, evoked a tantalising vision of thegirl who had so suddenly blossomed into a woman; and his shy, lurkingthought found utterance: "I've been wondering, Mummy, is it . . . Can shebe--in love with somebody else? Do you think she is?"

Lilámani shook her head at him. "That is a man's question! Hard to tell. At this kind of age, when girls have so much character--like myTara--they have a natural instinct for hiding the thoughts of theirhearts. " She dropped her needlework now and lightly took his headbetween her hands, looking deep into his eyes. "Do you think _you_ areyet--in love with her, Roy? Honest answer. "

The touch of her hands stirred him all through. The question in her eyesprobed deep. 

"Honest answer, Mummy--I'm blest if I know, " he said slowly. "I don'tthink I've ever been so near it before; beyond thrills at dances . . . Andall that. She somehow churned me up just now and made me want hertremendously. But I truly hadn't thought of it--that way, before. And--Idid feel it might ease you and Dad about . . . The other thing, if I wentout fixed up. "

She drew his head to her and kissed him, then let her hands fall in herlap. "Wonderful Sonling! Indeed it _would_ ease me and please me--ifcoming from the true motive. Only remember, so long as you are thinkingfirst of me, you can be sure That Other has not yet arrived. "

"But I shall always think first of you, " he declared, catching at herhands. "There's no one like you. There never will be. "

"No--not like, but different--in clearness and nearness. Love is one bigimpulse, but many forms. Like white light made from many colours. Norival for me, That Other; but daughter-in-law--best gift a son can bringto his father's house. Just now there is room inside you only for onebig thing--India. "

"And you----"

"But I am India. "

"Sublimated essence of it, according to Jeffers. "

"Jeffers says many foolish things!" But she did not disguise herpleasure. 

"I've noticed occasional flashes of wisdom!--But, I say, Motherling, what price tea?"

"Tea?" She feigned exaggerated surprise. "I thought you were much toofar in the clouds!"

"On the contrary. I'm simply famished!"

And forthwith he fell upon a plate of sugar cakes; while she rang forthe fresh teapot, so often in requisition for 'Mr Roy. '

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "Comfort, content, delight, the ages' slow-bought gain, They shrivelled in a night. Only ourselves remain To face the naked days in silent fortitude. Through perils and dismays renewed and re-renewed. " --KIPLING. 

Nevil was up in town on business; not returning till next day. Thepapers were seething with rumours; but the majority of everyday people, immersed in their all-important affairs, continued cheerfully to hopeagainst hope. Sir Nevil Sinclair was not of these; but he kept his worstqualms to himself. Neither his wife nor his son were keen newspaperreaders; which, in his opinion, was just as well. 

Certainly it did not occur to Lilámani that any trouble in Europe couldinvade the sanctities of her home, or affect the shining destiny of Roy. That he was destined to shine, her mother's heart knew beyond all doubt. And round that knowledge, like an aura, glimmered a dreamlike hope thatperhaps his shining might some day, in some way, strengthen the bondbetween Nevil's people and her own. For the problem of India's changingrelation to England lay intimately near her heart. Her poetic brain sawEngland always as "husband of India"; while misguided or maliciousmeddlers--who would "make the Mother a widow"--were fancifullyincorporated in the person of Jane. And, in this matter of India, Royhad triumphed over Jane:--surely good omens, for bigger things:--for atheart she was still susceptible to omens; more so than she cared toadmit. Crazy mother-arrogance, Nevil would say. But she seemed to feelthe spirit of his grandfather at work in Roy; and well she knew that theold man's wisdom would guide and temper his young zeal. Beyond that, nohuman eyes could see; only the too-human heart of a mother could dreamand hope. . . . 

Long ago her father had told her that nations had always been renewed byindividuals; that India--aristocratic to the deeps of her Brahmin-riddensoul--would never acknowledge the crowd's unstable sway. For her it mustalways be the _man_--ruler, soldier, or saint. 

Not that she had breathed a word of her 'arrogance' to Nevil, or even toRoy. Nor had she shown to either a certain letter from a distinguishedIndian woman; pure Indian by birth; also by birth a Christian; hersympathy with East and West as evenly poised as Lilámani's own. Theletter lived in a slim blue bag, lovingly embroidered. Lilámani--foolishand fanciful--wore it like a talisman, next her heart; and at nightslipped it under her pillow with her gold watch and wisp of scentedlawn. 

To-night, being alone, and her mind very full of Roy, she drew it outand re-read it for the hundredth time; lingering, as always, on itsarresting finale. 

"I have seen much and grieved more over the problem of the Eurasian, asmultiplied in our beloved country--the fruit, most often, of promiscuousunions between low-caste types on both sides, with sense of stigma addedto drag them lower still. But where the crossing is of highest caste--aswith you and your 'Nevil'--I can see no stigma; perhaps even spiritualgain to your children. For I love both countries with my whole heart. And to my love God has given the vision that India may some day be savedby the son of just such a union as your own. He will have the strengthof his handicap; the soul of the East; the forceful mind and characterof the West. He will bring to the task of uniting them such twofold loveand understanding that the world must needs take infection. What if theultimate meaning of British occupation of India be just this--that thesuccessor of Buddha should be a man born of high-caste, high-mindedBritish and Indian parents; a fusion of the finest that East and Westcan give. That vision may inspire you in your first flush of happymotherhood. So I feel impelled to pass it on . . . "

Such a vision--whether fantasy or prophecy--could not fail to stirLilámani Sinclair's Eastern heart to its depths. But she shrank fromsceptical comment; and sceptical Nevil would surely be. As for Roy, intuition warned her it was too heady an idea to implant in his ardentbrain. So she treasured it secretly, and read it at intervals, andprayed that, some day, it might be fulfilled--if not through her, thenthrough some other Lilámani, who should find courage to link her lifewith England. Above all, she prayed he who should achieve India'srenewal might spring from Rajasthán. . . . 

In the midst of her thinking and praying, she fell sound asleep--todream of Roy tossed out of reach on the waves of some large vagueupheaval. The 'how' and 'why' of it all eluded her. Only the vividimpression remained. . . . 

 * * * * *

And before the week was out, an upheaval, actual and terrible, burstupon a startled, unheeding world; a world lulled into a false sense ofsecurity; and too strenuously engaged in rushing headlong round acentrifugal point called 'progress, ' to concern itself with a mythicalperil across the North Sea. 

But at the first clear note of danger, devotees of pleasure and progressand the franchise were transformed, as by magic, into a crowd ofbewildered, curious and resentful human beings, who had suddenly losttheir bearings; who snatched at newspapers; confided in perfectstrangers; protested that a European War was unspeakable, unthinkable, and all the while could speak and think of nothing else. . . . 

It was the nightmare terror of earthquake, when the solid groundunderfoot turns traitor. And it shook even the stoutest nerves in theopening weeks of the Great War, destined to shatter their dear andfamiliar world for months, years, decades perhaps. . . . 

But underlying all the froth and fume of the earlier restlessness, ofthe later fear and futility, the strong, kindly, imperturbable heart ofthe land still beat, sanely--if inconspicuously--in the home life of hercottages and her great country houses. Twentieth-century England couldnot be called degenerate while she counted among her hidden treasureshomes of such charm and culture and mutual confidence as those thatproduced the Grenfells, the Charltons, a Lord Elcho, an Edward Tennantand a Charles Sorley--to pick a few names at random from that galaxy of'golden boys' who ungrudgingly gave their lives--for what?

The answer to that staggering question is not yet. But the splendour oftheir gift remains: a splendour no after-failure can tarnish or dim . . . 

To the inmates of Bramleigh Beeches--Nevil excepted--the crash came withstartling abruptness; dwarfing all personal problems, heart-searchingsand high decisions. Even Lady Roscoe forgot Family Herald heroics, and'crossed the threshold' without comment from Nevil or herself. Theweightiest matters became suddenly trivial beside the tremendousquestions that hovered in every mind and on every tongue: 'Can We holdThem?' 'Can They invade Us?' 'Can it be true--this whispered horror, that rumoured disaster?' And the test question--most tremendous of all, for the mere unit--'Where do _I_ come in?'

Nevil came in automatically through years of casual connection with theArtists' Rifles. He was a Colonel by now; and would join up as a matterof course--to his wife's secret amazement and far from secret pride. Without an ounce of the soldier in him, he acted on instinct like mostEnglishmen; not troubling to analyse motives; simply in the spirit of_Noblesse oblige_; or, in the more casual modern equivalent--'one justdoes. '

Roy--poet and dreamer--became electrically alive to his double heritageof the soldier spirit. From age to age the primeval link between poetand warrior is reaffirmed in time of war: and the Rajput in himrecognised only one way of fighting worthy the name--the triuneconjunction of man and horse and sword. Disillusion, strange andterrible, awaited him on that score: and as for India--what need of hisyoung activities, when the whole Empire was being welded into oneresistant mass by the triple hammer-strokes of a common danger, a commonenemy, a common aim?

It was perhaps this sense of a clear call in an age of intellectualferment, of sex problems and political friction, that sent so manyunlikely types of manhood straight as arrows to that universaltarget--the Front. The War offered a high and practical outlet for theirdumb idealism; to their realism, it offered the 'terrific verities offatigue, suffering, bodily danger--beloved life and staggering death. '

For Roy, Cavalry was a matter of course. In the saddle, even Jane couldfind no fault with him; little guessing that, in his genius forhorsemanship, he was Rajput to the marrow. His compact, nervous make, strong thigh and light hand, marked him as the inevitable centaur; andhe had already gained a measure of distinction in the cavalry arm of theOfficers' Training Corps. But a great wish to keep in touch with hisfather led him to fall in with Sir Nevil's suggestion that he shouldstart in the Artists' Rifles and apply for a transfer later on--when onecould see more clearly how this terrific business was likely to develop. George and Jerry--aged fifteen and sixteen and a half--raged at theirown futile juvenility--which, in happier circumstances, nothing wouldhave induced them to admit. Jerry--a gay and reckless being--had felldesigns on the Flying Corps, the very first moment he could 'wangle it. 'George--the truest Sinclair of them all--sagely voted for the Navy, because it took you young. But no one heeded them very much. They wereall too absorbed in newspapers and their own immediate plans. 

And Lilámani, also, found her niche, when the King's stirringproclamation announced the coming of Indian troops. There was to be acamp on the estate. Later on, there would be convalescents. Meantime, there was wholesale need of 'comforts' to occupy her and Helen andChristine. 

Tara's soaring ambition would carry her farther afield. Her spirit offlame--that rose instinctively to tragic issues and heroicdemands--could be at peace nowhere but in the splendid, terrible, unorganised thick of it all. Without making any ado, she proposed to getthere in the shortest possible time; and, in the shortest possible time, by sheer concentration and hard work, she achieved her desire. BeforeRoy left England, before her best-loved brother--a man of brilliantpromise--had finished learning to fly, she was driving her car inBelgium, besieged in Antwerp, doing and enduring terrible things . . . 

After Tara, Nevil--for the Artists' Rifles were early in the field. After Nevil, Roy--his exchange effected--very slim and soldierly incavalry uniform; his grey-blue eyes, with the lurking gleam in them, more than ever noticeable in his sunburnt face. 

The last day, the last hour were at once sad and glad beyond belief; sothat Lilámani's coward heart was thankful for urgent trifles that helpedto divert attention from the waiting shadow. Even to-day, as always, dress and sari were instinctively chosen to express her mood:--themother-of-pearl mood; iridescence of glad and sad: glad to give; yetaching to keep. Daughter of Rajputs though she was, she had her momentof very human shrinking when the sharp actuality of parting was uponthem; when he held her so close and long that she felt as if thetightened cord round her heart must snap--and there an end. . . . 

But, by some miracle, some power not her own, courage held; though, whenhe released her, she was half blinded with tears. 

Her last words--entirely like herself though they were--surprised him. 

"Son of my heart--live for ever, " she whispered, laying light hands onhis breast. "And when you go into the battle, always keep strongly inyour mind that They must _not_ win, because no sacred or beautiful thingwould be left clean from their touch. And when you go into the battlealways remember--Chitor. "

"It is _you_ I shall always remember--looking like this, " he answeredunder his breath. But he never forgot her injunctions; and through yearsof fighting, he obeyed them to the letter. . . . 

 * * * * *

That was in April, after Neuve Chapelle, when even optimists admittedthat the War might last a year. 

At Christmas time he came home on short leave--a changed Roy; his skinbrowner; his sensitive lips more closely set under the shadow line ofhis moustache; the fibre of body and spirit hardened, without loss offineness or flexibility. Livelier on the surface, he was graver, morereticent, underneath--even with her. By the look in his eyes she knew hehad seen things that could never be put into words. Some of them she toohad seen, through his mind; so close was the spiritual link betweenthem. In that respect at least, he was beautifully, unaffectedly thesame. . . . 

Nevil was home too, for that wonderful Christmas; and Tara, changedalso, in her own vivid way; frank and friendly with Roy; though thegrown-up veil between them was seldom lifted now. For the War held themboth in its unrelaxing grip; satisfied, in terrible and tremendousfashion, the hidden desire--not uncommon in young things, thoughconcealed like a vice--to suffer for others. Everything else, for thetime being, seemed a side issue. Personal affairs could wait. . . . 

When it came to letting Nevil and Roy go again, after their brief, beautiful interlude together, Lilámani discovered how those fifteenmonths of ceaseless anxiety and ceaseless service had shaken her nerve. Gladness of giving could now scarce hold its own against dread oflosing; till she felt as if her heart must break under the strain. Itdid not break, however. It endured--as the hearts of a million mothersand wives have endured in all ages--to breaking-point . . . And beyond. The immensity of the whole world's anguish at once crushed and upheldher, making her individual pain seem almost a little thing----

They left her. And the War went on--disastrously, gloriously, stubbornly, inconclusively; would go on, it seemed, to the end of Time. One came to feel as if life free from the shadow of War had never been. As if it would never be again----

END OF PHASE II. 

PHASE III. 

PISGAH HEIGHTS

CHAPTER I. 

 "No receipt openeth the heart, but a true friend. "--FRANCIS BACON. 

As early as 1819 there had been a Desmond in India; asoldier-administrator of mark, in his day. During the Sikh Wars therehad been a Desmond in the Punjab; and at the time of the Great Mutinythere was a Punjab Cavalry Desmond at Kohat; a notable fighter, with aflowing beard and an easy-going uniform that would not commend itself tothe modern military eye. In the year of the second Afghan War, there wasyet another Desmond at Kohat; one that earned the cross 'For Valour, 'married the daughter of Sir John Meredith, and rose to high distinction. Later still, in the year of grace 1918, his two sons were stationedthere, in the self-same Punjab Cavalry Regiment. There was also by now, a certain bungalow in Kohat known as 'Desmond's bungalow, ' occupied atpresent by Colonel Paul Desmond, now in Command. 

That is no uncommon story in India. She has laid her spell on certainfamilies; and they have followed one another through the generations, ashoming birds follow in line across the sunset sky. And their namebecomes a legend that passes from father to son; because India does notforget. There is perhaps nothing quite like it in the tale of any otherland. It makes for continuity; for a fine tradition of service anddevotion; a tradition that will not be broken till agitators andtheorists make an end of Britain in India. But that day is not yet; andthe best elements of both races still believe it will never be. 

Certainly neither Paul nor Lance Desmond, riding home together fromkit inspection, on a morning of early September, entertained thedimmest idea of a break with the family tradition. Lance, atseven-and-twenty--spare and soldierly, alive to the finger-tips--was hisfather in replica, even to the V. C. After his name, which he had'snaffled out of the War, ' together with a Croix de Guerre and abrevet-Majority. Though Cavalry had been at a discount in France, Mesopotamia and Palestine had given the Regiment its chance--with feverand dysentery and all the plagues of Egypt thrown in to keep thingsgoing. 

It was in the process of filling up his woeful gaps that Colonel Desmondhad applied for Roy Sinclair, and so fulfilled the desire of hisbrother's heart: also, incidentally, Roy's craving to serve with IndianCavalry. To that end, his knowledge of the language, his horsemanship, his daring and resource in scout work, had stood him in good stead. Paul--who scarcely knew him at the time--very soon discovered that hehad secured an asset for the Regiment--the great Fetish, that claimedhis paramount allegiance, and began to look like claiming it for life. 

"He's just John over again, " Lady Desmond would say, referring to abrother who had served the great Fetish from subaltern to Colonel andleft his name on a cross in Kohat cemetery. 

Certainly, in form and feature, Paul was very much a Meredith:--thecoppery tone of his hair, the straight nose and steadfast grey-blueeyes, the height and breadth and suggestion of power in reserve. It wasone of the most serious problems of his life to keep his big frame underweight for polo, without impairing his immense capacity for work. Apartfrom this important detail, he was singularly unaware of his strikingpersonal appearance, except when others chaffed him about his look ofLord Kitchener, and were usually snubbed for their pains; though, atheart, he was inordinately proud of the fact. He had only one quarrelwith the hero of his boyhood;--the decree that officially extinguishedthe Frontier Force; though the spirit of it survives, and will survive, for decades to come. Like his brother, he had 'snaffled' a fewdecorations out of the War: but to be in Command of the Regiment, withLance in charge of his pet squadron, was better than all. 

The strong bond of affection between these two--first and last of afamily of six--was enhanced by their very unlikeness. Lance had the élanof a torrent; Paul the stillness and depth of a mountain lake. Lance wasa rapier; Paul a claymore--slow to smite, formidable when roused. Bothwere natural leaders of men; both, it need hardly be added, 'Piffers'[3]in the grain. They had only returned in March from active service, withthe Regiment very much the worse for wear; heartily sorry to be out ofthe biggest show on record; yet heartily glad to be back in India, asadly changing India though it was. 

Two urgent questions were troubling the mind of Lance as they rode at afoot's pace up the slope leading to the Blue Bungalow. Would the boardof doctors, at that moment 'sitting' on Roy, give him another chance?Would the impending reliefs condemn them to a 'down-country' station?For they had only been posted to Kohat till these came out. 

To one of those questions Colonel Desmond already knew the answer. 

"I had a line from the General this morning, " he remarked, afterstudying his brother's profile and shrewdly gauging his thoughts. 

True enough--his start betrayed him. "The General?--Reliefs?"

"Yes. " A pause. "We're for--Lahore Cantonments. "

"Damn!"

"I've made that inspired remark already. You needn't flatter yourselfit's original!"

"I'm not in the mood to flatter myself or any one else. I'm in atowering rage. And if dear old Roy is to be turned down into thebargain----!" Words failed him. He had his father's genius for makingfriends; and among them all Roy Sinclair reigned supreme. 

"I'm afraid he will be if I know anything of medical boards. "

"Why the _devil_----?" Lance flashed out. "It's not as if A1 officerswere tumbling over each other in the service. If Roy was a Tommy they'djolly soon think of something better than leave and futile tonics. "

Colonel Desmond smiled at the characteristic outburst. 

"Certainly their tinkering isn't up to much. But I'm afraid there's morewrong with Roy than mere doctoring can touch. Still--he doesn't seemkeen on going Home. "

Lance shook his head. "Naturally--poor old chap. Feels he can't facethings, yet. It's not only the delights of Mespot that have knocked himoff his centre. It's losing--that jewel of a mother. " His eyes darkenedwith feeling. "You can't wonder. If anything was to happen----" He brokeoff abruptly. 

Paul Desmond set his teeth and was silent. In the deep of his heart, theRegiment had one rival--and Lady Desmond knew it. . . . 

They found the bungalow empty. No sign of Roy. 

"Getting round 'em, " suggested Paul optimistically, and passed on intohis dufter. 

Lance lit a cigar, flung himself into a verandah chair and picked up the'Civil and Military. ' He had just scanned the war telegrams when Roycame up at a round trot. 

Lance sat forward and discarded the paper. An exchange of glancessufficed. Roy's determination to 'bluff the board' had failed. 

He looked sallow in spite of sunburn; tired and disheartened; no lurkingsmile in his eyes. He fondled the velvet nose of his beloved Suráj--agraceful creature, half Arab, half Waler; and absently acknowledged thefrantic jubilations of his Irish terrier puppy, christened by Lance theHoly Terror--Terry for short. Then he mounted the steps, subsided intothe other chair and dropped his cap and whip on the ground. 

"Damn the doctors, " said Lance, questions being superfluous. 

That so characteristic form of sympathy moved Roy to a rueful smile. "Obstinate devils. I bluffed 'em all I knew. Overdid it, perhaps. Anywaythey weren't impressed. They've dispensed with my valuable services. Anćmia, mild neurasthenia, cardiac symptoms--and a few otherpusillanimous ailments. Wonder they didn't throw in housemaid's knee!Oh, confound 'em all!" He converted a sigh into a prolonged yawn. "Let's make merry over a peg, Lance. Doctors are exhausting to arguewith. And Cuthers always said I couldn't argue for nuts! Now then--howabout pegs?"

"A bit demoralising--at midday, " Lance murmured without conviction. 

"Well, I _am_ demoralised; dead--damned--done for. I'm about to behonoured with a blooming medical certificate to that effect. As asoldier, I'm extinct--from this time forth for evermore. You see beforeyou the wraith of a Might-Have-Been. After _that_ gold-medal exhibitionof inanity, kindly produce said pegs!"

Lance Desmond listened with a grave smile, and a sharp contraction ofheart, to the absurdities of this first-best friend, who for three yearshad shared with him the high and horrible and ludicrous vicissitudes ofwar. He knew only too well that trick of talking at random to drown someinner stress. With every word of nonsense he uttered, Roy was implicitlyconfessing how acutely he felt the blow; and to parade his own bitterdisappointment seemed an egotistical superfluity. So he merely remarkedwith due gravity: "I admit you've made out an overwhelming case for'said pegs'!" And he shouted his orders accordingly. 

They filled their tumblers in silence, avoiding each other's eyes. Everymoment emphasised increasingly all that the detested verdict implied. Nomore polo together. No more sharing of books and jokes and enthusiasmsand violent antipathies, to which both were prone. No more 'shoots' inthe Hills beyond Kashmir. 

From the first of these they had lately returned--sick leave, in Roy'scase; and the programme was to be repeated next April, if they could'wangle' first leave. Each knew the other was thinking of these things. But they seemed entirely occupied in quenching their thirst, and theirdisappointment, in deep draughts of sizzling ice-cool whisky-and-soda. Moreover--ignominious, but true--when the tumblers were emptied, thingsdid begin to look a shade less blue. It became more possible to discussplans. And Desmond was feeling distinctly anxious on that score. 

"You won't be shunted instanter, " he remarked; and Roy smiled at therelief in his tone. 

"Next month, I suppose. We must make the most of these few weeks, oldman. "

"And then--what?. . . Home?"

Roy did not answer at once. He was lying back again, staring out at therespectable imitation of a lawn, at rose beds, carpeted with over-blownmignonette, and a lone untidy tamarisk that flung a spiky shadow on thegrass. And the eye of his mind was picturing the loveliest lawn of hisacquaintance, with its noble twin beeches and a hammock slungbetween--an empty casket; the jewel gone. It was picturing thedrawing-room; the restful simplicity of its cream and gold: but no dearand lovely figure, in gold-flecked sari, lost in the great arm-chair. Her window-seat in the studio--empty. No one in a 'mother-o'-pearl mood'to come and tuck him up and exchange confidences, the last thing. Hisfather, also invalided out; his left coat sleeve half empty, where theforearm had been removed. 

"N--no, " he said at last, still staring at the unblinking sunshine. "NotHome. Not yet--anyway. "

Then, having confessed, he turned and looked straight into the eyes ofhis friend--the hazel-grey eyes he had so admired, as a small boy, because of the way they darkened with anger or strong feeling. And headmired them still. "A coward--am I? It's not a flattering conclusion. But I suppose it's the cold truth. "

"It hasn't struck _me_ that way. " Desmond frankly returned his look. 

"That's a mercy. But--if one's name happened to be Lance Desmond, onewould go--anyhow. "

"I doubt it. The place must be simply alive--with memories. WeAnglo-Indians, jogged from pillar to post, know precious little abouthomes like yours. A man--can't judge----"

"You're a generous soul, Lance!" Roy broke out with sudden warmth. "Anyway--coward or no--I simply _can't_ face--the ordeal, yet awhile. Ibelieve my father will understand. After all--here I am in India, asplanned, before the Great Interruption. So--given the chance, I might aswell take it. The dear old place is mostly empty, these days--with Tinymarried and Dad's Air Force job pinning him to Town. _So_--as I remarkedbefore----!"

"You'll hang on out here for the present? Thank God for that much. "

Desmond's pious gratitude was so fervent that they both burst outlaughing; and their laughter cleared the air of ghosts. 

"Jaipur it is, I suppose, as planned. Thea will be overjoyed. WhetherJaipur's precisely a health resort----?"

"I'm not after health resorts. I'm after knowledge--and a few otherthings. Not Jaipur first, anyway. The moment I get the official order ofthe boot--I'm for Chitor. "

"Chitor?" Faint incredulity lurked in Desmond's tone. 

"Yes--the casket that enshrines the soul of a race; buried in the wildsof Rajasthán. Ever heard tell of it, you arrant Punjabi? Or does nothingexist for _you_ south of Delhi?"

"Just a thing or two--not to mention Thea!"

"Of course--I beg her pardon! _She_ would appreciate Chitor. "

"Rather. They went there--and Udaipur, last year. She's death on gettingVincent transferred. And the Burra Sahibs are as wax in her hands. Ifthey happen to be musical, and she applies the fiddle, they haven't anearthly----!"

Roy's eyes took on their far-away look. 

"It'll be truly uplifting to see her--and hear her fiddle once more, ifshe's game for an indefinite dose of my society. Anyway, there's mygrandfather----"

"Quite superfluous, " Desmond interposed a shade too promptly. "If I knowThea, she'll hang on to you for the cold weather; and ensure you a _piedŕ terre_ if you want to prowl round Rajputana and give the bee in yourbonnet an airing! You'll be in clover. The Residency's a sort of palace. Not precisely Thea's ideal of bliss. She's a Piffer at heart; and hersocial talents don't get much scope down there. Only half a dozenwhites; and old Vinx buried fathoms deep in ethnology, writing a book. But, being Thea, she has pitched herself head foremost, into it all. Gotvery keen on Indian women. She's mixed up in some sort of a romance now. A girl who's been educated at home. It seems an unfailing prescriptionfor trouble. I rather fancy she's a cousin of yours. "

Roy started. "What--Arúna?"

"She didn't mention the name. Only ructions--and Thea to the rescue!"

"Poor Arúna!--She stayed in England a goodish time, because of theWar--and Dyán. I've not heard of Dyán for an age; and I don't believethey have either. He was knocked out in 1915. Lost his left arm. Said hewas going to study art in Calcutta. --I wonder----?" Desmond--who hadchiefly been talking to divert the current of his thoughts--noted, withsatisfaction, how his simple tactics had taken effect. 

"We'll write to-morrow--eh?" said he. "Better still--happythought!--I'll bear down on Jaipur myself, for Christmas leave. Rarefine pig-sticking in those parts. "

The happy thought proved a masterstroke. In the discussion of plans andprojects Roy became almost his radiant self again: forgot, for onemerciful hour, that he was dead, damned, and done for--the wraith of a'Might-Have-Been. '

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Punjab Irregular Frontier Force. ]

CHAPTER II. 

 "Oh, not more subtly silence strays Amongst the winds, between the voices. . . Than thou art present in my days. 

 My silence, life returns to thee In all the pauses of her breath. And thou, wake ever, wake for me!" --ALICE MEYNELL. 

Some five weeks later, Roy sat alone--very completely and desolatelyalone--in a whitewashed, unhomely room that everywhere bore the stamp ofdák bungalow; from the wobbly teapoy[4] at his elbow to the board ofprinted rules that adorned the empty mantelpiece. The only cheeringthing in the room was the log fire that made companionable noises anddanced shadow-dances on the dingy white walls. But the optimism of thefire was discounted by the pessimism of the lamp that seemed speciallyconstructed to produce a minimum of light with a maximum of smell--andrank kerosene at that. 

Dák bungalows had seemed good fun in the days of his leave, when he andLance made merry over their well-worn failings. But it was quite anotheraffair to smoke the pipe of compulsory solitude, on the outskirts ofChitor, hundreds of miles away from Kohat and the Regiment; to feeloneself the only living being in a succession of empty rooms--for theservants were housed in their own little colony apart. Solitude, in theright mood and the right place, was bread and wine to his soul; butacute loneliness of the dák bungalow order was not in the bond. For fouryears he had felt himself part of a huge incarnate purpose; intimatelypart of his regiment--a closely-knit brotherhood of action. Now, themere fact of being an unattached human fragment oddly intensified hisfeeling of isolation. With all his individuality, he was no egoist; andvery much a lover of his kind. Imbued with the spirit of the quest, yetaverse by temperament to ploughing the lonely furrow. 

It had been his own choice--if you could call it so, --starting this way, instead of in the friendly atmosphere of the Jaipur Residency. But wasthere really such a thing as choice? The fact was, he had simply obeyedan irresistible impulse, --and to-morrow he would be glad of it. To-night, after that interminable journey, his head ached atrociously. He felt limp as a wet dish-clout; his nerves all out of gear . . . Perhapsthose confounded doctors were not such fools as they seemed. He cursedhimself for a spineless ineffectual--messing about with nerves when hehad been lucky enough to come through four years of war with his fullcomplement of limbs and faculties unimpaired. Two slight wounds, apassing collapse, from utter fatigue and misery, soon after his mother'sdeath; a spell of chronic dysentery, during which he had somehow managedto keep more or less fit for duty;--that was his record of physicaldamage, in a War that had broken its tens of thousands for life. 

But there are wounds of the mind; and the healing of them is a slow, complex affair. Roy, with his fastidious sense of beauty, his almostmorbid shrinking from inflicted pain, had suffered acutely, where morerobust natures scarcely suffered at all. Yet it was the robust that wentto pieces--which was one of the many surprises of a War that shatteredconvictions wholesale, and challenged modern man to the fiercest trialof faith at a moment when Science had almost stripped him bare of beliefin anything outside himself. 

Roy, happily for him, had not been stripped of belief; and his receptivemind, had been ceaselessly occupied registering impressions, to be flungoff, later, in prose and verse, that _She_ might share them to the full. A slim volume--published, at her wish, in 1916--had attracted no smallattention in the critical world. At the time, he had deprecatedpremature rushings into print; but afterwards it was a blessed thing toremember the joy he had given her that last Christmas--the very last. . . . 

On the battlefield, if there had been nerve-shattering moments, thesehad their counterpart in moments when the spirit of his Rajput ancestorslived again in him, when he knew neither shrinking nor horror nor pity:and in moments of pure pleasure, during some quiet interlude, when larksrained music out of the blue; when he found himself alone with the eeriewonder of dawn over the scarred and riven fields of death; or when hediscovered his Oriental genius for scout work that had rapidly earnedhim distinction and sated his love of adventure to the full. 

And always, unfailingly he had obeyed his mother's parting injunction. As a British officer, he had fought for the Empire. As Roy Sinclair--sonof Lilámani--he had fought for the sanctities of Home andBeauty--intrinsic beauty of mind and body and soul--against hideousnessand licence and the unclean spirit that could defile the verysanctuaries of God. 

And always, when he went into battle, he remembered Chitor. Mentally, heput on the saffron robe, insignia of 'no surrender. ' To be takenprisoner was the one fate he could not bring himself to contemplate: yetthat very fate had befallen him and Lance, in Mesopotamia--the sequel ofa daring and successful raid. 

Returning, in the teeth of unexpected difficulties, they had foundthemselves ambushed, with their handful of men--outnumbered, no loopholefor escape. 

For three months, that seemed more like years, they had lost all senseof personal liberty--the oxygen of the soul. They had endured misery, semi-starvation, and occasionally other things, such as a man cannotbring himself to speak about or consciously recall: not least, the awfulsense of being powerless--and hated. From the beginning, they had kepttheir minds occupied with ingenious plans for escape, that, at times, seemed like base desertion of their men, whom they could neither helpnor save. But when--as by a miracle--the coveted chance came, no poweron earth could have stayed them. . . . 

It had been a breathless affair, demanding all they possessed of bodilyfleetness and suppleness, of cool, yet reckless, courage. And it hadbeen crowned with success; the good news wired home to mothers whowaited and prayed. But Roy's nerves had suffered more severely thanDesmond's. A sharp attack of fever had completed his prostration. And itwas then, in the moment of his passing weakness, that Fate turned andsmote him with the sharpest weapon in her armoury. . . . 

He had not even heard his mother was ill. He had just received herecstatic response to his wire--and that very night she came to him, vividly, as he hovered on the confines of sleep. 

There she stood by his bed, in her mother-o'-pearl gown and sari; clearin every detail; lips just parted; a hovering smile in her eyes. Andround about her a shimmering radiance, as of moonbeams, heightened herloveliness, yet seemed to set her apart; so that he could neither touchher nor utter a word of welcome. He could only gaze and gaze, while hisheart beat in long slow hammer-strokes, with a double throb between. 

With a gesture of mute yearning her hands went out to him. She stoopedlow and lower. A faint breeze seemed to flit across his forehead as ifher lips, lightly brushing it, had breathed a blessing. 

Then, darkness fell abruptly--and a deep sleep. . . . 

He woke late next morning: woke to a startling, terrible certainty thathis vision had been no dream; that her very self had come to him--thatshe was gone. . . . 

When the bitter truth reached him, he learnt, without surprise, that onthe night of his vision, her spirit passed. . . . 

 * * * * *

It was a sharp attack of pneumonia that gave her the _coup de grâce_. But, in effect, the War had killed her, as it killed many anotherhyper-sensitive woman, who could not become inured to horror on horror, tragedy on tragedy, whose heart ached for the sorrows of others as ifthey were her own. And her personal share had sufficiently taxed herendurance, without added pangs for others, unseen and unknown. George--her baby--had gone down in the Queen Mary. Jerry, too early sentout to France, had crashed behind the German lines; and after months ofuncertainty they had heard he was alive, wounded--in German hands. Tara, faithful to the Women's Hospital in Serbia, had been constantly indanger, living and moving among unimaginable horrors. Nevil, threatenedwith septic poisoning, had only been saved at the cost of his leftforearm. Not till he was invalided out, near the close of 1916, had herealised--too late--that she was killing herself by inches, with workthat alone could leaven anxiety--up to a point. 

But it was the shock of Roy's imprisonment and the agony of suspensethat finally stretched her nerve to breaking-point; so that the suddenonslaught of pneumonia had slain her in the space of a week. And Roy, knowing her too well, had guessed the truth, in spite of his father'sgallant attempt to shield him from it. 

His first letter from that bereft father had been little short of arevelation to the son, who had ventured to suppose he knew him: a rashsupposition where any human being is concerned. There had been more thanone such revelation in the scores of letters that at once uplifted andoverwhelmed him, and increased tenfold his pride in being her son. Butoutshining all, and utterly unexpected, was a letter from herself, written in those last days, when the others still hoped, against hope, but she knew----

It had come, with his father's, in a small, gold-embroidered bag--scentand colour and exquisite needlework all eloquent of her: and with itcame the other, her talisman since he was born. Reaching him while brainand body still reeled under the bewildering sense of loss, it hadsoothed his agony of pain and rebellion like the touch of her fingers onhis forehead; had taken the sting from death and robbed the grave ofvictory. . . . 

 * * * * *

To-night, in his loneliness, he drew the slim bag out of an innerpocket, and re-read with his eyes the words that were imprinted on hismemory. 

 "ROY, SON OF MY HEART, --This is good-bye--but not altogether good-bye. Between you and me that word can never be spoken. So I am writing this, in my foolish weakness, to beg of you--by the love between us, too deep for words--not to let heart and courage be _quite_ broken because of this big sorrow. You were brave in battle, my Prithvi Raj. Be still more brave for me. Remember I am Lilámani--Jewel of Delight. _That_ I have tried to be in my life, for every one of you. That I wish to be always. So I ask you, my darling, not to make me a Jewel of Sorrow because I have passed into the Next Door House too soon. Though not seen, I will never for long be far from you. That is my faith; and you must share it; helping your dear father, because for him the way of belief is hard. 

 "Never forget those beautiful words of Fouquet in which you made dedication of your poems to me: 'How blessed is the son to whom it is allowed to gladden his mother's heart with the blossom and fruit of his life!' And you will still gladden it, Dilkusha. [5] I will still share your work, though in different fashion than we hoped. Only keep your manhood pure and the windows of your spirit clear, so the Light can shine through. Then you will know if I speak truth, and you will not feel altogether alone. 

 "Oh, Roy, I could write and write till the pen drops. My heart is too full, but my hand is too feeble for more. Only this, when your time comes for marriage, I pray you will be to your wife all that your splendid father has been for me--king and lover and companion of body and spirit. Draw nearer than ever, you two, because of your so beautiful love for me--unseen now, but with you always. God bless you. I can write no more. 

 "Your devoted MOTHER. "

The last lines wavered and ran together. In spite of her injunction, tears _would_ come. Chill and unheeded, they slipped down his cheeks, while he folded his treasure, and put it away with the other, that wentto his head, a little, as she had foreseen; though in the event, it hadbeen overshadowed by her own, than which she could have left him nodearer legacy. In life she had been an angel of God. In death, she wasstill his angel of comfort and healing. She had bidden him share herbelief; and he never _had_ felt altogether alone. Sustained by thatinner conviction, he had somehow adapted himself to the strangeness of alife empty of her physical presence. The human being, in a world ofpain, like the insect in a world of danger, lives mainly by that sameceaseless, unconscious miracle of adaptation. Dearly though he craved asight of his father and Christine, he had not asked for leave home. There were bad moments when he wondered if he could ever bring himselfto face the ordeal. He sincerely hoped they understood. Their lettersleft an impression that it was so. Jeffers obviously did. 

And Tara----? Her belated letter, from the wilds of Serbia, hadrevealed, in every line, that she understood only too well. For Tara, not long before, had passed through her own ordeal--the death, in abrilliant air fight, of her second brother Atholl, her devotee and herofrom nursery days. So when Roy's turn came, her fulness of sympathy andunderstanding were outstretched like wings to shield him, if might be, from the worst, as she had known it. 

For that once, she flung aside the veil of grown-up reserves and wrotestraight from her eager passionate heart to the Bracelet-bound Brother, unseen for years, yet linked with her by an imperishable memory; and nowlinked closer still by a mutual grief. 

The comfort to Roy of that spontaneous, Tara-like outpouring had beengreater than she knew--than he could ever let her know. For the oldintimacy had never been quite re-established between them since the dayof his tactless juvenile proposal--for so he saw it now. They had onlymet that once, when he was home for Christmas. On the second occasion, they had missed. Throughout the War they had corresponded fitfully; buther letters, though affectionate and sisterly, lacked an unseizablesomething that affected the tone of his response. He had been rashenough, once, to presume on their special relation. But he was no longera boy; and he had his pride. 

He wondered sometimes how it would be if they met again. Would he fallin love with her? She was supreme. No one like her. But he knew now--asshe had instinctively known then--that his conviction on that score didnot amount to being in love. Conviction must be lit and warmed with thefire of passion. And you couldn't very well fall in love across sixthousand miles of sea. Certainly none of the girls he had danced withand ridden with since his arrival in India had affected him that way. And for him marriage was an important consideration. Some day hesupposed it would confront him as an urgent personal issue. But therewas a tremendous lot to be done first; and girls were kittle cattle. 

Unsuspected by him, the ultimate relation with his mother--while itquickened his need for woman's enveloping tenderness and sympathy--heldhis heart in leash by setting up a standard, to which the modern girlrarely aspired, much less attained. 

And now she was gone, in some strange, enthralling way, she held himstill. At rare intervals, she came again to him in dreams; or when hehovered on the verge of sleep. Dreams, or visions--they persisted asclearly in memory as any waking act; and unfailingly left a vividafter-sense of having been in touch with her very self. More and moreconviction deepened in him that she still had joy in 'the blossom andfruit of his life'; that even in death she was nearer to him than manyliving mothers to their sons. 

A strange experience: strangest of all, perhaps, the simplicity withwhich he came to accept it as part of the natural order of things. Theintuitive brain is rarely analytical. Moreover, he had seen; he hadfelt; he knew. It is the invincible argument of the mystic. Againstbelief born of vivid, reiterate experience, the loquacity of logic, theformulć of pure intellect break like waves upon a rock--and with aslittle result. The intensity and persistence of Roy's experience simplyleft no room for insidious whispers of doubt; nor could he havetolerated such scepticism in others, natural though it might be, if onehad not seen, nor felt, nor known. 

So he neither wrote nor spoke of it to any one. He could scarce havekept it from Tara, the sister-child who had shared all his thoughts anddreams; but the grown-up Tara had become too remote in every sense fora confidence so intimate, so sacred. To his father he would fain haveconfided everything, remembering her last command; but Sir Nevil's laterletters--though unfailingly sympathetic--were not calculated to evokefilial outpourings. For the time being, he seemed to have shut himselfin with his grief. Perhaps he, of all others, had been least able tounderstand Roy's failure to press for short leave home. He had said verylittle on the subject. And Roy--with the instinct of sensitive naturesto take their tone from others--had also said little: too little, perhaps. Least said may be soonest mended; but there are times when itmay widen a rift to a gulf. 

In the end, he had felt impelled at least to mention his dreamexperiences, and let it rest with his father whether he said any more. 

And by return mail came a brief but poignant answer: "Thank you, mydearest Boy, for telling me what you did. It is a relief to know youhave some sort of comfort--if only in dreams. You are fortunate to be somade. After all, for purposes of comfort and guidance, one's capacity tobelieve in such communion is the measure of its reality. As for me, I amstill utterly, desolately alone. Perhaps some day she will reach me inspite of my little faith. People who resort to mediums and the automaticwriting craze are beyond me: though the temptation I understand. You mayremember a sentence of Maeterlinck----' We have to grope timidly andmake sure of every footstep, as we cross the threshold. And even whenthe threshold is crossed, where shall certainty be found----? One cannotspeak of these things--the solitude is too great. ' That is my ownfeeling about it--at present. "

The last had given Roy an impression that his solitude, howeverdesolating, was a sort of sanctuary, not to be shared as yet, even withhis son. And, in the face of such loneliness, it seemed almost cruel toenlarge on his own clear sense of intimate communion with her who hadbeen unfailingly their Jewel of Delight. 

So, by degrees--in the long months of separation from them all--hisethereal link with her had come to feel closer and more real than hislink with those others, still in the flesh, yet strangely remote fromhis inner life. 

To-night--after reading both letters--that sense of nearness seemedstronger than ever. Could it be that the magnetism of India was in thenature of an intimation from her that for the present his work lay here?By the hidden forces that mould men's lives, he had been drawn to theland of heart's desire; and at home, neither his family nor his countryseemed to have any particular need of him. Whether or no India had needof him, he assuredly had need of her. And it was the very strength ofthat feeling which had given him pause. 

But now, at last, he knew beyond cavil that, for all his mind--or was ithis conscience?--might haver and split straws, he had been drawn toRajputana, as irresistibly as if that vast desert region were the moonand he a wavelet on the tidal shore. 

With a great sigh he rose, yawned cavernously and shivered. Better getto bed and to sleep:--a bed that didn't clank and jolt and batter yourbrains to a pulp. Things would look amazingly different in the morning. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: Tripod table. ]

[Footnote 5: Joy of my Heart. ]

CHAPTER III. 

 "Darkness and solitude shine for me: For life's fair outward part, are rife The silver noises: let them be. It is the very soul of life Listens for thee, listens for thee. " --ALICE MEYNELL. 

The depressingly bare, whitewashed bedroom owned a French bedstead, withbrass rails;--a welcome 'find' in a dák bungalow, especially after threevery broken nights in an Indian train. Tired to the point ofstupefaction, Roy promised himself he would sleep the clock round; eat athree-decker Anglo-Indian breakfast, and thereafter be his own managain. In that faith he laid his head on the least lumpy portion of thepillow--and in less than five minutes found himself quite intolerablywide awake. 

Though the bedstead neither repudiated him, nor took liberties with hisperson, ghostly clankings and vibrations still jarred his nerves andplayed devil's tunes in his brain. Though he kept his eyelids severelyclosed, sleep--the coveted anodyne--seemed to hover on the misty edge ofthings, always just out of reach. His body was over-tired, his brainabnormally alert. Each change of position, that was to be positively thelast, lost its virtue in the space of three minutes, till thesheet--that was too narrow for the mattress--became ruckled into hillsand valleys and made things worse than ever. Having started like this, he knew himself capable of keeping it up gaily till the small hours; andto-night, of all nights----!

Even through his closed eyelids, he was still aware that his verandahdoorway framed a wide panel of moonlight--the almost incrediblemoonlight of India. He had flung it open as usual and rolled up thechick. A bedroom hermetically sealed made him feel suffocated, imprisoned; so he must, perforce, put up with the moon; and when theworld was drowned in her radiance, sleep seemed almost a sin. Butto-night, moon or no, he craved sleep as an opium-eater craves his magicpellets, --because he wanted to dream. It was many weeks since he lasthad sight of his mother. But surely she must be near him in hisloneliness; aware, in some mysterious fashion, of the deep longing withwhich he longed for sight or sense of her, to assure him that--in spiteof qualms and indecisions--he had chosen aright. Conviction grew thatdirectly the veil of sleep fell he would see her. It magnified hisinsomnia from mere discomfort to a baffling inimical presencewithholding him from her:--till utter weariness blotted out everything;and even as he hovered on the verge of sleep, she was there. . . . 

She was lying in her hammock under the beeches, in her apple-blossomsari, sunlight flickering through the leaves. And he saw his own figuremoving towards her, without the least surprise, that he could see andhear himself as another being, while still remaining inside himself. 

He heard his own voice say, low and fervently, "Beloved little Mother--Iam here. Always in the battle I remembered Chitor. Now--turned out ofthe battle--I have come to Chitor. "

Then he was on his knees beside her; and her fingers, light asthistledown, strayed over his hair, in the ghost of a caress that sounfailingly stilled his excitable spirit. Without actual words, by somemiracle of interpenetration, she seemed to know all that was in hisheart--the perplexities and indecisions; the magnetism of Home and thedread of it; the difficulty of making things clear to his father. Andthe magic of her touch charmed away all inner confusions, all headacheand heartache. But when he rose impulsively, and would have taken her inhis arms--she was gone; everything was gone; . . . The hammock, thebeeches, the sunbeams. . . . 

He was standing alone on a moonlit plain, blotched and streaked withshadows of dák-jungle and date-palm; and rising out of it abruptly--ashe had seen it last night--loomed the black bulk of Chitor; the sacred, solitary ghost of a city, linked with his happiest days of childhood andhis mother's heroic tales. The great rock was scarped and bastioned, every line of it. The walls, ruined in parts, showed ghostly shades ofruins beyond; and soaring high above all, Khumba Rána's nine-storiedTower of Victory lifted a giant finger to the unheeding heavens. Watching it, fascinated, trying in vain to make out details, he wasstartlingly beset by the strangest among many strange sensations thathad visited his imaginative brain: nothing less than a revival of thelong-ago dream-feeling, the strange sense of familiarity--he knew!Beyond all cavil, he knew every line of that looming shadow, every curveof the hills. He knew the exact position of the old bridge over theGamberi river. From the spot where he stood, he could find his wayunerringly to the Padal Pol--the fortified entrance to the road of SevenGates;--the road that had witnessed, three times in three hundred years, that heroic alternative to surrender, the terrible rite of Johur:--thefinal down-rush of every male defender, wearing the saffron robe andcoronet of him who embraces death as a bride; the awful slaughter at thelowest gate, where they fell, every man of them, before the victorsentered in. . . . 

The horror and savage exaltation of it all stirred, so sensibly, in hisveins that he caught himself dimly wondering--was it he, Roy Sinclair, who stood there remembering these things--or another. . . ?

And before that crazy question could resolve itself--behold he was lyingwide awake again in his ruckled bed, on the lumpy pillow, staring at thewide patch of moonlight framed by his open door. 

Not morning _yet_, confound it all! But the tiredness and lonelinesswere clean gone. It was always so when she came to him thus. Tacitly, heknew it, and she knew it, for a visitation. There was no delusion ofhaving got her back again; only the comforting assurance that she wasnear him still. There was also, on this occasion, a consuming curiosityand impatience not to be denied. 

Switching on his electric torch, he consulted his watch. Nearlyhalf-past four--why not . . . ? It was no distance to the lower gate, andonly a mile of zigzag road up to the city. 

Thought and action were almost simultaneous. He was out of bed, standingin the doorway. The moon's unclouded brilliance seemed to flood hisbrain; to clear it of cobwebs and dispel all desire of sleep. For heloved the veiled spirit of night as most men love the unveiled face ofmorning; and in no way, perhaps, was he more clearly of the East. In aland where the sun slays his thousands, the moon comes triumphantly toher own: and Roy decided, there and then, that in the glamour of herlight he would take his first look at Chitor. Whether or no it reallywas his first look, he might possibly find out when he got there. 

His train-basket provided him with a hurried cup of tea, biscuits and aprovidential hard-boiled egg. He had no qualms about rousing BishunSingh to saddle Suráj, or disturbing the soldiery quartered at thegates. His grandfather had written of him to the Maharana of Udaipur--acousin in the third degree: and he had leave to go in and out, duringhis stay, at what hour he pleased. He would remain on the rock tilldawn; and from the ninth storey of Khumba Rána's Tower he would see thesun rise over Chitor. . . . 

Half an hour later, he was in the saddle trotting along the empty road;Terry, a scurrying shadow in his wake; Bishun Singh left to finish hisnight's rest. Eight before him loomed the magnet that had dragged himout of bed at this unearthly hour--the great rock-fortress, three mileslong, less than a mile broad, aptly likened to a battleship ploughingthrough the disturbed sea of bush-grown hills at its base. 

Riding quickly through new Chitor--a dirty little town, fast asleep--hereached the fortified gateway: was challenged by sleepy soldiery; gavehis name and passed on--into another world; a world that grewincreasingly familiar with every hundred yards of ascent. 

At one point he halted abreast of two rough monuments, graves of thevaliant pair who had fought and died, like Rajputs, in that lastterrible onslaught when the hosts of Akbar entered in, over the bodiesof eight thousand saffron-robed warriors, and made Chitor a place ofdesolation for ever. One--a mere boy of sixteen--was the only son ofhis house. Beside him, lance in hand, fought his widowed mother and girlwife; and in death they were not divided. The other, Jaimul of Bednore, was a far-away ancestor of his own mother. How often she had told himthe tale--adding proudly that, while Rajasthán endured, the names ofthose two would shine clear in the firmament of time, as stars in thefirmament of space. 

Through gateway after gateway--under the lee of a twenty-foot wall, pierced for musketry, --he passed, a silent shadow. And gradually therestole over him afresh the confused wonder of his dream, --was it hehimself who rode--or was it--that other, returning to the sacred cityafter long absence? For the moment he could hardly tell. But--whatmatter? The astonishing thrill of recognition was all. . . . 

Round about the seventh gateway clustered the semblance of a village;shrouded, slumbering forms strewn around in the open;--ghosts all. Theonly instant realities were himself and Suráj and Chitor, and thesilence of the sleeping earth, watched over by unsleeping stars. Within, and about him, hovered a stirring consciousness of ancient, unchangingIndia; utterly impervious to mere birds of passage from the West;veiled, elusive, yet almost hideously real. So real, just then, to Roy, that--for a few amazing moments--he was unaware that he rode through acity forsaken by man. Ghosts of houses and temples slid by on eitherside of him, as he spurred Suráj to a canter and made unerringly for themain palace. There was news for the Rana--news of Akbar's army--that didnot brook delay. . . . 

Not till Suráj stopped dead--there where the Palace had once stood inits glory--did he come to himself, as abruptly as when he waked in theFrench bedstead an hour ago. 

Gone was the populous city through which he had ridden in fancy; gonethe confusion of himself with that other self--how many centuries old?But the familiar look of the palace was no dream; nor the fact that hehad instinctively made his way there at full speed. Bastioned andsharply domed, it stood before him in clear outline; but within sides itwas hollow as a skull; a place of ghosts. Suddenly there came over himthe old childish dread of dark, that he had never quite outgrown. Butdread or no, explore it he must. . . . 

As his foot touched earth, a low hiss warned him he was trespassing, andclutching Terry's collar, he stood rigid, while the whip-like shadow ofdeath writhed across a strip of moonlight--and disappeared. There waslife, --of a sort, in Chitor. So Roy trod warily as he passed from roomto room; dread of dark forgotten in the weird fascination offoreknowledge verified without fail. 

Through riven walls and roofs, moonlight streamed: its spectralbrightness intensifying every patch or streak of shadow. And there, where Kings and Princes had held audience--watched by their womenfolkthrough fretted screens--was neither roof nor walls; only a group ofmarble pillars, as it were assembled in ghostly conference. The starksilence and emptiness--not of yesterday, but of centuries--smote himwith a personal pang. From end to end of the rock it brooded; a hauntingpresence, --tutelary goddess of Chitor. There is an emptiness of the opendesert, of an untrodden snowfield that lifts the soul and sets it faceto face with God; but the emptiness of a city forsaken is that of a bodywith the spark of life extinct:--'the silver cord loosed, the goldenbowl broken, and the pitcher broken at the fountain . . . '

Terry's sharp bark, a squawk and a scuffle of wings, made him startviolently and jarred him all through. It seemed almost profane--as ifone were in a cathedral. Calling the marauder to heel, he mounted androde on toward the Tower of Victory. For the moon was dipping westward;and he must see that vast view bathed in moonlight. Then the dawn. . . . 

Once more deserting Suráj; he confronted Khumba's Tower; scatheless asthe builder's hand left it four centuries ago. Massive and arrogant, itloomed above him; scarcely a foot of stone uncarven, so far as he couldsee--exploring the four-square base of it with the aid of the moon andhis torch. Figures, in high relief, everywhere--animal, human anddivine; a riot of impossible forms, impossibly intertwined; ghoulish inany aspect, and in moonlight hideously so:--bewildering, repellent, frankly obscene. But even while his cultured eye rejected it all, someinfinitesimal fragment of himself knew there was symbolic meaning inthat orgy of sculpture, could one but find the key. 

Up and up, round and round the inner spiral staircase he climbed, in acreepsome darkness, invaded by moonbeams, hardly less creepsome, admitted through window-like openings set in every face of every storey. With each inrush of light, each flash of his torch, in deepest darkness, those thronging figures, weirdly distorted, sprang at him afresh, sending ignominious trickles down his spine. Walls, window slabs, doorbeams--the vast building was encrusted with them from base to summit; anightmare of prancing, writhing, gesticulating unrest; only one stillface repeated at intervals--the Great God holding the wheel of Law. . . . 

Never had Roy more keenly appreciated the company of Terry, who, inspite of a Celtic pedigree, was not enjoying this prolonged practicaljoke. 

It was relief unspeakable to emerge at last, into full light and cleansweet morning air. For the ninth storey, under the dome, was arcaded onall four sides and refreshingly innocent of decoration. Not a posturingfigure to be seen. Nothing but restful slabs of polished stone. Therewas meaning in this also--could one catch the trend of the builder'sthought. 

On a slab near an arcaded opening Roy sat gratefully down; while Terry, bored to extinction with the whole affair, curled himself up in ashadowed corner and went fast asleep. "Unfriendly little beast, " thoughtRoy; and promptly forgot his existence. 

For below him, in the silvery moonlight of morning, lay Chitor; hershattered arches and battlements, her temples and palaces dwarfed tomere footstools for the gods. And beyond, and again beyond, lay thenaked strength and desolation of northern Rajputana--white withpoppy-fields, velvet-dark with scrub, jagged with outcrops of volcanicrock; the gaunt warrior country, battered by centuries of struggle andslaughter; making calamity a whetstone for courage; saying, in effect, to friend and enemy, 'Take me or leave me. You cannot change me. '

The Border had fascinated Roy. The Himalayas had subjugated him. Butthis strong unlovely region of rock and sand, of horses and swords, ofchivalry and cruelty and daring, irresistibly laid siege to his heart;gave him the authentic sense of being one with it all. 

On a day, in that summer of blessed memory, his mother had almostpromised him that, once again she would revisit India if only for thejoy of making a pilgrimage with him to Chitor. And here he sat on thesummit of Khumba Rána's Tower--alone. That was the way of life. . . . 

Gradually there stole over him a great weariness of body and spirit;pure reaction from the uplift of his strange adventure. His lids droopedheavily. In another moment he would have fallen sound asleep; but hesaved himself, just in time. When he craved the thing, it eluded him;now, undesired, it assailed him. But it would never do. He might sleepfor hours. And at the back of his mind lurked a clear conviction that hewas waiting for more than the dawn. . . . 

To shake off drowsiness he rose, stretched himself, paced to and froseveral times--and did not sit down again. Folding his arms, he leanedhis shoulders against the stone embrasure; and stood so, a long while, absorbing--with every faculty of flesh and spirit--the stillness, themystery, the pearl-grey light and bottomless gulfs of shadow; his mindemptied of articulate thought . . . His soul poised motionless, as it werea bird on outspread wings. . . . 

Was it fantasy, this gradual intensifying of his uplifted mood, thisbreathless stir in the region of his heart, till some vital part of himseemed gradually withdrawn--up into the vastness and the silence. . . ?

And suddenly, in every nerve, he knew--he was not alone. In the seemingemptiness of the place, something, some one hovered near him. Amazed, yet exultant, he held his breath; and an answering leap of the heart sethim tingling from head to foot. 

It was more than a vague 'sense of presence. ' Fused in the centralhappiness that flooded him--as the moonlight flooded the desert--was analmost startling awareness; not the mere emotional effect of music or apoem; but sure knowledge that she was there with him in that upper room;her disembodied tenderness yearning towards him across a barrier ofempty space that neither she nor he could traverse, for all theirnearness, for all their longing. . . . 

If Lance himself had come audibly up those endless stairs and stoodbeside him, he could not have felt more certain of his presence than hefelt, at this moment, of her companionship, her unspoken assurance thathe _had_ chosen aright. He felt himself, if possible, the less real ofthe two. 

For that brief space, his world seemed empty of everything, every one, but they two--so irrevocably sundered, so mysteriously united. 

Could he only have sight of her to complete the marvel of it! Butalthough he kept his eyes on the spot whence the 'feel of her' seemed tocome, not the shadow of a shade could he see; only--was it fancy?--ahint of brighter radiance than mere moonbeams--there, near the oppositearchway?

He dared not move a finger lest he break the spell. Yet he could notrestrain altogether the emotion that surged in him, that filled his earswith a soft roar as of breaking waves. 

"God bless you, little Mother!" he murmured, barely above hisbreath--and waited; expecting he knew not what. 

A ghost of a breeze passed close to him;--truly a ghost, for the nightwas dead still. Almost he could have sworn that if he put out a hand hewould have touched her. But reverence withheld him, rather than fear. 

And the next moment, the place was empty. He was alone. . . . 

He felt the emptiness as unmistakably as he had felt her presence. Butthe pang of her going was shot through with elation that at last hiswaking brain had knowledge of her--a knowledge that no man could wrestfrom him, even if she never so came again. He had done her bidding. Hehad kept his manhood pure and the windows of his soul clear--and, behold, the Light _had_ shone through. . . . 

* * * *

Impossible to tell how long he stood there. In those few moments ofintensified life, time was not. The ordinary sense of his surroundingsfaded. The inner sense of reality quickened in like measure; the realityof her presence, all the more felt, because it was unseen. . . . 

When he came clearly to himself again, the moon had vanished. Eastward, the sky was full of primrose light. It deepened and blazed; till, all ina moment, the sun leaped from the scabbard of the hills, keen andradiant as a drawn sword. 

A full minute Roy stood there, eyes and brain blinded with brilliance. Then he knelt down and covered his face; and so remained, a long while, his whole being uplifted in a wordless ecstasy of thanksgiving. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 "The snow upon my life-bloom sits And sheds a dreary blight;-- Thy spirit o'er my spirit flits, And crimson comes for white. " --ANON. 

On an unclouded afternoon of October, Roy sat alone with Thea Leigh in ashady corner of the Residency garden, smoking and talking, feelingblissfully at ease in body, and very much at home in spirit. After thewrench of parting with Desmond, it was balm to be welcomed by the sisterwho shared his high courage and enthusiasm for life, and who was smilingat Roy now with the same hazel-grey eyes that both had gotten from theirfather. But Thea's hair--her crown of glory--belonged exclusively toherself. The colour of it reminded him, with a pang, of autumn beechleaves, in his own woods. It enhanced the vivid quality of her beauty, and added appreciably to his pleasure in watching her while she talked. 

Roy had arrived that morning, in the mist-laden chill of dawn; hadenjoyed a long talk with Colonel Leigh; had made the acquaintance ofVernon and Phyllis, aged six and four; also of Flossie Eden, a kind ofadopted daughter, aged twenty; and, tiffin being over, had announced hisintention of riding out to re-discover the rose-red wonderland of hischildish dreams--the peacocks and elephants and crocodiles and templebells. Thea, however, had counselled patience, threatening him with diredisillusion, if he went seeking his wonderland at that glaringlyunpoetic time of day. 

"An early cup of tea, and a ride afterwards, " she prescribed, in herbest autocratic manner. "Only sunset, or the first glimmer of dawn, canthrow a spell over the municipal virtues and artistic backslidings ofJaipur! I speak with feeling; because _I_ rushed forth untimely; and, inthe full glare of afternoon sunshine, your rose-red city looked likenothing on earth but a fearful and wonderful collection of pink andwhite birthday cakes, set out for a giants' tea-party! It seemed almosta pity the giants had never come and eaten them up. Vinx said I wasribald. As a matter of fact, he was simply jealous of my brilliantmetaphor! Look at him now--bored to death with me, because I'm tellingthe truth!"

Colonel Leigh--a tall pensive-looking man, who talked little andlistened assiduously--met her challenge with the indulgent smile of ahusband who can be at once amused and critical and devoted: an excellentconjunction in marriage. 

"If you can stay Roy's impatience with your metaphors, I'll begin tohave some respect for them!" said he. 

And she was staying Roy's impatience now, with cigarettes and coffee andthe tale of Arúna--'England-returned. ' She had revealed little byletter; an uncharacteristic touch of caution derived from her husband, who questioned the wisdom of her bold incursion into the complexitiesand jarring elements of a semi-modern Hindu household. But Thea Leigh, daughter of Honor Desmond, was strongly imbued with the responsibilityof the ruling race. She stoutly refused to preserve, in Jaipur, thecorrect official detachment of Anglo-India. More: she possessed a racialwisdom of the heart, not to be gainsaid; as who should know better thanher husband, since it had saved him from himself. And now, havingsecured Roy for half an hour, she confided to him, unreservedly, all shecould gather of the tragic tangle she was unravelling in her owneffective fashion. 

"Arúna's the dearest thing, " she told him--as well he knew. "And I'mtruly fond of her. But sometimes I feel helpless. They're so hard tocome at--these gentle, inscrutable Hindu women. Talk of English reserve!However, I'm getting quite nimble at guessing and inferring; and Igather that your splendid old grandfather is rather patheticallyhelpless with that hive of hidden womenfolk and gurus. Also that theold lady--Mátaji--is a bit of a tartar. Of course, having lost caste, makes the poor child's home position almost impossible. Yet she flatlyrefuses to go through their horrid rites of restitution. And MissHammond--our lady doctor at the hospital--backs her up. "

"Well played, Miss Hammond!" quoth Roy; and remembering Arúna's cheerfulletters (no word of complications), all his sympathy went out to her. Might not he--related, yet free of grandmotherly tyranny--somehow beable to help? Too cruel that from her happy time in England there shouldspring such tragic issues. And she was not a creature made for tragedy, but for laughter and love and 'man's delight. ' Yet, in the Hindu natureof things, this very matter of marriage was the crux of her troubles. 

To the Power behind the curtain it spelt disgrace, that the eldestgrand-daughter--at the ripe age of twenty-two--should be neither wifenor mother. It would need a very advanced suitor to overlook thatdamning item. Doubtless a large dowry would be demanded by way ofcompensation; and, before all, caste must be restored. While Arúnaremained obdurate, nothing could be definitely arranged; and hergrandfather had not the heart to enforce his wife's insistent demands. But if the Indian woman's horizon be limited, her shrewdness andintuitive knowledge are often amazing; and this formidable oldlady--skilled in the art of imposing her will on others--knew herself amatch for her husband's evasions and Arúna's flat rebellion. 

She reckoned, however, without the daughter of Sir Theo Desmond, who, atthis point, took action--sudden and disconcerting. 

"You see the child came regularly to my purdah parties, " she explainedto Roy, who was impatient no longer, only absorbed. "Sometimes I had heralone for reading and music; and it was heart-breaking to see herwilting away before my eyes. So, at last, in desperation, I brokeloose--as Vinx politely puts it--and asked searching questions, regardless of etiquette. After all, the poor lamb has no mother. And Inever disobey an impulse of the heart. I believe I was only in the_nick_ of time. It seemed the old tartar and her widowed sister-in-lawwere in touch with a possible husband. So they had given the screw afresh turn, assisted by the family _guru_. He had just honoured themwith a special visit, expecting to find the lost sheep regenerate andeager for his blessing. Shocked at the tale of her obstinacy, heannounced that, unless he heard otherwise within a week, he would put anameless curse upon her; in which case her honourable grandmother wouldnot allow the poor child to eat or sleep under her honourable roof. "

Roy's hand closed sharply on the arm of his chair. "Confound the fellow!It's chiefly the mental effect they rely on. They're no fools; and evenmen like Grandfather--who can't possibly believe such rot--seempowerless to stand up against them. Does _he_ know all this?"

"It's hard to tell. They're so guarded--even the most enlightened--inalluding to domestic matters. Without a shade of discourtesy, theysimply keep one outside. Poor Arúna was terrified at having told me. Broke down utterly. But no idea of giving in. It's astonishing the gritone comes upon under their surface gentleness. She said she would starveor drown rather. _I_ said she should do nothing of the kind; that Iwould speak to Sir Lakshman myself--oh, very diplomatically, of course!Afterwards, all in a rush, came my inspiration. Some sort of secretarialwork for me would sound fairly plausible. (Did you know--I'm making aname, in a small way, over my zeal for Indian women?) On the strength ofthat, one could suggest a couple of rooms in the Residency; and shecould still keep on at the hospital with Miss Hammond, giving me certainafternoons. It struck me as flawless--_till_ I imparted it to Vinx andsaw him tweak his left eyebrow. Of course he was convinced it 'wouldn'tdo'; Sir Lakshman . . . My position . . . And so on. I said I proposed tomake it do--and the eyebrow twitched worse than ever. So I mildlyreminded him that _he_ had not held Arúna sobbing in his arms, and hedidn't happen to be a mother! Which was unanswerable. --And, my dear Roy, I had a hectic week of it, manipulating Sir Lakshman and Arúna _and_ thehonourable grandmother--strictly unseen! I'm sure she's anti-English. I've got at all the other high-borns; but I can't get at her. However--with a bold front and a tactful tongue, I carried the day. So Ihope the holy man will transfer his potent curse to me. Naturally, themoment I'd fixed things up, came Lance's letter about you. But Icouldn't back out. And I suppose it's all right?"

"Well, of course. " Roy was troubled with no doubts on that score. "Whata family you are! I was hoping to pick up threads with Arúna. "

"You shall. But you must be discreet. Jaipur isn't exactly Oxford. Brother and cousin are almost the same word with them; but still----"

"Is she at the hospital now?" Roy cut in irrelevantly. Her insistence ondiscretion--with Arúna, of all people--struck him as needless fussingand unlike Thea. And by now he was feeling more impatient to see Arúnathan to see Jaipur. 

"No. But she seemed shy of appearing at tiffin. So I said if she cameout here afterwards, she would find you and me alone. She's lookedhappier and less fragile lately. Even Vinx admits the event hasjustified me. But of course it's simply an emergency plan--atransition----"

"To _what_?" Roy challenged her with surprising emphasis. 

"That's my puzzle of puzzles. Perhaps you can help me solve it. Sometimes I wonder if she knows herself, what she wants out of life. . . . But perhaps I haven't the key to her waverings. . . . "

At that moment, a slight unmistakable figure stepped from the shadow ofthe verandah down the shallow steps flanked with pots of begonia; movingwith the effortless grace that Roy's heart knew too well. Dress and sariwere carnation pink. Her golden shoes glittered at every step: and shepensively twirled a square Japanese parasol--almond blossoms andbutterflies scattered abroad on silk of the frailest blue. 

"_Is_ their instinct for that sort of thing unconscious, I wonder?"murmured Thea. "You shall have half an hour with her, to pick upthreads. Help me if you can, Roy. But--_be discreet_!"

Roy scarcely heard her. He had gone suddenly very still--his gazeriveted on Arúna. The Indian dress, the carriage of her veiled head, the leisured grace, so sharply smote him that tears pricked his eyelids;and, for one intoxicating moment he was wafted, in spirit, across thechasm of the War to that dear dream-world of youth, when all distanceswere blue and all the near prospect bright with the dew of the morning. Only under a mask-like stillness could he hide that startling uprush ofemotion; and had Broome been watching him, he would have seen the subtlefilm of the East steal over his face. 

Thea saw only his sudden abstraction and the whitened knuckles of hisleft hand. She also realised, with a faint prick of anxiety, that he hadsimply not heard her remark. Was it possible--could Roy be at the backof Arúna's waverings? Would his coming mean fresh complications? Toodistracting to be responsible for anything of that kind. . . . 

Without a word, he had risen--and went quickly forward to meet her. Theasaw how, on his approach, all her studied composure fell away; and both, when they joined her, looked so happy, yet so plainly discomposed, thatThea felt ridiculously at a loss for just the right word with which toeffect a casual retreat. Responsibility for Sir Lakshman'sgrand-daughter was no light matter: at least she had done well inwarning Roy. These emerging Indian girls. . . !

It was a positive relief to see the prosaic figure of Floss Eden, inbrief tennis skirts and shady hat, hurrying across the lawn, with herboyish stride; racquet swinging, her round face flushed with exercise. 

"I say, Aunt Thea--you're wanted _jut put_, "[6] she announced briskly. "Verney's in one of his moods--and Mr Neill will soon be in one of histempers, if he isn't forcibly removed. Instead of helping with theballs, he's been parading up and down the verandah; two tin pails, tiedon to him with string, clattering behind--making a beast of a row. Shouting wasn't any earthly. So I rushed in and grabbed him. 'Verney--drop it! What _are_ you doing?' I said sternly; and he lookedup at me like a sainted cherub. 'Flop, don't hinder me. I'm walkin' froothe valley of the shadow, an' goodness an' mercy are following me _all_the days of my life. ' That's the fruits of teaching the Bible toinnocents!"

Thea's laugh ended in a sigh. "I warned Miss Mills. But the creature_is_ getting out of hand. I suppose it means he ought to go home. MrNeill, " she explained to Roy, "is Vinx's shorthand secretary: volcanic, but indispensable to the Great Work! So I must fly off and obliterate mysuperfluous son. "

Her eyes tried to impart the warning he had not heard. Useless. Hisattention was centred on Arúna. 

"Wonderful--isn't she?" the girl murmured, looking after her. Thenswiftly, half-shyly, she glanced up at him. "Still more wonderful that, at last, you have come, that I am here too--only through her. She toldyou?"

"Yes. A little. I want to hear more. "

"Presently. I would rather push away sad things--now you are here. Ifthere was only Dyán too--like Oxford days. And--oh, Roy, I was bad neverwriting . . . About her. I did try. But so difficult. . . . And--youknew----?"

"Yes--I knew, " he said in a repressed voice. On that subject he couldnot trust himself just yet. Every curve and fold of her sari, and thehalf-seen coils of her dark hair, every movement, every quaint turn ofphrase, set his nerves vibrating with an ecstasy that was pain. For themoment, he wanted simply to be aware of her; to hug the dear illusionthat the years between were a dream. And illusion was heightened by thetrivial fact that her appearance was identical in every detail. Was itchance? Or had she treasured them all this time? Only she herself lookedolder. Though her face kept its pansy aspect, her cheek-bones were ashade too prominent; no veiled glow of health under her dusky skin. Buther smile could still atone for all shortcomings. 

"Let's sit down, " he added after a strained silence. "And tellme--what's come to Dyán?"

She shook her head. "Oh--if we could _know_. Not much use, after all, trying to push away sadness!" She sank into her chair and looked up athim. "The more you push it away, the more it comes flowing in fromeverywhere. Everything so broken and confused from this terrible War. Atthe beginning how they said all would be made new; East and West firmlyunited. But here, at home, while the best were fighting, the worst weretoo busy with ugly whispers and untrue talk. Even holy men, behind thepurdah. . . . "

"As bad as that, is it?" asked Roy, distracted from his own sensationsby the subject that lay nearest his heart. "And you think Dyán's in withthat crew?"

"Yes, we are afraid. . . . A pity he came back from France too soon, because half his left arm must be cut off. Then--you heard--he went toCalcutta?"

"Yes, I wrote at the time. He didn't answer. I haven't heard since. "

She nodded. Sudden tears filled her eyes. "Always now . . . No answer. Like trying to speak with some one dead. So Grandfather fears he was notonly studying art. You know how he is too quick to catch fire. And tooeasily, he might believe those men who spin words like spider's webs. Also he was very sore losing his arm, by some small stupid chance; andthere was bitterness for that trouble . . . Of Tara. . . . "

Roy started. "Lord--was it _Tara_?" Instantly there flashed a vision ofthe walled lane leading to New College; Dyán's embittered mood andbewildering change of front. . . . Looking back now, the thing seemedglaringly obvious; but, through the opalescent mist of his own dreams, he had seen Dyán in one relation only. Just as well perhaps. Even atthis distance, the idea amazed and angered him. Tara! The arrogance ofit. . . !

"You didn't know--never thought?. . . Poor Dyán!" One finger-tip furtivelyintercepted a tear that was stealing down the side of her nose. 

"I am _too_ silly just now, " she apologised meekly. "To me, he onlyspoke of it long after, when coming wounded from France. Then I saw howthe bitterness was still there, changing the noble thoughts of hisheart. That is the trouble with Dyán. First--nothing good enough forEngland. But too fierce love may bring too fierce hate--if they poisonhis mind with cunning words dressed up in high talk of religion----"

"How long since you heard? Have you any address?" Roy dared notencourage her melting mood. 

"Six months now. " She stoically blinked back her tears. "Not any word. Not any address, since he left Calcutta. Last week, I wrote, addressingto the office of a paper there, because once he said that editor gavehim work. I told him all the pain in my heart. If that letter findshim--some answer _must_ come. "

"Well, if it does, I promise you this much;--I'll unearth him--somehow, wherever he is----"

"Oh, Roy! I hoped--I knew----!" She clasped her hands to hide theirtremor, and the look in her eyes came perilously near adoration. 

Roy had spoken with the cool assurance of his father's race, and withouta glimmering idea how his rash promise was going to be fulfilled. "I'lldo my level utmost, anyhow, " he added more soberly. "But there'syou--your home complications----"

She turned her hands outward with the expressive gesture of her race. "That foolish sadness we _can_ push away. What matter for anything--now?I rest--I breathe--I am here----!" Her smile shone out, sudden andbrilliant. "Almost like England--this big green garden and children andsound of playing tennis. Let us be young again. Let us, for a smalltime, not remember that all outside is Jaipur and the desert--dusty andhot and cruel; and dark places full of secret and terrible things. Herewe are safe. Here it is almost England!"

Her gallant appeal so moved him, and the lighter vein so charminglybecame her, that Roy humoured her mood willingly enough. . . . 

When his tea arrived, she played hostess with an alluring mixture ofshyness and happy importance, capping his lively sallies with the quickwit of old days. And when Suráj was announced--"Oh, please--may I seehim?" she begged eagerly as a child. 

Suráj graciously permitted his velvet nose to be stroked by alienfingers, light as rose petals. Then Roy sprang into the saddle; andArúna stood watching him as he went--_sais_ and dog trotting to heel--agraceful lonely figure, shadowed by her semi-transparent parasol. 

At a bend in the drive, where a sentry sprang to attention, he turnedfor a parting salute. Her answering gesture might or might not have beenintended for him. She at least knew all about the need for beingdiscreet. For, on leaving the tea-table, they had passed from the dreamof 'almost England' into the dusty actuality of Jaipur. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: Instantly. ]

CHAPTER V. 

 "Broadly speaking, there are two blocks of people--East and West; people who interfere and people who don't interfere; . . . East is a fatalist, West is an idealist, of a clumsy sort. "--STACY AUMONIER. 

A mile, or less, of tree-bordered road sloped gently from the Residencygate-posts to the walled City of Victory, backed by craggy, red-greyspurs of the Aravalli range, hidden almost in feathery heads of banyan, acacia, and neem--a dusty, well-ordered oasis, holding its own againstthe stealthy oncoming of the desert. 

North and east ran the screen of low hills with their creeping lines ofmasonry; but from south and west the softly encroaching thing crept upto the city walls, in through the gates, powdering every twig and leafand lattice with the fine white dust of death. Shadeless and colourless, to the limit of vision, it rose and fell in long billowing waves; as ifsome wizard, in the morning of the world, had smitten a living ocean tolifeless sand, where nothing flourished but the camel thorn and the _ak_plant and gaunt cactus bushes--their limbs petrified in weirdgesticulation. 

But on the road itself was a sufficiency of life and colour--parrokeetsflashing from tree to tree, like emeralds made visible and vocable;village women swathed in red and yellow veils; prancing Rajputcavaliers, straight from the Middle Ages; ox-carts and camels--unlimitedcamels, with flapping lip and scornful eye; a sluggish stream of life, rising out of the landscape and flowing, from dawn to dusk, through theseven Gates of Jaipur. And there, on the low spurs, beyond the walls, hesighted the famous Tiger Fort, and the marble tomb of Jai Sing--he thatbuilt the rose-red City; challenging the desert, as Canute the sea;saying, in terms of stone and mortar, 'Here shall thy proud waves bestayed!' Nearing the fortified gateway, Roy noted how every inch of flatsurface was silkily powdered, every opening silted with sand. Would itrest with desert or city, he wondered, the ultimate victory of the lastword. . . ?

Close against the ramparts, sand and dust were blown into a deep drift;or was it a deserted pile of rags----? Suddenly, with a sick sensation, he saw the rags heave and stir. Arms emerged--if you could call themarms--belonging to pinched, shadowy faces. And from that human dust-heapcame a quavering wail, "Maharáj! Maharáj!"

"What _is_ it, Bishun Singh?" he asked sharply of the _sais_, trottingat his stirrup. 

"Only the famine, Hazúr. Not a big trouble this year, they say. But fromthe villages these come crawling to the city, believing the Maharáj hasplenty, and will give. "

"Does he give?"

Bishun Singh's gesture seemed to deprecate undue curiosity. "The Maharájis great, but the people are like flies. If their Karma is good, theyfind a few handfuls; if evil--they die. "

Roy said no more. That simple statement was conclusive as a droppedstone. But, on reaching the gateway, he scattered a handful of loosecorns. 

Instantly a cry went up: "He gives money for food! _Jai déaMaharáj!_"[7] Not merely arms, but entire skeletons emerged, seething, scrambling, with hands wasted to mere claws. A few of the boldest caughtat Roy's stirrup; whereat Bishun Singh brushed them off, as if they wereflies indeed. 

Unresisting, they tottered and fell one against another, like ninepins:and Roy, hating the man, turned sharply away. But rebuke was futile. Onecould _do_ nothing. It was that which galled him. One could only passon; mentally brushing them aside--like Bishun Singh. 

 * * * * *

Spectres vanished, however, once he and Suráj were absorbed into thehuman kaleidoscope of the vast main street, paved with wide strips ofhewn stone; one half of it sun-flooded; one half in shadow. The colourand movement; the vista of pink-washed houses speckled with whiteflorets; the gay muslins, the small turbans and inimitable swagger ofthe Rajput-Sun-descended, re-awakened in him those gleams of ancestralmemory that had so vividly beset him at Chitor. Sights and sounds andsmells--the pungent mingling of spices and dust and animals--assailedhis senses with a vague yet poignant familiarity: fruit and corn-shopswith their pyramids of yellow and red and ochre, and the fat brownbunnia in the midst; shops bright with brass-work and Jaipur enamel;lattice windows, low-browed arches, glimpses into shadowed courts;flitting figures of veiled women; humbler women, unveiled, winnowinggrain, or crowned with baskets of sacred cow-dung, stepping likequeens. . . . 

And the animals----! Extinct, almost, in modern machine-ridden cities, here they visibly and audibly prevailed. For Asia lives intimately--ifnot always mercifully--with her animals; and Roy's catholic affectionembraced them all. Horses first--a long way first. But bullocks hadtheir charm: the graceful trotting zebus, horns painted red and green. And the ponderous swaying of elephants--sensitive creatures, nervous oftheir own bulk, resplendently caparisoned. And there--a flash of thejungle, among casual goats, fowls, and pariahs--went the royal cheetahs, led on slips; walking delicately, between scarlet peons, looking for allthe world like amiable maiden ladies with blue-hooded caps tied undertheir chins. In the wake of their magnificence two distended donkeys, onparodies of legs, staggered under loads more distended still, plumpdhobies perched callously on the cruppers. Above all, Roy's eyedelighted in the jewelled sheen of peacocks, rivalling in sanctity thereal lords of Jaipur--Shiva's sacred bulls. Some milk-white andonyx-eyed, some black and insolent, they sauntered among the open shopfronts, levying toll and obstructing traffic--assured, arrogant, immune. . . . 

And, at stated intervals, like wrong notes in a succession of harmonies, there sprang wrought-iron gas-lamps fitted with electric bulbs!

So riding, he came to the heart of the city--a vast open space, wherethe shops seemed brighter, the crowds gayer; and, by contrast, the humanrag and bone heaps, beggars and cripples, more terrible to behold. 

Here the first ray of actual recognition flashed through the haze offamiliar sensations. For here architectural exuberance culminated in thevast bewildering façade of the Hall of the Winds and the Palaceflaunting its royal standard--five colours blazoned on cloth of gold. But it was not these that held Roy's gaze. It was the group of Brahmintemples, elaborately carven, rose-red from plinth to summit, risingthrough flights of crows and iridescent pigeons; their monolithic formsclean cut against the dusty haze; their shallow steps flanked withmarble elephants, splashed with orange-yellow robes of holy men andgroups of brightly-veiled women. 

At sight of them Roy instinctively drew rein;--and there, in the midstof the shifting, drifting crowd, he sat motionless, letting the visionsink deep into his mind, while Terry investigated a promising smell, andBishun Singh, wholly incurious, gossiped with a potter, from whose wheelemerged an endless succession of _chirághs_--primitive clay lamps, witha lip for the cotton wick. His neighbour, with equal zest, was creatingvery ill-shapen clay animals, birds and fishes. 

"Look, Hazúr--for the Dewáli, " Bishun Singh thrust upon Roy's attentionthe one matter of real moment, just then, to all right-minded Hindus. "Only two more weeks. So they are making lamps, without number, forhouses and shops and the palace of the Maharája. Very big tamasha, Hazúr. "

He enlarged volubly on the coming festival, to this Sahib, who took suchunusual interest in the ways of India; while Roy sat silent, watching, remembering. . . . 

Nearly nineteen years ago he had seen the Dewáli--Feast of Lights; hadbeen driven, sitting on his mother's knee, through a fairy city outlinedin tremulous points of flame, down to the shore of the Mán Sagar Lake, where the lights quavered and ran together and the dead ruins came alivewith them. All night they had seemed to flicker in his fanciful brain;and next morning-unable to think or talk of anything else--he had beenmoved to dictate his very first attempt at a poem. . . . 

Suddenly, sharply, there rose above the chatter of the crowd and thetireless clamour of crows, a scream of mingled rage and anguish thattore at his nerves and sent a chill down his spine. 

Swinging round in the saddle, he saw a spectral figure of awoman--detached from a group of spectres, huddled ironically againstbulging sacks of grain. One shrivelled arm was lifted in denunciation;the other pressed a shapeless bundle to her empty breasts. Obviouslylittle more than a girl--yet with no trace of youth in her ravagedface--she stood erect, every bone visible, before the stall of abangle-seller, fat and well liking, exuding rolls of flesh above his_dhoti_, [8] and enjoying his savoury chupattis hot and hot; entirelyimpervious to unseemly ravings; entirely occupied in pursuing tricklesof _ghi_[9] with his agile tongue that none might be lost. 

"That shameless one was begging a morsel of food, " the toymakerexplained conversationally. "Doubtless her stomach is empty. _Wah! Wah!_But she has no pice. And a man's food is his own. . . . "

As he spoke a milk-white bull ambled by, plundering at will; hisprivileged nose adventuring near and nearer to the savoury smell. Promptly, with reverential eagerness, the man proffered half a freshchupatti to the sacred intruder. 

At that the starving girl-mother lunged forward with the yell of ahunted beast; lunged right across the path of a dapper young man in anEnglish suit, green turban, and patent-leather shoes. 

"Peace, she-devil! Make way, " he cried; and catching her wrist--thatlooked as if it would snap at a touch--he flung her aside so roughlythat she staggered and fell, the child beneath her emitting a feeblewail. . . . 

Since the days of his imprisonment, cruelty witnessed had a startlingeffect on Roy. Between the moment when he sprang from the saddle, in ablaze of fury, to the moment when he stood confronting the suave, Anglicised Indian--riding-crop in one hand, the other supporting thegirl and her babe--his mind was a blank. The thing was done almostbefore the impulse reached his brain. He wondered if he had struck thefellow, whom he was now arraigning furiously in fluent Hindustani, andwhose sullen, shifty face was reminding him of some one--somewhere. . . . 

"Have you _no_ respect for suffering--or for women other than your own?"he demanded, scorn undisguised in his look and tone. 

The man's answering shrug was frankly contemptuous. "All you English aremad, " he said in the vernacular. "If she die not to-day, she will dieto-morrow. And already there are too many to feed--"

"She will not die to-day or to-morrow, " Roy retorted with Olympianassurance. "Courage, little mother, "--he addressed the girl--"you shallhave food, you and the sonling. "

As she raised herself, clutching at his arm, he became uncomfortablyaware that her rags of clothing were probably verminous; that hischivalrous pity was tinged with repulsion. But pity prevailed. Supporting her to a neighbouring stall, he bought fruit, which shedevoured like a wild thing. He begged a little milk in a lotah and gaveher money for more. Half dazed, she dropped the money, emptied the smalljar almost at a gulp, and flung herself at his feet, pressing herforehead on his dusty boot; covering him with confusion. Imperatively hebade her get up. No result. So he stooped to enforce his command. . . . 

She had fainted. 

"Help, mother--quick!" he appealed to an elder woman who hovered nearthe stall, and responded, instinctively, to the note of command. 

As she stooped over the girl he said in low rapid tones: "Listen! It isan order. Give warm food to her and the child. Take her to the BurraSahib's compound. There she will be cared for. I will give word. "

He slipped two rupees into her hand, adding: "Two more--when all is doneaccording to order. "

"_Hai! Hai!_ The Sahib is a Son of Princes, " murmured the favoured one, reflecting shrewdly that eight annas would suffice to feed those poorempty creatures; and gathering up her light burden she bore it away--toRoy's unfeigned relief. 

Would Thea scold him--or uphold him, he wondered, --having committedhimself. The whole thing had been so swift, so unreal, that he seemedhalf a world away from the green Residency garden, with its atmosphereof twentieth-century England, scrupulously, yet unconsciously, preservedin a setting of sixteenth-century India. And Roy had a strain of both inhis composition. 

Across the road Bishun Singh--tolerant of his Sahib's vagaries--wasstill chatting with the potter; a blare of discord in a minor keyannounced an approaching procession; and there, in talk with thebangle-seller, stood the cause of these strange doings; keeping acurious eye on the mad Englishman, but otherwise frankly unconcerned. Again there dawned on Roy the conviction that he had seen that facebefore. It was not in India. It was linked with the same sensations, ina milder form. It would come in a moment. . . . 

It came. 

Behind the slight, foppish figure, the eye of his mind saw suddenly--notthe sunlight and colour of Jaipur, but a stretch of grey-green sea, tawny cliffs, and sandy shore . . . St Rupert's! Of course, unmistakable:the sullen mouth, the shifty eyes. . . . 

Instantly he went forward and said in English: "I say--excuse me--but isyour name Chandranath?"

The man started and stiffened. "That is no matter to you. "

"Perhaps not. Only . . . You're very like a boy who was one term at StRupert's School with me. "

"Well, I _was_ at St Rupert's. A beastly hole----"

He, too, spoke English, and scanned Roy's face with narrowed eyes. "Sinclair--is it? You tumbled down the cliff on to me--and that Desmondfellow----?"

"Yes, I did. Lucky for you, " Roy answered, stiffening in his turn. Butbecause of old days--because this unpromising specimen of manhood hadincidentally brought him and Desmond together, he held out his hand. "'Fraid I lost my temper, " he said casually, for form's sake. "But youput my blood up. "

Chandranath's fingers lay limply in his grasp. 

"Still so sensitive----? Then better to clear out of India. I onlypushed that crazy girl aside. Englishmen knock and kick our peoplewithout slightest compunction. Perhaps you are a tourist--or new to thiscountry?"

Words and manner set Roy's nerves on edge; but he had been imprudentenough for one day. "I've spent seven months on the Frontier in acavalry Regiment, " he said; "but I only came to Jaipur yesterday. "

"Well, take my advice, Mr Sinclair, and leave these people alone. Theydon't want Englishmen making pretence of sentimental fuss over them. They like much better to be pushed--or even starved--by their own _ját_. You may not believe it. But I belong to them. So I know. "

Roy, who also 'belonged' in a measure, very nearly said so--but againprudence prevailed. "I'm rash enough to disagree with you, " he saidplacably. "The question of non-interference, of letting illalone--because one's afraid or can't be bothered--isn't merely a racequestion; it's a root question of human character. Some men can't passby on the other side. Right or wrong, it simply isn't arguable. It's amatter of the individual conscience--the heart----"

"Conscience and heart--if not drastically disciplined by the logicallyreasoning brain, propagate the majority of troubles that afflictmankind, " quoth Chandranath in the manner of one familiar with platformoratory. "Are you stopping in Jaipur?"

"Yes. At the Residency. Mrs Leigh is Desmond's sister. Did you know?"

"That is curious. I did not know. Too much heart and conscience therealso. Mrs Leigh is thrusting her fingers into complicated issues ofwhich she is lamentably ignorant. "

Roy, taken aback, nearly gave himself away--but not quite. "I gather sheacted with Sir Lakshman Singh's approval, " was all he said. 

Chandranath shrugged. "Sir Lakshman is an able but deluded man. Hisdreams of social reform are obsolete. We of the new school adherepatriotically to social and religious ordinances of the Mother. All weagitate for is political independence. " He unfurled the polysyllables, like a flag; sublimely unaware of having stated a contradiction interms. "But your Sir Lakshman is of the old-fashionedschool--English-mad. "

"And your particular friends--are sane, eh?"

The apostle of Hindu revival pensively twirled an English button of hiscreditably-cut English coat. 

"Yes. We are sane--thanks to more liberalising influences. Coloured dustcannot be thrown in our eyes by bureaucratic conjuring tricks, orimperialistic talk about prestige. To-day it is India's turn forprestige. 'Arya for the Aryans' is the slogan of the rising generation. "He paused, blinked, and added with an ingratiating chuckle: "You will gorunning away with an impression that I am metamorphosed into red-hotrevolutionary. No, thank you! I am intrinsically a man of peace!" With aflourish he jerked out a showy gold watch. "Ah--getting late! Veryagreeable exchanging amenities with old schoolfellows. But I have anappointment in the Palace Gardens, at the time they feed the muggers. _That_ is a sight you should see, Mr Sinclair--when the beasts arehungry and have not lately snapped up a washerwoman or an erring wife!"

"I'd rather be excused this evening, thanks, " Roy answered, with a touchof brusqueness. "I confess it wouldn't appeal to my sense ofhumour--seeing crocodiles gorge, while women and children starve. "

"That is what they call in a book I once read 'little ironies of life. 'Good fortune, at least, for the muggers! Better start to sharpen yoursense of humour, my friend. It is incomparable asset against the slingsand arrows of outrageous contingencies. " This time his chuckle had anundernote of malice; and Roy, considering him thoughtfully--from greenturban to patent-leather shoes--felt an acute desire to take him by thescruff of his English coat and dust the Jaipur market-place with theremnant of him. 

Aloud he said coolly: "Thanks for the prescription. Are you stoppinghere long?"

"Oh, I am meteoric visitant. Never very long anywhere. I come and go. "

"Business--eh?"

"Yes--many kinds of business--for the Mother. " He flashed a direct lookat Roy; the first since their encounter; fluttered a foppish hand--thelittle finger lifted to display a square uncut emerald--and went hisway. . . . 

Roy, left standing alone in the leisurely crowd of men and animals--atonce so alien and so familiar--returned to Bishun Singh and Suráj in avaguely troubled frame of mind. 

"Which way to the house of Sir Lakshman Singh?" he asked the maker ofchirághs, his foot in the stirrup. 

Enlightened, he set off at a trot, down another vast street, all hazy inthe level light that conjured the dusty air to gold. But contact withhuman anguish, naked and unashamed--as he had not seen it since thewar--and that sudden queer encounter with Chandranath, had rubbed thebloom off delicate films of memory and artistic impressions. These werethe drop-scene, merely: negligible, when Life took the stage. He had anexciting sense of having stepped straight into a crisis. Things weregoing to happen in Jaipur. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: Victory to thee, Maharáj!]

[Footnote 8: Loin-cloth. ]

[Footnote 9: Melted butter. ]

CHAPTER VI. 

 "God has a few of us, whom He whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome. . . . " --BROWNING. 

 "Living still, and the more beautiful for our longing. "

The house of Sir Lakshman Singh, C. S. I. --like many others in advancingIndia--was a house divided against itself. And the cleavage cut deep. The furnishing of the two rooms, in which he mainly lived, was not moresharply sundered from that of the Inside, than was the atmosphere of hislarge and vigorous mind from the twilight of ignorance and superstitionthat shrouded the mind and soul of his wife. More than fifty yearsago--when young India ardently admired the West and all its works--hehad dreamed of educating his spirited girl-bride, so that the way ofcompanionship might gladden the way of marriage. 

But too soon the spirited girl had hardened into the narrow, tyrannicalwoman; her conception of the wifely state limited to the traditionalduties of motherhood and household service. Happily for Sir Lakshman, his unusual gifts had gained him wide recognition and high service inthe State. He had schooled himself, long since, to forget his earlydreams: and if marriage had failed, fatherhood had made royal amends. Above all, in Lilámani, daughter of flesh and spirit, he had found--hadin a measure created--the intimate companionship he craved; a womanskilled in the fine art of loving--finest and least studied of all thearts that enrich and beautify human life. But the gods, it seemed, werejealous of a relation too nearly perfect for mortal man. So Rama, eldestson, and Lilámani, beloved daughter, had been taken, while theestranged wife was left. Remained the grandchildren, in whom centred allhis hope and pride. So far as the dividing miles and years would permit, he had managed to keep in close touch with Roy. But the fact remainedthat England had first claim on Lilámani's children; and Rama's weretossed on the troubled waters of transition. 

As for India herself--sacred Mother-land--her distraught soul seemedmore and more at the mercy of the voluble, the half-baked, thedisruptive, at home and abroad. 

Himself, steeped in the threefold culture of his country--Vedantic, Islamic, and European--he came very near the prevailing ideal ofcomposite Indian nationality. Yet was he not deceived. In seventy yearsof life, he had seen intellectual India pass through many phases, fromardent admiration of the West and all its works, to no less ardentdenunciation. And in these days he saw too clearly how those sameintellectuals--with catchwords, meaningless to nine-tenths of herpeople--were breaking down, stone by stone, their mighty safeguard ofBritish administration. Useless to protest. Having ears, they heard not. Having eyes, they saw not. The spirit of destruction seemed abroad inall the earth. After Germany--Russia. Would it be India next? He knewher peoples well enough to fear. He also knew them well enough to hope. But of late, increasingly, fear had prevailed. His shrewd eye discerned, in every direction, fresh portents of disaster--a weakened executive, divided counsels, and violence that is the offspring of both. His ownMaharája, he thanked God, was of the old school, loyal and conservative:his face set like a flint against the sedition-monger in print orperson. And as concessions multiplied and extremists waxed bolder, sothe need for vigilance waxed in proportion. . . . 

But to-day his mind had room for one thought only--the advent of Roy;legacy of her, his vanished Jewel of Delight. 

A message from the Residency had told of the boy's arrival, of his hopeto announce himself in person that evening; and now, on a low divan, theold man sat awaiting him with a more profound emotion at his heart thanthe mere impatience of youth. But the impassive face under theflesh-pink turban betrayed no sign of disturbance within. Thestrongly-marked nose and eyebones might have been carved in old ivory. The snowy beard, parted in the middle, was swept up over his ears; andthe eyes were veiled. An open book lay on his knee. But he was notreading. He was listening for the sound of hoofs, the sound of avoice. . . . 

The two had not met for five years: and in those years the boy hadproved the warrior blood in his veins; had passed through the searchingtest of a bitter loss. Together, they could speak of her--gone fromthem; yet alive in their hearts for evermore. Seen or unseen, she wasthe link that kept them all united, the pivot on which their lives stillturned. There had been none with whom he could talk of her since shewent. . . . 

Over his writing-table hung the original Antibes portrait--life-size;Nevil's payment for the high privilege of painting her; a privilege howreluctantly accorded none but himself had ever known. And behold hisreward: her ever-visible presence--the girl-child who had beenaltogether his own. 

Hoofs at last--and the remembered voice; deeper, more commanding; theembroidered curtain pushed aside. Then--Roy himself, broader, browner;his father's smile in his eyes; and, permeating all, the spirit of hismother, clearly discernible to the man who had given it life. 

He was on his feet now, an imposing figure, in loose white raiment andpurple choga. In India, he wisely discarded English dress, deeming it asunsuitable to the country as English political machinery. Silent, heheld out his arms and folded Roy in a close embrace: then--stillsilent--stood away and considered him afresh. Their mutual emotionaffected them sensibly, like the presence of a third person, making themshy of each other, shy of themselves. 

It was Sir Lakshman who spoke first. "Roy, son of my Heart's Delight, Ihave waited many years for this day. It was the hidden wish of herheart. And her spirit, though withdrawn, still works in our lives. It isonly so with those who love greatly, without base mixture of jealousy orgreed. They pass on--yet they remain; untouched by death, like thelotus, that blooms in the water, but opens beyond its reach. "

Words and tone so stirred Roy that sudden tears filled his eyes. Andthrough the mist of his grief, dawned a vision of his mother's face. Blurred and tremulous, it hovered before him with a startling illusionof life; then--he knew. . . . 

Without a word, he went over to the picture and stood before it, drownedfathoms deep. . . . 

A slight movement behind roused him; and with an effort he turned away. "I've not seen a big one since--since my last time at home, " he saidsimply. "I've only two small ones out here. "

The carven face was not impassive now. "After all, Dilkusha, [10] whatmatter pictures when you have--herself?"

Roy started. "It's true. I _have_--herself. How could you know?"

Five minutes later, he was sitting beside his grandfather on the deepdivan, telling him all. 

Before setting out, he would not have believed it possible. Butinstinctively he knew himself in touch with a quality of love thatmatched his own; and the mere telling revived the marvel, the thrill ofthat strange and beautiful experience at Chitor. . . . 

Sir Lakshman had neither moved nor spoken throughout. Now their eyes metin a look of deep understanding. 

"I am very proud you told me, Roy. It is not easy. "

"No. I've not told any one else. I couldn't. But just now--somethingseemed to draw it all out of me. I suppose--something in you----"

"Or perhaps--herself! It almost seemed--she was here with us, while youtalked. "

"Perhaps--she is here still. "

Their voices were lowered, as in the presence of sacred things. Never, till now, had Roy so keenly felt his individual link with this wonderfulold man, whose blood ran in his veins. 

"Grandfather, " he asked after a pause, "I suppose it doesn't oftenhappen--that sort of thing? I suppose most common-sense people woulddismiss it all as--sheer delusion?"

The young simplicity of the question lit a smile in Sir Lakshman's eyes. 

"Quite possible. All that is most beautiful in life, most real to saintsand lovers, must seem delusion to those whose hearts and spirits aremerely vassals to the body and the brain. But those who say of the soul, 'It is not, ' have still to _prove_ it is not to those who have felt andknown. Also I grant--the other way about. But they speak in differentlanguages. Kabir says, 'I disclose my soul in what is hidden. ' Andagain, 'The bird is beyond seeking, yet it is most clearly visible. ' Forus, that is living truth. For those others, a mere tangle of words. "

"I see. " Roy's gaze was riveted on the picture above the writing-table. "You can't explain colours to the colour-blind. And I supposeexperiences like mine only come to those for whom words like thatare--living truth?"

"Yes--like yours. But there are other kinds; not always true. Because, in this so sacred matter, clever people, without scruple, have madecapital out of the heart's natural longing; and the dividing line is dimwhere falsehood ends and truth begins. So it has all come into suspicionand contempt. Accept what is freely given, Roy. Do not be tempted to tryand snatch more. "

"No--no. I wouldn't if I could. " A pause. "_You_ believe it is time . . . What I feel? That she is often--very near me?"

Sir Lakshman gravely inclined his head. "As I believe in Brahma, Lord ofall. "

And for both the silence that fell seemed pulsating with her unseenpresence. . . . 

When they spoke again it was of mundane things. Roy vividly describedhis sensations, riding through the City; the culminating incident, andhis recognition of the offender. 

"The queerest thing, running into the beggar again like that! He looksas sulky and shifty as ever. That's how I knew. "

"Sulky and shifty--and wearing English clothes?" Sir Lakshman's browscontracted sharply. "What name did you say?"

"Chandranath, we called him. "

"And you don't know his whereabouts?"

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't suppose his whereabouts mattered a damn to anyone. "

The stern old Rajput smiled. It did his heart good to hear the familiarslang phrases again. "Whether it matters a damn--as you say--depends onwhether he is the undesirable I have in mind. Quite young; but muchinfluence, and a bad record. Mixed up with German agents, before theWar, and the Ghadr party in California; arrested for seditious activityand deported: but of course, on appeal, allowed to return. Always thesame tale. Always the same result. Worse mischief done. And India--thetrue India--must be grateful for these mercies! Sometimes I think theirony is too sharp between the true gifts given, unnoticed, byEnglishmen working sincerely for the good of our people, and the falsegifts proclaimed from the house-tops, filling loyal Indians withbewilderment and fear. I have had letters from scores of these, becauseI am known to believe that loyal allegiance to British government givesIndia the best chance for peaceful progress she is likely to have formany generations. And from every one comes the same cry, begging to besaved from this crazy nightmare of Home Rule, not understood and notdesired except by those who invented it. But what appeal is possible tothose who stop their ears? And all the time, by stealthy and open means, the poison of race-hatred is being poured into India's veins----"

"But, Grandfather--what about the War--and pulling together--and allthat?"

Sir Lakshman's smile struck Roy as one of the saddest he had ever seen. "Four years ago, my dear Boy, we all had many radiant illusions. Butthis War has dragged on too long. It is too far away. For our Princesand warlike races it has had some reality. For the rest it means mostlynews in the papers and rumours in bazaars, high prices, and troubleabout food. No better soil for sowing evil seeds. And friends ofGermany are still working in India--remember that! While the loyal werefighting, these were talking, plotting, hindering: and now they arewaving, like a flag, the services of others, to gain their own ends, from which the loyal pray to be delivered! Could irony be more complete?Indian Princes can keep some cheek on these gentlemen. But it is notalways easy. If this Chandranath should be the same man--he is here, nodoubt, for Dewáli. At sacred feasts they do most of their devil's work. Did you speak of connection with me?"

"No. But he seemed to know about Arúna: said you were English mad. "

Sir Lakshman frowned. "English mad! That is their jargon. Too narrow tounderstand how I can deeply love both countries, while remaining asjealous for all true rights of my Motherland as any hot-head whoswallows their fairy-tale of a Golden Age, and England asRaksha--destroying demon! By help of such inventions, they have deludedmany fine young men, like my poor Dyán, who should be already marriedand working to all my place. Such was my hope in sending him to Oxford. And now--see the result . . . "

On that topic he could not yet trust himself; and Roy, leaning forwardimpulsively, laid a hand on his knee. 

"Grandfather, I have promised Arúna--and I promise you--that somehow, I_will_ get hold of him; and bring him back to his senses. "

Sir Lakshman covered the hand with his own. "True son of Lilámani! But Ifear he may have joined some secret society; and India is a largehaystack in which to seek one human needle!"

"But Arúna has written again. She is convinced he will answer. "

Sir Lakshman sighed. "Poor Arúna! I am not sure if I was altogether wiseletting her go to the Residency. But I am deeply grateful to Mrs Leigh. India needs many more such English women. By making friends withhigh-born Indian women, it is hardly too much to say they might, together, mend more than half the blunders made by men on both sides. "

Thus, skilfully, he steered clear of Arúna's problem that was linkedwith matters too intimately painful for discussion with a grandson, however dear. 

So absorbed was Roy in the delight of reunion, that not till he rose togo did he take in the details of the lofty room. Everywhere Indianworkmanship was in evidence. The pictures were old Rajput paintings;fine examples of Vaishnava art--pure Hindu, in its mingling of restraintand exuberance, of tenderness and fury; its hallowing of all life andidealising of all love. Only the writing-table and swivel-chair werefrankly of the West, and certain shelves full of English books andreviews. 

"I _like_ your room, " Roy announced after leisurely inspection. "But Idon't seem to remember----"

"You would be a miracle if you did! The room _you_ saw had plushcurtains, gilt mirrors and gilt furniture; in fact, the correct'English-fashion' guest-room of the educated Indian gentleman. But oflate years I have seen how greatly we were mistaken, making imitationEngland to honour our English friends. Some frankly told me how theywere disappointed to find in our houses only caricatures of middle-classEngland or France. Such rooms are silent barriers to friendship:proclaiming that East may go to the West but West cannot come to theEast. "

"In a way that's true, isn't it?"

"Yes--in a way. This room, of course, is not like my inner apartments. It is like myself, however; cultivated--but still Indian. It is my wayof preaching true Swadeshi:--Be your own self, even with English guests. But so far I have few followers. Some are too foolishly fond of theirmirrors and chandeliers and gramophones. Some will not believe suchtrifles can affect friendliness. Yet--strange, but true--too muchAnglicising of India instead of drawing us nearer, seems rather to widenthe gulf. "

Roy nodded. "I've heard that. Yet most of us are so keen to be friends. Queer, perverse things--human beings, aren't they?"

"And for that reason, more interesting than all the wonders of Earth!"Setting both hands on Roy's shoulders he looked deeply into his eyes. "Come and see me often, Dilkusha. It lifts my tired heart to have thisvery human being so near me again. "

 * * * * *

Ten minutes later, Roy was riding homeward through a changed city;streets and hills and sky wrapped in the mystery of encroaching dusk. 

South and west the sky flamed, like the heart of a fire opal, through aveil fine as gauze--dust no longer; but the aura of Jaipur. Seen afar, through the coloured gloom, familiar shapes took on strange outlines;moved and swayed, mysteriously detached, in a sea of shadows, scattered, here and there, by flames of little dinner fires along the pavements. The brilliant shifting crowd of two hours ago seemed to have sunk intothe earth. For there is no night life in the streets of Jaipur. Travellers had passed on and out. Merchants had stowed away theirmuslins and embroideries, their vessels of brass and copper andpriceless enamels. Only the starving lay in huddled heaps asbefore--ominously still; while above them vultures and eagles circled, expectant, ink-black against the immense radiance beyond. Grey, deepening to black, were flat roofs, cornices, minarets and massedfoliage, and the flitting shadows, with lifted tails, that careeredalong the house-tops; or perched on some jutting angle, skinny elbowscrooked, absorbed in the pursuit of fleas. For sunset is the monkey'shour, and the eerie jibbering of these imps of darkness struck a bizarrenote in the hush that shrouded the city. 

Roy knew, now, why Thea had stayed his impatience; and he blessed hersympathetic understanding. But just then--steeped in India at her mostmagical hour--it was hard to believe in the Residency household; inEnglish dinner-tables and English detachment from the medićval medley ofsplendour and squalor, of courage and cruelty and dumb endurance, ofarts and crafts and all the paraphernalia of enlightened knowledge thatwas Jaipur. It seemed more like a week than a few hours since he hadturned in the saddle to salute Arúna and ridden out into anotherworld:--her world, which was also in a measure his own. . . . 

On and on he rode, at a foot's pace, followed by his twin shadows; pastthe temples of Maha Deo, still rosy where they faced the west, stillrumbling and throbbing with muffled music; past wayside shrines, merealcoves for grotesque images--Shiva, Lord of Death, or Ganesh theElephant God--each with his scented garlands and his nickering chirágh;past shadowy groups round the dinner fires, cooking their evening meal:on and out through the double fortified gateways into the deserted road, his whole being drenched in the silence and the deepening dusk. 

Here, outside the city, emptiness loomed almost like a presence. Onlythe trees were alive; each with its colony of peacocks and parrots andbirds of prey noisily settling to rest. The peacocks' unearthly cry, andthe far, ghostly laugh of jackals--authentic voice of India atsundown--sent a chill down Roy's spine. For he, who had scarcely knownfear on the battlefield, was ignominiously at the mercy of imaginationand the eerie spirit of the hour. 

At a flick of the reins, Suráj broke into a smart canter, willinglyenough. What were sunsets or local devils to him compared with stablesand gram?

And as they sped on, as trees on either side slid by like stealthyghosts, the sunset splendour died, only to rise again in a volcanicafterglow, on which trunks and twigs and battlemented hills were printedin daguerreotype; and desert voices were drowned in the clamour ofcicadas, grinding their knives in foolish ecstasy; and, at last, heswerved between the friendly gate-posts of the Residency--the richer fora spiritual adventure that could neither be imparted, nor repeated, norforgotten while he lived. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: Joy of my heart. ]

CHAPTER VII. 

 "The deepest thing in our nature is this dumb region of the heart, where we dwell alone with our willingnesses and unwillingnesses, our faiths and our fears. "--WILLIAM JAMES. 

Not least among the joys of Arúna's return to the freer life of theResidency was her very own verandah balcony. Here, secure fromintrusion, she could devote the first and last hours of her day tomeditation or prayer. Oxford studies had confused a little, but notkilled, the faith of her fathers. The real trouble was that too often, nowadays, that exigent heart of hers would intrude upon her sacreddevotions, transforming them into day-dreams, haloed with a hope themore frankly formulated because she was of the East. 

For Thea had guessed aright. Roy was the key to her waverings, herrefusals, her eager acceptance of the emergency plan:--welcome initself; still more welcome because it permitted her simply to await hiscoming. 

They had been very wonderful, those five years in England; in spite ofanxieties and disappointed hopes. But when Dyán departed andMesopotamia engulfed Roy, India had won the day. 

How unforgettable that exalted moment of decision, one drenched anddismal winter evening; the sudden craving for sights and sounds andsmells of her own land. How slow the swiftest steamer to the speed ofher racing thoughts! How bitter, beyond belief, the--how first faintchill of disappointment; the pang of realising reluctantly--that, withinherself, she belonged whole-heartedly to neither world. 

She had returned qualified for medical work, by experience in a Collegehospital at Oxford; yet hampered by innate shrinking from the sick andmaimed, who had been too much with her in those years of war. Not lessinnate was the urge of her whole being to fulfil her womanhood throughmarriage rather than through work. And in the light of that discovery, she saw her dilemma plain. Either she must hope to marry an Englishmanand break with India, like Aunt Lilámani; or accept, at the hands of thematchmaker, an enlightened bridegroom, unseen, unknown, whose familywould overlook--at a price--her advanced age and English adventures. 

Against the last, all that England and Oxford had given her rose up inrevolt . . . But the discarded, subconscious Arúna was centuries olderthan the half-fledged being who hovered on the rim of the nest, distrustful of her untried wings and the pathless sky. That Arúna had, for ally, the spirit of the ages; more formidable, if less assertive, than the transient spirit of the age. And the fledgling Arúna knewperfectly well that the Englishman of her alternative was, confessedly--Roy. His mother being Indian, she innocently supposed therewould be no trouble of prejudice; no stupid talk of the gulf that sheand Dyán had set out to bridge. The fact that Dyán had failed only madeher the more anxious to succeed. . . . 

Soon after arriving, she had taken up hospital work in the women's ward, because Miss Hammond was kind; and her educated self had need ofoccupation. Her other self--deeply loving her grandfather--had urged herto try and live at home, --so far as her unregenerate state would permit. 

As out-of-caste, she had been exempt from kitchen work; debarred fromtouching any food except the portion set aside for her meals, that wereeaten apart in Sir Lakshman's room--her haven of refuge. In the Inside, she was at the mercy of women's tongues and the petty tyranny of Mátaji;antagonistic as ever; sharpened and narrowed with age, even as hergrandfather had mellowed and grown beautiful, with the unearthly beautyof the old, whose spirit shines visibly through the attenuated veil offlesh. Arúna, watching him, with clearer understanding, marvelled how hehad preserved his serenity of soul through a lifetime of Mátaji'sdominion. 

And the other women--relations in various degrees--took their tone fromher, if only for the sake of peace:--the widowed sister-in-law, suavelysatirical; a great-aunt, whose tongue clacked like a rice-husker; twocousins, correctly betrothed to unseen bridegrooms, entitled to lookaskance at the abandoned one, who was neither wife nor mother; and twochildren of a poor relation--embryo women, who echoed the jeers of theirelders at her English friends, her obstinacy in the matter of caste andthe inevitable husband. _Hai! hai!_ At her age, what did she fear? Hadthe English bewitched her with lies? Thus Peru, aged nine, jocoselyproceeding to enlighten her; egged on by giggles and high-pitchedlaughter from the prospective brides. For in the zenana reticence isnot, even before children. Arúna herself had heard such talk; but foryears her early knowledge had lain dormant; while fastidiousness hadbeen engendered by English studies and contact with English youth. Useless to answer. It simply meant tears or losing her temper; in whichcase, Mátaji would retaliate by doctoring her food with red pepper tosweeten her tongue. 

Meanwhile, sharpened pressure in the matter of caste rites and rumoursof an actually maturing husband, had brought her very near the end ofher tether. Again Thea was right. Her brave impulse of the heart hadonly been just in time. And hard upon that unbelievable good fortunefollowed the news that Roy was coming. 

Tremulously at first, then with quickening confidence, her happy naturerose like a sea-bird out of troubled waters, on the wings of a secrethope. . . . 

 * * * * *

And now he was here, under this friendly roof that sheltered her fromthe tender mercies of her own kind. There were almost daily meetings, however brief, and the after-glow of them when past; all thewell-remembered tricks of speech and manner; and the twinkle of fun inhis eyes. Lapped in an ecstasy of content, hope scarcely stirred a wing. Enough that he was there----

Great was her joy when Mrs Leigh--after scolding him in the kindest wayover the girl mother and two more starving children, picked upafterwards--had given her leave to take special charge of them andlodged them with the dhobi's wife. This also brought her nearer to Roy. And what could she ask more?

But with the approach of the Dewáli, thoughts of the future cameflocking like birds at sundown. Because, on Dewáli night, all triedtheir luck in some fashion; and Mai Lakshmi's answer failed not. The mentossed coin or dice. The maidens, at sunset, when the little wind ofevening stirred the waters, carried each her chirágh--lamp of herlife--and set it afloat on tank or stream, praying Mai Lakshmi to guideit safe across. If the prayer was heard, omens were favourable. If thelamp should sink, or be shattered, omens were evil. And thecenturies-old Arúna--still at the mercy of dastúr--had secretly boughther little chirágh; secretly resolved to try her fate on the night ofnights. If the answer were unfavourable--and courage failed her--therewas always one way of escape. The water that put out her lamp would ascarelessly put out the flame of her life--in a little moment--withoutpain. . . . 

A small shiver convulsed her--kneeling there in her balcony; her barearms resting on the balustrade. The new Arúna shrank from thought ofdeath. She craved the fulness of life and love--kisses and rapture andthe clinging arms of little children. . . . 

For, as she knelt in the moonlight, nominally she was invoking MaiLakshmi; actually she was dreaming of Roy; chiding herself for thefoolishness that had kept her from appearing at dinner; hoping he mightwonder, and perhaps think of her a little--wishing her there. And allthe while, perhaps he was simply not noticing--not caring one littlebit----!

Stung by the thought, she clenched her hands and lifted her bowed head. Then she started--and caught her breath----

Could it be he, down there among the shadows--wandering, dreaming, thinking of her, or making poems? She knew most of his slim volume byheart. 

More likely, he was framing bold plans to find Dyán--now the answer toher letter had come. It was a strange unsatisfying answer; full ofaffection, but too full of windy phrases that she was shrewd enough torecognise as mere echoes from those others, who had ensnared him in aweb of words. 

"Fear not for me, sister of my heart, " he wrote. "Rejoice because I amdedicated to service of the Mother, that she may be released frompolitical bondage and shine again in her ancient glory--no longerexploited by foreigners, who imagine that with bricks and stones theycan lock up Veda--eternal truth! The gods have spoken. It is time. Kalirises in the East, with her necklet of skulls--Giants of evil she hasslain. It is she who speaks through the voice of the patriot: 'Do notwall up your vision, like frogs in a well. . . . Rise above the Penal Codeto the rarefied atmosphere of the Gita and consider the actions ofheroic men. '

"You ask if I still love Roy? Why not? He is of our own blood and a veryfine fellow. But I don't write now because he would not understand myfervour of soul. So don't you take all his opinions for gospel; like mygrandfather's, they are well meant, but obsolete. If only you hadcourage, Arúna-ji, to accept the enlightened husband, who might not keepyou in strict purdah, then we could work together for liberation of theMother. Sing _Bande Mátaram_, [11] forty thousand brothers! That is ourbattle-cry. And one of those is your own fond brother--Dyán Singh. "

Arúna had read and re-read that bewildering effusion till tears fell andblotted the words. Could this be the same Dyán who had known and lovedEngland even as she did? His eloquence somehow failed to carryconviction. To her, the soul of new India seemed like a book, full ofcontradictions, written in many strange languages, hard to read. Butbehind that tangle of words beat the heart of Dyán--the brother who washer all. 

Still no address was given. But Roy had declared the Delhi postmarksufficient clue. Directly Dewáli was over, he would go. And, by everyright impulse, she ought to be more glad than sad. But the heart, likethe tongue, can no man tame. And sometimes his eagerness to go hurt hera little. Was he thinking of Delhi down there--or of her----?

The shadow had turned and was moving towards her. There was a whitesplash of shirt-front, the glow of a cigarette. 

Suddenly his pace quickened. He had seen her. Next moment he wasstanding under her balcony. His low-pitched voice came distinctly to herears. 

"Good evening--Juliet! Quit your dreaming. Come and be sociable downhere. "

Delicious tremors ran through her. Much too bold, going down in thedark. But how to resist?

"I think--better not, " she faltered, incipient surrender in her tone. "You see--not coming down to dinner . . . Mrs Leigh . . . "

"Bother Mrs Leigh. I've got a ripping inspiration about Delhi---- Hurryup. I'll be by the steps. "

Then he _had_ been thinking of Delhi. But he wanted her now; and thenote of command extinguished hesitation. Slipping on a cloak, shereached the verandah without meeting a soul. He put out a hand. Purelyon impulse she gave him her left one; and he conducted her down thesteps with mock ceremony, as if leading her out to tread a measure tounheard strains of the viola and spinet. 

Happiness ran like wine in her veins: and catching his mood she swepthim a curtsey, English fashion. 

"Fit for the Queen's Drawing-room!" he applauded; and she smiled up athim under her straight lashes. "Why didn't you appear at dinner? Is it awhim--hiding your light under a bushel? Or do you get headaches andheartaches working in the ward, and feel out of tune with our frivol?"

The solicitude in his tone was worth many headaches and heartaches tohear again. But with him she could not pretend. 

"No--not that!" she said, treading the grass beside him, as if it were amoonlit cloud. "Only sometimes . . . I am foolish--not inclined for somany faces; and all the lights and the talk. "

He nodded. "I know the feeling. The same strain in us, I suppose. But, look here, about Dyán. It suddenly struck me I'd have ten times betterchance if I went as an Indian. I can talk the language to admiration. What d'you think?"

She caught her breath. A vision of him so transformed seemed to bringhim surprisingly nearer. "How exciting! How bold!"

"Yes--but not impossible. And no end of a lark. If I could lodge withsome one who knew, I believe I could pull it through. Grandfather mightarrange that. It would give me a chance to get in among Dyán's set andhear things. Don't breathe a word to any one. I must talk it all overwith Grandfather. "

"Oh! I would love to see you turned into a Rajput, " she breathed. 

"You _shall_ see me. I'll come and make my salaams and ask your blessingon my venture. "

"And I will make _prasád_ for your journey!" Her unveiled eyes met hisfrankly now. "A portion for Dyán too. It may speak to his heart clearerthan words. "

"_Prasad_? What's that?"

"Food prepared and consecrated by touch of mother or sister or--ornearest woman relation. And by absence of those others . . . It is . . . Myprivilege----"

"_My_ privilege. I would not forgo it for a kingdom, " Roy interposed, such patent sincerity in the reverend quiet of his tone that she wasspeechless. . . . 

For less than half an hour they strolled on that moon-enchanted lawn. Nothing was said by either that the rest might not have heard. Yet itwas a transfigured Arúna who approached the verandah, where Thea stoodawaiting them; having come out to look for Roy and found the clue to hisprolonged meditations. 

"What have you been plotting, you two?" she asked lightly when theyreached her. To Roy her eyes said: "D'you call _this_ being discreet?"To Arúna her lips said: "Graceless one! I thought you were _purdahnashin_ this evening!"

"So she was, " Roy answered for her. "I'm the culprit. I insisted. Somedetails about my Delhi trip, I wanted to talk over. "

Thea wrinkled her forehead. "Roy--you mustn't. It's a crazy plan----"

"Pardon me--an inspired plan!" He drew himself up half an inch thebetter to look down on her. "Nothing on earth can put me off it--exceptGrandfather. And I know he'll back me up. "

"In that case, I won't waste valuable verbal ammunition on you! Comealong in--We're going to have music. "

But as Roy moved forward, Arúna drew back. "Please--I would rather goto bed now. And--please, forgive, little Mother, " she murmuredcaressingly. For this great-hearted English woman seemed mother indeedto her now. 

For answer, Thea took her by the shoulders and kissed her on bothcheeks. "Not guilty this time, _piári_. [12] But don't do it again!"

Roy's hand closed hard on hers, but he said not a word. And she wasglad. 

Alone again on her balcony, gladness rioted through all her being. Yet--nothing had really happened. Nothing had been said. Only--everything felt different inside. Of such are life's suprememoments. They come without flourish of trumpets; touch the heart or thelips with fire, and pass on. . . . 

While undressing, an impulse seized her to break her chirágh andtreasure the pieces--in memory of to-night. Why trouble Mai Lakshmi witha question already half answered? But, lost in happy thoughts--inwovenwith delicate threads of sound from Thea's violin--she forgot all aboutit, till the warmth of her cheek nestled against the cool pillow. Toolazy and comfortable to stir, she told her foolish heart that to-morrowmorning would do quite as well. 

But the light of morning dimmed, a little, her mood of exaltedassurance. Habit and superstition prevailed over that so arrogantimpulse, and the mystic chirágh of destiny was saved--for another fate. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: Hail, Mother. ]

[Footnote 12: Darling. ]

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "The forces that fashion, the hands that mould, Are the winds fire-laden, the sky, the rain;--

 * * * * *

 They are gods no more, but their spells remain. " --SIR ALFRED LYALL. 

Dewáli night at last; and all Jaipur astir in the streets at sundownawaiting the given moment that never quite loses its quality ofmiracle. . . . 

For weeks every potter's wheel had been whirling, double tides, turningout clay chirághs by the thousand, that none might fail of honouring MaiLakshmi--a compound of Minerva and Ceres, --worshipped in the living goldof fire and the dead gold of minted coin. 

And all day long there ebbed and flowed through the temple doors arainbow-coloured stream of worshippers; while the dust-laden airvibrated with jangle of metal bells, wail of conches and raucous clamourof crows. Within doors, the rattle of dice rivalled the jangle of bells. Young or old, none failed to consult those mysterious arbiters on thisauspicious day. Houses, shops, and balconies had been swept andplastered with fresh cow dung, in honour of Vishnu's bride; and gayestamong festal shop-fronts was the dazzling array of toys. For the Feastof Lights is also a feast of toys in bewildering variety; in sugar, inpaper, in burnt clay; tinselled, or gorgeously painted with colours suchas never were on ox or elephant, fish or bird. 

What matter? To the uncritical Eastern eye, colour is all. 

And, as the day wore on, colour, and yet more colour, was spilled abroadin the wide main streets that are an arresting feature of Jaipur. Men, women, and children, in gala turbans and gala draperies, laughing andtalking at full pitch of their lungs; gala elephants sheathed in clothof gold, their trunks and foreheads patterned in divers colours; scarletoutriders clearing a pathway through the maze of turbans that bobbed toand fro like a bed of parrot-tulips in a wind. Crimson, agate, andapricot, copper and flame colour, greens and yellows; every conceivableharmony and discord; nothing to rival it anywhere, Sir Lakshman toldRoy; save perhaps in Gwalior or Mandalay. 

Roy had spent most of the morning in the city, lunching with hisgrandfather and imbibing large draughts of colour from an airy minareton the roof top. Then home to the Residency for tea, only to insist oncarrying them all back in the car--Thea, Arúna, Flossie, and thechildren, who must have their share of strange sweets and toys, if only'for luck, ' the watchword of Dewáli. 

As for Arúna--to-day everything in the world seemed to hang on the frailthread of those two words. And what of to-night. . . ?

All had been arranged in conjunction with Roy. His insistence on thecousinly privilege of protecting her had arisen from a privateconfession that she shrank from joining the orthodox group of maidenswho would go forth at sundown, to try their fate. She was other thanthey were; out of purdah; out of caste; a being apart. And for most ofthem it was little more than a 'game of play. ' For her--but that shekept to herself--this symbolical act of faith, this childish appeal fora sign, was a matter of life and death. So--to her chosen angle of thetank, she would go alone; and there--unwatched, save by Dewáli lights ofearth and heaven--she would confide her lamp to the waters and thebreeze that rippled them in the first hour of darkness. 

But Roy would not hear of her wandering alone in a Dewáli crowd. InDyán's absence, he claimed the right to accompany her, to be somewherewithin hail. Having shed the Eastern protection of purdah, she mustaccept the Western protection of escort. And straightway there sprang aninspiration: he would wear his Indian dress, ready and waiting in everydetail, at Sir Lakshman's house. From there, he could set out unnoticedon the Delhi adventure--which his grandfather happily approved, withwhat profound heart-searchings and heart-stirrings Roy did not evendimly guess. 

At sundown the Residency party would drive through the city and finishup at the gardens, before going on to dine at the Palace. That would beArúna's moment for slipping away. Roy--having slipped away inadvance--would rejoin her at a given spot. And then----?

The rest was a tremulous blur of hopes and fears and the thrill of hispresence, conjured into one of her own people. . . . 

 * * * * *

Sundown at last; and the drive, in her exalted mood, was an ecstasy nopossible after-pain or disappointment could dim. As the flaming tint ofsunset faded and shafts of amethyst struck upward into the blue, buildings grew shadowy; immense vistas seemed to melt into thelandscape, shrouded in a veil of desert dust. 

Then--the first flickering points of fire--primrose-pale, in the halflight; deepening to orange, as night rolled up out of the East, and thelittle blown flames seemed to flit along of their own volition, soskilled and swift were the invisible hands at work. 

From roof to roof, from balcony to balcony they ran: till vanishedJaipur emerged from her shroud, a city transfigured: cupolas, arches, balconies, and temples, palace of the Maharája and lofty Hall of theWinds--every detail faultlessly traced on darkness, in delicate, tremulous lines of fire. Only here and there illusion was shattered bygarish globes of electric light, dimming the mellow radiance ofthousands on thousands of modest chirághs. 

Arúna had seen many Dewáli nights in her time; but never at a moment socharged with conflicting emotions. Silent, absorbed, she sat by Thea inthe barouche; Roy and Vernon opposite; Phyllis on her mother's knee; theothers in the car on ahead--including a tourist of note--outridersbefore and behind, clearing a pathway through the press. Vernon, jiggingon his feet, was lost in wonder. Roy, like Arúna, said little. Only Theakept up a low ripple of talk with her babe. . . . 

By now, not only the city was alight, but the enclosing hills, wherebonfires laughed in flame. Jewelled coronets twinkled on bastions ofthe Tiger Fort. Threads of fire traced every curve and line of JaiSingh's tomb. And on either side of the carriage, the crowd swayed andhummed; laughing, jesting, boasting; intoxicated with the spirit offestival, that found an echo in Arúna's heart and rioted in her veins. To-night she felt merged in India, Eastern to the core; capable, almost, of wondering--could she put it away from her, even at the bidding ofRoy----?

On they drove, away from crowded pavements, towards the Mán Sagar Lake, where ruined temples and palaces dreamed and gleamed, knee deep in thedarkling water; where jackals prowled and cranes nested and muggersdozed unheeding. At a point of vantage above the Lake, they halted andsat there awhile in darkness--a group of silent shadows. Words did notmeet the case. Even Vernon ceased his jigging and baby Phyllis utteredno sound: for she had fallen asleep. 

Arúna, resting an elbow on the side of the carriage, sat lost in adream. . . . 

Suddenly, electrically, she was aware of contact with Roy's coat-sleeve. He had leaned forward to catch a particular effect, and was probably notaware of his trespassing arm; for he did not shift it till he had gazedhis fill. Then with a long sigh, he leaned back again. But Arúna's dreamwas shattered by sensations too startingly real to be ignored. . . . 

Once, driving back, as they passed under an electric globe, she caughthis eyes on her face, and they exchanged a smile. Did he know----? Didhe ever feel--like that?

Near Sir Lakshman's house they stopped again and Roy leaned towards her. 

"I'll be quick as lightning--don't stir till I come, " he said--andvanished. 

 * * * * *

Some fifteen minutes later, she stood alone in the jewelled darkness, awaiting him; her own flickering jewel held between her hands. She hadbrought it with her, complete; matches and a tiny bottle of oil, stowedin a cardboard box. Mrs Leigh--angel of goodness--had lit the wick withher own hand--'for luck. ' How Roy had made her so completely their ally, she had no idea. But who could resist him, --after all? Waiting alone, her courage ebbed a little; but he came quick as lightning, arrayed in achoga of some dark material and the larger turban of the North;--sochanged, she scarcely knew him till he saluted and, with a gesture, badeher go forward. 

Through the dark archway, under a block of zenana buildings they passed:and there lay before them the great tank patterned with quiveringthreads of light. Her chosen corner was an unfrequented spot. A littlefarther on, shadowy figures moved and talked. 

"You see, " she explained under her breath, as though they wereconspirators, "if the wind is kind, it will cut across there making themystical triangle; symbol of perfect knowledge--new birth. I am onlyafraid it is getting a little too strong. And if anything should hinderit from crossing, then--there is no answer. Suspense--all the time. But--we will hope. Now, please, I must be alone. In the shadow of thisbuilding, few will notice me. Afterwards, I will call softly. Butdon't--go too far. "

"Trust me. And--see here, Arúna, don't make too much of it--either way. Mai Lakshmi's not Queen of all the Immortals----"

"Oh, hush! She is bride of Vishnu!"

Roy's smile was half amused, half tender. "Well! I hope she playsup--royally. "

And with a formal salute, he left her. 

Alone, crouching near the water's edge, she held out her cockle-shellwith its blown wisp of light. 

"Oh Lamp of my life, flame of my heart, " she addressed it, just aboveher breath, "sail safely through the wavelets and answer truly what fateawaits me now? Will Mai Lakshmi grant the blessing I crave?"

With a gentle push, she set it afloat; then, kneeling close against thebuilding, deep in shadow, she covered her face and prayed, childishincoherent prayers, for some solution of her difficult problem thatwould be best, alike, for her and Roy. 

But curiosity was claimant. She must see. . . . She must know. . . . 

Springing up, she stood near the coping, one hand on a low abutment, allher conscious being centred on the adventuring flame that swayed andcurtsied at the caprice of the wind. The effect of her concentration wasalmost hypnotic: as if her soul, deserting her still body, flickeredaway there on the water; as if every threat of wind or wavelet struck ather very life. . . . 

Footsteps passed, and voices; but the sounds scarcely reached her brain. The wind freshened sharply; and the impact of two ripples almostcapsized her chirágh. It dipped--it vanished. . . . 

With a low sound of dismay she craned forward; lost her balance, andwould have fallen headlong . . . But that masculine fingers closed on herarm and pulled her backward--just in time. 

"Roy!" she breathed, without turning her eyes from the water--for theprecious flame had reappeared. "Look, there it is--safe. . . !"

"But what of _you_, little sister, had not I stayed to watch the fate ofyour Dewáli lamp?"

The words were spoken in the vernacular--and not in the voice of Roy. Startled, she drew back and faced a man of less than middle height, bare-headed, wearing the orange-pink draperies of an ascetic. In thehalf dark she could just discern the colour and the necklace of carvedbeads that hung almost to his waist. 

"I am most grateful, _guru-ji_, "[13] she murmured demurely, also in thevernacular; and stood so--shaken a little by her fright: unreasonablydisappointed that it was not Roy; relieved, that the providentialintruder chanced to be a holy man. "Will you not speed my brave littlelamp with your blessing?"

His smile arrested and puzzled her; and his face, more clearly seen, lacked the unmistakable stamp of the ascetic. 

"You are not less brave yourself, sister, " he said, "venturing thusboldly and alone. . . . "

The implication annoyed her; but anxious not to be misjudged, sheanswered truthfully: "I am not as those others, _guru-ji_. Iam--England-returned; still out of purdah . . . Out of caste. "

He levelled his eyes at her with awakened interest; then: "Frankness forfrankness is fair exchange, sister. I am no _guru_; but like yourself, England-returned; caste restored, however. Dedicated to service of theMother----"

It was her turn to start and scrutinise him--discreetly. "Yet you makepretence of holiness----?"

"In the interests of the Mother, " he interposed, answering the note ofreproach, "I need to mix freely among her sons--and daughters. Theseclothes are passports to all, and, wearing them in her service is nodishonour. But for my harmless disguise, I might not have ventured nearenough to save you from making a feast for the muggers--just for thissuperstition of Dewáli--not cured by all the wisdom of Oxford. --Was itOxford?"

"Yes. "

"Is it possible----?" He drew nearer. His eyes dwelt on her frankly, almost boldly. 

"Am I addressing the accomplished daughter of Ram Singh Bahádur----?"

At that she pulled her sari forward, turning away from him. His look andtone repelled her, frightened her; yet she could not call for Roy, whowas playing his part too scrupulously well. 

"Go----! Leave me!" she commanded desperately, louder than she hadspoken yet. "I am not ungrateful. But--making _pujah_[14]--I wish to bealone----"

His chuckling laugh sent a shiver through her. 

"Why these airs of the zenana with one enlightened--like yourself. . . ?"

He broke off and retreated abruptly. For a shadowy figure had saunteredinto view. 

Arúna sprang towards it--zenana airs forgotten. "Oh, Roy----!"

"Did you call, Arúna?" he asked. "Thought I heard you. This fellowbothering you----? I'll settle him----" Turning, he said politely: "Mycousin is here, under my escort, to make _pujah, guru-ji_. She wishes tobe alone. "

"Your cousin, except for my timely intrusion, would by this time bepermanently secure from interruption--in the belly of a _mugger_, "[15]retorted the supposed ascetic--in English. 

Roy started and stared. The voice was unmistakable. 

"Chandranath! Masquerading as a saint? _You_ are no _guru_. "

"And _you_ are no Rajput. You also appear to be masquerading--as alover, perhaps? Quite useless trying to fool me, Sinclair, withplay-acting--about cousins. In my capacity of _guru_ I feel compelled towarn this accomplished young lady that her fine cavalier is only a shamRajput of British extraction. . . . "

"_Sham_--curse you! I'm a genuine Seesodia--on one side----" The instanthe had spoken, he saw his folly. 

"Oho--half-caste only!"

An oath and a threatening forward move, impelled the speaker to anundignified step backward. Roy cooled a little at that. The fellow wasbeneath contempt. 

"I am of highest caste, English and Indian. I admit no slur in theconjunction; and I take no insults from any man. . . . " He made anotherforward move, purely for the pleasure of seeing Chandranath jerkbackward. "If my cousin was in danger, we are grateful to you. But Itold you, she wishes to be alone. So I must ask you to move onelsewhere. "

"Oh, as to that . . . I have no violent predilection for your society. "

And, as he sauntered off, with an elaborate air of pleasing no one buthimself, Roy kept pace alongside--"For all the world, " he thought, "likeTerry edging off an intruder. Too polite to go for him; but quiteprepared if need be!"

When they had turned the corner of the building, Chandranath fired aparting shot. "I infer you came here fancying you can marry her, becausediluted blood of Seesodias runs in your veins. But here in India, youwill find forces too powerful militating against it. "

But Roy was not to be goaded again into letting slip his self-control. "The men of my stock, British and Rajput, are not in the habit ofdiscussing their womenfolk with strangers, " said he--and flatteredhimself he had very neatly secured the last word. 

 * * * * *

As for Arúna--left alone--she leaned again on the low abutment, but thehypnotic spell was broken: only acute anxiety remained. For the lamp ofher life had made scant progress; and now she was aware of a disturbancein the water, little ominous whirlpools not caused by wind. Presentlythere emerged a long shadow, like a black expanse of rock:--unmistakablya mugger. And in that moment she felt exquisitely grateful to the handthat had seized her in the nick of time. The next--she wrung her owntogether with a low, shivering cry. 

For as the brute rose into fuller view, her chirágh rose with it--and soremained; stranded high and dry somewhere near the horny shoulder;tilted sideways, she judged from the slope of the flame; the oil, itslife-blood, trickling away. And as the mugger moved leisurely on, in thewrong direction, breaking up the gold network of reflections, she hadher answer--or no answer. The lamp was neither wrecked nor shattered;but it would never, now, reach the farther shore. Mai Lakshmi's face wasturned away in simple indifference, from the plea of a mere wavererbetween two worlds, who ventured to set her lamp on the waters, not somuch in faith as in a mute gesture of despair. . . . 

She came very near despair, as she crouched sobbing there in theshadow--not entirely for the fate of her lamp, but in simple reactionfrom the mingled excitements and emotions of the evening . . . 

It was only a few minutes--though it seemed an age--before she feltRoy's hand on her shoulder and heard his voice, troubled and tenderbeneath its surface note of command. 

"Arúna--what the--get up. Don't cry like that--you mustn't. . . . "

She obeyed instinctively; and stood there, like a chidden child, battling with her sobs. 

"Where's the thing? What's happened?" he asked, seeming to disregard hereffort at control. 

"There--over there. Look . . . The mugger!"

"Mugger?" He sighted it. "Well, I'm--the thieving brute!" Humour lurkedin his voice--more tonic than sympathy; yet in a sense, more upsetting. Her tragedy had its vein of the ludicrous; and at his hint of it, tearstrembled into laughter; laughter into tears. The impact unsteadied herafresh; and she covered her face again shaken with sobs. 

"Arúna--my _dear_--you mustn't, I tell you. . . . " More tenderness now thancommand. 

She held her breath--pain shot through with sudden ecstasy. For inspeaking he had laid an arm round her shoulder; just supporting her witha firm gentle grasp that sent tingling shocks along all her sensitisednerves. 

"Listen, Arúna--and don't cry, " he said, low and urgently. "No answeralways leaves room for hope. And you shall have your Dyán, I promiseyou. I won't come back without him. I can't say fairer than that. Sonow----" his hand closed on her shoulder. "Give over--breaking your poorheart!"

Comforted a little, she uncovered her face. "I will try. Onlyto-night--I would rather--not the Palace dinner, the fireworks. I wouldrather go home with Miss Mills and the children. . . . "

"And cry your eyes out all alone. And spoil the whole evening--for usboth. No, you don't. Remember--you are Rajputni: not to be hag-ridden bya mere chirágh and a thieving mugger. No more tears and terrors. Look mein the face--and promise. "

As usual, he was irresistible. What matter Mai Lakshmi'sindifference--since he cared so much? "Faithfully--I promise, Roy, " shesaid; and, for proof of courage, looked straight into his eyes--thatseemed mysteriously to hold and draw her into depths beyond depths. 

For one incredible moment, his face moved a little nearer tohers--paused, as if irresolute, and withdrew. 

So brief was the instant, so slight the movement, that she almostdoubted her senses. But her inmost being knew--and ached, withoutshyness or shame, for the kiss withheld. . . . 

"You've the grit--I knew it, " Roy said at last, in the level voice thathad puzzled her earlier in the evening: and his hand slid from hershoulder. "Come now--we've been too long. Thea will be wondering. . . . "

He turned; and she moved beside him, walking in a dream. 

"Did you say much, before I came?" he asked, after a pause, "to thatfellow--Chandranath?"

"I spoke a little--thinking him a _guru_----" She paused. The name wokea chord of memory. "Chandranath, " she repeated, "that is the name theysaid----"

"_Who_?" Roy asked sharply, coming out of his own dream. 

"Mátaji and the widowed Aunt----"

"What do they know of him?"

"How can I tell? I think it was--through our _guru_, he made offer ofmarriage--for me; wishing for an educated wife. I was wondering--couldit be the same----?"

"Well, look here, " he rounded on her, suddenly imperious. "If it is--youcan tell them I _won't_ have it. Grandfather would be furious. He oughtto know--and Dyán. Your menfolk don't seem to get a look in. "

"Not much--with marrying arrangements. That is for women and priests. But--for now, I am safe, with Mrs Leigh----"

"And you'll stay safe--as far as he's concerned. You see, I know thefellow. He's the man I slanged in the City that day. Besides--atschool----"

He unfolded the tale of St Rupert's; and she listened, amazed. 

"So don't worry over that, " he commanded, in his kind elder-brotherlytone. "As for your poor little chirágh, for goodness' sake don't let itget on your nerves. "

She sighed--knowing it would; yet longing to be worthy of him. It seemedhe understood, for his hand closed lightly on her arm. 

"That won't do at all! If you feel quavery inside, try holding your headan inch higher. Gesture's half the battle of life. "

"Is it? I never thought----" she murmured, puzzled, but impressed. Andafter that, things somehow seemed easier than she had thought possibleover there, by the tank. 

Secure, under Thea's wing, she drove to the Palace, where they wereroyally entertained by an unseen host, who could not join them at tablewithout imperilling his soul. Later on, he appeared--grey-bearded, courtly and extensively jewelled--supported by Sir Lakshman, the prince, and a few privileged notables; whereupon they all migrated to thePalace roof for the grand display of fireworks--fitting climax to theFeast of Lights. 

Throughout the evening Roy was seldom absent from Arúna's side. Theysaid little, but his presence wrapped her round with a sense ofcompanionship more intimate than she had yet felt even in their happiesttimes together. While rocket after rocket soared and curved andblossomed in mid-heaven, her gaze reverted persistently to the outlineof a man's head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky. . . . 

Still later on, when he bade her good-night in the Residencydrawing-room, she moved away carrying her head like a crowned queen. Itcertainly made her feel a few degrees braver than when she had crouchedin the shadows praying vain prayers--shedding vain tears. . . . 

If only one could keep it up----!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: Holy man. ]

[Footnote 14: Prayer. ]

[Footnote 15: Crocodile. ]

CHAPTER IX. 

 "Thou dost beset the path to every shrine;

 * * * * *

 And if I turn from but one sin, I turn Unto a smile of thine. " --ALICE MEYNELL. 

For Roy himself, no less than Arúna, the passing of those golden Octoberweeks had been an experience as beautiful as it was unique. The verybeauty and bewilderment of it had blinded him, at first, to theunderlying danger for himself and her. Bewilderment sprang from an eeriesense--vivid to the verge of illusion--that his mother was with himagain in the person of Arúna:--a fancy enhanced by the fact that hisentire knowledge of Indian womanhood--the turns of thought and phrase, the charm, at once sensuous and spiritual--was linked indissolubly withher. And the perilous charm had penetrated insidiously deeper than heknew. By the time he realised what was happening, the spell was uponhim; his will held captive in silken meshes he had not the heart tosnap. 

As often as not, in that early stage, he craved sight and sound of hersimply because she wore a sari and carried her head and moved her handsjust so; because her mere presence stirred him with a thrill thatblended exquisite pleasure, exquisite pain. There were times he wouldcontrive to be alone in the room with her; not talking; not even lookingat her--because her face disturbed the illusion; simply letting the feelof her presence ease that inner ache--subdued, not stilled--for themother who had remained more vitally one with him than nine mothers inten are able, or willing, to remain with their grown-up sons. 

Thea Leigh, watching unobtrusively, had caught a glimpse of the strangedual influence at work in him. She had occasionally seen him with hismother; and had gleaned some idea of their unique relation; partly fromLance, partly from her intimate link with her own Theo, half a worldaway; nearly eighteen now, and eager to join up before all was over. Soher troubled scrutiny was tempered with a measure of understanding. Royhad always attracted her. And now, unmothered--the wound not yethealed--she metaphorically gathered him to her heart; would have done sophysically without hesitation; but that Vincent had his dear and foolishqualms about her promiscuous capacity for affection. But Arúna was herewe lamb of the moment; and not even Roy must be allowed to make thingsharder for her than they were already. . . . 

So, after scouting the Delhi idea as preposterous, she suddenlyperceived there might be virtue in it--for Arúna. Possibly it wouldglorify him in her eyes; but it would remove the fatal charm of hispresence; give her a chance to pull up before things had gone too far. Whereat, being Thea, she spun round unashamedly, to Roy's secretamusement and relief. All the Desmond in her rose to the adventure ofit. A risk, of course; but there must be no question of failure; andsuccess would justify all. She was entirely at his service; discusseddetails by the hour; put him 'on to Vinx' for coaching in the generalsituation--underground sedition; reformers, true and false; tellingarguments for the reclaiming of Dyán Singh. 

To crown all--between genuine relief and genuine affection--sheimpulsively kissed him on departure under Vincent's very eyes. 

"Just only to give you my blessing!" she explained, laughing andblushing like a girl at her own audacity. "Words are the stupidestclumsy things. I'm sure life would be happier and less complicated if weonly had the sense to kiss more and talk less----!"

This--in the presence of Arúna and her husband and her six-year-old son!

Roy, deeply moved and a little overcome, nodded assent, while Vincenttook her by the arms and gently removed her from further temptation. 

"Where _you'd_ be, Madam, if talking was rationed----!"

"I'd take it out in kissing--_Sir_!" she retorted unabashed; while Arúnaglanced a little wistfully at Roy, who was fondling Terry and talkingnonsense to Vernon. For the boy adored him and was on the brink oftears. 

But if he seemed unheeding, he was by no means unaware. He was fightinghis own battle in his own way; incidentally, he hoped, helping the girlto fight hers. For he had shaken himself almost free of his deliciousyet disturbing illusion, only to be confronted by a more profoundlydisturbing reality. Loyal to his promise, tacitly given, he had simplynot connected her with the idea of marriage. The queer thrill of herpresence was for him quite another affair. Not until that night ofwandering in the moonlight had it struck him, with a faint shock, thatshe might be mistaking his friendliness for--something more. Thatcontact with her had come at a critical moment for himself, was a detailhe failed to realise. Beyond the sudden bewildering sensations thatprompted his headlong proposal to Tara, he had not felt seriouslyperturbed by girl or woman; and, in the past four years, life had beenfilled to overflowing with other things----

That he should love Arúna, deeply and dearly, seemed as simple andnatural, as loving Tara. But to fall in love was a risk he had no rightto run, either for himself or her. Yet the risk had been run before heawoke to the fact. And the events and emotions of Dewáli night had drawnthem irresistibly, dangerously close together. For the racial fermenthad been strong in him, as in her. And the darkness, the subtleinfluence of his Indian dress--her tears--her danger! How could any man, frankly loving her, not be carried a little out of himself? Thatovermastering impulse to kiss her had startlingly revealed the trueforces at work. 

After all that, what could he do, but sharply apply the curb and removehimself--for a time--in the devout hope that 'things' had not gone toofar? He had not the assurance to suppose she was already in love withhim; but patently the possibility was there. 

So--like Thea--he had come to see the Delhi inspiration in a new andsurprising light. Setting forth in search of Dyán, he was, in effect, running away from himself--and Arúna, no less. If not actually in love, he very soon would be--did he dare to let himself go. 

And why not--why _not_? The old unreasoning rebellion stirred in himafresh. His mother being gone, temptation tugged the harder. Home, without the Indian element, was almost unthinkable. If only he couldtake back Arúna! But for him there could be no 'if. ' He had tacitlygiven his word--to _her_. And in any case there was his father--theSinclair heritage--So all his fine dreams of helping Arúna amounted tothis--that it was he who might be driven, in the end, to hurt her morethan any of them. Life that looked such a straight-ahead business formost people, seemed to bristle with pitfalls and obstacles for him; allon account of the double heritage that was at once his pride, hisinspiration, and his stone of stumbling. 

 * * * * *

Endless wakeful hours of the night journey were peopled with thoughtsand visions of Arúna--her pansy face and velvet-soft eyes, now flashingdelicate raillery, now lifted in troubled appeal. A rainbowcreature--that was the charm of her. Not beautiful--he thanked hisstars; since his weakness for beauty amounted to a snare, butattractive--perilously so. For, in her case, the very element that drewhim was the barrier that held them apart. The irony of it!

Was she lying awake too, poor child--missing him a little? Would shemarry an Indian--ever? Would she turn her back on India--even for him?Unanswerable questions hemmed her in. Could she even answer themherself? Too well he understood how the scales of her nature hungbalanced between conflicting influences. As he was, racially, so wasshe, spiritually, a divided being; yet, in spite of waverings, Rajputniat the core, with all that word implies to those who know. If she lackedhis mother's high sustained courage, her flashes of spirit shone out thebrighter for her lapses into womanly weakness--as in that poignantmoment by the tank, which had so nearly upset his own equilibrium. Vividly recalling that moment, it hurt him to realise that weeks mightpass before he could see her again. No denying he wanted her; felt lostwithout her. The coveted Delhi adventure seemed suddenly a very lonelyaffair; not even a clear inner sense of his mother's presence to bearhim company. No dreams lately; no faint mystical intimation of hernearness, since the wonderful hour with his grandfather. Only in theform of that strange and lovely illusion had she seemed vitally near himsince he left Chitor. 

Graceless ingratitude--that 'only. ' For now, looking back, he clearlysaw how the beauty and bewilderment of that early phase--so mysteriouslyblending Arúna with herself--had held his emotions in cheek, liftedthem, purified them; had saved him, for all he knew, from surrender toan overwhelming passion that might conceivably have swept everythingbefore it. Pure fantasy--perhaps. But he felt no inclination to argueout the unarguable. He preferred simply unquestioningly to believe that, under God, he owed his salvation to her. And after all--take itspiritually or psychologically--that was in effect the truth. . . . 

Towards morning, utter weariness lulled him into a troubled sleep--notfor long. He awoke, chilled and heavy-eyed, to find the unheededloveliness of a lemon-yellow dawn stealing over the blank immensity ofearth and sky. 

In a moment he was up, stretching cramped limbs, thanking goodness for acarriage to himself, leaning out and drinking huge draughts of crispclean air, fragrant with the ghost of a whiff of wood smoke--theinimitable air of a Punjab autumn morning. 

CHAPTER X. 

 "The tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. . . . 

 The tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. "--ST JAMES iii 5-8. 

Roy spent ten days in Delhi--lodging with one Krishna Lal, a jewelmerchant of high standing, well known to Sir Lakshman--and never a wordor a sight of Dyán Singh. The need for constant precautions hampered himnot a little; but if the needle he sought was in this particularhaystack, he would find it yet. 

Meanwhile, at every turn he was imbibing first impressions, asufficiently enthralling occupation--in Delhi, of all places on earth:Delhi, mistress of many victors; very woman, in that she yields toconquer; and after centuries of romance and tragedy, remains, inessence, unconquered still. The old saying, 'Who holds Delhi, holdsIndia, ' has its dark counterpart in the unwritten belief that no alienruler, enthroned at Delhi, shall endure. Hence the dismay of many loyalIndians when the British Government deserted Calcutta for the Queen ofthe North. And here, already, were her endless, secretive bywaysrivalling Calcutta suburbs as hornet-nests of sedition and intrigue. 

Roy was to grow painfully familiar with these before his search ended. But the city's pandemonium of composite noises and composite smells wasoffset by the splendid remnants of Imperial Delhi:--the Pearl Mosque, adream in marble, dazzling against the blue: inlaid columns of theDewan-i-Khas--every leaf wrought in jade or malachite, every petal aprecious stone; swelling domes and rose-pink minarets of the JumnaMusjid rising superbly from a network of narrow streets and shabbytoppling houses. For, in India, the sordid and stately rub shoulderswith sublime disregard for effect. In the cool aloofness of tombs andtemples, or among crumbling fragments of them on the plain, or awaybeyond the battered Kashmir Gate--ground sacred to heroic memories--hecould wander at will for hours, isolated in body and spirit, yetstrangely content. . . . 

And there was yet a third Delhi, hard by these two; yet curiously aloof:official, Anglo-Indian Delhi, of bungalows and clubs and painfully newGovernment buildings. Little scope here for imaginative excursions, butmuch scope for thought in the queer sensation, that beset him, of seeinghis father's people, as it were, through his mother's eyes. 

New as he was to Anglo-Indian life, these glimpses from the outskirtswere sufficiently illuminating. Once he was present in the crowd at abig Gymkhana; and more than once he strolled through the Club gardenswhere social Delhi pursued tennis-balls and shuttle-cocks--gravely, asif life hung on the issue; or gaily, with gusts of laughter and chaff, often noisier than need be. And he saw them all, now, from a new angleof vision. Discreetly aloof, he observed, in passing, the completefree-and-easiness of the modern maiden with her modern cavalier;personalities flying; likewise legs and arms; a banter-wrangle interludeover a tennis-racquet; flight and pursuit of the offending maiden, punctuated with shrieks, culminating in collapse and undignifiedsurrender: while a pair of club peons--also discreetly aloof--exchangedremarks whose import would have enraged the unsuspecting pair. Roy knewvery well they never gave the matter a thought. They were simply'rotting' in the approved style of to-day. But, seen from the Easternstandpoint, the trivial incident troubled him. It recalled a chanceremark of his grandfather's: "With only a little more decorum andseriousness in their way of life out here, they could do far more topromote good understanding socially between us all, than by makingpremature 'reforms' or tilting at barriers arising from opposite kindsof civilisation. "

Here was matter for the novel--or novels--to be born of hiserrantry:--the 'fruit of his life' that _she_ had so longed to bold inher hands. Were she only at Home now, what letters-without-end he wouldbe pouring out to her! What letters he could have poured out toArúna--did conscience permit. 

He allowed himself two, in the course of ten days; and the spirit movedhim, after long abstention, to indulge in a rambling screed to Taratelling of his quest; revealing more than he quite realised of the innerstress he was trying to ignore. The quest, he emphasised, was a privateaffair, confided to her only, because he knew she would understand. Ithurt more than he cared to admit to feel how completely his father would_not_ understand his present turmoil of heart and brain. . . . 

Isolated thus, with his hidden thwarted emotion, there resulted aliterary blossoming, the most spontaneous and satisfying since his slowstruggle up from the depths. Alone at night, and in the clear keendawns, he wrote and wrote and wrote, as a thirsty man drinks after adesert march:--poems chiefly; sketches and impressions; his dearesttheme the troubled spirit of India, --or was it the spirit ofArúna?--poised between crescent light and deepening shadow, looking forsane clear guidance--and finding none. A prose sketch, in this vein, stood out from the rest; a fragment of his soul, too intimatelyself-revealing for the general gaze: no uncommon dilemma for an artist, precisely when his work is most intrinsically true. Had he followed thenatural urge of his heart, he would have sent it to Arúna. As it was, hedecided to treasure it a little longer for himself alone. 

 * * * * *

Meantime Dyán--half forgotten--suddenly emerged. It was at ameeting--exclusively religious and philosophical; but the police hadwind of it; and a friendly inspector mentioned it to Krishna Lal. Thechief speaker would be a Swami of impeccable sanctity. "But if you havea sensitive palate, you will doubtless detect a spice of politicalpowder under the jam of religion!" quoth Krishna Lal, who was a man ofhumour and no friend of sedition. 

"Thanks for the hint, " said Roy--and groaned in spirit. Meetings, atbest, were the abomination of desolation; and his soul was sick of theIndian variety. For the 'silent East' is never happier than when it istalking at immense length; denouncing, inaugurating, promoting; and aprolonged dose of it stirred in Roy a positive craving for men who shotremarks at each other in 'straight-flung words and true. ' But no stonemust be left unturned. So he went;--guided by the friendly policeman, who knew him for a Sahib bent on some personal quest. 

Their search ended in a windowless inner room; packed to suffocation;heavy with attar of rose, kerosene, and human bodies; and Roy as usualclung to a doorway that offered occasional respite. 

The Swami was already in full flow:--a wraith of a man in asalmon-coloured garment; his eyes, deep in their sockets, gleaming likeblack diamonds. And he was holding his audience spellbound:--Hindus ofevery calling; students in abundance; a sprinkling of Sikhs and Dograsfrom the lines. Some form of hypnotism, --was it? Perhaps. Even Roy couldnot listen unmoved, when the spirit shook the frail creature like a gustof wind and the hollow chest-notes vibrated with appeal or command. Suchmen--and India is full of them--are spiritual dynamos. Who can calculatetheir effect on an emotional race? And they no longer confine theirinfluence to things spiritual. They, too, have caught the modern diseaseof politics for the million. And the supreme appeal is to youth--plasticand impressionable, aflame with fervours of the blood that can beconjured, by heady words, into fervours infinitely more dangerous tothemselves and their country. 

In an atmosphere dense with spilled kerosene, with over-breathed air andover-charged emotion, that appeal rang out like a trumpet blast. 

"It is to youth the divine message has come in all ages; the call tomartyrdom and dedication. 'Suffer little children to come unto me, ' saidthe inspired Founder of Christianity. So also I say in this time ofrevival, suffer the young to fling themselves into the arms of theMother. My sons, she cries, go back to the Vedas. You will find allwisdom there. Reject this alien gift--however finely gilded--of acivilisation inferior to your own. Hindu Rishis were old in wisdom whenthese were still unclothed savages coloured with blue paint. Shall thesacred Motherland be inoculated with Western poison? It is for theyoung to decide--to act. Nerve your arms with valour. Bring offeringsacceptable, to the shrine of Kali Mai. Does she demand a sheep? Abuffalo? A cocoanut? Ask yourselves. The answer is written in yourhearts----"

His emaciated arms shot up and outward in a gesture the more impressivebecause it was maintained. For a prolonged moment the holy one seemed tohover above his audience--as it were an eagle poised on outspreadwings. . . . 

Roy came to himself with a start. His friend the policeman had pluckedhis sleeve; and they retreated a step or two through the open door. 

"The Sahib heard?" queried Mán Singh in cautious undertone. 

"There's hearing--and hearing, " said Roy, aware of some cryptic messagegiven and understood. "I take it _they_ all know what he's driving at. "

"True talk. They know. But _he_ has not said. Therefore he goes insafety when he should be picking oakum in the jail khana. They arecunning as serpents these holy ones. "

"They have the gift of tongues, " said Roy. "May one ask what is MaiKali's special taste in sacrifices?"

The Sikh gave him an odd look. "The blood of white goats--meaningSahibs, Hazúr. "--Roy's 'click' was Oriental to a nicety. --"'A white goatfor Kali' is an old Bengali catchword. Hark how their tongues wag. Butthere is still another--much esteemed by the student-_lóg_; one who canskilfully flavour a _pillau_[16] of learned talk, as the Swami canflavour a pillau of religion. Where he comes, there will be troubleafterwards, and arrests. But no Siri Chandranath. He is off makingtrouble elsewhere. "

"Chandranath--_here_?" Roy's heart gave a jerk, half excitement, halfapprehension. 

"Your Honour has heard the man?"

"No. I'm glad of the chance. "

As they entered, the second speaker stepped on to the platform. . . . 

True talk, indeed! There stood the boy who had whimpered under ScabMajor's bullying, in the dark coat and turban of the educated Indian;his back half turned, in confidential talk with a friend, who had set acarafe and tumbler ready to hand. The light of a wall lamp shone full onhis friend's face--clean-cut, handsome, unmistakable. . . . 

_Dyán_! Dyán--and Chandranath! It was the conjunction that confoundedRoy and tinged elation with dismay. He could hardly contain himself tillDyán joined the audience; standing a little apart; not taking a seat. Something in his face reminded Roy of the strained fervour in his letterto Arúna. Carefully careless, he edged his way through the outer fringeof the audience, and volunteered a remark or two in Hindustani. 

"A full meeting, brother. Your friend speaks well?"

Dyán turned with a start. "Where are _you_ from, that you have not heardhim?" He scrutinised Roy's appearance. "A hill man----?"

Roy edged nearer and spoke in English under his breath. "Dyán--look atme. Don't make a scene. I am Roy--from Jaipur. "

In spite of the warning, Dyán drew back sharply. "_What_ are you herefor--spying?"

"No. Hoping to find you. Because--I care; and Arúna cares----"

"Better to care less and understand more, " Dyán muttered brusquely. "Notime for talk now. Listen. You may learn a few things Oxford could notteach. "

The implied sneer enraged Roy; but listen he must, perforce: and in thespace of half an hour he learnt a good deal about Chandranath and thementality of his type. 

To the outer ear, he was propounding the popular modern doctrine of'Yoga by action. ' To the inner ear he was extolling passion andrebellion in terms of a creed that enjoins detachment from both;inciting to political murder, under sanction of the divine dictum, 'Whokills the body kills naught . . . Thy concern is with action alone, neverwith results. ' And his heady flights of rhetoric, like those of theSwami, were frankly aimed at the scores of half-fledged youths who hungupon his utterance. 

"What are the first words of the young child? What are the first wordsin your own hearts?" he cried, indicating that organ with a dramaticforefinger. "_I want_! It is the passionate cry of youth. By indomitablyuttering it, he can dislodge mountains into the sea. And in India to-daythere exist mountains necessary to be hurled into the sea!" Hissignificant pause was not lost on his hearers--or on Roy. "'Many-branched and endless are the thoughts of the irresolute. ' But tohim who cries ardently, '_I want_, ' there is no impediment, exceptpaucity of courage to snatch the seductive object. Deaf to the anćmicwhisper of compunction, remembering that sin taints only the weak, hewill be translated to that dizzy eminence, where right and wrong, truthand untruth, become as pigmies, hardly discerned by the naked eye. Theredwells Káli--the shameless and pitiless; and believing our country thatdeity incarnate, _her_ needs must be our gods. 'Her image make we intemple after temple--Bande Mátaram?'" The invocation was flung back tohim in a ragged shout. Here and there a student leapt to his feetbrandishing a clenched fist. "Compose your laudable intoxication, brothers. I do not say, 'Be violent. ' There is a necromancy of thespirit more potent than weapons of the flesh:--the delusion ofirresistible suggestion that will conquer even truth itself. . . . "

Abstraction piled on abstraction; perversion on perversion; and thatdeluded crowd plainly swallowing it all as gospel truth----! To Roy thewhole exhibition was purely disgustful; as if the man had emptied adust-bin under his aristocratic nose. Once or twice he glanced covertlyat Dyán, standing beside him; at the strained intentness of his face, the nervous clenched hand. Was this the same Dyán who had ridden andargued and read 'Greats' with him only four years ago--this hypnotisedbeing who seemed to have forgotten his existence----?

Thank God! At last it was over! But while applause hummed and fluttered, there sprang on to the platform, unannounced, a wiry keen-faced man, with the parted beard of a Sikh. 

"Brothers--I demand a hearing!" he cried aloud; "I who was formerlyhater of the British, preaching all manner of violence--I have beenthree years detained in Germany; and I come back now, with my eyesopen, to say all over India--cease your fool's talk aboutself-government and tossing mountains into the sea! Cease makingyourselves drunk with words and waving your Vedic flags and stand by theBritish--your true friends----"

At that, cries and counter-cries drowned his voice. Books were hurled;no other weapon being handy; and Roy noted, with amused contempt, thatChandranath hastily disappeared from view. 

The Sikh laughed in the face of their opposition. Dexterously catching abook, he hurled it back; and once more made his strong voice heard abovethe clamour. "Fools--and sheep! You may stop your ears now. In the end Iwill make you hear----"

Shouted down again, he vanished through a side exit; and, in the turmoilthat followed, Roy's hand closed securely on Dyán's arm. Throughout thestormy interlude, he had stood rigidly still: a pained, puzzled frowncontracting his brows. Yet it was plain he would have slipped awaywithout a word, but for Roy's detaining grasp. 

"You don't go running off--now I've found you, " said he good-humouredly. "I've things to say. Come along to my place and hear them. "

Dyán jerked his imprisoned arm. "Very sorry. I have--important duties. "

"To-morrow night then? I'm lodging with Krishna Lal. And--look here, _don't_ mention me to your friend the philosopher! I know more about himthan you might suppose. If you still care a damn for me--and the others, do what I ask--and keep your mouth shut----"

Dyán's frown was hostile; but his voice was low and troubled. "For God'ssake leave me alone, Roy. Of course--I care. But that kind of caring iscarnal weakness. We, who are dedicated, must rise above such weakness, above pity and slave-morality, giving all to the Mother----"

"Dyán--have you forgotten--_my_ mother?" Roy pressed his advantage inthe same low tone. 

"No. Impossible. She was _Dévi_--Goddess; loveliest and kindest----"

"Well, in her name, I ask you--come to-morrow evening and have a talk. "

Dyán was silent; then, for the first time, he looked Roy straight in theeyes. "In her name--I will come. Now let me go. "

Roy let him go. He had achieved little enough. But for a start it wasnot so bad. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: An Indian dish. ]

CHAPTER XI. 

 "When we have fallen through storey after storey of our vanity and aspiration, it is then that we begin to measure the stature of our friends. "--R. L. S. 

Next evening Dyán arrived. He stayed for an hour, and did most of thetalking. But his unnatural volubility suggested disturbance deep down. 

Only once Roy had a glimpse of the true Dyán, when he presented Arúna's'_prasád_, ' consecrated by her touch. In silence Dyán set it on thetable; and reverently touched, with his finger-tips, first the smallparcel, then his own forehead. 

"Arúna--sister, " he said on an under breath. But he would not be drawninto talking of her, of his grandfather, or of home affairs: and hisabrupt departure left Roy with a maddening sense of frustration. 

He lay awake half the night; and reached certain conclusions that atonedfor a violent headache next morning. First and best--Dyán was not agenuine convert. All this ferment and froth did not spell reasonedconviction. He was simply ensnared; his finer nature warped by the'delusion of irresistible suggestion, ' deadlier than any weapon of War. His fanatical loyalty savoured of obsession. So much the better. Anobsession could be pricked like an air-ball with the right weapon at theright moment. That, as Roy saw it, was his task:--in effect, a ghostlyduel between himself and Chandranath for the soul of Dyán Singh; and thefate of Arúna virtually hung on the issue. 

Should he succeed, Chandranath would doubtless guess at his share inDyán's defection; and few men care about courting the enmity of theunscrupulous. That is the secret power behind the forces of anarchy, above all in India, where social and spiritual boycott can virtuallyslay a man without shedding of blood. For himself, Roy decided the gamewas worth the candle. The question remained--how far that naturalshrinking might affect Dyán? And again--how much did he know ofChandranath's designs on Arúna?

Roy decided to spring the truth on him next time--and note the effect. Dyán had said he would come again one evening; and--sooner than Royexpected--he came. Again he was abnormally voluble, as if holding hiscousin at arm's length by italicising his own fanatical fervour, tillRoy's impatience subsided into weariness and he palpably stifled a yawn. 

Dyán, detecting him, stopped dead, with a pained, puzzled look that wentto Roy's heart. For he loved the real Dyán, even while he was bored toextinction with the semi-religious verbiage that poured from him likewater from a jug. 

"Awfully sorry, " he apologised frankly. "But I've been over-dosed withthat sort of stuff lately; and I'm damned if I can swallow it like youdo. Yet I'm dead keen for India to have the best, all round, that she'scapable of digesting--yet. So's Grandfather. You _can't_ deny it. "

Dyán frowned irritably. "Grandfather's prejudiced and old-fashioned. "

"He's longer-sighted than most of your voluble friends. He doesn'trhapsodise. He _knows_. --But I'm not old-fashioned. Nor is Arúna. "

"No, poor child; only England-infatuated. She is unwise not taking thischance of an educated husband----"

"And _such_ a husband!" Roy struck in so sharply that Dyán staredopen-mouthed. 

"How the devil can _you_ know?"

"And how the devil can you _not_ know, " countered Roy, "when it's yourprecious paragon--Chandranath. "

He scored his point clean and true. "Chandranath!" Dyán echoed blankly, staring into the fire. 

Roy said nothing; simply let the fact sink in. Then, having dealt theblow, he proffered a crumb of consolation, "Perhaps he prefers to keepquiet till he's pulled it off. But I warn you, if he persists, I shallput every feasible spoke in his wheel. "

Dyán faced him squarely. "You seem very intimate with our affairs. Whotold you this?"

"Arúna--herself. "

"You are also very intimate--with her. "

"As she has lost her brother, her natural protector, I do what I can--tomake up. "

Dyán winced and stole a look at him. "Why not make up for still greaterlack--and marry her yourself?"

It was he who hit the mark this time. Roy's blood tingled; but voice andeyes were under control. 

"I've only been there a few weeks. The question has not arisen. "

"Your true meaning is--it _could not arise_. They were glad enough forher service in England; but whatever her service, or her loving, shemust not marry an Englishman, even with the blood of India in his veins. That is our reward--both----"

It was the fierce bitter Dyán of that long ago afternoon in New CollegeLane. But Roy was too angry on his own account to heed. He roseabruptly. 

"I'll trouble you not to talk like that. "

Dyán rose also, confronting him. "I _must_ say what is in mind--or go. Better accept the fact--it is useless to meet. "

"I refuse to accept the fact. "

"But--there it is. I only make you angry. And you imply evil of theman--I admire. "

He so plainly boggled over the words that Roy struck without hesitation. 

"Dyán, tell me straight--_do_ you admire him? Would you have Arúna marryhim?"

"N--no. Impossible. There is--another kind of wife, " he blurted out, averting his eyes; but before Roy could speak, he had pulled himselftogether. "However--I mustn't stay talking. Good-night. "

Roy's anger--fierce but transient, always--had faded. "There are someties you can't break, Dyán, even with your Bande Mátaram. Come againsoon. "

Impossible to resist the friendly tone. "But, " he asked, "how long areyou hanging about Delhi like this?"

"As long as I choose. "

"But--why?"

"To see something of you, old chap. It seems the only way--unless I canpersuade you to chuck all this poisonous vapouring, and come back toJaipur with me. Arúna's waiting--breaking her heart--longing to seeyou. . . . "

He knew he was rushing his fences; but the mood was on; the chance toogood to lose. 

Dyán's eyes lightened a moment. Then he shook his head. "I am too muchinvolved. "

"You _will_ come, though, in the end, " Roy said quietly. "I can wait. Sunday, is it? And we'll bar politics--as we did in the good days. Don'tyou want to hear of them all at Home?"

"Sometimes--yes. But perhaps--better not. You are a fine fellow, Roy--even to quarrel with. Good-night. " They shook hands warmly. 

On the threshold, Dyán turned, hesitated; then--in a hurriedmurmur--asked: "_Where_ is she--what's she doing now . . . Tara?"

He was obviously unaware of having used her name: and Roy, thoughstartled, gave no sign. 

"She's still in Serbia. She's been simply splendid. Head over ears in itall from the start. "--He paused--"Shall I tell her--when I write . . . About you?"

Dyán shrugged his shoulders. "Waste of ink and paper. It would notinterest her. "

"It would. I know Tara. What you are doing now would hurt her--keenly. "

"Tcha!" The sharp sound expressed sheer unbelief. It also expressedpain. "Good-night, " he added, for the third time; and went out--leavingRoy electrified; a-tingle with the hope of success at last. 

Tara was not forgotten; though Dyán had been trying to pretend shewas--even to himself. Ten chances to one, she was still at the coreeverything; even his present incongruous activities. . . . 

Roy paced the room; his imagination alight; his own recoil from theconjunction, overborne by immediate concern for Dyán. Unable to forgether--who could?--he had thrust the pain of remembering into the darkbackground of his mind; and there it remained--a hard knot of sorenessand bitterness--as Arúna had said. And all that bottled-up bitternesshad been vented against England--an unconscious symbol of Tara, desiredyet withheld; while the intensity of his thwarted passion sought andfound an outlet in fervent adoration of his country visualised as woman. 

Right or wrong--that was how Roy saw it. And the argument seemedpsychologically sound. Cruel to be kind, he must touch the point ofpain; draw the hidden thing into the open; and so reawaken the old Dyán, who could arraign the new one far more effectually than could Royhimself or another. Seized with his idea, he indulged in a more hopefulletter to Arúna; and had scarcely patience to wait for Sunday. 

 * * * * *

In leisurely course it arrived--that last Sunday of the Great War. TheChandni Chowk was a-bubble with strange and stirring rumours; but theday waned and the evening waned--and no Dyán appeared. 

On Monday morning--still no word: but news, so tremendous, flashed halfacross the world, that Dyán and his mysterious defection flickered likea match at midday. 

The War was over--virtually over. From the Vosges to the sea, not thecrack of a rifle nor the moan of a shell; only an abrupt, dramaticsilence--the end! Belief in the utter cessation of all that wonderfuland terrible activity, penetrated slowly. And as it penetrated Royrealised, with something like dismay, that the right and natural senseof elation simply was not. He actually felt depressed. Shrink as hemight from the jar of conflict, the sure instinct of a soldier racewarned him that hell holds no fury and earth no danger like a ruthlessenemy not decisively smitten. The psychology of it was beyondhim--shrouded in mystery. 

Not till long afterwards did he know how many, in England and Prance, had shared his bewildered feeling; how British soldiers in Belgium hadcried like children, had raged almost to the point of mutiny. But onething he knew--steeped as he was in the sub-strata of Eastern thoughtand feeling. India would never understand. Visible, spectacular victory, alone could impress the East: and such an impression might havecounteracted many mistakes that had gone before. . . . 

Tuesday brought no Dyán; only a scrawled note: "Sorry--too muchbusiness. Can't come just now. " _If_ one could take that at its facevalue----! But it might mean anything. Had Chandranath found out--andhad Dyán not the moral courage to go his own way?

He knew by now where his cousin lodged; but had never been there. It wasin one of the oldest parts of the city; alive with political intrigue. If Roy's nationality were suspected, 'things' might happen, and it wasclearly unfair on his father to run needless risks. But this wasdifferent. 'Things' might be happening to Dyán. 

So, after nearly a week of maddening suspense, he resolved--with all duecaution--to take his chance. 

 * * * * *

A silvery twilight was ebbing from the sky when he plunged into a mazeof narrow streets and by-lanes where the stream of Eastern life flowsalong immemorial channels scarcely stirred by surface eddies of'advance. '

Threading his way through the crowd, he found the street and thelandmark he sought: a doorway, adorned with a faded wreath of marigolds, indication of some holy presence within; and just beyond it, alow-browed arch, almost a tunnel. It passed under balconied housestoppling perilously forward; and as Roy entered it, a figure darkenedthe other end. He could only distinguish the long dark coat and turbanedhead: but there flashed instant conviction--Chandranath!

Alert, rather than alarmed, he hurried forward, hugging the oppositewall. At the darkest point they crossed. Roy felt the other pause, scrutinise him--and pass on. The relief of it! And the ignominy ofsuddenly feeling the old childish terror, when you had turned your backon a dark room. It was all he could do not to break into a run. . . . 

In the open court, set round with tottering houses, a sacred neem treemade a vast patch of shadow. Near it, a rickety staircase led up toDyán's roof room. Roy, mounting cautiously, knocked at the highest door. 

"Are you there? It's Roy, " he called softly. 

A pause:--then the door flew open and Dyán stood before him, in loosewhite garments; no turban; a farouche look in his eyes. 

"My God--_Roy_! Crazy of you! I never thought----"

"Well, I got sick of waiting. I suppose I can come in?" Roy's impatiencewas the measure of his relief. 

Dyán moved back a pace, and, as Roy stepped on to the roof, he carefullyclosed the door. 

"Think--if you had come three minutes earlier! He only left me justnow--Chandranath. "

"And passed me in the archway, " added Roy with his touch of bravado. "I've as much right to be in Delhi--and to vary my costume--as yourmysteriously potent friend. It's a free country. "

"It is fast becoming--not so free. " Dyán lowered his voice, as if afraidhe might be overheard. "And you don't consider the trouble it mightmake--for me. "

"How about the trouble you've been making for me? What's wrong?"

Dyán passed a nervous hand across his eyes and forehead. "Come in. It'sgetting cold out here, " he said, in a repressed voice. Roy followed himacross the roof top, with its low parapet and vault of darkening sky, upthree steps, into an arcaded room, where a log fire burned in the openhearth. Shabby, unrelated bits of furniture gave the place a comfortlessair. On a corner table strewn with leaflets and pamphlets ("Poisonedarrows, up to date!" thought Roy), a typewriter reared its hooded head. The sight struck a shaft of pain through him. Arúna's Dyán--son of kingsand warriors--turning his one skilful hand to such base uses!

"What's wrong?" he repeated with emphasis. "I want a straight answer, Dyán. I've risked something to get it. "

Dyán sat down near a small table, and took his head between his hands. "There is--so much wrong, " he said, looking steadily up at Roy. "I amfeeling--like a man who wakes too suddenly after much sleepwalking. "

"Since when?" asked Roy, keeping himself in hand. "What's jerked youawake? D'you know?"

"There have been many jerks. Seeing you; Arúna's offering; this news ofthe War; and something . . . You mentioned last time. "

"What was that . . . Tara?" Roy lunged straight to the middle of thewound. 

Dyán started. "But--how----! I never said. . . . " he stammered, visiblyshaken. 

"It didn't need saying. Arúna told me--the fact; and my own wits told methe rest. You're not honestly keen--are you?--to shorten the arm of theBritish Raj and plunge India into chaos?"

"No--no. " A very different Dyán, this, to the one who had poured outstock phrases like water only a week ago. 

"Isn't bitterness--about Tara, at the back of it! Face that straight. And--if it's true, say so without false shame. "

Dyán was silent a long while, staring into the fire. "Very strange. Ihad no idea, " he said at last. The words came slowly, as if he werethinking aloud. "I was angry--miserable; hating you all; even--verynearly--_her_. Then came the War; and I thought--now our countries willbecome like one. I will win her by some brave action--she who is thespirit of courage. From France, after all that praise of Indians in thepapers, I wrote again. No use. After that, I hoped by some brave action, I might be killed. Instead, through stupid carelessness, I am onlymaimed--as you see. I was foolishly angry when Indian troops were sentaway from France: and my heart became hard like a nut. "--He had emergedfrom his dream now and was frankly addressing Roy----"I knew, if I wenthome, they would insist I should marry. Quite natural. But for me--notthinkable. Yet I _must_ go back to India. And there, in Bombay, I heardChandranath speak. He was just back from deportation; and to me hiswords were like leaping flames. All the fire of my passion--choked up inme--could flow freely in service of the Mother. I became intoxicatedwith the creed of my new comrades: there is neither truth nor untruth, right nor wrong; there is only the Mother. I was filled with the joy ofdedication and unquestioning surrender. It gave me visions like opiumdreams. Both kinds of opium I have taken freely, --while walking in mysleep. I was ready for taking life; any desperate deed. Instead--Tcha! Ihave to take money, like a common dacoit, because police must bebribed, soldiers tempted, meetings multiplied. . . . "

"It takes more than the blood of white goats to oil the wheels of yourchariot, " said Roy, very quiet, but rather grim. "And he's not the manto do his own dirty work--eh?"

"No. He is only very clever to dress it up in fine arguments. All moneyis the Mother's. Only they are thieves who selfishly hide it in banksand safes. Those who release it for her use are deliverers . . . " he brokeoff with a harsh laugh. "In spite of education, we Indians are tooeasily played upon, Roy. If you had not spoken--of her, I might haveswallowed--even that. Thieving--bah! Killing is man's work. There issanction in the Gita----"

"Sanction be damned!" Roy cut in sharply. "You might as well sayShakespeare sanctioned theft because he wrote, 'Who steals my pursesteals trash!' The only sanction worth anything is inside you. And youdidn't seem to find it there. But let's get at the point. Did yourefuse?"

"No. Only--for the first time, I demurred; and because the need isurgent, he became very violent--in language. It was almost a quarrel. "

"Clear proof you scored! Did you mention--Arúna?"

Dyán shook his head. "If _I_ become violent, it is not onlylanguage----"

"No. You're a _man_. And now you're awake again, I can tell youthings--but I can't stay all night. "

"No. He is coming back. Only gone to Cantonments--on business. "

"What sort of business?"

Dyán chewed his lip and looked uncomfortable. 

"Never mind, old chap. I can see a church by daylight! He's getting atthe troops. Spreading lies about the Armistice. And after that----?"

"He is returning--about midnight, hoping to find me in a more reasonablemind----"

"And by Jove we won't disappoint him!" cried Roy, who had seen hisGod-given chance. Springing up he gripped Dyán by the shoulder. "Yourreasonable mind will take the form of scooting back with me, _jutput_;[17] and we can slip out of Delhi by the night mail. Time'sprecious. So hurry up. "

But Dyán did not stir. He sat there looking so plainly staggered thatRoy burst out laughing. 

"You're not half awake yet. You've messed about so long with men whomerely 'agitate' and 'inaugurate, ' that you've forgotten the kind whoact first and talk afterwards. I give you ten minutes to scribble atender farewell. Then--we make tracks. It's all I came here for--if youwant to know. And I take it you're willing?"

Dyán sighed. "I am willing enough. But--there are many complications. You do not know. They are organising big trouble over the RowlattBill--and other things. I have not much secret information, or my lifewould probably not be worth a pin. But it is all one complicatednetwork, and there are too easy ways in India for social and spiritualboycott----"

He enlarged a little; quoted cases that filled Roy with surprise andindignation, but no way shook his resolve. 

"We needn't go straight to Jaipur. Quite good fun to knock round a bit. Throw him off the scent, till he's got over the shock. We can wire ournews; Arúna will be too happy to fret over a little delay. And you won'tbe ostracised among your own people. They want you. They want your help. Grandfather does. The best _I_ could do was to run you to earth--openyour eyes----"

"And by Indra you've _done_ it, Roy. "

"You'll come then?"

"Yes, I'll come--and damn the consequences!"

The Dyán of Oxford days was visibly emerging now: a veritable awakening;the strained look gone from his face. 

It was Roy's 'good minute': and in the breathless rush that followed, heswept Dyán along with him--unresisting, exalted, amazed----

The farewell letter was written; and Dyán's few belongings stowed into abasket-box. Then they hurried down, through the dark courtyard into thedarker tunnel; and Roy felt unashamedly glad not to be alone. His feetwould hurry, in spite of him; and that kept him a few paces ahead. 

Passing a dark alcove, he swerved instinctively--and hoped to goodnessDyán had not seen. 

Just before reaching the next one he tripped over something--taut stringor wire stretched across the passage. It should have sent him headlonghad he been less agile. As it was, he stumbled, cursed and kept hisfeet. 

"'Ware man-trap!" he called back to Dyán, under his breath. 

Next instant, from the alcove, a shot rang out: and it was Dyán whocursed; for the bullet had grazed his arm. 

They both ran now; and made no bones about it. Roy's sensations remindedhim vividly of the night he and Lance fled from the Turks. 

"We seem to have butted in and spoilt somebody's little game!" heremarked, as they turned into a wider street and slackened speed. "How'syour arm?"

"Nothing. A mere scratch. " Dyán's tone was graver. "But that's mostunusual. I can't make it out----"

"You're well quit of it all, anyhow, " said Roy, and slipped a handthrough his arm. 

 * * * * *

Not till they were settling down for a few hours' sleep in the nightmail, did it dawn on Roy that the little game might possibly have beenconnected with himself. Chandranath had seen him in that dress before. He had just come very near quarrelling with Dyán. If he suspected Roy'sidentity, he would suspect his influence. . . . 

He frankly spoke his thought to Dyán; and found it had occurred to himalready. "Not himself, of course, " he added. "The gentleman is notpartial to firearms! But suspecting--he might have arranged; hoping tocatch you coming back--the swine! Naturally after this, he will gofurther than suspecting!"

"He can go to the devil--and welcome; now I've collared _you_!" saidRoy;--and slept soundly upon that satisfying achievement, through allthe rattle and clatter of the express. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 17: At once. ]

CHAPTER XII. 

 "God uses us to help each other so. " --BROWNING. 

It was distinctly one of Roy's great moments when, at last, they fourstood together in Sir Lakshman's room: the old man, outwardlyimpassive--as became a Rajput--profoundly moved in the deep places ofhis heart; Arúna, in Oxford gown and sari, radiant one moment; thenext--in spite of stoic resolves--crying softly in Dyán's arms. And Royunderstood only too well. The moment he held her hand and met hereyes--he knew. It was not only joy at Dyán's return that evoked theveiled blush, the laugh that trembled into tears. Conceit or no conceit, his intuition was not to be deceived. 

And the conviction did not pass. It was confirmed by every day, everyhour he spent in her company. On the rare occasions, when they werealone together, the very thing that must be religiously stifled and hid, emanated from her like fragrance from a flower; sharply reawakening hisown temptation to respond--were it only to ease her pain. And there wasmore in it than that--or very soon would be, if he hesitated much longerto clinch matters by telling her the truth; though every nerve shrankfrom the ordeal--for himself and her. Running away from oneself wasplainly a futile experiment. To have so failed with her, disheartenedhim badly and dwarfed his proud achievement to an insignificant thing. 

To the rest, unaware, his triumph seemed complete, his risky adventurejustified beyond cavil. They all admitted as much;--even Vincent, whoabjured superlatives and had privately taken failure for granted. Roy, in a fit of modesty, ascribed it all to 'luck. ' By the merest chance hehad caught Dyán, on his own confession, just as the first flickers ofdoubt were invading his hypnotised soul; just when it began to dawn onhim that alien hands were pulling the strings. He had already begun tofeel trapped; unwilling to go forward; unable to go back; and the factthat no inner secrets were confided to him, had galled his Rajput vanityand pride. In the event, he was thankful enough for the supposed slight;since it made him feel appreciably safer from the zeal of his discardedfriends. 

Much of this he had confided to Roy, in fragments and jerks, on thenight of their amazing exit from Delhi; already sufficiently himselfagain to puzzle frankly over that perverted Dyán; to marvel--with asimplicity far removed from mere foolishness--"how one man can make amagic in other men's minds so that he shall appear to them an eagle whenhe is only a crow. "

"That particular form of magic, " Roy told him, "has made half thehistory of the world. We all like to flatter ourselves we're safe fromit--till we get bitten! You've been no more of a fool than the others, Dyán--if that's any consolation. "

The offending word rankled a little. The truth of it rankled more. "ByIndra, I am no fool now. Perhaps he has discovered that already. I fancymy letter will administer a shock. I wonder what he will do?"

"He won't 'do. ' You can bank on that. He may fling vitriol over you onpaper. But you won't have the pleasure of his company at Jaipur. He lefthis card on us before the Dewáli. And there's been trouble since;leaflets circulating mysteriously; an exploded attempt to start aseditious 'rag. ' So they're on the _qui vive. _ He'll count that one upagainst me: but I'll manage to survive. "

And Dyán, in the privacy of his heart, had felt distinctly relieved. Notthat he lacked the courage of his race; but, having seen the man foryears, as it were, through a magnifying lens, he could not, all in amoment, see him for the thing he was:--dangerous as a snake, yet swiftas a snake to wriggle out of harm's way. 

He had not been backward, however, in awakening his grandfather topurdah manoeuvres. Strictly in private--he told his cousin--there hadbeen ungoverned storms of temper, ungoverned abuse of Roy, who wassuspected by 'the Inside' of knowing too much and having undue influencewith the old man. 'The Inside, ' he gathered, had from early days beenjealous of the favourite daughter and all her belongings. Naturally, inDyán's opinion, his sister ought to marry; and the sooner the better. Perhaps he had been unwise, after all, insisting on postponement. By nowshe would have been settled in her lawful niche instead of makingtrouble with this craze for hospital nursing and keeping outside caste. Not surprising if she shrank from living at home, after all she had beenthrough. Better for them both, perhaps, to break frankly with orthodoxHinduism and join the Brahma Samáj. 

As Roy knew precisely how much--or rather, how little--Arúna likedworking in the wards, he suffered a pang at the pathos of her innocentguile. And if Dyán had his own suspicions, he kept them to himself. Healso kept to himself the vitriolic outpouring which he had duly foundawaiting him at Jaipur. It contained too many lurid allusions to 'thatconceited, imperialistic half-caste cousin of yours'; and Roy mightresent the implied stigma as much as Dyán resented it for him. So hetore up the effusion, intended for the eye of Roy, merely remarking thatit had enraged him. It was beneath contempt. 

Roy would like to have seen it, all the same; for he knew himselfquicker than Dyán at reading between the lines. The beggar would not hitback straight. But given the chance, he might try it on some otherway--witness the pistol-shot in the arcade; a side light--or a sideflash--on the pleasant sort of devil he was!

Back in the Jaipur Residency, in the garden that was 'almost England, 'back in his good familiar tweed coat and breeches, the whole Delhiinterlude seemed strangely theatrical and unreal; more like a vividdream than an experience in the flesh. 

But there was Dyán to prove it no dream; and the perilous charm ofArúna, that must be resisted to the best of his power. . . . 

 * * * * *

All this stir and ferment within; yet not a surface ripple disturbedthe flow of those uneventful weeks between the return of Roy and thecoming of Lance Desmond for Christmas leave. 

It is thus that drama most often happens in life--a light under abushel; set in the midst, yet unseen. Vincent, delving in ethnologicaldepths, saw little or nothing outside his manuscript and maps. FlossEden--engrossed in her own drawing-room comedy with Captain Martin--sawless than nothing, except that 'Mr Sinclair's other native cousin' cametoo often to the house. For she turned up her assertive nose at 'nativegentlemen'; and confided to Martin her private opinion that Aunt Theawent too far in that line. She bothered too much about other people allround--which was true. 

She had bothered a good deal more about Floss Eden, in early days, thanthat young lady at all realised. And now--in the intervals of organisingChristmas presents and Christmas guests--she was bothering a good dealover Roy, whose absence had obviously failed to clear the air. 

Not that he was silent or aloof. But his gift of speech overlaid areticence deeper than that of the merely silent man; the kind she hadlived with and understood. Once you got past their defences, you wereunmistakably inside:--Vinx, for instance. But with Roy she was aware ofreserves within reserves, which made him the more interesting, but alsothe more distracting, when one felt entitled to know the lie of theland. For, Arúna apart, wasn't he becoming too deeply immersed in hisIndian relations--losing touch, perhaps, with those at home? Did it--ordid it not matter--that, day after day, he was strolling with Arúna, riding with Dyán, pig-sticking and buck-hunting with the royal cheetahsand the royal heir to the throne; or plunging neck deep in plans andpossibilities, always in connection with those two? His mail letterswere few and not bulky, as she knew from handling the contents of theResidency mail-bag. And he very rarely spoke of them all: less than everof late. To her ardent nature it seemed inexplicable. Perhaps it wasjust part of his peculiar 'inwardness. ' She would have liked to feelsure, however. . . . 

Vinx would say it was none of her business. But Lance would be a help. She was counting on him to readjust the scales. Thank goodness forLance--giving up the Lahore 'week' and the Polo Tournament to spendChristmas with her and Roy in the wilds of Rajputana. Just to have himabout the place again--his music, his big laugh, his radiant certaintythat, in any and every circumstance, it was a splendid thing to bealive--would banish worries and lift her spirits sky-high. After thestill, deep waters of her beloved Vinx--whose strain of remoteness hadnot been quite dispelled by marriage--and the starlit mysteries of Arúnaand the intriguing complexities of Roy, a breath of Lance would be tonicas a breeze from the Hills. He was so clear and sure; not in flashes andspurts, but continuously, like sunshine; because the clearness andsureness had his whole personality behind them. And he could be countedon to deal faithfully with Roy; perhaps lure him back to the Punjab. Itwould be sad losing him; but in the distracting circumstances, a cleancut seemed the only solution. She would just put in a word to thateffect: a weakness she had rarely been known to resist, however completeher faith in the man of the moment. 

She simply dared not think of Arúna, who trusted her. It seemed likebetrayal--no less. And yet. . . ?

CHAPTER XIII. 

 "One made out of the better part of earth, A man born as at sunrise. " --SWINBURNE. 

It was all over--the strenuous joy of planning and preparing. Christmasitself was over. From the adjacent borders of British India, five lonelyones had been gathered in. There was Mr Mayne, Commissioner of Delhi, Vincent's old friend of Kohat days, unmarried and alone in camp with astray Settlement Officer, whose wife and children were at Home. Therewas Mr Bourne--in the Canals--large-boned and cadaverous, with asardonic gleam in his eye. Rumour said there had once been a wife and afriend; now there remained only work and the whisky bottle; and he wasoverdoing both. To him Thea devoted herself and her fiddle withparticular zest. The other two lonelies--a Mr and Mrs Nair--were medicalmissionaries, fighting the influenza scourge in the Delhi area;drastically disinfected--because of the babies; more than thankful for abrief respite from their daily diet of tragedy, and from laboursHercules' self would not have disdained. For all that, they had needed agood deal of pressing. They had 'no clothes. ' They were very shy. ButThea had insisted; so they came--clothed chiefly in shyness andgratitude, which made them shyer than ever. 

Roy, still new to Anglo-India, was amazed at the way these haphazardhumans were thawed into a passing intimacy by the sunshine of Thea'spersonality. For himself, it was the nearest approach to the real thingthat he had known since that dear and dreamlike Christmas of 1916. Itwarmed his heart, and renewed the well-spring of careless happiness thathad gone from him utterly since the blow fell; gone, so he believed, for ever. 

Something of this she divined--and was glad. Yet her exigent heart wasnot altogether at ease. His reaction to Lance, though unmistakable, fellshort of her confident expectation. He was still squandering far toomuch time on the other two. Sometimes she felt almost angry with him:jealous--for Lance. She knew how deeply he cared underneath; because shetoo was a Desmond. And Desmonds could not care by halves. 

This morning, for instance, the wretch was out riding with Dyán; andthere was Lance, alone in the drawing-room strumming the accompanimentsof things they would play to-night: just a wandering succession ofchords in a minor key; but he had his father's gift of touch, that notraining can impart, and the same trick of playing pensively to himself, almost as if he were thinking aloud. It was five years since she hadseen her father; and those pensive chords brought sudden tears to hereyes. 

What did Lance mean by it--mooning about the piano like that? Had hefallen in love? That was one of the few questions she did not dare askhim. But here was her chance to 'put in a word' about Roy. 

So she strolled into the drawing-room and leaned over the grand piano. His smile acknowledged her presence, and his pensive chords wentwandering softly away into the bass. 

"Idiot--what _are_ you doing?" she asked briskly, because the music wascreeping down her spine. "Talking to yourself?"

"More or less. "

"Well--give over. I'm here. And it's a bad habit. "

He shook his head, and went wandering on. "In this form I find itsoothing and companionable. "

"Well, you oughtn't to be needing either at Christmas time under _my_roof, with Roy here and all--if he'd only behave. Sometimes I want toshake him----"

"Why--what's the matter with Roy?"--That innocent query checked her rushof protest in mid career. Had he not even noticed? Men were thequeerest, dearest things!----"He looks awfully fit. Better all round. He's pulling up. _You_ never saw him--you don't realise----"

"But, my dear boy, do _you_ realise that he's getting rather badlybitten with all this--Indian problems and Indian cousins----"

Lance nodded. "I've been afraid of that. But one can't say much. "

"I can't. I was counting on you as the God-given antidote. And there heis, still fooling round with Dyán, when _you've_ come all this way . . . It makes me wild. It isn't _fair_----"

Her genuine distress moved Lance to cease strumming and bestow afriendly pat on her hand. "Don't be giving yourself headaches andheartaches over Roy and me, darlint. We're going strong, thanks verymuch! It would take an earthquake to throw us out of step. If he choseto chuck his boots at me, I wouldn't trouble--except to return the treesif they were handy! Strikes me women don't yet begin to understand thenoble art of friendship----"

"_Which_ is a libel--but let that pass! Besides--hasn't it struck you?Arúna----"

"My God!" His hands dropped with a crash on the keyboard. Then, in a lowswift rush: "Thea, you don't _mean_ it--you're pulling my leg. "

"Bible-oath I'm not. It's too safely tucked under the piano!"

"My God!" he repeated softly, ignoring her incurable frivolity. "Has he_said_ anything?"

"No. But it's plain they're both smitten more or less. "

"Smitten be damned. "

"Lance! I won't have Arúna insulted. Let me tell you she's charming andcultivated; much better company than Floss. And I love her like adaughter----"

"Would you have her marry _Roy_?" he flung out wrathfully. 

"Of course not. But still----"

"_Me_--perhaps?" he queried with such fine scorn that she burst outlaughing. 

"You priceless gem! You are _the_ unadulterated Anglo-Indian!"

"Well--what _else_ would I be? What else are you, by the same token?"

"Not adulterated, " she denied stoutly. "Perhaps a wee bit less'prejudiced. ' The awful result, I suppose, of failing to keep myselfscrupulously detached from my surroundings. Besides, you couldn't bemarried twenty years to that Vinx and not widen out a bit. Of course I'mquite aware that widening out has its insidious dangers and limitationits heroic virtues--Hush! Don't fly into a rage. _You're_ not limited, old boy. You loved--Lady Sinclair. "

"I adored her, " Lance said very low; and his fingers strayed over thekeys again. "_But_--she was an accomplished fact. And--she was one inmany thousands. She's gone now, though. And there's poor Sir Nevil----"

He rose abruptly and strode over to the fireplace. "Tell you what, Thea. If the bee in Roy's bonnet is buzzing to _that_ tune, some one's got tostop it----"

"That's my point!" She swung round confronting him. "Why not whisk himback to the Punjab? It does seem the only way----"

Lance nodded again. "Now you talk sense. Mind, I don't believe he'llcome. Roy's a tougher customer than he looks to the naked eye. But I'llhave a shot at it to-night. If needs must, I'll tell him why. I canswallow half a regiment of his Dyáns; but not--the other thing. I hopeyou find us intact in the morning!"

She flew to him and kissed him with fervour; and she was still in hisarms, when Roy strolled casually into the room. 

 * * * * *

There were only three outsiders that night: the State Engineer and twoBritish officers in the Maharajah's employ. But they sat down sixteen todinner; and, very shortly after, came three others in the persons ofDyán and Sir Lakshman Singh, with his distinguished friend MahomedInayat Khan, from Hyderabad. Nothing Thea enjoyed better than getting amixed batch of men together and hearing them talk--especially shop; forthen she knew their hearts were in it. They were happy. 

And to-night, her chance assortment was amazingly varied, even forIndia:--Army, 'Political, ' Civil; P. W. D. And Native States; New India, in the person of Dyán; and not least, the 'medical mish' pair; anelement rich in mute inglorious heroism, as the villagers and 'depressedclasses' of India know. She took keen delight in the racial interplay ofthought and argument, with Roy, as it were, for bridge-builder between. How he would relish the idea! He seemed very much in the vein thisevening, especially since his grandfather arrived. He was clearly makingan impression on Mr Mayne and Inayat Khan; and a needle-prick of remorsetouched her heart. For Arúna, annexed by Captain Martin's subaltern, waswatching him too, when she fancied no one was looking; and Lance, attentively silent, was probably laying deep plans for his capture. Awicked shame--but still. . . !

As a matter of fact, Lance, too, was troubled with faint compunction. Hehad never seen Roy in this kind of company, nor in this particular vein. And, reluctantly, he admitted that it did seem rather a waste of hismentally reviving vigour hauling him back to the common round of tennisand dances and polo--yes, even sacred polo--when he was so dead keen onthis infernal agitation business, and seemed to know such a deuce of alot about it all. 

Lance himself knew far too little; and was anxious to hear more, for theintimate, practical reason that he was not quite happy about his Sikhtroop. The Pathan lot were all right. But the Sikhs--his pride andjoy--were being 'got at' by those devils in the City. And, if these mencould be believed, 'things' were going to be very much worse; not only'down country, ' but also in the Punjab, India's sure shield against theinvader. To a Desmond, the mere suggestion of the Punjab turning traitorwas as if one impugned the courage of his father or the honour of hismother; so curiously personal is India's hold upon the hearts ofEnglishmen who come under her spell. 

So Lance listened intently, if a little anxiously, to all that Thea's'mixed biscuits' had to say on that absorbing subject. For to-night shopheld the field: if that could be called shop, which vitally concernedthe fate of England and India, and of British dominion in the East. 

Agitation against the sane measures embodied in the Rowlatt Bills wasalready astir, like bubbles round a pot before it boils. And Inayat Khanhad come straight from Bombay, where the National Congress had rejectedwith scorn the latest palliative from Home; had demanded the release ofall revolutionaries, and wholesale repeal of laws against sedition. Herewas shop sufficiently ominous to overshadow all other topics: and therewas no _gęne_, no constraint. The Englishmen could talk freely in thepresence of cultured Indians who stood for Jaipur and Hyderabad, sinceboth States were loyal to the core. 

Dyán, like Lance, spoke little and pondered much on the talk of thesemen, whose straight speech and thoughts were refreshing as their own seabreezes after the fumes of rhetoric, the fog of false values that hadbemused his brain these three years. Strange how all the ugliness andpain of hate had shrivelled away; how he could even shake hands, untroubled, with that 'imperialistic bureaucrat' the Commissioner ofDelhi, whom he might have been told off, any day, to 'remove from thismortal coil. ' Strange to sit there, over against him, while he puffedhis cigar and talked, without fear, of increasing antagonism, increasingdanger to himself and his kind. 

"There's no sense in disguising the unpalatable truth that New Indiahates us, " said he in his gruff, deliberate voice. "Present companyexcepted, I hope!"

He gravely inclined his head towards Dyán, who responded mutely with aflutter at his heart. Impossible! The man could not suspect----?

And the man, looking him frankly in the eyes, added: "The spirit of theMutiny's not extinct--and we know it, those of us that count. "

Dyán simply sat dumfounded. It was Sir Lakshman who said, in his guardedtone: "Nevertheless, sir, the bulk of our people are loyal andpeaceable. Only I fear there are some in England who do not count thatfact to their credit. "

"If they ever become anything else, it won't be to _our_ credit, " put inRoy. "If we can't stand up to bluster and sedition with that moral forceat our backs, we shall deserve to go under. "

"Well spoken, Roy, " said his grandfather still more quietly. "Let ushope it is not yet too late. Sadi says, 'The fountain-head of a springcan be blocked with a stick; but in full flood, it cannot be crossed, even on an elephant. '"

They exchanged a glance that stirred Roy's pulses and gave himconfidence to go on: "I don't believe it is too late. But what bothersme is this--are we treating our moral force as it deserves? Are wegiving them loyalty in return for theirs--the sort they can understand?With a dumb executive and voluble 'patriots, ' persuading orintimidating, the poor beggars haven't a dog's chance, unless we openlystand by them; openly smite our enemies--and theirs. "

He boldly addressed himself to Mayne, the sole symbol of authoritypresent; and the Commissioner listened, with a gleam of amused approvalin his eye. 

"You're young, Mr Sinclair--which doesn't mean you're wrong! Most of us, in our limited fashion, are trying to do what we can on those lines. But, after spending half a lifetime in this climate, doing our utmost togive the peasant--_and_ the devil--his due, we're apt to growcynical----"

"Not to mention suicidal!" grunted the slave of work and whisky. "WeCanal coolies--hardly visible to the naked eye--are adding somethinglike an Egypt a year to the Empire. But, bless you, England takes nonotice. Only let some underbred planter or raw subaltern bundle anIndian out of his carriage, or a drunken Tommy kick his servant in thespleen, and the whole British Constitution comes down about our ears!"

"Very true, sir--very true!" Inayat Khan leaned forward. His teethgleamed in the dark of his beard. His large firm-featured face aboundedin good sense and good humour. "How shall a man see justly if he holdsthe telescope wrong way round, as too many do over there. It alsoremains true, however, that the manners of certain Anglo-Indians createa lot of bad feeling. Your so-called reforms do not interest the massesor touch their imagination. But the boot of the low-class Europeantouches their backs and their pride and hardens their hearts. That isonly human nature. In the East a few gold grains of courtesy touch theheart more than a _khillat_[18] of political hotch-potch. Imyself--though it is getting dangerous to say so!--am frankly opposed tothis uncontrolled passion for reform. When all have done their duty inthis great struggle, why such undignified clamour for rewards, which arenow being flung back in the giver's teeth. It has become a viciouscircle. It was British policy in the first place--not so?--that stirredup this superficial ferment; and now it grows alarming, it is doctoredwith larger doses of the same medicine. We Indians who know how littlethe bulk of India has really changed, could laugh at the tamasha ofWestern fancy-dress, in small matters; but time for laughing has goneby. Time has come for saying firmly--all rights and aspirations will begranted, stopping _short_ of actual government--otherwise----!"

He flung up his hands, looked round at the listening faces, and realisedhow completely he had let himself go. "Forgive me, Colonel. I fear I amtalking too much, " he said in a changed tone. 

"Indeed no, " Colonel Leigh assured him warmly. "In these difficult days, loyal and courageous friends like yourself are worth their weight ingold mohurs!"

Visibly flattered, the Moslem surveyed his own bulky person with atwinkle of amusement. "If value should go by weight, Inayat Khan wouldbe worth a king's ransom! But I assure you, Colonel, your country hasmany hundreds of friends like myself all over India, if only she wouldseek them out and give them encouragement--as Mr Sinclair said--insteadof wasting it on volubles, who will never cease making trouble tillIndia is in a blaze. "

As the man's patent sincerity had warmed the hearts of his hearers, sothe pointed truth of that last pricked them sharply and probed deep. Forthey knew themselves powerless; mere atoms of the whirling dust-cloud, raised, in passing, by the chariot-wheels of Progress--or perdition?

The younger men rose briskly, as if to shake off some physicaldiscomfort. Dyán--very much aware of Arúna and the subaltern--approachedthem with a friendly remark. Roy and Lance said, "Play up, Thea! Yourinnings, " almost in a breath--and crooked little fingers. 

Thea needed no second bidding. While the men talked, an insidiousdepression had stolen over her spirit--and brooded there, light andformless as a river mist. Half an hour with her fiddle, and Lance at hisbest, completely charmed it away. But the creepiness of it had been veryreal: and the memory remained. 

 * * * * *

When all the others had dispersed, she lingered over the fire with Roy, while Lance, at the piano, with diplomatic intent, drifted into hisfriend's favourite Nocturne--the Twelfth; that inimitable rendering of amood, hushed yet exalted, soaring yet brooding, 'the sky and the nest aswell. ' The two near the fire knew every bar by heart, but as the liquidnotes stole out into the room, their fitful talk stopped dead. 

Lance was playing superbly, giving every note its true value; thecadence rising and falling like waves of a still sea; softer and softer;till the last note faded away, ghostlike--a sigh rather than a sound. 

Roy remained motionless, one elbow on the mantelpiece. Thea's lasheswere wet with the tears of rarefied emotion--tears that neither pricknor burn. The silence itself seemed part of the music; a silence it weredesecration to break. Without a word to Roy, she crossed the room;kissed Lance good-night; clung a moment to his hands that had woven thespell, smiling her thanks, her praise; and slipped away, leaving the twotogether. 

Roy subsided into a chair. Lance came over to the fire and stood therewarming his hands. 

It was a minute or two before Roy looked up and nodded hisacknowledgments. 

"You're a magician, old chap. You play that thing a damn sight toowell. "

He did not add that his friend's music had called up a vision of theHome drawing-room, clear in every detail; Lance at the piano--his lastweek-end from Sandhurst--playing the 'thing' by request; himselflounging on the hearthrug, his head against his mother's knee; the veryfeel of her silk skirt against his cheek, of her fingers on his hair. . . . Nor did he add that the vision had spurred his reluctant spirit to aresolve. 

The more practical soul of Lance Desmond had already dropped back toearth, as a lark drops after pouring out its heart in the blue. In spiteof concern for Roy, he was thinking again of his Sikhs. 

"I suppose one can take it, " he remarked thoughtfully, "that Vinx andMayne and that good old Moslem johnny know what they're talking about?"

Roy smiled--having jumped at the connection. "I'm afraid, " he said, "onecan. "

"You think big trouble is coming--organised trouble?"

"I do. That is, unless some 'strong silent man' has the pluck to put hisfoot down in time, and chance the consequences to himself. Thank God, we've another John Lawrence in the Punjab. "

"And it's the Punjab that matters----"

"Especially a certain P. C. Regiment--eh?"

Lance was in arms at once:--that meant he had touched the spot. "Noflies on the Regiment. Trust Paul. It's only--I get bothered about aSikh here and there. "

"Quite so. The blighters have taken particular pains with the Sikhs. Realising that they'll need some fighting stuff. And Lahore's a badplace. I expect they sneak off to meetings in the City. "

"Devil a doubt of it. Mind you, I trust them implicitly. But, outsidetheir own line, they're credulous as children--_you_ know. "

"Rather. In Delhi, I had a fair sample of it. "

Another pause. It suddenly occurred to Lance that his precious Sikhswere not supposed to be the topic of the evening. "You're quite fitagain, Roy. And those blooming fools chucked you like a cast horse----"he broke out in a spurt of vexation. "I wish to God you were back withyour old Squadron. "

And Roy said from his heart, "I wish to God I was. "

"Paul misses you, though he never says much. The new lot from home aregood chaps. Full of brains and theories. But no knowledge. Can't get atthe men. You could still help unofficially in all sorts of ways. --Whynot come along back with me? Haven't you been pottering round here longenough?"

Roy shook his head. "Thanks all the same, for the invite. Of course I'dlove it. But--I've things to do. There's a novel taking shape--andother oddments. I've done precious little writing here. Too muchentangled with human destinies. I _must_ bury myself somewhere and get amove on. April it is. I won't fail you. "

Lance kicked an unoffending log. "Confound your old novel!"--Aportentous silence. "See here, Roy, I don't want to badger you. But--well--if I'm to go back in moderate peace of mind, I want--certainguarantees. "

Roy lifted his eyes. Lance frankly encountered them; and there ensuedone of those intimate pauses in which the unspeakable is said. 

Roy looked away. "Arúna?" He let fall the word barely above his breath. 

"Just that. "

"You're frightened--both of you? Oh yes--I've seen----" He fell silent, staring into the fire. When he spoke again, it was in the same low, detached tone. "You two needn't worry. The guarantee you're after wasgiven . . . In July 1914 . . . Under the beeches . . . At Home. _She_foresaw--understood. But she couldn't foresee . . . The harder tug--nowshe's gone. The . . . Association . . . And all that. "

"Is it--only that?"

"It's mostly that. "

To Lance Desmond, very much a man, it seemed the queerest state ofthings; and he knew only a fragment of the truth. 

"Look here, Roy, " he urged again. "Wouldn't the Punjab really be best?Aren't you plunging a bit too deep----? Does your father realise? Theafeels----"

"Yes. Thea feels, bless her! But there's a thing or two she doesn't_know_!" He lifted his head and spoke in an easier voice. "One queerthing--it may interest you. Those few weeks of living as an Indian amongIndians--amazingly intensified all the other side of me. I never feltkeener on the Sinclair heritage and all it stands for. I never feltkeener on you two than all this time while I've been concentrating everyfaculty on--the other two. Sounds odd. But it's a fact. "

"Good. And does--your cousin know . . . About the guarantee?"

"N--no. That's still to come. "

"_When----?_"

Roy straightly returned his friend's challenging gaze. "Damn you!" hesaid softly. Then, in a graver tone: "You're right. I've been shirkingit. Seemed a shame to spoil Christmas. Remains--the New Year. I fixed itup--while you were playing that thing, to be exact. "

"Did I--contribute?"

"You did--if that gives you any satisfaction!" He rose, stretchedhimself and yawned ostentatiously. "My God, I wish it was over. "

Desmond said nothing. If Roy loved him more for one quality thananother, it was for his admirable gift of silence. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18: Dress of honour. ]

CHAPTER XIV. 

 "Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain--this gift of thine. "--RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

It was the last day of the year; the last moon of the year, almost ather zenith. Of all the Christmas guests Lance alone remained; and Theahad promised him before leaving, a moonlight vision of Amber, theSleeping Beauty of Rajasthán. The event had been delayed till now, partly because they waited on the moon; partly because they did not wantit to be a promiscuous affair. 

To Thea's lively imagination--and to Roy's no less--Amber was more thana mere city of ghosts and marble halls. It was a symbol of Rajputwomanhood--strong and beautiful, withdrawn from the clamour of themarket-place, given over to her dreams and her gods. For though kingshave deserted Amber, the gods remain. There is still life in her templesand the blood of sacrifice on her altar stones. Therefore she must notbe approached in the spirit of the tourist. And, emphatically, she mustnot be approached in a motor-car; at least so far as Thea's guests wereconcerned. Of course one knew she _was_ approached by irreverent cars;also by tourists--unspeakable ones, who made contemptible jokes about 'aslump in house property. ' But for these vandalisms Thea Leigh was notresponsible. 

Her young ones, including Captain Martin, would ride; but, because ofArúna, she and Vincent must submit to the barouche. So transparent wasthe girl's pleasure at being included, that Thea's heart failedher--knowing what she knew. 

Roy and Lance had ridden on ahead; out through the fortified gates intothe open desert, strewn with tumbled fragments of the glory that wasRajasthán. There, where courtiers had intrigued and flattered, crowsheld conference. On the crumbling arch of a doorway, that opened intoemptiness, a vulture brooded, heavy with feeding on those who had diedfor lack of food. Knee-deep in the Mán Sagar Lake, grey cranes soughttheir meat from God; every tint and curve of them repeated in the quietwater. And there, beside a ruined shrine, two dead cactus bushes, withtheir stiff distorted limbs, made Roy think suddenly of two dead Germanshe had come upon once--killed so swiftly that they still retained, indeath, the ghastly semblance of life. Why the devil couldn't a man berid of them? Dead Germans were not 'in the bond. '. . . 

"Buck up, Lance, " he said abruptly; for Desmond, who saw no ghosts, waskeenly interested. "Let's quit this place of skulls and emptyeye-sockets. Amber's dead; but not utterly decayed. "

He knew. He had ridden out alone one morning, in the light of palingstars, to watch the dawn steal down through the valley and greet thesleeping city that would never wake again--half hoping to recapture themiracle of Chitor. But Amber did not enshrine the soul of his mother'srace. And the dawn had proved merely a dawn. Moonlight, with its eerieenchantment, would be oven more beautiful and fitting; but the pleasureof anticipation was shadowed by his resolve. 

He had spoken of it only to Thea; asking her, when tea was over, to givehim a chance:--and now he was heartily wishing he had chosen any otherplace and time than this. . . . 

The brisk canter to the foothills was a relief. Thence the road climbed, between low, reddish-grey spurs, to the narrow pass, barred by aformidable gate, that swung open at command, with a screech of rustyhinges, as if in querulous protest against intrusion. 

Another gateway, --and yet another: then they were through the triplewall that guards the dead city from the invader who will never come, while both races honour the pact that alone saved desperate, stubbornRajputana from extinction. 

Up on the heights, it was still day; but in the valley it was almostevening. And there--among deepening shadows and tumbled fragments ofhills--lay Amber: her palace and temples and broken houses crowdinground their sacred Lake, like Queens and their handmaids round theshield of a dead King. 

Descending at a foot's pace, the chill of emptiness and of oncomingtwilight seemed to close like icy fingers on Roy's heart; though thedeath of Amber was as nothing to the death of Chitor--the warrior-queen, ravished and violently slain by Akbar's legions. Amber had, as it were, died peacefully in her sleep. But there remained the all-pervadingsilence and emptiness:--her sorrowful houses, cleft from roof toroadway; no longer homes of men, but of the rock-pigeon, the peacock, and the wild boar; stones of her crumbling arches thrust apart by rootsof acacia and neem; her streets choked with cactus and brushwood; herbeauty--disfigured but not erased--reflected in the unchanging mirror ofthe Lake. 

If Roy and Lance had talked little before, they talked less now. Fromthe Lake-side they rode up, by stone pathways, to the Palace of stoneand marble, set upon a jutting rock and commanding the whole valley. There, in the quadrangle, they left the horses with their grooms, whowere skilled in cutting corners and had trotted most of the way. 

Close to the gate stood a temple of fretted marble--neither ruined nordeserted; for within were the priests of Kali, and the faint, sicklysmell of blood. Daybreak after daybreak, for centuries, the severed headof a goat had been set before her, the warm blood offered in a bronzebowl. . . . 

"Pah! Beastly!" muttered Lance. "I'd sooner have no religion at all. "

Roy smiled at him, sidelong--and said nothing. It _was_ beastly: but itmatched the rest. It was in keeping with the dusky rooms, alldamp-incrusted, the narrow passages and screens of marble tracery; thecloistered hanging garden, beyond the women's rooms, their bathschiselled out of naked rock. And the beastliness was off-set by thebeauty of inlay and carving and colour; by the splendour of bronze gatesand marble pillars, and slabs of carven granite that served asbalustrade to the terraced roof, where daylight still lingered andazure-necked peacocks strutted, serenely immune. 

Seated on a carven slab, they looked downward into the heart ofdesolation; upward, at creeping battlements and a little temple of Shivaprinted sharply on the light-filled sky. 

"Can't you _feel_ the ghosts of them all round you?" whispered Roy. 

"No, thank God, I can't, " said practical Lance, taking out a cigarette. But a rustle of falling stones made him start--the merest fraction. "Perhaps smoke'll keep 'em off--like mosquitoes!" he added hopefully. 

But Roy paid no heed. He was looking down into the hollow shell of thatwhich had been Amber. Not a human sound anywhere; nor any stir of life, but the soft ceaseless kuru-kooing doves, that nested and mated in thosedusky inner rooms, where Queens had mated with Kings. 

"'Thou hast made of a city an heap, of a defencéd city a ruin . . . Theirhouses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there, '" he quoted softly; adding after a pause, "Mother had a great weakness for old Isaiah. She used to say he and theminor prophets knew all about Rajasthán. The owls of Amber are bluepigeons. But I hope she's spared the satyrs. "

"Globe-trotters!" suggested Lance. 

"Or 'Piffers' devoid of reverence!" retorted Roy. "Hullo! Here come theothers. "

Footsteps and voices in the quadrangle waked hollow echoes as when astone drops into a well. Presently they sounded on the stairs near by:Flossie's rather boisterous laugh; Martin chaffing her in his huskytones. 

"Great sport! Let's rent it off H. H. And gather 'em all in from thehighways and hedges for a masked fancy ball!"

Roy stood up and squared his shoulders. "Satyrs dancing, with avengeance!" said he; but the gleam of Arúna's sari smote him silent. Aband seemed to tighten round his heart. . . . 

 * * * * *

Before tea was over, peacocks and pigeons had gone to roost among thetrees that shadowed the Lake; and the light behind the hills had passedswiftly from gold to flame-colour, from flame-colour to rose. For thesun, that had already departed in effect, was now setting in fact. 

"Hush--it's coming, " murmured Thea:--and it came. 

Hollow thuds, quickening to a vibrant roar, swelled up from the templein the courtyard below. The Brahmins were beating the great tom-tombefore Kali's Shrine. 

It was the signal. It startlingly waked the dead city to discordantlife. Groanings and howlings and clashings, as of Tophet, were echoedand re-echoed from every temple, every shrine; an orgy of demoniacsounds; blurred in transit through the empty rooms beneath; pierced atintervals by the undulating wail of ram's horns; the two reiterate noteswandering, like lost souls, through a confused blare of cymbals andbagpipes and all kinds of music. 

Flossie, with a bewitching grimace at Martin, clapped both hands overher ears. Roy--standing by the balustrade with Arúna--was aware of ananswering echo somewhere in subconscious depths, as the discords roseand fell above the throbbing undernote of the drum. It was as if theclaimant voices of the East cried out to the blood in his veins: 'Youare of us--do what you will; go where you will. ' And all the while hiseyes never left Arúna's half-averted face. 

Sudden and clear from the heights came a ringing peal of bells, as itwere the voices of angels answering the wail of devils in torment. Itwas from the little Shrine of Shiva close against the ramparts, etchedin outline, above the dark of the hills. 

Arúna turned and looked up at him. "Too beautiful!" she whispered. 

He nodded, and flung out an arm. "Look there!"

Low and immense--pale in the pallor of the eastern sky--the moon hungpoised above massed shadows, like a wraith escaped from the city ofdeath. Moment by moment, she drew light from the vanished sun. Moment bymoment, under their watching eyes, she conjured the formless dark into anew heaven, a new earth. . . . 

"Would you be afraid--to stroll round a little . . . With me?" he asked. 

"Afraid? I would love it--if Thea will allow. " This time she did notlook up. 

Vincent and Thea were sitting a little farther along the balustrade;Lance beside them, imbibing tales of Rajasthán. Flossie and her Captainhad already disappeared. 

"_I'm_ going to be frankly a Goth and flash my electric torch into holesand corners, " Lance announced as the other two came up. "I bar beingintimidated by ghosts. "

"We're not going to be intimidated either, " said Roy, addressing himselfto Thea. "And I guarantee not to let Arúna be spirited away. "

Vincent shot a look at his wife. "Don't wander too far, " said he. 

"And don't hang about too long, " she added. "It'll be cold going home. "

Though he was standing close to her, she could say no more. But, undercover of the dusk, her hand found his and closed on it hard. 

The characteristic impulse heartened him amazingly, as he followed Arúnadown the ghostly stairway, through marble cloisters into the hanginggarden, misted with moonlight, fragrant with orange trees. 

And now there was more than Thea's hand-clasp to uphold him. Graduallythere dawned on him a faint yet sure intimation of his mother'spresence, of her tenderly approving love--dim to his brain, yet assensible to his spirit as light and warmth to his body. 

It did not last many moments; but--as in all contact with her--the clearafter-certainty remained. . . . 

Exactly what he intended to say he did not know even now. To speak thecruel truth, yet by some means to soften the edge of it, seemed almostimpossible. But nerved by this vivid, exalted sense of her nearness, theright moment, the right words could be trusted to come of themselves. . . . 

And Arúna, walking beside him in a hushed expectancy, was rememberingthat other night, so strangely far away, when they had walked aloneunder the same moon, and assurance of his love had so possessed her, that she had very nearly broken her little chirágh. And to-night--howdifferent! Her very love for him, though the same, was not quite thesame. It seemed to depend not at all on nearness or response. Starved ofboth, it had grown not less, but more. 

From a primitive passion it had become a rarefied emotional atmospherein which she lived and moved. And this garden of eerie lights andshadows was saturated with it; thronged, to her fancy, with ghosts ofdead passions and intrigues, of dead Queens, in whom the twin flames oflove and courage could be quenched only by flames of the funeral pyre. Their blood ran in her veins--and in his too. _That_ closeness ofbelonging none could snatch from her. About the other, she was growingwoefully uncertain, as day followed day, and still no word. Was theretrouble after all! Would he speak to-night. . . ?

They had reached a dark doorway, and he was trying the handle. It openedinwards. 

"I'm keen to go a little way up the hillside, " he said, forcing himselfto break a silence that was growing oppressive. "To get a sight of thePalace with the moon full on it. We'll be cautious--not go too far. "

"I am ready to go anywhere, " she answered; and the fervour of thatsimple statement told him she was not thinking of hillsides any morethan he was--at the back of his mind. 

Silence was unkinder than speech; and as they passed out into the open, he scanned the near prospect for a convenient spot. Not far above them afragment of ruined wall, overhung by trees, ended in a broken arch; itslingering keystone threatened by a bird-borne acacia. A fallen slab ofstone, half under it, offered a not too distant seat. Slab and arch werein full light; the space beyond, engulfed in shadow. 

Far up the hillside a jackal laughed. Across the valley another answeredit. A monkey swung from a branch on to the slab, and sat there engagedin his toilet--a very imp of darkness. 

"Not be-creeped--are you?" Roy asked. 

"Just the littlest bit! Nice kind of creeps. I feel quite safe--withyou. "

The path was rough in parts. Once she stumbled and his hand closedlightly on her arm under the cloak. She felt safe with him--and he mustturn and smite her----!

At their approach, the monkey fled with a gibbering squeak: and Royloosened his hold. Between them and the lake loomed the noble bulk ofthe palace; roof-terraces and façades bathed in silver, splashed withindigo shadow; but for them--mere man and woman--its imperishablestrength and beauty had suddenly become a very little thing. Theyscarcely noticed it even. 

"There--sit, " Roy said softly, and she obeyed. 

Her smile mutely invited him; but he could not trust himself--yet. Hemight have known the moonlight would go to his head. 

"Arúna--my dear----" he plunged without preamble. "I took you away fromthem all because--well--we can't pretend any more . . . You and I. It'sfate--and there we are. I love you--dearly--truly. But. . . . "

How could one go on?

"Oh, _Roy_!"

Her lifted gaze, her low impassioned cry told all; and before that tooclear revealing his hard-won resolution quailed. 

"No--not that. I don't deserve it, " he broke out, lashing himself andstartling her. "I've been a rank coward--letting things drift. Buthonestly I hadn't the conceit--we were cousins . . . It seemed natural. And now . . . _this_!"

A stupid catch in his throat arrested him. She sat motionless; never aword. 

Impulsively he dropped on one knee, to be nearer, yet not too near. "Arúna--I don't know how to say it. The fact is . . . They were afraid, atHome, if I came out here, I might--it might . . . Well, just what's cometo us, " he blurted out in desperation. "And Mother told me frankly--itmustn't be, twice running . . . Like that. " Her stillness dismayed him. "Dear, " he urged tenderly, "you see their difficulty--you understand?"

"I am trying--to understand. " Her voice was small and contained. Thecourage and control of it unsteadied him more than any passionateprotest. Yet he hurried on in the same low tone. 

"Of course, I ought to have thought. But, as I say, it seemednatural. . . . Only--on Dewáli night----"

She caught her breath. "Yes--Dewáli night. Mai Lakshmi knew. _Why_ didyou not say it _then_?"

"Well . . . So soon--I wasn't sure . . . I hoped going away might give usboth a chance. It seemed the best I could do, " he pleaded. "And--therewas Dyán. I'm not vamping up excuses, Arúna. If you hate me for hurtingyou so----"

"Roy--you _shall_ not say it!" she cried, roused at last. "Could I hate. . . The heart in my own body!"

"Better for us both perhaps if you could!" he jerked out, risingabruptly, not daring to let the full force of her confession sink in. "But--because of my father, I promised. No getting over that. "

She was silent:--a silence more moving, more compelling than speech. Wasshe wondering--had he not promised. . . ? Was he certain himself? Nearenough to swear by; and the impulse to comfort her was overwhelming. 

"If--if things had been different, Arúna, " he added with gravetenderness, "of course I would be asking you now . . . To be my wife. "

At that, the tension of her control seemed to snap; and hiding her face, she sat there shaken all through with muffled, broken-hearted sobs. 

"Don't--oh, _don't_!" he cried low, his own nerves quivering with herpain. 

"How can I _not_" she wailed, battling with fresh sobs. "Because of yourIndian mother--I hoped. . . . But for me--England-returned--no hopeanywhere: no true country now; no true belief; no true home; everythingdivided in two; only my heart--not divided. And that you cannot have, even if you would----"

Tears threatened again. It was all he could do not to take her in hisarms. 

"If--if they would only leave me alone, " she went on, clenching hersmall hands to steady herself. "But impossible to change all the laws ofour religion for one worthless me. They will insist I shall marry--evenDyán; and I cannot--I _cannot_----!"

Suddenly there sprang an inspiration, born of despair, of the chance andthe hour and the grave tenderness of his assurance. No time forshrinking or doubt. Almost in speaking she was on her feet; hercloak--that had come unlinked--dropped from her shoulders, leaving her aslim strip of pallor, like a ray of light escaped from clouds. 

"Roy--_Dilkusha_!" Involuntarily her hands went out to him. "If it istrue . . . You are caring--and if I must not belong to you, there is a way_you_ can belong to me without trouble for any one. If--if we makepledge of betrothal . . . For this one night, if you hold me this one hour. . . I am safe. For me that pledge would be sacred--as marriage, becauseI am still Hindu. Perhaps I am punished for far-away sins--not worthy tobe wife and mother; but, by my pledge, I can remain always _SwamiBakht_--worshipper of my lord . . . A widow in my heart. "

And Roy stood before her--motionless; stirred all through by the thrillof her exalted passion, of her strange appeal. The pathos--the nobilityof it--swept him a little off his feet. It seemed as if, till to-night, he had scarcely known her. The Eastern in him said, 'Accept. ' TheEnglishman demurred--'Unfair on her. '

"My dear----" he said--"I can refuse you nothing. But--is it right? You_should_ marry----"

"Don't trouble your mind for me, " she murmured; and her eyes never lefthis face. "If I keep out of purdah, becoming Brahmo Samaj . . . Perhaps----" She drew in her full lower lip to steady it. "But themarriage of arrangement--I cannot. I have read too many English books, thought too many English thoughts. And I know in here"--one clenchedhand smote her breast--"that now I could _not_ give my body and life toany man, unless heart and mind are given too. And for me. . . . Must I tellall? It is not only these few weeks. It is years and years. . . . " Hervoice broke. 

"Arúna! Dearest one----"

He opened his arms to her--and she was on his breast. Close and tenderlyhe held her, putting a strong constraint on himself lest her ecstasy ofsurrender should bear down all his defences. To fail her like this was abitter thing: and as her arms stole up round his neck, he instinctivelytightened his hold. So yielding she was, so unsubstantial. . . . 

And suddenly a rush of memory wafted him from the moonlit hillside tothe drawing-room at Home. It was his mother he held against hisbreast:--the silken draperies, the clinging arms, the yielding softness, the unyielding courage at the core. . . . 

So vivid, so poignant was the lightning gleam of illusion, that when itpassed he felt dizzy, as if his body had been swept in the wake of hisspirit, a thousand leagues and back: dizzy, yet, in some mysteriousfashion, reinforced--assured. . . . 

He knew now that his defences would hold. . . . 

And Arúna, utterly at rest in his arms, knew it also. He loved her--ohyes, truly--as much as he said and more; but instinct told her therelacked . . . Just something; something that would have set him--andher--on fire, and perhaps have made renunciation unthinkable. Her acute, instinctive sense of it, hurt like the edge of a knife pressed on herheart; yet just enabled her to bear the unbearable. Had it been. . . _that_ way, to lose him were utter loss. This way--there would be nolosing. What she had now, she would keep--whether his bodily presencewere with her or no----

Next minute, she dropped from the heights. Fire ran in her veins. Hislips were on her forehead. 

"The seal of betrothal, " he whispered. "My brave Arúna----"

Without a word she put up her face like a child; but it was very womanwho yielded her lips to his. . . . 

For her, in that supreme moment, the years that were past and the yearsthat were to come seemed gathered into a burnt-offering--laid on hisshrine. For her, that long kiss held much of passion--confessed yettranscended; more of sacredness, inexpressible, because it would nevercome again--with him or any other man. She vowed it silently to her ownheart. . . . 

Again far up the hillside a jackal laughed; another and another--as ifin derision. She shivered; and he loosed his hold, still keeping an armround her. To-night they were betrothed. He owed her all he had theright to give. 

"Your cloak. You'll catch your death. . . . " He stopped short--and flung uphis head. "What was that? There--again--in those trees----"

"Some monkey perhaps, " she whispered, startled by his look and tone. 

"Hush--listen!" His grip tightened and they stood rigidly still, Roystraining every nerve to locate those stealthy sounds. They were almostunder the arch; strong mellow light on one side, nethermost darkness onthe other. And from all sides the large unheeded night seemed to closein on them--threatening, full of hidden danger. 

Presently the sounds came again, unmistakably nearer; faint rustlingsand creakings, then a distinct crumbling, as of loosened earth andstones. The shadowy plumes of acacia that crowned the arch stirredperceptibly, though no breeze was abroad:--and not the acacia only. ToArúna's excited fancy it seemed that the loose upper stones of the architself moved ever so slightly. But _was_ it fancy? No--there again----!

And before the truth dawned on Roy, she had pushed him with all herforce, so vehemently that he stumbled backward and let go of her. 

Before he recovered himself, down crashed two large stones and a showerof small ones--on Arúna, not on him. With a stifled scream she totteredand fell, knocking her head against the slab of rock. 

Instantly he was on his knees beside her; stanching the cut on herforehead, binding it with his handkerchief; consumed with rage andconcern;--rage at himself and the dastardly intruder, --no monkey, thatwas certain. 

His quick ear caught the stealthy rustling again, lower down; and, yes--unmistakably--a human sound, like a stifled exclamation of dismay. 

"Arúna--I _must_ get at that devil, " he whispered. "Does your head feelbetter? Dare I leave you a moment?"

"Yes--oh yes, " she whispered back. "Nothing will harm me. Only takecare--please take care. "

Hastily he made a pillow of his overcoat and covered her with the cloak;then, stooping down, he kissed her fervently--and was gone. 

CHAPTER XV. 

 "Then was I rapt away by the impulse, one Immeasurable . . . Wave of a need To abolish that detested life. " --BROWNING. 

Lithe and noiseless as a cat, Roy crept through the archway into outerdarkness. It was hateful leaving Arúna; but rage at her hurt and theprimitive instinct of pursuit were not to be denied. And she _might_have been killed. And she had done it for him:--coals of fire, indeed!Also, the others would be getting anxious. Let him only catch thatmysterious skulker, and he could shout across to the Palace roof. Theywould hear. 

Close under the wall he waited, all the scout in him alert. The cautiousrustlings drew stealthily nearer; ceased, for a few tantalising seconds;then, out of the massed shadows, there crept a moving shadow. 

Roy's spring was calculated to a nicety; but the thing swerved sharplyand fled up the rough hillside. There followed a ghostly chase, unrealas a nightmare, lit up by the moon's deceptive brilliance; the earth, anunstable welter of light and darkness, shifting under his feet. 

The fleeing shade was agile; and plainly familiar with the ground. Baulked, and lured steadily farther from Arúna, all the Rajput flamed inRoy. During those mad moments he was capable of murdering the unknownwith his hands. . . . 

Suddenly, blessedly, the thing stumbled and dropped to its knees. Withthe spring of a panther, he was on it, his angers at its throat, pinningit to earth. The choking cry moved him not at all:--and suddenly themoonlight showed him the face of Chandranath, mingled hate and terror inthe starting eyes. . . . 

Amazed beyond measure, he unconsciously relaxed his grip. "_You_--isit?--you devil!"

There was no answer. Chandranath had had the wit to wriggle almost clearof him;--almost, not quite. Roy's pounce was worthy of his Rajputancestors; and next moment they were locked in a silent, purposefulembrace. . . . 

But Roy's brain was cooler now. Sanity had returned. He could still havechoked the life out of the man, without compunction. But he did notchoose to embroil himself, or his people, on account of anything socontemptible as the creature that was writhing and scratching in hisgrasp. He simply wanted to secure him and hand him over to the Jaipurauthorities, who had several scores up against him. 

But Chandranath, though not skilled, had the ready cunning of the lesserbreeds. With a swift unexpected move, he tripped Roy up so that henearly fell backward; and, in a supreme effort to keep his balance, unconsciously loosened his hold. This time, Chandranath slipped free ofhim; and, in the act, pushed him so violently that he staggered and camedown among sharp broken stones with one foot twisted under him. When hewould have sprung up, a stab of pain in his ankle told him he was donefor. . . . 

The sheer ignominy of it enraged him; and he was still further enragedby the proceedings of the victor, who sprang nimbly out of reach on to afragment of buttressed wall, whence he let fly a string of abusiveepithets nicely calculated to touch up Roy's pride and temper and goadhim to helpless fury. 

But if his ankle was crippled, his brain was not. While Chandranathindulged his pent-up spite, Roy was feeling stealthily, purposefully, inthe semi-darkness, for the sharpest chunk of stone he could lay handson; a chunk warranted to hurt badly, if nothing more. The strip ofshadow against the sky made an admirable target; and Roy's move, when itcame, was swift, his aim unerring. 

Somewhere about the head or shoulders it took effect: a yell of rage andpain assured him of that, as his target vanished on the far side of thewall. 

Had he jumped or fallen? And what did the damage amount to? Roy wouldhave given a good deal to know; but he had neither time nor power toinvestigate. Nothing for it but to crawl back, and shout to Arúna, whenhe got within hail. 

It was an undignified performance. His twisted ankle stabbed like aknife, and never failed to claim acquaintance with every obstacle in itspath. Presently, to his immense relief, the darkness ahead was raked bya restless light, zigzagging like a giant glow-worm. 

"Lance--ahoy!" he shouted. 

"Righto!" Lance sang out; and the glow-worm waggled a welcome. 

Another shout from the Palace roof, answered in concert; and the mad, bad dream was over. He was back in the world of realities; on his feetagain--one foot, to be exact--supported by Desmond's arm; pouring outhis tale. 

Lance already knew part of it. He had found Arúna and was hurrying on tofind Roy. "Your cousin's got the pluck of a Rajput, " he concluded. "Butshe seems a bit damaged. The left arm's broken, I'm afraid. "

Roy cursed freely. "Wish to God I could make sure if I've sent thatskunk to blazes. "

"Just as well you can't, perhaps. If your shot took effect, he won't beoff in a hurry. The police can nip out when we get back. "

"Look here--keep it dark till I've seen Dyán. If Chandranath's nabbed, he'll want to be in it. Only fair!"

Lance chuckled. "What an unholy pair you are!--By the way, I fancyMartin's pulled it off with Miss Flossie. I tumbled across them in thehanging garden. You left that door open. Gave me the tip you might beout on the loose. "

 * * * * *

Desmond's surmise proved correct. Arúna's left arm was broken above theelbow: a simple fracture, but it hurt a good deal. Thea, in charge of'the wounded, ' eased them both as best she could, during the long drivehome. But Arúna, still in her exalted mood, counted mere pain a littlething, when Roy, under cover of the cloak, found her cold right handand cherished it in his warm one nearly all the way. 

No one paid much heed to Martin and Flossie, who felt privately annoyedwith 'the native cousin' for putting her nose out of joint. Defrauded ofher due importance, she told her complacent lover they must 'save up thenews till to-morrow. ' Meantime, they rode, very much at leisure, behindthe barouche;--and no one troubled about them at all. 

Lance and Vincent, having cantered on ahead, called in for Miss Hammondand left word at Sir Lakshman's house that Arúna had met with a slightaccident; and would he and her brother come out to the Residency afterdinner?

Before the meal was over, they arrived. Miss Hammond was upstairsattending to Arúna; and Sir Lakshman joined them without ceremony, leaving Dyán alone with Roy, who was nursing his ankle in an arm-chairnear the drawing-room fire. 

In ten minutes of intimate talk he heard the essential facts, withreservations; and Roy had never felt more closely akin to him than onthat evening. Rajput chivalry is no mere tradition. It is vital andactive as ever it was. Insult or injury to a woman is sternly avenged;and the offender is lucky if he escapes the extreme penalty. Roy franklyhoped he had inflicted it himself. But for Dyán surmise was not enough. He would not eat nor sleep till he had left his own mark on the man whohad come near killing his sister--most sacred being to him, who hadneither wife nor mother. 

"The delicate attention was meant for me, you know, " Roy reminded him;simply from a British impulse to give the devil his due. 

"Tcha!" Dyán's thumb and finger snapped like a toy pistol. "Nolaw-courts talk for me. You were so close together. He took the risk. ByIndra, he won't take any more such risks if I get at him! You said wewould not see him here. But no doubt he has been hanging round Amber, making what mischief he can. He must have heard your party was coming, and got sneaking round for a chance to score off you. Young Ramanund, priest of Kali's shrine, is one of those he has made his tool, the wayhe made me. If he is in Amber, I shall find him. You can take your oathon that. " He stood up, straight and virile, instinct with purpose as adrawn sword. "I am going now, Roy. But not _one word_ to any soul. Grandfather and Arúna only need to know I am trying to find who toppledthose stones. I shall not succeed. That is all:--except for you and me. Bijli, Son of Lightning, will take me full gallop to Amber. First thingin the morning, I will come--and make my report. "

"But look here--Lance knows----"

"Well, your Lance can suppose he got away. We could trust him, I don'tdoubt. But what is known to more than two, will in time be known to ahundred. For myself, I don't trouble. Among Rajputs the penalty would beslight. But this thing must be kept between you and me--because ofArúna. "

Roy held out his hand. Dyán's fingers closed on it like taut strips ofsteel. Unmistakably the real Dyán Singh had shed the husks ofscholarship and politics and come into his own again. 

"I wouldn't care to have those at my throat!" remarked Roy, pensivelyconsidering the streaks on his own hand. 

"Some Germans didn't care for it--in France, " said Dyán coolly. "Butnow----" He scowled at his offending left arm. "I hope--very soon . . . Never mind. No more talking . . . Poison gas!" And with a flash of whiteteeth--he was gone. 

Roy, left staring into the fire, followed him in imagination, speedingthrough the silent city out into the region of skulls and eye-sockets--aflying shadow in the moonlight with murder in its heart. . . . 

 * * * * *

Within an hour, that flying shadow was outside the gateway of Amber, startling the doorkeepers from sleep; murder, not only in its heart, buttucked securely in its belt. No 'law-courts talk' for one of his breed;no nice adjustment of penalty to offence; no concern as to possibleconsequences. The Rajput, with his blood up, is daring to the point ofrecklessness; deaf to puerile promptings of prudence or mercy; a sword, seeking its victim; insatiate till the thrust has gone home. 

And, in justice to Dyán Singh, it should be added that there was morethan Arúna in his mind. There was India--increasingly at the mercy ofChandranath and his kind. The very blindness of his earlier obsessionhad intensified the effect of his awakening. Roy's devoted daring, hisgrandfather's mellow wisdom, had worked in his fiery soul moreprofoundly than they knew: and his act of revenge was also, in his eyes, an act of expiation. At the bidding of Chandranath, or another, he wouldunhesitatingly have flung a bomb at the Commissioner of Delhi--the sane, strong man whose words and bearing had so impressed him on the fewoccasions they had met at the Residency. By what law of God or man, then, should he hesitate to grind the head of this snake under his heel?

One-handed though he was, he would not strike from behind. The son of ajackal should know who struck him. He should taste fear, before hetasted death. And then--the Lake, that would never give up its secret orits dead. Siri Chandranath would disappear from his world, like a stoneflung into a river; and India would be a cleaner place without him. 

He knew himself hampered, if it came to a struggle. But--tcha! the manwas a coward. Let the gods but deliver his victim into that onepurposeful hand of his--and the end was sure. 

Near the Palace, he deserted Bijli, Son of Lightning; tethered himsecurely and spoke a few words in his ear, while the devoted creaturenuzzled against him, as who should say, 'What need of speech between meand thee'? Then--following Roy's directions--he made his way cautiouslyup the hillside, where the arch showed clear in the moon. If Chandranathhad been injured or stupefied, he would probably not have gone far. 

His surmise proved correct. His stealthy approach well-timed. Theguardian gods of Amber, it seemed, were on his side. For there, on thefallen slab, crouched a shadow, bowed forward; its head in its hands. 

"Must have been stunned, " he thought. Patently the gods were with him. Had he been an Englishman, the man's hurt would probably have baulkedhim of his purpose. But Dyán Singh, Rajput, was not hampered by thesportman's code of morals. He was frankly out to kill. His brain workedswiftly, instinctively: and swift action followed. . . . 

Out of the sheltering shadow he leapt, as the cheetah leaps on its prey:the long knife gripped securely in his teeth. Before Chandranath came tohis senses, the steel-spring grasp was on his throat, stifling the yellof terror at Roy's supposed return. . . . 

The tussle was short and silent. Within three minutes Dyán had his mandown; arms and body pinioned between his powerful knees, that his oneavailable hand might be free to strike. Then, in a low fierce rush, hespoke: "Yes--it is I--Dyán Singh. You told me often--strike, for theMother. 'Who kills the body kills naught. ' I strike for the Mother_now_. "

Once--twice--the knife struck deep; and the writhing thing between hisknees was still. 

He did not altogether relish the weird journey down to the shore of theLake; or the too close proximity of the limp burden slung over hisshoulder. But his imagination did not run riot, like Roy's: and noqualms of conscience perturbed his soul. He had avenged, tenfold, Arúna's injury. He had expiated, in drastic fashion, his own aberrationfrom sanity. It was enough. 

The soft 'plop' and splash of the falling body, well weighted withstones, was music to his ear. Beyond that musical murmur, the Lake wouldutter no sound. . . . 

CHAPTER XVI. 

 "So let him journey through his earthly day: 'Mid hustling spirits go his self-found way; Find torture, bliss, in every forward stride-- He, every moment, still unsatisfied. " --FAUST. 

Next morning, very early, he was closeted with Roy, sitting on the edgeof his bed; cautiously, circumstantially, telling him all. Roy, as helistened, was half repelled, half impressed by the sheer impetus of thething; and again he felt--as once or twice in Delhi--what centuriesapart they were, though related, and almost of an age. 

"This will be only between you and me, Roy--for always, " Dyán concludedgravely. "Not because I have any shame for killing that snake; but--as Isaid . . . Because of Arúna----"

"Trust me, " said Roy. "Amber Lake and I don't blab. There'll be a ninedays' mystery over his disappearance. Then his lot will set up someother tin god--and promptly forget all about him. "

"Let us follow their example, in that at least!" Grim humour nickered inDyán's eyes, as he extracted a cigarette from the proffered case. "Yougave me my chance. I have taken it--like a Rajput. Now we have otherthings to do. "

Roy smiled. "That's about the size of it--from your sane, barbaricstandpoint! I'm fairly besieged with other things to do. As soon as thisblooming ankle allows me to hobble, I'm keen to get at some of thethoughtful elements in Calcutta and Bombay; educated Indian men andwomen, who honestly believe that India is moving towards a nationalunity that will transcend all antagonism of race and creed. I can't seeit myself; but I've an open mind. Then, I think, Udaipur--'last, loneliest, loveliest, apart'--to knock my novel into shape before I goNorth. And _you_----?" He pensively took stock of his volcanic cousin. "Sure you're safe not to erupt again?"

"Safe as houses--thanks to you. That doesn't mean I can be orthodoxHindu and work for the orthodox Jaipur Raj. I would like to join'Servants of India' Society; and work for the Mother among those whoaccept British connection as India's God-given destiny. In no other waywill I work again--to 'make her a widow. ' Also, I thought perhaps----"he hesitated, averting his eyes--"to take vows of celibacy----"

"_Dyán_!" Roy could not repress his astonishment. He had almostforgotten that side of things. Right or wrong--a tribute to Tara indeed!It jerked him uncomfortably; almost annoyed him. 

"Unfair on Grandfather, " he said with decision. "For every reason, youought to marry--an enlightened wife. Think--of Arúna. "

"I _do_ think of her. It is _she_ who ought to marry. "

The emphasis was not lost on Roy:--and it hurt. Last night's poignantscene was intimately with him still. "I'm afraid you won't persuade herto, " he said in a contained voice. 

"I am quite aware of _that_. And the reason--even a blind man could notfail to see. "

They looked straight at one another for a long moment. Roy did notswerve from the implied accusation. 

"Well, it's no fault of mine, Dyán, " he said, recalling Arúna'sconfession that tacitly freed him from blame. "_She_understands--there's a bigger thing between us than our mere selves. Whatever I'm free to do for her, I'll gladly do--always. It was chieflyto ease her poor heart that I risked the Delhi adventure. I felt I hadlost the link with _you_. "

"Not surprising. " Dyán smoked for a few minutes in silence. He wasclearly moved by the fine frankness of Roy's attitude. "All the same, "he said at last, "it was not quite broken. You have given me new life;and because you did it--for her, I swear to you, as long as she needsme, I will not fail her. " He held out his hand. Roy's closed on ithard. 

"Later in the morning I will come back and see her, " Dyán added, in achanged voice--and went out. 

 * * * * *

Later in the morning, Roy himself was allowed to see her. With the helpof his stick he limped to her verandah balcony, where she lay in a longchair, with cushions and rugs, the poor arm in a sling. Thea was withher. She had heard as much of last night's doings as any one would everknow. So she felt justified in letting the poor dears have half an hourtogether. 

Her withdrawal was tactfully achieved; but there followed an awkwardsilence. For the space of several minutes it seemed that neither of the'poor dears' knew quite what to make of their privilege, though theywere appreciating it from their hearts. 

Roy found himself too persistently aware of the arm that had been brokento save him; of the new bond between them, signed and sealed by that oneunforgettable kiss. 

As for Arúna--while pain anchored her body to earth, her unstable heartswayed disconcertingly from heights of rarefied content, to depths ofshyness. Things she had said and done, on that far-away hillside, seemedunbelievable, remembered in her familiar balcony with a daylight mind:and fear lest he might be 'thinking it that way too' increased shynesstenfold. Yet it was she who spoke first, after all. 

"Oh, it makes me angry . . . To see you--like that, " she said, indicatinghis ankle with a faint movement of her hand. 

Roy quietly took possession of the hand and pressed it to his lips. 

"How do you suppose _I_ feel, seeing _you_ like that!" Words and actdispelled her foolish fears. "Did you sleep? Does it hurt much?"

"Only if I forget and try to move. But what matter? Every time it hurts, I feel proud because that feeble arm was able to push you out of theway. "

"You've every right to feel proud. You nearly knocked me over!"

A mischievous smile crept into her eyes. "I am afraid . . . I was veryrude!"

"That's _one_ way of putting it!" His grave tenderness warmed her likesunshine. He leaned nearer; his hand grasped the arm of her long chair. "You were a very wonderful Arúna last night. And--you are going to bemore wonderful still. Working with Dyán, you are going to help make mydream come true--of India finding herself again by her own genius, alongher own lines----"

He had struck the right note. Her face lit up as he had hoped to see it. "Oh, Roy--can I really----? Will Dyán help? Will he _let_ me----"

"Of course he will. And I'll be helping too--in my own fashion. We'llnever lose touch, Arúna; though India's your destiny and England's mine. Never say again you have no true country. Like me, you have twocountries--one very dear; one supreme. I'm afraid there are terribledays coming out here. And in those days every one of you who honestlyloves England--every one of _us_ who honestly loves India--will count inthe scale . . . "

He paused; and she drew a deep breath. "Oh--how you _see_ things! It isyou who are wonderful, Roy. I can think and feel the big things in myheart. But for doing them--I am, after all, only a woman. . . . "

"An _Indian_ woman, " he emphasised, his eyes on hers. "I know--and youknow--what that means. You have not yet bartered away your magicalinfluence for a mess of pottage. Because of one Indian woman--supremefor me; and now . . . Because of another, they all have a special claim onmy heart. If India has not gone too far down the wrong road, it is bythe _true_ Swadeshi spirit of her women she may yet be saved. _They_, atany rate, don't reckon progress by counting factory chimneys or seats oncouncils. And every seed--good or bad--is sown first in the home. Get atthe women, Arúna--the home ones--and tell them that. It's not only _my_dream; it was--my mother's. You don't know how she loved and believed inyou all. I think she never _quite_ understood the other kind. The longershe lived among them, the more she craved for all of you to remain truewomen--in the full sense, not the narrow one----"

He had never yet spoken so frankly and freely of that dear lost mother;and Arúna knew it for the highest compliment he could pay her. Truly hisgenerous heart was giving her all that his jealous household gods wouldpermit. . . . 

Thea--stepping softly through the inner room--caught a sentence or two;caught a glimpse of Roy's finely-cut profile; of Arúna's eyes intent onhis face; and she smiled very tenderly to herself. It was so exactlylike Roy; and such constancy of devotion went straight to hermother-heart. So too--with a sharper pang--did the love hunger inArúna's eyes. 

The puzzle of these increasing race complications----! The tragedy andthe pity of it. . . !

 * * * * *

Lance travelled North that night with a mind at ease. Roy had assuredhim that the moment his ankle permitted he would leave Jaipur and 'givethe bee in his bonnet an airing' elsewhere. That assurance proved easierto give than to act upon, when the moment came. The Jaipur Residency hadcome to seem almost like home. And the magnet of home drew all that wasEastern in Roy. It was the British blood in his veins that drove himafield. Though India was his objective, England was the impelling force. His true home seemed hundreds of miles away, in more senses than one. His union with Rajputana--set with the seal of that sacred and beautifulexperience at Chitor--seemed, in his present mood, the more vital of thetwo. 

And there was Lance up in the Punjab--a magnet as strong as any, whenthe masculine element prevailed. Yet again, some inner irresistibleimpulse obliged him to break away from them all. It was one of thoseinevitable moments when the dual forces within pulled two ways; when hefelt envious exceedingly of Lance Desmond's sane and single-mindedattitude towards men and things. One couldn't picture Lance a prey tothe ignominious sensation that half of him wanted to go one way and halfof him another way. At this juncture, half of himself felt a confoundedfool for not going back to the Punjab and enjoying a friendly sociablecold weather among his father's people. The other half felt impelled toprobe deeper into the complexities of changing India, to confirm andimpart his belief that the destinies of England and India were one andindivisible. After all, India stood where she did to-day by virtue ofwhat England had made her. He refused to believe that even the insidiousdisintegrating process of democracy could dissolve--in a brief fever ofunrest--links forged and welded in the course of a hundred years. 

In that case, argued his practical half, why this absurd inner sense ofresponsibility for great issues over which he could have no shadow ofcontrol? What was the earthly use of it--this large window in his soul, opening on to the world's complexities and conflicts; not allowing himto say comfortably, 'They are not. ' His opal-tinted dreams ofinterpreting East to West had suffered a change of complexion sinceOxford days. His large vague aspirations of service had narrowed down, inevitably, to a few definite personal issues. Action involveslimitation--as the picture involves the frame. Dreams must descend toearth--or remain unfruitful. It might be a little, or a great matter, that he had managed to set two human fragments of changing India on theright path--so far as he could discern it. The fruits of that modestbeginning only the years could reveal. . . . 

Then there was this precious novel simmering at the back of things; hisincreasing desire to get away alone with the ghostly company thathaunted his brain. As the mother-to-be feels the new life mysteriouslymoving within her, so he began to feel within him the first stirrings ofhis own creative power. Already his poems and essays had raisedexpectations and secured attention for other things he wanted to say. And there seemed no end to them. He had hardly yet begun his mentaladventures. Pressing forward, through sense, to the limitless regions ofmind and spirit, new vistas would open, new paths lure him on. . . . 

That first bewildering, intoxicating sense of power is good--while itlasts; none the less, because, in the nature of things, it is foredoomedto disillusion--greater or less, according to the authenticity of thegod within. 

Whatever the outcome for Roy, that passing exaltation eased appreciablythe pang of parting from them all. And it was responsible for a happyinspiration. Rummaging among his papers, on the eve of departure, hecame upon the sketch of India that he had written in Delhi and refrainedfrom sending to Arúna. Intrinsically it was hers; inspired by her. Also--intrinsically it was good: and straightway he decided she shouldhave it for a parting gift. 

Beautifully copied out, and tied up with carnation-pink ribbons, hereserved it for their last few moments together. She was still such achild in some ways. The small surprise of his gift might ease the pangof parting. It was a woman's thought. But the woman-strain of tendernesswas strong in Roy, as in all true artists. 

She was standing near the fire in her own sitting-room, wearing the pinkdress and sari, her arm still in a sling. Last words, those desperateinanities--buffers between the heart and its own emotion--are difficultthings to bring off in any case; peculiarly difficult for these two, with that unreal, yet intensely actual, bond between them; and Roy feltmore than grateful to the inspiration that gave him something definiteto say. 

Instantly her eyes were on it--wondering . . . Guessing. . . . 

"It's a little thing I wrote in Delhi, " he said simply. "I couldn't sendit to Jeffers. It seemed--to belong to you. So I thought----" Heproffered it, feeling absurdly shy of it--and of her. 

"Oh--but it is too much!" Holding it with her sling hand, she opened itwith the other and devoured it eagerly under his watching eyes. By thechanges that flitted across her face, by the tremor of her lips and herhands, as she pressed it to her heart, he knew he could have given herno dearer treasure than that fragment of himself. And because he knewit, he felt tongue-tied; tempted beyond measure to kiss her once again. 

If she divined his thought, she kept her lashes lowered and gave nosign. 

He hoped she knew. . . . 

But before either could break the spell of silence that held them, Theareturned; and their moment--their idyll--was over. . . . 

END OF PHASE III. 

PHASE IV. 

DUST OF THE ACTUAL

CHAPTER I. 

 "It's no use trying to keep out of things. The moment they want to put you in--you're in. The moment you're born, you're done for. "--HUGH WALPOLE. 

The middle of March found Roy back in the Punjab, sharing a ramshacklebungalow with Lance and two of his brother officers; good fellows, both, in their diametrically opposite fashions; but superfluous--from Roy'spoint of view. When he wanted a quiet 'confab' with Lance, one or bothwere sure to come strolling in and hang round, jerking out aimlessremarks. When he wanted a still quieter 'confab' with his maturingnovel, their voices and footsteps echoed too clearly in the verandahsand the scantily furnished rooms. But did he venture to grumble at theseminor drawbacks, Lance would declare he was demoralised by floatingloose in an Earthly Paradise and becoming a mere appendage to a pencil. 

There was a measure of truth in the last. As a matter of fact, after twomonths of uninterrupted work at Udaipur, Roy had unwarily hinted at arisk of becoming embedded in his too congenial surroundings;--and thatcareless admission had sealed his fate. 

Lance Desmond, with his pointed phrase, had virtually dug him out of hischosen retreat; had written temptingly of the 'last of the polo, ' ofprime pig-sticking at Kapurthala, of the big Gymkhana that was to windup the season:--a rare chance for Roy to exhibit his horsemanship. Andagain, in more serious mood, he had written of increasing anxiety overhis Sikhs with that 'infernal agitation business' on the increase, andan unbridled native press shouting sedition from the house-tops. A nicestate of chaos India was coming to! He hoped to goodness they wouldn'tbe swindled out of their leave; but Roy had better 'roll up' soon, soas to be on the spot, in case of ructions; not packed away incotton-wool down there. 

A few letters in this vein had effectually rent the veil of illusionthat shielded Roy from aggressive actualities. In Udaipur there had beenno hysterical press; no sedition flaunting on the house-tops. One hadn'tarrived at the twentieth century, even. Except for a flourishinghospital, a few hideous modern interiors, and a Resident--who was verygood friends with Vinx--one stepped straight back into the leisurely, colourful, frankly brutal life of the middle ages. And Roy had fallen awilling victim to the charms of Udaipur:--her white palaces, whitetemples, and white landing-stages, flanked with marble elephants, embosomed in wooded hills, and reflected in the blue untroubled depthsof the Pichóla Lake. Immersed in his novel, he had not known a dull orlonely hour in that enchanted backwater of Rajasthán. 

His large vague plans for getting in touch with the thoughtful elementsof Calcutta and Bombay had yielded to the stronger magnetism of beautyand art. Like his father, he hated politics; and Westernised India isnothing if not political. It was a true instinct that warned him to keepclear of that muddy stream, and render his mite of service to India inthe exercise of his individual gift. That would be in accord with one ofhis mother's wise and tender sayings: (his memory was jewelled withthem) "Look always first at your own gifts. They are sign-posts, pointing the road to your true line of service. " Could he butimmortalise the measure of her spirit that was in him, that were trueservice to India--and more than India. There are men created for action. There are men created to inspire action. And the world has equal need ofboth. 

He had things to say on paper that would take him all his time; andUdaipur had metaphorically opened her arms to him. The Resident and hiswife had been more than kind. He had his books; his cool, lofty rooms inthe Guest House; his own private boat on the Lake; and freedom to go hisown unfettered way at all hours of the day or night. There the simmeringnovel had begun to move with a life of its own; and while that state ofbeing endured, nothing else mattered much in earth or heaven. 

For seven weeks he had worked at it without interruption; and for sevenweeks he had been happy: companioned by the vivid creatures of hisbrain; and, better still, by a quickened undersense of his mother'svital share in the 'blossom and fruit of his life. ' The danger ofbecoming embedded had been no myth: and at the back of his brain therehad lurked a superstitious reluctance to break the spell. 

But Lance was Lance: no one like him. Moreover, he had known well enoughthat anticipation of breakers ahead was no fanciful nightmare; but asane corrective to the ostrich policy of those who had sown the evilseed and were trying to say of the fruit--'It is not. ' Letters fromDyán, and spasmodic devouring of newspapers, kept him alive to thesinister activities of the larger world outside. News from Bombay grewsteadily more disquieting:--strikes and riots, fomented by agitators, who lied shamelessly about the nature of the new Bills--; hostile crowdsand insults to Englishwomen. Dyán more than hinted that if thethreatened outbreak were not resolutely crushed at the start, it mightprove a far-reaching affair; and Roy had not the slightest desire tofind himself 'packed away in cotton-wool, ' miles from the scene ofaction. Clearly Lance wanted him. He might be useful on the spot. Andthat settled the matter. 

Impossible to leave so much loveliness, such large drafts of peace andleisure, without a pang; but--the wrench over--he was well content tofind himself established in this ramshackle bachelor bungalow, backagain with Lance and his music--very much in evidence just now--and thetwo superfluous good fellows, whom he liked well enough in homoeopathicdoses. Especially he liked Jack Meredith, cousin of the Desmonds;--alarge and simple soul, gravely absorbed in pursuing balls and tent-pegsand 'pig'; impervious to feminine lures; equally impervious to thecaustic wit of his diametrical opposite, Captain James Barnard, whoeased his private envy by christening him 'Don Juan. ' For Meredithfatally attracted women; and Barnard--cultured, cynical, Cambridge--wasas fatally susceptible to them as a trout to a May-fly; but, for someunfathomable reason they would not; and in Anglo-India a man could nothide his failures under a bushel. Lance classified him comprehensivelyas 'one of the War lot'; liked him, and was sorry for him, although--perhaps because--he was 'no soldier. '

Roy also liked him; and enjoyed verbal fencing-bouts with him when themood was on. Still he would have preferred, beyond measure, the Kohatarrangement, with the Colonel for an unobtrusive third. 

But the Colonel, these days, had a bungalow to himself; a bungalow inprocess of being furnished by no means on bachelor lines. For theunbelievable had come to pass----! And the whole affair had been carriedthrough in his own inimitable fashion, without so much as a tell-taleripple on the surface of things. Quite unobtrusively, at Kohat, he hadmade friends with the General's daughter--a dark-haired slip of a girl, with the blood of distinguished Frontier soldiers in her veins. Quiteunobtrusively--during Christmas week--he had laid his heart and theRegiment at her feet. Quite unobtrusively, he proposed to marry her inApril, when the leave season opened, and carry her off to Kashmir. 

"_That's_ the way it goes with _some_ people, " said Lance, the firsttime he spoke of it; and Roy fancied he detected a wistful note in hisvoice. 

"That's the way it'll go with you, old man, " he had retorted. "I'm theone that will have to look out for squalls!"

Lance had merely smiled and said nothing:--the reception he usuallyaccorded to personal remarks. And, at the moment, Roy thought no more ofthe matter. 

Their first good week of polo and riding and generally fooling roundtogether had quickened his old allegiance to Lance, his newer allegianceto the brotherhood of action. He possessed no more enviable talent thanhis many-sided zest for life. 

Lance himself seemed in an unusually social mood. So of course Roy mustsubmit to being bowled round in the new dog-cart and introduced tospecial friends, in cantonments and Lahore, including the DeputyCommissioner's wife and good-looking eldest daughter; the best dancer inthe station and an extra special friend, he gathered from Lance's bestoffhand manner. 

Roy found her more than good-looking; beautiful, almost, with hertwofold grace of carriage and feature and her low-toned harmony ofcolouring:--ivory-white skin, ash-blond hair and hazel eyes, clear as aHighland river; the pupils abnormally large, the short thick lashes veryblack, like a smudge round her lids. She was tall, in fine, and carriedher beauty like a brimming chalice; very completely mistress of herself;and very completely detached from her florid, effusive, worldly-wisemother. Unquestionably, a young woman to be reckoned with. 

But Roy did not feel disposed, just then, to reckon seriously with anyyoung woman, however alluring. The memory of Arúna--the exquisiteremoteness from everyday life of their whole relation--did not easilyfade. And the creatures of his brain were still clamant, in spite ofbroken threads and drastic change of surroundings. Lance had presentedhim with a spacious writing-table; and most days he would stick to itfor hours, sooner than drive out in pursuit of tennis or afternoondancing in Lahore. 

He was sitting at it now; flinging down a dramatic episode, roughly, rapidly, as it came. The polished surface was strewn with an untidyarray of papers; the only ornaments a bit of old brass-work and twoivory elephants; a photograph of his father and a large one of hismother taken from the portrait at Jaipur. The table was set almost atright angles to his open door, and the chick rolled up. He had aweakness for being able to 'see out, ' if it was only the corner of abarren 'compound' and a few dusty oleanders. He had forgotten theothers; forgotten the time. All he asked, while the spate lasted, was tobe left alone. . . . 

He almost jumped when the latch clicked behind him and Lance strolledin, faultlessly attired in the latest suit from home; a golden-brown tieand a silk handkerchief, the same shade, emerging from his breastpocket. By nature, Lance was no dandy; but Roy had not failed to notethat he was apt to be scrupulously well turned out on certain occasions. And, at sight of him, he promptly 'remembered he had forgotten' thevery particular nature of to-day's occasion: the marriage of Miss GladysElton--step-sister of Rose--to a rising civilian some eighteen yearsolder than his bride. It was an open secret, in the station, that thewedding was Mrs Elton's private and personal triumph, that she, not herunassuming daughter, was the acknowledged heroine of the day. 

"Not ready yet--you unmitigated slacker?" Lance exclaimed with animpatient frown. "Buck up. Time we were moving. "

"Awfully sorry. I clean forgot. " Roy's tone was not conspicuouslypenitent. 

"Tell us another! The whole Mess was talking of it at tiffin. "

"I'm afraid I'd forgotten all about tiffin. "

It was so patently the truth that Lance looked mollified. "You and yourconfounded novel! Now then--double. I don't want to be glaringly late. "

Roy looked pathetic. "But I'm simply up to the eyes. The truth is, Ican't be bothered. I'll turn up for the dancing at the Hall. "

"And I'm to make your giddy excuses?"

"If any one happens to notice my absence, you can say somethingpretty----"

He was interrupted by the appearance of Barnard at the verandah door. "Dog-cart's ready and waiting, Major. What's the hitch?"

"Sinclair's discovered he's too busy to come!"

"What--the favoured one? The fair Rose won't relish _that_ touching markof attention. On whom she smiles, from him she expects gold, frankincense, and myrrh----"

"Drop it, Barnard, " Desmond cut in imperatively; and Roy remarked almostin the same breath, "Thanks for the tip. I'll write to Bombay for thebest brand of all three against another occasion. "

"But this is _the_ occasion! Copy--my dear chap, copy! Anglo-India inexcelsis and 'Oh 'Ell' in all her glory!"

It may be mentioned that Mrs Elton's name was Olive; that she sawsoldiers as trees walking. And subalterns retaliated--strictly behindher back. 

But Roy remained unmoved. "If you two are in such a fluster over yourprecious wedding, I vote you get out--and let _me_ get on. "

Barnard asked nothing better. Miss Arden was his May-fly of the moment. "Come along, Major, " he cried, and vanished forthwith. 

As Lance moved away, Roy remarked casually: "Be a good chap and ask MissArden, with my best salaams, to save me a dance or two, in case I'm lateturning up!"

Lance gave him a straight look. "Not I. My pockets will be bulging withyour apologies. You can get some one else to do your commissions in theother line. "

Sheer astonishment silenced Roy; and Desmond, from the threshold, addedmore seriously, "Don't let the women here give you a swelled head, Roy. They'll do their damnedest between them. "

When he had gone, Roy sat staring idly at the patch of sunlight outsidehis door. What the devil did Lance mean by it? Moods were not in hisline. To make a half-joking request, and find Lance taking it seriously, wasn't in the natural order of things. And the way he jumped on Barnard, too. Could there possibly have been a rebuff in that quarter? Hecouldn't picture any girl in her senses refusing Lance. Besides, theyseemed on quite friendly terms. Nothing beyond that--so far as Roy couldsee. He would very much like to feel sure. But, for all their intimacy, he knew precisely how far one could go with Lance: and one couldn't goas far as that. 

As for the remark about a swelled head, Lance must have been rotting. _He_ wasn't troubling about women or girls--except for tennis anddancing; and Miss Arden was a superlative performer; in fact, rathersuperlative all round. As a new experience, she seemed distinctly worthcultivating, so long as that process did not seriously hamper thenovel, --that was unashamedly his first consideration, at the moment. 

He loved every phase of the work; from the initial thrill of inceptionto the nice balance of a phrase and the very look of his favouritewords. His childish love of them for their own sake still prevailed. Forhim, they were still live things, possessing a character and charm alltheir own. 

And now, the house being blessedly empty, his pencil sped off again onits wild career. The men and women he had loved into life were thronginghis brain. Everything else was forgotten--Lance and Miss Arden and thewedding and the afternoon dancing at the Hall. . . . 

CHAPTER II. 

 "Which is the more perilous, to meet the temptings of Eve, or to pique her?"--GEORGE MEREDITH. 

Of course he reached the Lawrence Hall egregiously late, to find theafternoon dancing, that Lahore prescribes three times a week, in fullswing. 

The lofty pillared Hall--an aristocrat among Station Clubs--was morecrowded than usual. Half the polished floor was uncovered; the restcarpeted and furnished, for lookers-on. Here Mrs Elton still diffusedher exuberant air of patronage; sailing majestically from group to groupof her recent guests, and looking more than life size in lavender satinbesprinkled with old lace. 

Roy hurried past, lest she discover him; and, from the security of anarched alcove, scanned the more interesting half of the Hall. There wentlittle Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, a fluffy pussy-cat person, with soft eyes andsoft manners--and claws. She was one of those disconnected wives whom hewas beginning to recognise as a feature of the country: unobtrusivelyowned by a dyspeptic-looking Divisional Judge; hospitable and lively, and an infallible authority on other people's private affairs. Like toomany modern Anglo-Indians, she prided herself on keeping airily apartfrom the country of her exile. Natives gave her 'the creeps. ' Useless toargue. Her retort was unvarying and unanswerable. "East is East--and I'm_not_. It's a country of horrors, under a thin layer of tinsel. Don'ttalk to _me_----!" Lance Desmond had achieved fame among the subalternsby christening her the Banter-Wrangle; but he liked her well enough, onthe whole, to hope she would never find him out. 

She whirled past now, on the arm of Talbot Hayes, senior AssistantCommissioner; an exceedingly superior person who shared her views about'the country. ' Catching Roy's eye, she feigned exaggerated surprise andfluttered a friendly hand. 

His response was automatic. He had just discovered Miss Arden--withLance, of course--looking supreme in a moon-coloured gown with a dullgold sash carelessly knotted on one side. Her graceful hat was of goldtissue, unadorned. Near the edge of the brim lay one yellow rose; and arope of amber beads hung well below her waist. 

Roy--son of Lilámani--had an artist's eye for details of dress, forharmony of tone and line, which this girl probably achieved by merefeminine instinct. The fool he was, to have come so late. When theystopped, he would catch her and plead for an extra, at least. 

Meantime, a pity to waste this one; and there was poor little MissDelawny sitting out, as usual, in her skimpy pink frock and black hat, trying so hard not to look forlorn that he felt sorry for her. She wastacitly barred by most of the men because she was 'café au lait';--adelicate allusion to the precise amount of Indian blood in her veins. 

He had not, so far, come across many specimens of these pathetichalf-and-halfs, who seemed to inhabit a racial No-Man's-Land. But Lahorewas full of them; minor officials in the Railway and the Post Office;living, more or less, in a substratum of their own kind. He gatheredthat they were regarded as a 'problem' by the thoughtful few, and simplyturned down by the rest. He felt an acute sympathy for them: also--inhidden depths--a vague distaste. Most of those he had encountered wereso obviously of no particular caste, in either country's estimate of theword, that he had never associated them with himself. He saw himself, rather, as of double caste; a fusion of the best in both races. Thewriter of that wonderful letter had said he was different; andpresumably she knew. Whether the average Anglo-Indian would see anydifference, he had not the remotest idea; and, so far, he had scarcelygiven the matter a thought. 

Here, however, it was thrust upon his attention; nor had he failed tonotice that Lance never mentioned the Jaipur cousins except when theywere alone:--whether by chance or design, he did not choose to ask. Andif either of the other fellows had noticed his mother's photograph, orfelt a glimmer of curiosity, no word had been said. 

After all, what concern was it of these chance-met folk? He was nothingto them; and to him they were mainly a pleasant change from theabsorbing business of his novel and the problems of India in transition. 

And the poor little girl in the skimpy frock was an unconscious fragmentof that problem. Too pathetic to see how she tried not to look roundhopefully whenever masculine footsteps came her way. Why shouldn't hegive her a pleasant surprise?

She succeeded, this time, in not looking round; so the surprise came offto his satisfaction. She was nervous and unpractised, and he constantlyfound her feet where they had no business to be. But sooner than hurther feelings, he piloted her twice round the room before stopping; andfound himself next to Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, who 'snuggled up' to him (thephrase was Barnard's) and proffered consolation after her kind. 

"Bad boy! You missed the cream of the afternoon, but you're not _quite_too late. I'm free for the next. "

Roy, fairly cornered, could only bow and smile his acceptance. And afterhis arduous prelude, Mrs Ranyard's dancing was an effortless delight--ifonly she would not spoil it by her unceasing ripple of talk. His lack ofresponse troubled her no whit. She was bubbling over with causticcomment on Mrs Elton's latest adventure in matrimony. 

"She's a mighty hunter, before the Lord! She marked down poor Hiltonlast cold weather, " cooed the silken voice in Roy's inattentive ear. "Ofcourse you know he's one of our coming men! And I've a shrewd idea he_was_ intended for Rose. But in Miss Rose the matchmaker has met hermatch! She's clever--that girl; and she's reduced the tactics ofnon-resistance to a fine art. I don't believe she ever stands up to hermother. She smiles and smiles--and goes her own way. She likes playingwith soldiers; partly because they're good company; partly, I'll swear, because she knows it keeps her mother on tenter-hooks. But when itcomes to business, she'll choose as shrewdly----"

Roy stopped dancing and confronted her, half laughing, half irate. "Ifyou're keen on talking--let's talk. I can't do both. " He stated the factpolitely, but with decision. "And--frankly, I hate hearing a girl pulledto pieces, just because she's charming and good-looking and----"

"Oh, my _dear_ boy, " she interrupted unfailingly--sweet solicitude inher lifted gaze. "_Did_ I trample on your chivalrous toes? Or isit----?"

"No, it _isn't_. " He resented the barefaced implication. "Naturally--Iadmire her----"

"Oh, naturally! You can't help yourselves, any of you! She's 'soonercaught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. ' No uselooking daggers! It's a fact. I don't say she flirts outrageously--likeI do! She simply expects homage--and gets it. She expects men to fall inlove with her--and they topple over like ninepins. Sometimes--when I'mfeeling magnanimous--I catch a ninepin as it falls! Look at her now, with that R. E. Boy--plainly in the toils!"

Roy declined to look. If she was trying to put him off Miss Arden, shewas on the wrong tack. Besides--he wanted to dance. 

"One more turn?" he suggested, nipping a fresh outbreak in the bud. "But, please--no talking. "

She laughed and shook her fan at him. "Epicure!" But after all, it wasan indirect compliment to her dancing: and for the space of two minutes, she held her peace. 

Throughout the brief pause, she rippled on, with negligible interludes;but not till they re-entered the Hall did she revert to the theme thathad so exasperated Roy. There she espied Desmond, standing under anarchway, staring straight before him, apparently lost in thought. 

She indicated him, discreetly, with her fan. "The Happy Warrior (that'smy private name for him) seems to have something on his mind. Can hehave proposed--at last? I confess I'm curious. But of course _you_ knowall about it, Mr Sinclair. Don't tell _me_!"

"I won't!" said Roy gravely. "You probably know more than I do. "

"But I thought you were such _intimate_ friends? How superblymasculine!"

"Well--he is. "

"Oh, he is! He's so firmly planted on his feet that he tacitly invitesone to tilt at him! I confess I've already tried my hand--and failed. Soit soothes my vanity to observe that even the Rose of Sharon isn'tvisibly upsetting his balance. Frankly, I'm more than a little intriguedover that affair. It seems to have reached a certain point and stuckthere. At one time--I thought----"

Her thought remained unuttered. Roy was patently not attending. MissArden and the 'R. E. Boy' had just entered the Hall. 

"Don't let me keep you, " she added sweetly. "It's evident _she's_ thenext!"

Roy collected himself with a jerk. "You're wiser than I am! I've notasked her yet. "

"Then you can save yourself the trouble and go on dancing with me! She'salways booked up ahead----"

Her blue eyes challenged him laughingly; but he caught the undernote ofrivalry. For half a second the scales hung even between courtesy andinclination; then, from the tail of his eye, he saw Hayes bearing downupon the other pair. That decided him. He had conceived an unreasoningdislike of Talbot Hayes. 

"I'm awfully sorry, " he said politely. "But--I sent word I was coming infor the dancing; and----"

"Oh, go along then and get your fingers burnt, as you deserve. But neversay _I_ didn't try and save them!"

Roy laughed. "They aren't in any danger, thanks very much!"

Just as he reached Miss Arden, the R. E. Boy left her, and Lance, forsaking his pillar, strolled casually to her side. 

She greeted Roy with a faint lift of her brows. 

"Was I unspeakable----? I apologise, " he said impulsively; and her smileabsolved him. 

"You were wiser than you knew. You escaped an infliction. It wasinsufferably dull. We all smiled and smiled, till there were 'miles andmiles of smiles'; and we were all bored to extinction! Ask MajorDesmond!"

She acknowledged his presence with a sidelong glance. He returned itwith a quick look that told Roy he had been touched on the raw. 

"As I spent most of the time talking to you--and as you've just recordedyour sensations, I'd rather be excused, " he said with a touch ofstiffness. "Your innings, I suppose, old man?" And, with a friendly nod, he moved away. 

Roy, watching him go, felt almost angry with the girl, and impetuouslyspoke his thought. 

"Poor old Desmond! What did you give him a knock for? _He_ couldn't bedull, if he tried. "

"N-no, " she agreed, without removing her eyes from his retreatingfigure. "But sometimes--he can be aggressive. "

"I've never noticed it. "

"How long have you known him?"

"A trifle of fifteen years. "

"Quite a romantic friendship?"

Roy nodded. He did not choose to discuss his feeling for Lance with thiscool, compelling young woman. Yet her very coolness goaded him to add:"I suppose men see more clearly than women that--he's one in athousand. "

"I'm--not so sure----"

"Yet you snub him as if he was a tin-pot 'sub. '"

His resentment would out; but the smile in her eyes disarmed him. 

"Was it as bad as that? What a pair you are! Don't worry. We know eachother's little ways by now. "

It was scarcely convincing; but Lance would not thank him forinterfering; and the band had struck up. No sign of a partner. It seemedthe luck was 'in'. 

"Did Desmond give you my message?" he asked. 

"No--what?"

"Only--that I hoped you'd be magnanimous. . . . Is there a chance----?"

Her eyes rested deliberately on his; and the last spark of resentmentflickered out. "More than you deserve! But this one does happen to befree. . . . "

"Well, we won't waste any of it, " said he:--and they danced without abreak, without a word, till the perfect accord of their circling andswaying ceased with the last notes of the valse. 

That was the real thing, thought Roy, but felt too shy for compliments;and they merely exchanged a smile. He had felt the pleasure was mutual. Now he knew it. 

Out through the portico they passed into the cool green gardens, freshlywatered, exhaling a smell of moist earth and the fragrance of unnumberedroses--a very whiff of Home: bushes, standards, ramblers; andeverywhere--flaunting its supremacy--the Maréchal Niel; sprawling overhedges, scrambling up evergreens and falling again, in cascades ofmoon-yellow blossoms and glossy leaves. 

Roy, keenly alive to the exquisite mingling of scent and colour andevening lights--was still more alive to the silent girl at his side, whoseemed to radiate both the lure and the subtle antagonism of sex--initself an inverted form of fascination. 

They had strolled half round the empty bandstand before she remarked, inher cool, low-pitched voice: "You really are a flagrantly casual person, Mr Sinclair. I sometimes wonder--is it _quite_ spontaneous? Or--do youfind it effective?"

Roy frankly turned and stared at her. "Effective? _What_ a question?"

Her smile puzzled and disconcerted him. 

"Well, you've answered it with your usual pristine frankness! I see--itwas not intentional. "

"Why should it be?"

"Oh, if you don't know--I don't! I merely wondered--You did saydefinitely you would come to the reception. So of course--I expectedyou. Then you never turned up. And--naturally----!"

A ghost of a shrug completed the sentence. 

"I'm awfully sorry. I didn't flatter myself you'd notice----" Roy saidsimply. There were moments when she made him feel vexatiously young. "You see--it was my novel--got me by the hair. And when that happens, I'm rather apt to let things slide. Anyway, you got the better man. Andif you found _him_ dull, I'd have been nowhere. "

She was silent a moment. Then: "I think--if you don't mind--we'll leaveMajor Desmond out of it, " she said; adding, with a distinct change oftone: "What's the hidden charm in that common little Miss Delawny? Isaw you dancing with her again to-day. "

The subtle flattery of the question might have taken effect, had it notfollowed on her perplexing remark about Lance. As it was, he resentedit. 

"Why not? She's quite a nice little person. "

"I daresay. But we've plenty of nice girls in our own set. "

"Oh, plenty. But I rather bar set mania. I've a catholic taste in humanbeings!"

"And I've an ultra fastidious one!" Look and tone gave her statement adelicately personal flavour. "Besides, out here . . . There arelimits----"

"And I must respect them, on penalty of your displeasure?" His tone wasairily defiant. "Well--make me out a list of irreproachables, and I'llwork them off in rotation--between whiles!"

The implication of that last subtly made amends: and she had a taste forthe minor subtleties of intercourse. 

"I shall do nothing of the kind! You're perfectly graceless thisevening! I suspect all that scribbling goes to your head sometimes. Sitting on Olympian heights, controlling destinies! I suppose weearthworms down below all look pretty much alike? To discriminatebetween mere partners--is human. To embrace themindiscriminately--divine!"

Roy laughed. "Oh, if it came to embracing----"

"Even an Olympian might be a shade less catholic?" she queried with oneof her looks, that stirred in Roy sensations far removed from Olympian. Random talk did not flourish in Miss Arden's company: delicately, insistently she steered it back to the focal point of interest--herselfand the man of the moment. 

From the circular drive they wandered on, unheeding; and when theyre-entered the Hall a fresh dance had begun. Under the arch they paused. Miss Arden's glance scanned the room and reverted to Roy. The last tenminutes had appreciably advanced their intimacy. 

"Shall we?" he asked, returning her look with interest. "Is the luck inagain?"

Her eyes assented. He slipped an arm round her--and once more theydanced. . . . 

Roy had been Olympian indeed had he not perceived the delicate flatteryimplied in his apparent luck. Lance had not given his message. Yet twodances were available. The inference was not without its insidiouseffect on a man temperamentally incapable of conceit. 

The valse was nearly half over, when the least little drag on his arm sosurprised him that he stopped almost opposite the main archway;--andcaught sight of Lance, evidently looking for some one. 

"Oh--there he is!" Miss Arden's low tone was almost flurried--for her. 

"D'you want him?"

"Well--I suppose he wants me. This was his dance. "

"Good Lord! What a mean shame, " Roy flashed out. "Why on earth didn'tyou tell me? Wouldn't for the world. . . . "

Her colour rose under his heated protest. "I never hang about forunpunctual partners. If they don't turn up in time--it's their loss. "

Roy, intent on Lance, was scarcely listening. "He's seen us now. Comealong. Let's explain. "

It was Miss Arden who did the explaining in a manner all her own. 

"Well--what became of you?" she asked, smiling in response to Desmond'slook of interrogation. "As you didn't appear, I concluded you'd eitherforgotten or been caught in a rubber. "

"Bad shots, --both, " Desmond retorted with a direct look. 

"I'm awfully sorry . . . I hadn't a notion----" Roy began--and checkedhimself, perceiving that he could not say much without implicating hispartner. 

This time Desmond's smile had quite another quality. "You're verywelcome. Carry on. Don't mind me. It's half over. "

"A model of generosity!" Miss Arden applauded him. "I'm free for thenext--if you'd care to have it instead. "

"Thanks very much; but I'm not, " Desmond answered serenely. 

"The great little Banter-Wrangle--is it? You could plead amisunderstanding and bribe Mr Sinclair to save the situation!"

"Hard luck on Sinclair. But it's not Mrs Ranyard. I'm sorry----"

"Don't apologise. If you're satisfied, I am. "

For all her careless tone, Roy had never seen her so nearly put out ofcountenance. Desmond said nothing; and for a moment--the briefest--therefell an awkward silence. Then with an air of marked graciousness sheturned to Roy. 

"We are generously permitted to go on, with a clear conscience!"

But for Roy the charm was broken. Her cavalier treatment of Lanceannoyed him; and beneath the surface play of looks and words he haddetected the flash of steel. It was some satisfaction that Lance hadgiven as good as he received. But he felt troubled and curious. And hewas likely to remain so. Lance, he very well knew, would say preciselynothing. 

The girl, as if divining his thoughts, combated them with the delicatelypointed weapons of her kind--and prevailed. 

Again they wandered in the darkening garden and returned to find theBoston in full swing. Again Miss Arden's glance travelled casually roundthe room. And Roy saw her start; just enough to swear by. . . . 

Desmond was dancing with Miss Delawny----!

The frivolous comment on Roy's lips was checked by the look in hispartner's eyes. Impossible not to wonder if Lance had actually beenengaged; or if----?

In any case--a knock for Miss Arden's vanity. A shade too severe, perhaps; yet sympathy for her was tinged with exultation that Lance hadheld his own. Mrs Ranyard was right. Here was a man set firmly on hisfeet. . . . 

Miss Arden's voice drew his wandering attention back to herself. "We mayas well finish this. Or are you also--engaged?"

Her light stress on the word held a significance he did not miss. 

"To you--if you will!" he answered gallantly, hand on heart. "More thanI deserve--as you said; but still----"

"It's just possible for a woman to be magnanimous!" she capped him, smiling. "And it's just possible for a man to be--the other thing!Remember that--when you get back to your eternal scribbling!"

An hour later he rode homeward with a fine confusion of sensations andimpressions, doubts and desires seething in his brain. Miss Arden wasdelightful, but a trifle unsettling. She must not be allowed to distracthim from the work he loved. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Shall I cool desire By looking at those lovely eyes of hers, That passionate love prefers To his own brand, for setting hearts on fire. " --EDMUND GOSSE. 

But neither the work he loved, nor his budding intimacy with Miss Arden, deterred him from accepting a week-end invitation from the Maharajah ofKapurthala--the friendly, hospitable ruler of a neighbouring Sikh State. The Colonel was going, and Lance, and half a dozen other good sportsmen. They set out on Thursday, the military holiday, in a state of highgood-humour with themselves and their host; to return on Sunday evening, renewed in body and mind by the pursuit of pig and the spirit of Shikar, that keeps a man sane and virile, and tempers the insidious effect, onthe white races, of life and work in the climate of India. It draws menaway from the rather cramping station atmosphere. It sets their feet ina large room. And in this case it did not fail to dispel the light cloudthat had hovered between Lance and Roy since the day of the wedding. 

In the friendly rivalries of sport, it was possible to forget womancomplications; even to feel it a trifle derogatory that one should be soignominiously at the mercy of the thing. Thus Roy, indulging in aspasmodic declaration of independence; glorying in the virile excitementof pig-sticking, and the triumph of getting first spear. 

But returning on Saturday, from a day after snipe and teal, he foundhimself instinctively allotting the pick of his 'bag' to Miss Arden;just a complimentary attention; the sort of thing she would appreciate. Having refused a ride with her because of this outing, it seemed theleast he could do. 

Apparently the same strikingly original idea had occurred to Lance; andby the merest fluke they found one another out. To Roy's relief, Lancegreeted the embarrassing discovery with a gust of laughter. 

"I say--this won't do. You give over. It's too much of a joke. Besides--cheek on your part. "

Though he spoke lightly, the hint of command in his tone promptly putRoy on the defensive. 

"Rot! Why shouldn't I? But--the _two_ of them. . . ! A bit overwhelming!"And suddenly he remembered his declaration of independence. "Afterall--why should either of us? Can't we let be, just for four days? Lookhere, Lance. You give over too. Don't send yours. And I won't sendmine. "

Lance--having considered that inspired proposal--turned a speculativeeye on Roy. 

"Lord, what a kid you are, still!"

"Well, I mean it. Out here, we're clear of all that. Over there, thewomen call the tune--we dance. Sport's the God-given antidote! Though itwon't be so much longer--the way things are going. We shall soon have'em after pig and on the polo ground----"

"God forbid!" It came out with such fervour that Roy laughed. 

"He doesn't--that's the trouble! He gives us all the rope we want. Andthe women may be trusted to take every available inch. I'm not surethere isn't a grain of wisdom in the Eastern plan; keeping them, so tospeak, in a separate compartment. Once you open a chink, they flow inand swamp everything. "

Up went Lance's eyebrows. "That--from you?" And Roy made haste to add:"I wasn't thinking of mothers and sisters; but the kind you play roundwith . . . Before you marry. They've a big pull out here. Very good fun ofcourse. And if a man's keen on marrying----"

"Aren't you keen?" Lance cut in with a quick look. 

"N-no. Not just yet, anyway. It's a plunge. And I'm too full up withother things. --But what about the birds?"

"Oh, we'll let be--as you sagely suggest!"

And they did. 

More pig-sticking next morning, with two tuskers for trophies; andthereafter, they travelled reluctantly back to harness, by an afternoontrain, feeling--without exception--healthier, happier men. 

None of them, perhaps, was more conscious of that inner renewal thanLance and Roy. The incident of the game seemed in some way to havecleared the air between them; and throughout the return journey, bothwere in the maddest spirits, keeping the whole carriage in an uproar. Afterwards, driving homeward, Roy registered a resolve to spend more ofhis time on masculine society and the novel; less of it dancing andfooling about in Lahore. . . . 

 * * * * *

A vision of his table, with its inviting disarray, and the picture ofhis mother for presiding genius, gave his heart a lift. He promisedhimself a week of uninterrupted evenings, alone with Terry and histhronging thoughts; when the whole house was still and the reading-lampmade a magic circle of light in the surrounding gloom. . . . 

Meantime, there were letters: one from his father, one from Jeffers; andbeneath them a too familiar envelope. 

At sight of it, he felt a faint tug inside him; as it were a whisperedreminder that, away at Kapurthala, he had been about as free as a birdwith a string round its leg. He resented the aptness of that degradingsimile. It was a new sensation; and he did not relish it. The few womenhe intimately loved had counted for so much in his life that he scarcelyrealised his abysmal ignorance of the power that is in woman--the mereopposite of man; the implicit challenge, the potent lure. Partly fromtemperament, partly from principle, he had kept more or less clear of'all that'. Now, weaponless, he had rashly entered the lists. 

He opened Miss Arden's note feeling antagonistic. But its friendlinessdisarmed him. She hoped they had enjoyed themselves immensely and slainenough creatures to satisfy their primitive instincts. And her motherhoped Mr Sinclair would dine with them on Wednesday evening: quite asmall affair. 

His first impulse was to refuse; but her allusion to the slain creaturestouched up his conscience. To cap the omission by refusing herinvitation might annoy her. No sense in that. So he decided to accept;and sat down to enjoy his home letters at leisure. 

Lance, it transpired, had not been asked. He and Barnard were thefavoured ones, --and, on the appointed evening, they drove in together. Roy had been writing nearly all day. He had reached a point in hischapter at which a break was distracting. Yet here he was, drivingBarnard to Lahore, cursing his luck, and--yes--trying to ignore aflutter of anticipation in the region of his heart. . . . 

As far as mere lust of the eye went--and it went a good way with Roy--hehad his reward the moment he entered Mrs Elton's overloadeddrawing-room. Rose Arden excelled herself in evening dress. The carriageof her head, the curve of her throat, and the admirable line from ear toshoulder made a picture supremely satisfying to his artist's eye. 

Her negligible bodice was a filmy affair--ivory white with glints ofgold. Her gauzy gold wedding-sash, swathed round her hips, fell in afringed knot below her knee. Filmy sleeves floated from her shoulders, leaving the arms bare and unadorned, except for one gold bangle, highup--the latest note from Home. For the rest, her rope of amber beads andlong earrings only a few tones lighter than her astonishing hazel eyes. 

Face to face with her beauty, and her discreetly veiled pleasure atsight of him, he could not be ungracious enough to curse his luck. Buthis satisfaction cooled at sight of Talbot Hayes by the mantelpiece, inclining his polished angularity to catch some confidential tit-bitfrom little Mrs Hunter-Ranyard. Of course that fellow would take her in. He, Roy, had no official position now; and without it one was negligiblein Anglo-India. Besides, Mrs Elton openly favoured Talbot Hayes. FailingRose, there were two more prospective brides at Home--twins; and Hayeswas fatally endowed with all the surface symptoms of the 'coming man':the supple alertness and self-assurance; the instinct for the rightthing; and--supreme asset in these days--a studious detachment from thepeople and the country. In consequence, needless to say, he remainedobstinately sceptical as regards the rising storm. 

Very early, Roy had put out feelers to discover how much he understoodor cared; and Hayes had blandly assured him: "Bengal may bluster andthe D. C. May pessimise, but you can take it from me, there will be noserious upheaval in the North. If ever these people are fools enough tomanoeuvre us out of India, so much the worse for them; so much thebetter for us. It's a beastly country. "

Nevertheless Roy observed that he appeared to extract out of the beastlycountry every available ounce of enjoyment. In affable moments, he couldeven manage to forget his career--and unbend. He was unbending now. 

A few paces off, the dyspeptic Judge was discussing 'the situation' withhis host--a large unwieldy man, so nervous of his own bulk and unreadywit that only the discerning few discovered the sensitive, friendlyspirit very completely hidden under a bushel. Roy, who had liked him atsight, felt vaguely sorry for him. He seemed a fish out of water in hisown home; overwhelmed by the florid, assured personality of his wife. 

They were the last, of course; nearly five minutes late. Trust Roy. Onlyfour other guests; Dr Ethel Wemyss, M. B. , lively and clever and new tothe country; Major and Mrs Garten of the Sikhs, with a stolidgood-humoured daughter, who unfailingly wore the same frock and the samedisarming smile. 

The Deputy Commissioner's wife permitted herself few military intimates. But she had come in touch with Mrs Garten over a _dhobi's_[19] chit anda recipe for pumelo gin. Both women were consumedly Anglo-Indian. Alltheir values were social;--pay, promotion, prestige. All theirlamentations pitched in the same key:--everything dearer, servants'impossible, ' hospitality extinct, with every one saving and scraping toget Home. Both were deeply versed in bazaar prices and the sins ofnative servants. Hence, in due course, a friendship (according to MrsRanyard) 'broad based on _jharrons_[20] and charcoal and kerosene'!

The two were lifting up their voices in unison over the mysteriousshortage of kerosene (that arch-sinner Mool Chand said none was cominginto the country) when dinner was announced; and TalbotHayes--inevitably--offered his arm to Miss Arden. 

Roy, consigned to Dr Wemyss, could only pray heaven for the next bestthing--Miss Arden on his left. Instead, amazedly, he found himselfpromoted to a seat beside her mother, who still further amazed him bytreating him to a much larger share of her attention than the law of thedinner-table prescribed. Her talk, in the main, was local and personal;and Roy simply let it flow; his eyes flagrantly straying down the tabletowards Miss Arden and Hayes, who seemed very intimate this evening. 

Suddenly he found himself talking about Home. It began with gardens. MrsElton had a passion for them, as her _mális_[21] knew to their cost; andthe other day a friend had told her that somebody said Mr Sinclair had alovely place at Home, with a _wonderful_ old garden----?

Mr Sinclair admitted as much, with masculine brevity. 

Undeterred, she drew out the sentimental stop:--the charm of a _real_old English garden! Out here, one only used the word by courtesy. Laborites, of course, were specially favoured; but do what one would, itwas never _quite_ the same thing--was it. . . ?

Not quite, Roy agreed amicably--and wondered what the joke was downthere. He supposed Miss Arden must have had some say in the geography ofthe table. . . . 

Her mother, meantime, had tacked sail and was probing him, indirectly, about his reasons for remaining in India. Was he going in for politics, or the life of a country gentleman in his beautiful home? Her remarksimplied that she took him for the eldest son. And Roy, who had not beenattending, realised with a jar that, in vulgar parlance, he was beingdiscreetly pumped. Whereat, politely but decisively, he sheered off andstuck to his partner till the meal was over. 

The men seemed to linger interminably over their wine and cigars. But hemanaged to engage the D. C. On the one subject that put shyness toflight--the problems of changing India. With more than twenty years ofwork and observation behind him, he saw the widening gulf between rulersand ruled as an almost equal disaster for both. He knew, none better, all that had been achieved, in his own Province alone, for the peasantand the loyal landowner. He had made many friends among the Indians ofhis district; and from these he had received repeated warnings ofwidespread, organised rebellion. Yet he was helpless; tied hand and footin yards of red tape. . . . 

It was not the first time that Roy had enjoyed a talk with him; a senseof doors opening on to larger spaces. But this evening restlessnessnagged at him; and at the first hint of a move he was on his feet, determined to forestall Hayes. 

He succeeded; and Miss Arden welcomed him with the lift of her browsthat he was growing to watch for when they met. It seemed to imply acertain intimacy. 

"Very brown and vigorous, you're looking. Was it--great fun?"

"It was topping, " he answered with simple fervour. "Rare sport. Everything in style. "

"And no leisure to miss partners left lamenting? I hope our stars shonethe brighter, glorified by distance?"

Her eyes challenged him with smiling deliberation. His own met themfull; and a little tingling shock ran through him, as at the touch of anelectric needle. 

"_Some_ stars are dazzling enough at close quarters, " he said boldly. 

"But surely--'distance lends enchantment'----?"

"It depends a good deal on the view!"

At that moment, up came Hayes, with his ineffable air of giving a cachetto any one he honoured with his favour. And Miss Arden hailed him, as ifthey had not met for a week. 

Thus encouraged, of course he clung like a limpet; and reverted to somesubject they had been discussing, tacitly isolating Roy. 

For a few exasperating moments, he stood his ground, counting on bridgeto remove the limpet. But when Hayes refused a pressing invitation tojoin Mrs Ranyard's table, Roy gave it up, and deliberately walked away. 

Only Mr Elton remained sitting near the fireplace. His look ofundisguised pleasure, at Roy's approach, atoned for a good deal; andthey renewed their talk where it had broken off. Roy almost forgot hewas speaking to a senior official; freely expressed his own thoughts;and even ventured to comment on the strange detachment of Anglo-Indians, in general, from a land full of such vast and varied interests, lying attheir very doors. 

"Perhaps--I misjudge them, " he added with the unfailing touch of modestythat was not least among his charms. "But to me it sometimes seems as ifa curtain hung between their eyes and India. And--it's catching. In somesubtle way this little concentrated world, within a world, seems to drawone's receptiveness away from it all. Is that very sweeping, sir?"

A smile dawned in Mr Elton's rather mournful eyes. "In a sense--it'spainfully true. But the fact is--Anglo-Indian life can't be fairlyjudged from the outside. It has to be lived before its insidiousness canbe suspected. " He moistened his lips and caressed his chin with a large, sensitive hand. "Happily--there are a good many exceptions. "

"If I wasn't talking to one of them, sir--I wouldn't have ventured!"said Roy; and the friendly smile deepened. 

"All the same, " Elton went on, "there are those who assert that it ishalf the secret of our success; that India conquered the conquerors, wholived _with_ her and so lost their virility. Yet in our earlier days, when the personal touch was a reality, we _did_ achieve a betterrelation all round. Of course the present state of affairs is theinevitable fruit of our whole system. By the Anglicising process, wehave spread all over India a vast layer of minor officials some sixmillion persons deep! Consider, my dear young man, the significance ofthose figures. We reduce the European staff. We increase the drudgery oftheir office work--and we wonder why the Sahib and the peasant are nolonger personal friends----!"

Stirred by his subject, and warmed by Roy's intelligent interest, theman's nervous tricks disappeared. He spoke eagerly, earnestly, as to anequal in experience; a compliment Roy would have been quicker toappreciate had not half his attention been centred on that exasperatingpair, who had retired to a cushioned alcove and looked like remainingthere for good. 

What the devil had the girl invited him for? If she wished todisillusion him, she was succeeding to admiration. If she fancied he wasone of her infernal ninepins, she was very much mistaken. And all thewhile he found himself growing steadily more distracted, moreinsistently conscious of her. . . . 

Voices and laughter heralded an influx of bridge players; Mrs Ranyard, with Barnard, Miss Garten, and Dr Wemyss. A table of three women and oneman did not suit the little lady's taste. 

"We're a very scratch lot. And we want fresh blood!" she announcedcarnivorously, as the pair in the alcove rose and came forward. 

The two men rose also, but went on with their talk. They knew it was nottheir blood Mrs Ranyard was seeking. Roy kept his back turned andstudiously refrained from hoping. . . . 

"If you two have _quite_ finished breaking up the Empire. . . ?" said MissArden's voice at his elbow. She had approached so quietly that hestarted. Worse still, he knew she had seen. "I was terrified of beingcaught, "--she turned affectionately to her stepfather--"so I flung MrHayes to the wolves--and fled. You're sanctuary!"

Her fingers caressed his sleeve. Words and touch waked a smile in hismournful eyes. They seemed to understand one another, these two. To Royshe had never seemed more charming; and his own abrupt volte-face wasunsteadying, to say the least of it. 

"Hayes would prove a tough mouthful--even for wolves, " Elton remarkedpensively. 

"He _would_! He's so securely lacquered over with--well--we won't beunkind. _But_--strictly between ourselves, Pater--wouldn't you love toswop him for Mr Sinclair, these days?"

"My _dear_!" Elton reproached her, nervously shifting his large hands. "Hayes is a model--of efficiency! But--well, well--if Mr Sinclair willforgive flattery to his face--I should say he has many fine qualitiesfor an Indian career, should he be inclined that way----"

"Thank you, sir. I'd no notion----" Roy murmured, overwhelmed, asElton--seeing Miss Garten stranded--moved dutifully to her rescue. 

Miss Arden glanced again at Roy. "_Are_ you inclining that way?"

The question took him aback. 

"Me? No. Of course I'd love it--for some things. "

"You're well out of it, in my opinion. It'll soon be no country for awhite man. He's already little more than a futile superfluity----"

"On the contrary, " Roy struck in warmly, "the Englishman--of therightest sort, is more than ever needed in India to-day. "

Her slight shrug conceded the point. "I never argue! And if you start on_that_ subject--I'm nowhere! You can save it all up for the Pater. He'srather a dear--don't you think?"

"He's splendid. "

Her smile had its caressing quality. "That's the last adjective any oneelse would apply to him! But it's true. There's a fine streak inhim--very carefully hidden away. People don't see it, because he's shyand clumsy and hasn't an ounce of push. But he understands the natives. Loves them. Goodness knows why. And he's got the right touch. I couldtell you a tale----"

"Do!" he urged. "Tales are my pet weakness. "

She subsided into the empty chair and looked up invitingly. "Sit, " shecommanded--and he obeyed. 

He was neither saying nor doing the things he had meant to say or do. But the mere beauty of her enthralled him; the alluring grace of herpose, leaning forward a little, bare arms resting on her knees. No vividcolour anywhere except her lips. Those lips, thought Roy, wereresponsible for a good deal. Their flexible softness discounted morethan a little the deliberation of her eyes; and to-night, her charmingattitude to Elton appreciably quickened his interest in her and hertale. 

"It happened out in the district. I heard it from a friend. " She leanednearer and spoke in a confidential undertone. "He got news that someneighbouring town was in a ferment. Only a handful of Europeans there;an American mission; and no troops. So the 'mish' people begged him tocome in and politely wave his official wand. You must be very polite to_badmashes_[22] these days, if you're a mere Sahib; or you hear of itfrom some little Tin God sitting safe in his office, hundreds of milesaway. Well, off he went--a twenty-mile drive; found the mission in aflutter--I don't blame them--armed with rifles and revolvers;expecting-every-moment-to-be-their-next sort of thing; and the town inan uproar. Some religious tamasha. He talked like a father to theheadmen; and assured the 'mish' people it would be all right. 

"They begged him to stay and see them through. So he said he would sleepat the dák bungalow. 'All alone?' they asked. 'No one to guard you?''Quite unnecessary, ' he said:--and they were simply amazed!

"It was rather hot; so he had his bed put in the garden. Then he sentfor the leading men and said: 'I hear there's a disturbance going on. Idon't intimate you have anything to do with it. But you are responsible;and I expect you to keep the people in hand. I'm sleeping here to-night. If there is trouble, you can report to me. But it is for _you_ to keeporder in your own town. '

"They salaamed and departed. No one came near him. And he drove off nextmorning, leaving those Americans, with their rifles and revolvers, moreamazed than ever! I was told it made a great impression on the natives, his sleeping alone in the garden, without so much as a sentry. And thecream of it is, " she added--her eyes on Elton's unheroic figure--"theman who could do that is terrified of walking across a ballroom orsaying polite things to a woman!"

Distinctly, to-night, she was in a new vein, more attractive to Roy thanall her feminine crafts and lures. Sitting, friendly and at ease overthe fire, they discussed human idiosyncrasies--a pet subject with him. 

Then, suddenly, she looked him in the eyes;--and he was aware of heragain, in the old disturbing way. 

Yet she was merely remarking, with a small sigh, "You can't think howrefreshing it is to get a little real talk sometimes with a cultivatedman who is neither a soldier nor a civilian. Even in a big station, we're so boxed in with 'shop' and personalities. The men are luckier. They can escape now and then; shake off the women as one shakes offburrs----!"

Another glance here; half sceptical, wholly captivating. 

"It's easier said than done, " admitted Roy, recalling his own partialfailure. 

"Charming of you to confess it! Dare I confess that I've found the Halland the tennis rather flat these few days--without imperilling yourphenomenal modesty?"

"I think you dare. " It was he who looked full at her now. "My modestybadly needs bucking up--this evening. "

Her feigned surprise was delicately done. "What a shame! Who's beensnubbing you? Our clever M. B. ?"

"Not at all. You've got the initials wrong. "

"_Did_ it hurt your feelings--as much as all that?" She dropped theflimsy pretence and her eyes proffered apology. 

"Well--you invited me. "

"And mother invited Mr Hayes! The fact is--he's been rather in evidencethese few days. And one can't flick _him_ off like an ordinary mortal. He's a 'coming man'!" She folded hands and lips and looked deliciouslydemure. "All the same--it _was_ unkind. You were so unhappy at dinner. Icould feel it all that way off. Be magnanimous and come for a rideto-morrow--do. "

And Roy--the detached, the disillusioned--accepted with alacrity. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: Washerman. ]

[Footnote 20: Dusters. ]

[Footnote 21: Gardener. ]

[Footnote 22: Bad characters. ]

CHAPTER IV. 

 "For every power, a man pays toll in a corresponding weakness; and probably the artist pays heaviest of all. "--M. P. WILLCOCKS. 

It was the morning of the great Gymkhana, to be followed by theBachelors' Ball. For Lahore's unfailing social energy was not yet spent;though Depot troops had gone to the Hills, and the leave season wasopen, releasing a fortunate few; leaving the rest to fretful or stoicalendurance of the stealthy, stoking-up process of a Punjab hot-weather. And the true inwardness of those three words must be burned into bodyand brain, season after season, to be even remotely understood. 

Already earth and air were full of whispered warnings. Roses andsweet-peas were fading. Social life was virtually suspended betweentwelve and two, the 'calling hours' of the cold weather; and at sunsetthe tree-crickets shrilled louder than ever--careless heralds of doom. Human tempers were shorter; and even the night did not now bringunfailing relief. 

Roy had been sleeping badly again; partly the heat, partly the clash ofsensations within him. This morning, after hours of tossing and dozingand dreaming--not the right kind of dreams at all, --he was up and outbefore sunrise, forsaking the bed that betrayed him for the saddle thatnever failed to bring a measure of respite from the fever of body andmind that was stultifying, insidiously, his reason and his will. 

Still immersed in his novel, he had come up to Lahore heart-free, purpose-free; vaguely aware that virtue had gone out of him; lookingforward to a few weeks of careless enjoyment, between spells of work;and above all, to the 'high old time' he and Lance would have togetherbeyond Kashmir. Women and marriage were simply not in the picture. Hisattitude to that inevitable event was, on his own confession--'not yet. 'Possibly, when he got Home, he might discover it was Tara, after all. Itwould need some courage to propose again. For the memory of thatjuvenile fiasco still pricked his sensitive pride. A touch of the Rajputcame out there. Letters from Serbia seemed to dawdle unconscionably bythe way. But, in leisurely course, he had received an answer to hisscreed about Dyán and the quest; a letter alive with all he loved bestin her--enthusiasm, humour, vivid sympathy, deepened and enlarged byexperiences that could not yet be told. But Tara was far and Miss Ardenwas near; and, in the mysterious workings of sex magnetism, merepropinquity too often prevails. 

And all the others seemed farther still. They wrote regularly, affectionately. Yet their letters--especially his father's--seemed totell precious little of the things he really wanted to know. Perhaps hisown had been more reserved than he realised. There had been so much atJaipur and Delhi that he could not very well enlarge upon. No useworrying the dear old man; and she, who had linked them, unfailingly, was now seldom mentioned between them. 

So there grew up in Roy a disconsolate feeling that none of them caredvery much whether he came Home or not. Jerry--after three years in aGerman prison--was a nervous wreck; still undergoing treatment; humanlylost, for the time being. Tiny was absorbed in her husband and an evenTinier baby, called Nevil Le Roy, after himself. Tara was not yet home;but coming before long, because Aunt Helen had broken down, between warwork and the shock of Atholl's death. 

A queer thing--separation, mused Roy, as Suráj slowed down to a walk andthe glare of morning flamed along the sky. There were they--and here washe: close relations, in effect; almost strangers in fact. There was morebetween him and them than several hundred miles of sea. There was thebottomless gulf of the War; the gulf of his bitter grief and the slowclimb up from the depths to Pisgah heights of revelation. Impossible tocommunicate--even had he willed--those inner, vital experiences atChitor and Jaipur. And he had certainly neither will nor power toenlarge on his present turmoil of heart and mind. 

Since his ride with Rose Arden, after the dinner-party, things seemed tohave taken a new turn. Their relation was no longer tentative. Sheseemed tacitly to regard him as her chosen cavalier; and he, as tacitly, fell in with the arrangement. No denying he felt flattered a little;subjugated increasingly by a spell he could neither analyse nor resist, because he had known nothing quite like it before. He was, in truth, paying the penalty for those rare and beautiful years of early manhoodinspired by worship of his mother. For every virtue, every gift, thegods exact a price. And he was paying it now. Deep down within him, something tugged against that potent spell. Yet increasingly itprevailed and lured him from his work. The vivid beings of his brainwere fading into bloodless unrealities; in which state he could donothing with them. Yet Broome's encouragement, and his father's criticalappreciation of fragments lately sent Home, had fired him tofulfil--more than fulfil--their expectations. And now--here he wastripped up again by his all-too-human capacity for emotion--as atJaipur. 

The comparison jerked him. The two experiences, like the two women, hadalmost nothing in common. The charm of Arúna--with its Eastern minglingof the sensuous and spiritual--was a charm he intimately understood. Itcombined a touch of the earth with a rarefied touch of the stars. InRose Arden, so far, he had discovered no touch of the stars. Shesuggested, rather, a day in early summer, when warmth and fragrance andcolour permeate soul and body; keeping them delectably in thrall; wooingthe brain from irksome queries--why, whence, whither?

By now, the sheer fascination of her had entered in and saturated hisbeing to a degree that he vaguely resented. Always one face, one voice, intruding on him unsought. No respite from thought of her, from desireof her; the exquisite intolerable ache, at times, when she was presentwith him; the still more intolerable ache when she was not. 

The fluidity of his own dual nature, and recoil from the Arúnatemptation, inclined him peculiarly to idealise the clear-eyed, self-poised Western qualities so diversely personified in Lance and thiscompelling girl. Yet emphatically he did not love her. He knew the greatreality too well to delude himself on that score. Were these theauthentic signs of falling 'in love'? If so--in spite of rapturousmoments--it was a confoundedly uncomfortable state of being. . . . 

Where was she leading him--this beautiful, distracting girl, who said solittle, yet whose smiles and silences implied so much? There was noforwardness or free-and-easiness about her; yet instinctively herecognised her as the active agent in the whole affair. Twice, lately, he had resolved not to go near her again; and both times he had failedignominiously--he who prided himself on control of unruly emotions. . . !

Had Lance, he wondered, made the same resolve and managed to keepit--being Lance? Or was the Gymkhana momentarily the stronger magnet ofthe two? He and Paul, with a Major in the Monmouths, were chieforganisers; and much practice was afoot at tent-pegging, bare-backhorsemanship, and the like. For a week Lance had scarcely been intoLahore. When Roy pressed him, he said it was getting too hot forafternoon dancing. But as he still affected far more violent forms ofexercise, that excuse was not particularly convincing. 

By way of retort, he had rallied Roy on overdoing the tame-cat touch andneglecting the important novel. And Roy--wincing at the truth of thatfriendly flick--had replied no less truthfully: "Well, if it hangs fire, old chap, you're the sinner. _You_ dug me out of Paradise by twitting mewith becoming an appendage to a pencil! Another month at Udaipur wouldhave nearly pulled me through it--in the rough, at least. "

It was lightly spoken; but Lance had set his lips in a fashion Roy knewwell; and said no more. 

Altogether, he seemed to have retired into a shell out of which herefused to be drawn. They were friendly as ever, but distinctly lessintimate; and Roy felt vaguely responsible, yet powerless to put thingsstraight. For intimacy--in its essence a mutual impulse--cannot beinduced to order. If one spoke of Miss Arden, or doings in Lahore, Lancewould respond without enthusiasm, and unobtrusively change the subject. Roy could only infer that his interest in the girl had never gone verydeep and had now fizzled out altogether. But he would have given a gooddeal to feel sure that the fizzling out had no connection with his ownappearance on the scene. It bothered him to remember that, at first, inan odd, repressed fashion Lance had seemed unmistakably keen. But if hewould persist in playing the Trappist monk, what the devil was a fellowto do?

Even over the Gymkhana programme, there had been an undercurrent offriction. Lance--in his new vein--had wanted to keep the women out ofit; while Roy--in his new vein--couldn't keep at least one of them out, if he tried. In particular, both were keen about the Cockade Tournament:a glorified version of fencing on horseback: the wire masks adorned witha small coloured feather for plume. He was victor whose fencing-stickdetached his opponent's feather. The prize--Bachelor's Purse--had beenwell subscribed for and supplemented by Gymkhana funds. So, on allaccounts, it was a popular event. There were twenty-two names down; andRoy, in a romantic impulse, had proposed making a real joust of it; eachknight to wear a lady's favour; a Queen of Beauty and Love to be chosenfor the prize-giving, as in the days of chivalry. 

Lance had rather hotly objected; and a few inveterate bachelors hadbacked him up. But the bulk of men are sentimental at heart; none morethan the soldier. So Roy's idea had caught on, and the matter wassettled. There was little doubt who would be chosen for prize-giver; andscarcely less doubt whose favour Roy would wear. 

Desmond's flash of annoyance had been brief; but he had stipulated thatfavours should not be compulsory. If they were, he for one would'scratch. ' This time he had a larger backing; and, amid a good deal ofchaff and laughter, had carried his point. 

That open clash between them--slight though it was--had jarred Roy agood deal. Lance, characteristically, had ignored the whole thing. 

But not even the inner jar could blunt Roy's keen anticipation of thewhole affair. Miss Arden was his partner in one of the few mixed events. He was to wear her favour for the Tournament--a Maréchal Mel rose; and, infatuated as he was, he saw it for a guarantee of victory. . . . 

In view of that intoxicating possibility, nothing else matteredinordinately, at the moment: though there reposed in his pocket a letterfrom Dyán--with a Delhi post-mark--giving a detailed account of serioustrouble caused by the recent _hartal_:[23] all shops closed; tram-carsand gharris held up by threatening crowds; helpless passengers forced toproceed on foot in the blazing heat and dust; troops and policeviolently assaulted; till a few rounds of buckshot cooled the ardour ofignorant masses, doubtless worked up to concert pitch by wanderingagitators of the Chandranath persuasion. 

"There were certain Swamis, " he concluded, "trying to keep thingspeaceful. But they ought to know resistance cannot be passive orpeaceful; and excitement without understanding is a fire difficult toquench. I believe this explosion was premature; but there is lots moregunpowder lying about, only waiting for the match. I am taking Arúnainto the Hills for a pilgrimage. It is possible Grandfather may cometoo; we are hoping to start soon after the fifteenth, if things keepquiet. Write to me, Roy, telling all you know. Lahore is a hotbed fortrouble; Amritsar, worse; but I hope your authorities are keeping wellon their guard. "

From all Roy heard, there seemed good reason to believe they were;--inso far as a Home policy of Government by concession would permit. Butwell he knew that--in the East--if the ruling power discards action forargument, and uses the sceptre for a walking-stick--things happen to menand women and children on the spot. He also knew that, to England'sgreat good fortune, there were usually men on the spot who could berelied on, in an emergency, to think and act and dare in accordance withthe high tradition of their race. 

He hoped devoutly it might not come to that; but at the core of hopelurked a flicker of fear. . . . 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: Abstention as sign of mourning. ]

CHAPTER V. 

 "Her best is bettered with a more delight. "--SHAKSPERE. 

The great Gymkhana was almost over. The last event--bare-back feats ofhorsemanship--had been an exciting affair; a close contest between Lanceand Roy and an Indian Cavalry officer. But it was Roy who had carriedthe day, by his daring and dexterity in the test of swooping down andsnatching a handkerchief from the ground at full gallop. The ovation hereceived went to his head like champagne. But praise from Lance went tohis heart; for Lance, like himself, had been 'dead keen' on thisparticular event. He had carried off a tent-pegging cup, however; andappropriately won the V. C. Race. So Roy considered he had a right to histriumph; especially as the handkerchief in question had been profferedby Miss Arden. It was reposing in his breast pocket now; and he had agood mind not to part with it. He was feeling in the mood to dare, simply for the excitement of the thing. He and she had won the GretnaGreen race--hands down. He further intended--for her honour and his ownglory--to come off victor in the Cockade Tournament, in spite of thefact that fencing on horseback was one of Lance's specialities. He hadtaught Roy in Mesopotamia, during those barren, plague-ridden stretchesof time when the war seemed hung up indefinitely and it took every ounceof surplus optimism to keep going at all. 

Roy's hope was that some other man might knock Lance out; or--as teamswould be decided by lot--that luck might cast them together. For theache of compunction was rather pronounced this afternoon; perhapsbecause the good fellow's aloofness from the grand _shamiánah_[24] wasalso rather pronounced, considering. . . . 

He seemed always to be either out in the open, directing events, or verymuch engaged in the refreshment tent--an earthly Paradise, on thisblazing day of early April, to scores of dusty, thirsty, indefatigablemen. 

Between events, as now, the place was thronged. Every moment, fresharrivals shouting for 'drinks. ' Every moment the swish of a syphon, thepopping of corks; ginger-beer and lemonade for Indian officers, seatedjust outside, and permitted by caste rules to refresh themselves'English-fashion, ' provided they drank from the pure source of thebottle. Not a Sikh or Rajput of them all would have sullied hiscaste-purity by drinking from the tumbler used by some admired Sahib, for whom on service he would cheerfully lay down his life. Within thetent were a few--very few--more advanced beings, who had discarded allirksome restrictions and would sooner be shot than address a white manas 'Sahib. ' Such is India in transition; a welter of incongruities, ofshifting perilous uncertainties, of subterranean ferment beneath asurface that still appears very much as it has always been. 

Roy--observant and interested as usual--saw, in the brilliant gathering, all the outward and visible signs of security, stability, power. Letthose signs be shaken never so little, thought he--and the heavens wouldfall. But, in spite of grave news from Delhi--that might prove a preludeto eruption--not a ripple stirred on the face of the waters. The grand_shamiánah_ was thronged with lively groups of women and men in thelightest of light attire. A British band was enlivening the interludewith musical comedy airs. Stewards were striding about lookingimportant, issuing orders for the next event. And around them all--asclose as boundary flags and police would allow--thronged the solid massof onlookers: soldiers, sepoys, and sowars from every regiment incantonments; minor officials with their families; ponies and _saises_and dogs without number; all wedged in by a sea of brown faces andbobbing turbans, thousands of them twenty or thirty deep. 

Roy's eyes, travelling from that vast outer ring to the crowded tent, suddenly saw the whole scene as typical of Anglo-Indian life: the littleconcentrated world of British men and women, pursuing their own ends, magnificently unmindful of alien eyes--watching, speculating, misunderstanding at every turn; the whole heterogeneous mass drawn andheld together by the love of hazard and sport, the spirit of competitionwithout strife that is the corner-stone of British character and theBritish Empire. 

He had just been talking to a C. I. D. [25] man, who had things to sayabout subterranean rumblings that might have startled those laughing, chaffing groups of men and women. Too vividly his imagination picturedthe scenes at Delhi, while his eyes scanned the formidable depths ofalien humanity hemming them in, outnumbering them by thousands to one. What if all those friendly faces became suddenly hostile--if thelaughter and high-pitched talk changed to the roar of an angry crowd. . . ?

He shook off the nightmare feeling, rating himself for a coward. Yet heknew it was not fantastical, not even improbable; though most of thepeople around him, till they saw with their own eyes, and heard withtheir own ears, would not believe. . . . 

But thoughts so unsettling were out of place, in the midst of a Gymkhanawith the grand climax imminent. So--having washed the dust out of histhroat--he sauntered across to the other tent to snatch a few words withMiss Arden and secure his rose. It had been given to one of the'_kits_, ' who would put it in water and produce it on demand. For theaffair of the favours was to be a private affair. Miss Arden, however, in choosing a Maréchal Niel, tacitly avowed him her knight. Lance wouldknow. All their set would know. He supposed she realised that. She wasnot an accidental kind of person. And she had a natural gift forflattery of the delicate, indirect order. 

No easy matter to get near her again, once you left her side. As usual, she was surrounded by men; easily the Queen of Beauty and of Love. Inhonour of that high compliment, she wore her loveliest race gown; softshades of blue and green skilfully blended; and a close-fitting hatbewitchingly framed her face. Nearing the tent, Roy felt a sudden twingeof apprehension. Where were they drifting to--he and she? Was heprepared to bid her good-bye in a week or ten days, and possibly not seteyes on her again? Would she let him go without a pang, and start afreshwith some chance-met fellow in Simla? The idea was detestable; andyet. . . ?

Half irritably he dismissed the intrusive thought. The glamour of her sodazzled him that he could see nothing else clearly. 

Perhaps that was why he failed to escape Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, whoskilfully annexed him in passing, and rained compliments on hisembarrassed head. Fine horsemanship was common enough in India; butanything more superb----! Wide blue eyes and extravagant gestureexpressively filled the blank. 

"My heart was in my mouth! That handkerchief trick is _so_ thrilling. You all looked as if you _must_ have your brains knocked out the nextmoment----"

"And if we had, I suppose the thrill would have gone one better!" Roywickedly suggested. He was annoyed at being delayed. 

"You deserve 'yes' to that! But if I said what I _really_ thought, yourhead would be turned. And it's quite sufficiently turned already!" Shebeamed on him with arch significance, enjoying his impatience without atinge of malice. There was little of it in her; and the little therewas, she reserved for her own sex. 

"I suppose it's a _dead_ secret . . . Whose favour you are going to wear?"

"That's the ruling, " said Roy; but he felt his blood tingling, and hopedto goodness it didn't show through. 

"Well, I've got big bets on about guessing right; and the biggest bet'son yours! Major Desmond's a good second. "

"Oh, he bars the whole idea. "

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was angelic enough to offer him mine, thinking he might be feeling out in the cold!" (another arch look)"and--he refused. My 'Happy Warrior' doesn't seem quite so happy as heused to be----"

The light thrust struck home, but Roy ignored it. If Lance barredwearing favours, he barred discussing Lance with women. Driven into acorner, he managed somehow to escape, and hurried away in search of hisrose. 

Mrs Ranyard, looking after him, with frankly affectionate concern, foundherself wondering--was he really quite so transparent as he seemed? Thatqueer visionary look in his eyes, now and then, suggested spiritualdepths, or heights, that might baffle even the all-appropriating Rose?Did she seriously intend to appropriate him? There were vague rumours ofa title. But no one knew anything about him, really, except the twoDesmonds; and she would be a brave woman who tried to squeeze familydetails out of them. The boy was too good for her; but still. . . . 

Roy, reappearing, felt idiotically convinced that every eye was on thelittle spot of yellow in his button-hole that linked him publicly withthe girl who wore a cluster of its fellows at her belt. 

Time was nearly up. She had moved to the front now, and was free of men, standing very still, gazing intently. . . . 

Roy, following her gaze, saw Lance--actually in the tent--discussingsome detail with the Colonel. 

"What makes her look at him like that?" he wondered; and it was as ifthe tip of a red-hot needle touched his heart. 

Next moment she saw him, and beckoned him with her eyes. He came, instinctively obedient; and her welcoming glance included the rosebud. "You found it?" she said, very low, mindful of feminine ears. "And--youdeserve it, after that marvellous exhibition. You went such a pace. It--frightened me. "

It frightened him, a little, the exceeding softness of her look andtone; and she added, more softly still, "My handkerchief, please. "

"_My_ handkerchief!" he retorted. "I won it fairly. You've admitted asmuch. "

"But it wasn't meant--for a prize. "

"I risked something to win it anyway, " said he, "and now----"

The blare of the megaphone--a poor substitute for heralds'trumpets--called the knights of the wire-mask and fencing-stick into thelists. 

"Go in and win the rosebud too!" said she, when the shouting ceased. "Keep cool. Don't lose your head--or your feather!"

He had lost his head already. She had seen to that. And turning to leaveher, he found Lance almost at his elbow. 

"Come along, Roy, " he said, an imperative note in his voice; and if_his_ glance included the rosebud, it gave no sign. 

As they neared the gathering group of combatants, he turned with one ofhis quick looks. 

"You're in luck, old man. Every inducement to come out top!" heremarked, only half in joke. "I've none, except my own credit. Butyou'll have a tough job if you knock up against _me_. "

"Right you are, " Roy answered, jarred by the look and tone more than thewords. "If you're so dead keen, I'll take you on. "

After that, Roy hoped exceedingly that luck might cast them in the sameteam. 

But it fell out otherwise. 

Lance drew red; Roy, blue. Lance and Major Devines, of the Monmouths, were chosen as leaders. They were the only two on the ground who wore nofavours: and they fronted each other with smiles of approval, theirrespective teams--ten a side--drawn up in two long lines; heads caged inwire-masks, tufted, with curly feathers, red and blue; ponies champingand pawing the air. Not precisely a picturesque array; but if the plumesand trappings of chivalry were lacking, the spirit of it still nickeredwithin; and will continue to flicker, just so long as modern woman willpermit. 

At the crack of a pistol they were off, full tilt; but there was noshock of lance on shield, no crash and clang of armour that 'could beheard at a mile's distance, ' as in the days of Ivanhoe. There was onlythe sharp rattle of fencing-sticks against each other and the masks, theclatter of eighty-eight hooves on hard ground; a lively confusion ofhorses and men, advancing, backing, 'turning on a sixpence' to meet asudden attack; voices, Indian and English, shouting or cheering; andthe intermittent call of the umpire declaring a player knocked out ashis feather fluttered into the dust. Clouds of dust enveloped them in ashifting haze. They breathed dust. It gritted between their teeth. Whatmatter? They were having at each other in furious yet friendly combat;and, being Englishmen, they were perfectly happy; keen to win, ready tolose with a good grace and cheer the better man. 

In none of them, perhaps, did the desire to win burn quite so fiercelyas in Lance and Roy. But more than ever, now, Roy shrank from a finaltussle between them. Surely there was one man of them all good enough toput Lance out of court. 

For a time Major Devines kept him occupied. While Roy accounted for twored feathers, the well-matched pair were making a fine fight of it upand down the field, to the tune of cheers and counter-cheers. 

But it was the blue feather that fell; and Lance, swinging round, charged into the melée--seven reds now, to six blue. 

Twice, in the scrimmage, Roy came up against him, but managed to shiftground, leaving another man to tackle him. Both times it was the bluefeather that fell. Steadily the numbers thinned. Roy's wrist and armwere tiring, a trifle; but resolve to win burned fiercely as ever. Bynow it was clear to all who were the two best men in the field, andexcitement rose as the numbers dwindled. . . . 

Four to three; blues leading. Two all. And at last--an empty dustyarena; and they two alone in the midst, ringed in by thousands of faces, thousands of eyes. . . . 

Till that moment, the spectators had simply not existed for Roy. Now, ofa sudden, they crowded in on him--tightly-wedged wall ofhumanity--expectant, terrifying. . . . 

The two had drawn rein, facing each other; and for that mere moment Royfelt as if his nerve was gone. A glance at the crowded tent, the gleamof a blue-green figure leaning forward. . . . 

Then Lance's voice, low and peremptory, 'Come on. '

In the same breath he himself came on, with formidable élan. Theirsticks rattled sharply. Roy parried a high slicing stroke--only just intime. 

Thank God, he was himself again; so much himself that he was beset by asneaking desire to let Lance win. It was his weakness in games, justwhen the goal seemed in sight. Tara used to scold him fiercely. . . . 

But there was Miss Arden, the rosebud. . . . 

And suddenly, startlingly, Roy became aware that for Lance this was nogame. He was fencing like a man inspired. There was more than mere skillin his feints and shrewd blows; more in it than a feather. 

Two cuts over the arm and shoulder, a good deal sharper than need be, fairly roused Roy. Next moment they were literally fighting, at closestrange, for all they were worth, to the accompaniment of yell on yell, cheer on cheer. . . . 

As the issue hung doubtful and excitement intensified, it became clearthat Lance was losing his temper. Roy, hurt and angry, tried to keepcool. Against an antagonist so skilled and relentless, it was his onlychance. Their names were shouted. _"Shahbash[26] Sinkin, Sahib, "_ fromthe men of Roy's old squadron; and from Lance's men, _"Desmin Sahib kijai!"_[27]

Twice Roy's slicing stroke almost came off--almost, not quite. Themaddening little feather still held its own; and Lance, by way ofrejoinder, caught him a blow on his mask that made his head ache for anhour after. 

Up went his arm to return the blow with interest. Lance, instead ofparrying, lunged--and the head of a yellow bud dropped in the dust. 

At that Roy saw red. His lifted hand shook visibly; and with themoment's loss of control went his last hope of victory. . . . 

Next instant his feather had joined the rosebud; the crowd were roaringthemselves hoarse; and Roy was riding off the ground--shorn of plume andfavour, furiously disappointed, and feeling a good deal more bruisedabout the arms and shoulders than anything on earth would have inducedhim to admit. 

Of course he ought to go up and congratulate Lance; but just then itseemed a physical impossibility. Mercifully he was surrounded and borneoff to the refreshment tent; sped on his way by a rousing ovation as hepassed the _shamiánah_. 

Roy, following after, had his full share of praise, and a salvo ofapplause from the main tent. 

Saluting and looking round, he dared not meet Miss Arden's eye. Had hewon, she might have owned him. As it was, he had better keep hisdistance. But the glimpse he got of her face startled him. It lookedcuriously white and strained. His own imagination, perhaps. It was onlya flash. But it haunted him. He felt responsible. She had been soradiantly sure. . . . 

Arrived in the other tent--feeling stupidly giddy and in pain--he sankdown on the first available chair. Friendly spirits ordered drinks, andsoothed him with compliments. A thundering good fight. To be so narrowlybeaten by Desmond was an achievement in itself; and so forth. 

Lance and Paul, still surrounded, were at the other end of the longtable; and a very fair wedge of thirsty, perspiring manhood filled theintervening space. Roy did not feel like stirring. He felt more likedrinking half a dozen 'pegs' in succession. But soon he was aware of amove going on. The prizes, of course; and he had two to collect. By aspecial decree, the Tournament prize would be given first. So he neednot hurry. The tent was emptying swiftly. He _must_ screw himself up tocongratulations. . . . 

The screwing was still in process when Lance crossed the tent--nearlyempty now--and stopped in front of him. 

"See here, Roy--I apologise, " he said hurriedly, in a low tone. "I lostmy temper. Not fair play----"

Instantly Roy was on his feet, shoulders squared, the last spark ofantagonism extinct. 

"If it comes to that, I lost mine too, " he admitted, and Lance smiled. 

"You _did_! But--I began it. " There was an instant of painfulhesitation, then, "It--it was an accident--the favour----"

"Oh, that's all right, " Roy muttered, embarrassed and overcome. 

"It's not all right. It put you off. " Another pause. "Will you take halfthe Purse?"

"Not I. " Glory apart, he knew very well how badly Lance needed themoney. "It's yours. And you deserve it. "

They both spoke low and rapidly, as if on a matter of business, forthere were still some men at the other end of the tent. But at that, toRoy's amazement, Lance held out his hand. 

"Thanks, old man. Shake hands--here, where the women can see us. You bet. . . They twigged. . . . And they chatter so infernally. . . . Unfair--on MissArden----"

Roy felt himself reddening. It was Lance all over--that chivalrousimpulse. So they shook hands publicly, to the astonishment of interested_kitmutgars_, who had been betting freely, and were marvelling afresh atthe strange ways of Sahibs. 

"I'll doctor your bruises to-night!" said Lance. "And I accept, gratefully, _your_ share of the purse. She won't relish--giving it tothe wrong 'un. " The last, barely audible, came out in a rush, with ajerk of the head that Roy knew well. "Come along and see how prettilyshe does it. "

To Roy's infatuated eyes, she did it inimitably. Standing there, talland serene, in her pale-coloured gown and bewitching hat, instinct withthe mysterious authority of beauty, she handed the prize to Desmond witha little gracious speech of congratulation, adding, "It was a closefight; but you won it--fairly. "

Roy started. Did Lance notice the lightest imaginable stress on theword?

"Thanks very much, " he said; and saluted, looking her straight in theeyes. 

Roy, watching intently, fancied he saw a ghost of a blush stir under theeven pallor of her skin. She had told him once, in joke, that she neverblushed; it was not one of her accomplishments. But for half a secondshe came perilously near it; and although it enhanced her beautytenfold, it troubled Roy. 

Then--as the cheering died down--he saw her turn to the Colonel, who wassupporting her, and heard her clear deliberate tones, that carried withso little effort: "I think, Colonel Desmond, every one must agree thatthe honours are almost equally divided----"

More applause; and Roy--scarcely crediting his ears or eyes--saw herpick a rose from her cluster. 

The moment speech was possible, she leaned forward, smiling frankly athim before them all. 

"Mr Sinclair, will you accept a mere token by way of consolation prize?We are all agreed you put up a splendid fight; and it was no dishonourto be defeated by--such an adversary. "

Fresh clapping and shouting; while Roy--elated and overwhelmed--wentforward like a man walking in a dream. 

It was a dream-woman who pinned the rosebud in his empty button-hole, patting it into shape with the lightest touch of her finger-tips, saying, "Well done indeed, " and smiling at him again. . . . 

Without a word he saluted and walked away. 

She had done it prettily, past question; and in a fashion all her own. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 24: Marquee tent. ]

[Footnote 25: Criminal Investigation Department. ]

[Footnote 26: Well done. ]

[Footnote 27: Victory to Desmond Sahib. ]

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Blood and brain and spirit, three-- Join for true felicity. Are they parted, then expect Someone sailing will be wrecked. " --GEORGE MEREDITH. 

On the night after the Gymkhana the great little world of Lahore wasagain disporting itself, with unabated vigour, in the pillared ballroomof the Lawrence Hall. They could tell tales worth inditing, thosepillars and galleries that have witnessed all the major festivities ofPunjab Anglo-India--its loves and jealousies and high-heartedcourage--from the day of crinolines and whiskers, to this day of thetooth-brush moustache, the retiring skirts and still more retiringbodices of after-war economy. And there are those who believe they willwitness the revelry of Anglo-Indian generations yet to be. 

Had Lance Desmond shared Roy's gift for visions, he might have seen, inspirit, the ghosts of his mother and father, in the pride of theiryouth, and that first legendary girl-wife, of whom Thea had once toldhim all she knew, and whose grave he had seen in Kohat cemetery with aqueer mingling of pity and resentment in his heart. There should havebeen no one except his own splendid mother--first, last, and all thetime. 

But Lance, though no scoffer, had small intimacy with ghosts; and Roy'sfrequented other regions; nor was he in the frame of mind to inducespiritual visitations. Soul and body were enmeshed, as in a network ofsunbeams, holding him close to earth. 

For weeks part of him had been fighting, subconsciously, against thecompelling power that is woman; now, consciously, he was alive to it, swept along by it, as by a tidal wave. Since that amazing moment at theprize-giving, all his repressed ferment had welled up and overflowed;and when an imaginative, emotional nature loses grip on the reins, thepace is apt to be headlong, the course perilous. . . . 

He had dined at the Eltons'--a lively party; chaff and laughter andchampagne; and Miss Arden--after yesterday's graciousness--in atantalising, elusive mood. But he had his dances secure--six out oftwenty, not to mention the cotillon, after supper, which they were tolead. She was wearing what he called her 'Undine frock'--a clingingaffair, fringed profusely with silver and palest green, that suggestedto his fancy Undine emerging from the stream in a dripping garment ofwater-weeds. Her arms and shoulders emerged from it a little toonoticeably for his taste; but to-night his critical brain was inabeyance. 

Look where he would, talk to whom he would, he was persistently, distractingly aware of her; and she could not elude him the wholeevening long. . . . 

 * * * * *

Supper was over. The cotillon itself was almost over; the maypole figureadding a flutter of bright ribbons to the array of flags and bunting, evening dresses, and uniforms. Twice, in the earlier figures, she hadchosen him; but this time, the chance issue of pairing by colours gaveher to Desmond. Roy saw a curious look pass between them. Then Lance puthis arm round her, and they danced without a break. 

When it was over, Roy went in search of iced coffee. In a few secondsthose two appeared on the same errand, and merged themselves in a livelygroup. Roy, irresistibly, followed suit; and when the music struck up, Lance handed her over with a formal bow. 

"Your partner, I think, old man. Thanks for the loan, " he said; and hissmile was for Roy as he turned and walked leisurely away. 

Roy looked after him, feeling pained and puzzled; the more so, becauseLance clearly had the whip-hand. It was she who seemed the less assuredof the two; and he caught himself wishing he possessed the power so toupset her equanimity. Was it even remotely possible that--she caredseriously, and Lance would not. . . ?

"Brown studies aren't permitted in ballrooms, Mr Sinclair!" she ralliedhim in her gentlest voice--and Lance was forgotten. "Come and tie anextra big choc. On to my fishing-rod. "

Roy disapproved of the chocolate figure, as derogatory to masculinedignity. Six brief-skirted, briefer-bodiced girls stood on chairs, eachdangling a chocolate cream from a fishing-rod of bamboo and colouredribbon. Before them, on six cushions, knelt six men; heads tilted back, bobbing this way and that, at the caprice of the angler; occasionallylosing balance, and half toppling over amid shouts and cheers. 

How did that kind of fooling strike the '_kits_' and the Indian bandsmanup aloft, wondered Roy. A pity they never gave a thought to that side ofthe picture. He determined not to be drawn in. Lance, he noticed, studiously refrained. Miss Arden--having tantalised three aspirants--waslooking round for a fourth victim. Their eyes met--and he was donefor. . . . 

Directly his knee touched the cushion, the recoil came sharply--toolate. And she--as if aware of his reluctance--played him mercilessly, smiling down on him with her astonishing hazel eyes. . . . 

Roy's patience and temper gave out. Tingling with mortification, he roseand walked away, to be greeted with a volley of good-natured chaff. 

He was followed by Lister, 'the R. E. Boy, ' who at once secured theelusive bait, clearly by favour rather than skill. The rest had alreadypaired. The band struck up; and Roy, partnerless, stood looking on, thefilm of the East over his face masking the clash of forces within. Thefool he was to have given way! And _this_--before them all--afteryesterday. . . !

His essential masculinity stood confounded; blind to the instinct of theessential coquette--allurement by flight. He resolved to take no part inthe final figure--the mirror and handkerchief; would not even look ather, lest she catch his eye. 

Her choice fell on Hayes; and Roy--elaborately indifferent--carriedLance off to the buffet for champagne cup. It was a thirsty evening; arelief to be quit of the ballroom and get a breath of masculine freshair. The fencing-bout and its aftermath had consciously quickened hisfeeling for Lance. In the fury of that fight they seemed to have workedoff the hidden friction of the past few weeks that had dimmed the steadyradiance of their friendship. It was as if a storm-cloud had burst andthe sun shone out again. 

They said nothing intimate, nothing worthy of note. They were simplycontent. 

Yet, when music struck up, Roy was in a fever to be with her again. 

Her welcoming smile revived his reckless mood. "Ours--_this_ time, anyway, " he said, in an odd repressed voice. 

"Yes--ours. "

Her answering look vanquished him utterly. As his arm encircled her, hefancied she leaned ever so little towards him, as if admitting that shetoo felt the thrill of coming together again. Fancy or no, it was like alighted match dropped in a powder magazine. . . . 

For Roy that single valse, out of scores they had danced together, wasan experience by itself. 

While the music plays, a man encircles one woman and another, fromhabit, without a flicker of emotion. But to-night volcanic forces in Roywere rising like champagne when the cork begins to move. Never had hebeen so disturbingly aware that he was holding her in his arms; that hewanted tremendously to go on holding her when the music stopped. To thisdanger-point he had been brought by the unconscious effect of delicateapproaches and strategic retreats. And the man who has most firmly keptthe cork on his emotions is often the most unaccountable when it fliesoff. . . . 

The music ceased. They were merely partners again. He led her out intostarry darkness, velvet soft; very quiet and contained to the outer eye;inwardly, of a sudden, afraid of himself, still more afraid of theserenely beautiful girl at his side. 

He knew perfectly well what he wanted to do; but not at all what hewanted to say. For him, as his mother's son, marriage had a sacredness, an apartness from random emotions, however overwhelming; and it wentagainst the grain to approach that supreme subject in his present fineconfusion of heart and body and brain. 

They wandered on a little. Like himself, she seemed smitten dumb; andwith every moment of silence, he became more acutely aware of her. Hehad discovered that this was one of her most potent spells. Never forlong could a man be unaware of her, of the fact that she was beforeeverything--a woman. 

In a sense--how different!--it had been the same with Arúna. But withArúna it was primitive, instinctive. This exotic flower of Westerngirlhood wielded her power with conscious, consummate skill. . . . 

Near a seat well away from the Hall she stopped. "We don't want any moreexercise, do we?" she said softly. 

"I've had enough for the present, " he answered. And they sat down. 

Silence again. He didn't know what to say to her. He only cravedoverwhelmingly to take her in his arms. Had she a glimmeringidea--sitting there, so close . . . So alluring. . . ?

And suddenly, to his immense relief, she spoke. 

"It was splendid. A pity it's over. That's the litany of Anglo-India. It's over. Change the scene. Shuffle the puppets--and begin again. I'vebeen doing it for six years----"

"And--it doesn't pall?" His voice sounded quite natural, quite composed, which was also a relief. 

"Pall?--You try it!" For the first time he detected a faint note ofbitterness. "But still--a cotillon's a cotillon!"--She seemed to pullherself together. --"There's an exciting element in it that keeps itsfreshness. And I flatter myself we carried it through brilliantly--youand I. " The pause before the linked pronouns gave him an odd littlethrill. "But--what put you off . . . At the end?"

Her amazing directness took him aback. "I--oh, well--I thought . . . Oneway and another, you'd been having enough of me. "

"That's not true!" She glanced at him sidelong. "You were vexed becauseI chose the Lister boy. And he was all over himself, poor dear! As amatter of fact, I'd meant to have you. If you'd only looked at me . . . !But you stared fiercely the other way. However, perhaps we've beenflagrant enough for to-night----"

"Flagrant--have we?"

Daring, passionate words thronged his brain; and through his innerturmoil, he heard her answer lightly: "Don't ask me! Ask theBanter-Wrangle. She knows to an inch the degrees of flagrance officiallypermitted to the attached and the unattached! You see, in India, we'reallowed . . . A certain latitude. "

"Yes--I've noticed. It's a pity. . . . " Words simply would not come, onthis theme of all others. Was she indirectly . . . Telling him . . . ?

"And you disapprove--tooth and nail?" she queried gently. "I hoped youwere different. You don't know _how_ tired we are of eternal disapprovalfrom people who simply know nothing--nothing----"

"But I don't disapprove, " he blurted out vehemently. "It always strikesme as a rather middle-class, puritanical attitude. I only think--it's athousand pities to take the bloom off . . . The big thing--the real thing, by playing at it (you can see they do) like lawn tennis, just to passthe time----"

"Well, Heaven knows, we've _got_ to pass the time out here--_some_how!"she retorted, with a sudden warmth that startled him: it was so unlikeher. "All very fine for people at home to turn up superior noses at us;to say we live in blinkers, that we've no intellectual pursuits, nointerest in 'this wonderful country. ' I confess, to some of us, Indiaand its people are holy terrors. As for art and music andtheatres--where _are_ they, except what we make for ourselves, in ourindefatigable, amateurish way. Can't _you_ see--you, with yourimaginative insight--that we have virtually nothing but each other? Ifwe spent our days bowing and scraping and dining and dancing with duedecorum, there'd be a boom in suicides and the people in clover at Homewould placidly wonder why----?"

"But do listen. I'm not blaming--any of you, " he exclaimed, distractedby her complete misreading of his mood. 

"Well, you're criticising--in your heart. And your opinion's worthsomething--to some of us. Even if we _do_ occasionally--play at being inlove, there's always the offchance it may turn out to be . . . The realthing. " She drew an audible breath and added, in her lighter vein: "Youknow, you're a very fair hand at it yourself--in your restrained, fakirish fashion----"

"But I don't--I'm not----" he stammered desperately. "And why d'you callme a fakir? It's not the first time. And it's not true. I believe inlife--and the fulness of life. "

"I'm glad. I'm not keen on fakirs. But I only meant--one can't pictureyou playing round, the way heaps of men do with girls . . . Who allow them. . . "

"No. That's true. I never----"

"What--never? Or is it 'hardly ever'?"

She leaned a shade nearer, her beautiful pale face etherealised bystarshine. And that infinitesimal movement, her low tone, the sheermagnetism of her, swept him from his moorings. Words low and passionatecame all in a rush. 

"What _are_, you doing with me? Why d'you tantalise me. Whether you'rethere or not there, your face haunts me--your voice. It may be play foryou--it isn't for me----"

"I've never said--I've never implied--it was play . . . For _me_----"

This time perceptibly she leaned nearer, mute confession in her look, her tone; and delicate fire ran in his veins. . . . 

Next moment his arms were round her; trembling, yet vehement; crushingher against him almost roughly. No mistaking the response of her lips;yet she never stirred; only the fingers of her right hand closed sharplyon his arm. Having hold of her at last, after all that inner tumult andresistance, he could hardly let her go. Yet--strangely--even in thewhite heat of fervour, some detached fragment, at the core of him, seemed to be hating the whole thing, hating himself--and her----

Instantly he released her . . . Looked at her . . . Realised. . . . In thosefew tempestuous moments he had burnt his boats indeed . . . 

She met his eyes now, found them too eloquent, and veiled her own. 

"No. You are not altogether--a fakir, " she said softly. 

"I'd no business. I'm sorry . . . " he began, answering his own swiftcompunction, not her remark. 

"_I'm_ not--unless you really mean--_you_ are?" Faint raillery gleamedin her eyes. "You did rather overwhelmingly take things for granted. But still . . . After that. . . . "

"Yes--after that . . . If _you_ really mean it?"

"Well . . . What do you think?"

"I simply _can't_ think, " he confessed, with transparent honesty. "Ihardly know if I'm on my head or my heels. I only know you've bewitchedme. I'm infatuated--intoxicated with you. But . . . If you _do_ careenough . . . To marry me----"

"My dear--Roy--can you doubt it?"

He had never heard her voice so charged with emotion. For all answer, heheld her close--with less assurance now--and kissed her again. . . . 

 * * * * *

In course of time they remembered that a pause only lasts five minutes;that there were other partners. 

"If we're not to be too flagrant, even for India, " she said, rising withunperturbed deliberation, "I suggest we go in. Goodness knows wherethey've got to by now!"

He stood up also. "It matters a good deal more . . . Where _we_'ve got to. I'll come over to-morrow and see . . . Your people. . . . "

"No. You'll come over--and see me! We'll descend from the dream . . . Tothe business; and have everything clear to our own satisfaction beforewe let in all the others. I always vowed I wouldn't accept a proposalafter supper! If you're . . . Intoxicated, you might wakesober--disillusioned!"

"But I--I've kissed you, " he stammered, suddenly overcome with shyness. 

"So you have--a few times! I'm afraid we didn't keep count! I'm notreally doubting either of us--Roy. But still. . . . Shall we say tea and aride?"

He hesitated. "Sorry--I'm booked. I promised Lance----"

"Very well--dinner? Mother has some bridge people. Only one table. Wecan escape into the garden. Now--come along. "

He drew a deep breath. More and more the detached part of him wasrealising. . . . 

They walked back rather briskly, not speaking; nor did he touch heragain. 

They found Lahore still dancing, sublimely unconcerned. Instinctively, Roy looked round for Lance. No sign of him in the ballroom or thecard-room. And the crowded place seemed empty without him. It was queer. 

Later on, he ran up against Barnard, who told him that Lance had gonehome. 

CHAPTER VII

 "Of the unspoken word thou art master. The spoken word is master of thee. "--_Arab Proverb_. 

Roy drove home with Barnard in the small hours, still too overwroughtfor clear thinking, and too exhausted all through to lie awake for fiveminutes after his head touched the pillow. For the inner stress andcombat had been sharper than he knew. 

He woke late to find Terry curled up against his legs, and the bungalowempty of human sounds. The other three were up long since, and gone toearly parade. His head was throbbing. He felt limp, as if all the vigourhad been drained out of him. And suddenly . . . He remembered. . . . 

Not in a lover's rush of exaltation, but with a sharp reaction almostamounting to fear, the truth dawned on him that he was no longer his ownman. In a passionate impulse, he had virtually surrendered himself andhis future into the hands of a girl whom he scarcely knew. He still sawthe whole thing as mainly her doing--and it frightened him. Lookingbackward over the past weeks, reviewing the steps by which he hadarrived at last night's involuntary culmination, he felt more frightenedthan ever. 

And yet--there sprang a vision of her, pale and gracious in thestarshine, when she leaned to him at parting. . . . 

She was wonderful and beautiful--and she was his. Any man worth his saltwould feel proud. And he did feel proud--in the intervals of feelinghorribly afraid of himself and her. Especially her. Girls were amazingthings. You seized hold of one and spoke mad words, and nearly crushedthe life out of her, and she took it almost as calmly as if you hadasked for an extra dance. Was it a protective layer of insensibility--orsuper-normal self-control? Would she, Rose, have despised him had sheguessed that even at the height of his exultation he had felt ashamed ofhaving let himself go so completely; and that before there had been anyword of marriage--any clear desire of it even in the deep of his heart?

That was really the root of his trouble. The passing recoil from anardent avowal is no uncommon experience with the finer types of men. But, to Roy, it seemed peculiarly unfitting that the son of his mothershould, as it were, stumble into marriage in a headlong impulse ofpassion, on a superficial six weeks' acquaintance; and the shy, spiritual side of him felt alarmed, restive, even a little repelled. 

In a measure, Rose was right when she dubbed him fakir. Artist though hewas, and all too human, there lurked in him a nascent streak of theascetic, accentuated by his mother's bidding, and his own strong desireto keep in touch with her and with things not seen. 

And there, on his writing-table, stood her picture mutely reproachinghim. With a pang he realised how completely she had been crowded out ofhis thoughts during those weeks of ferment. What would she think of itall? The question--what would Rose think of her simply did not arise. She was still supreme, she who had once said, "So long as you arethinking first of me, you may be sure That Other has not yet arrived". 

Was Rose Arden--for all her beauty and witchery--genuinely That Other?

Beguiled by her visible perfections, he had taken her spiritually forgranted. And he knew well enough that it is not through the senses a manfirst approaches love--if he is capable of that high and complexemotion; but rather through imagination and admiration, sympathy andhumour. As it was, he had not a glimmering idea how she would consortwith his very individual inner self. Yet matters were virtuallysettled. . . . 

And suddenly, like a javelin, one word pierced his brain--Lance!Whatever there was between them, he felt sure his news would not pleaseLance, to say the least of it. And, as for their Kashmir plan. . . ?

Why the devil was life such a confoundedly complex affair? By rights, heought to be 'all over himself', having won such a wife. Was it somethingwrong with him? Or did all accepted lovers feel like this--the morningafter? A greater number, perhaps, than poets or novelists or loversthemselves are ever likely to admit. Very certainly he would not admithis present sensations to any living soul. 

Springing out of bed, he shouted for _chota hazri_[28] and shavingwater; drank thirstily; ate hungrily; and had just cleared his face oflather when Lance came in, booted and spurred, bringing with him hismagnetic atmosphere of vitality and vigour. 

Standing behind Roy, he ran his left hand lightly up the back of hishair, gripped the extra thickness at the top, and gave it a distincttug; friendly, but sharp enough to make Roy wince. 

"Slacker! Waster! You ought to have been out riding off the effects. Youwere jolly well going it last night. And you jolly well _look_ it thismorning. Good thing I'm free on the fifteenth to haul you away from allthis". 

Perhaps because they had first met at an age when eighteen months seemedan immense gap between them, Lance had never quite dropped theelder-brotherly attitude of St Rupert days. 

"Yes--a rare good thing----" Roy echoed, and stopped with a visiblejerk. 

"Well, what's the hitch? Hit out, man. Don't mind me. "

There was a flash of impatience, an undernote of foreknowledge, in histone, that made confession at once easier and harder for Roy. 

"I suppose it was--pretty glaring", he admitted, twitching his head awayfrom those strong friendly fingers. "The fact is--we're . . . As good asengaged----"

Again he broke off, arrested by the mask-like stillness of Desmond'sface. 

"Congrats, old man", he said at last, in a level tone. "I got theimpression . . . A few weeks ago, you were not ready for the plunge. Butyou've done it--in record time. " A pause. Roy sat theretongue-tied--unreasonably angry with himself and Rose. "Why 'as goodas. . . ?' Is it to be . . . Not official?"

"Only till to-morrow. You see, it all came . . . Rather in a rush. Shethought . . . We thought . . . Better talk things over first betweenourselves. After all. . . . "

"Yes--after all, " Lance took him up. "You do know a precious lot abouteach other! How much . . . Does _she_ know . . . About _you_?"

"Oh, my dancing and riding, my temperament and the colour of myeyes--four very important items!" said Roy, affecting a lightness he wasfar from feeling. 

Lance ignored his untimely flippancy. "Have you ever . . . Happened tomention . . . Your mother?"

"Not yet. Why----?" The question startled him. 

"It occurred to me. I merely wondered----"

"Well, of course, I shall--to-night. "

Lance nodded, pensively fingered his riding-crop, and remarked, "D'youimagine now she's going to let you bury yourself up Gilgit way--with me?Besides--you'll hardly care . . . Shall we call it 'off'?"

"Well you _are_----! Of course I'll care. I'm damned if we call it'off. '"

At that the mask vanished from Desmond's face. His hand closedvigorously on Roy's shoulder. "Good man, " he said in his normal voice. "I'll count on you. That's a bargain. " Their eyes met in the glass, anda look of understanding passed between them. "Feeling a bit aboveyourself, are you?"

Roy drew a great breath. "It's amazing. I don't yet seem to take it in. "

"Oh--you _will_. " The hand closed again on his shoulder. "Now I'll clearout. Time you were clothed and in your right mind. "

And they had not so much as mentioned her name!

 * * * * *

But even when clothed, Roy did not feel altogether in his right mind. Hewas downright thankful to be helping Lance with some sports for the men, designed to counteract the infectious state of ferment prevailing in thecity, on account of to-morrow's deferred _hartal_. For the voice ofMahatma Ghandi--saint, fanatic, revolutionary, which you will--had goneforth, proclaiming the sixth of April a day of universal mourning andnon-co-operation, by way of protest against the Rowlatt Act. For thatsane measure--framed to safeguard India from her wilder elements--hadbeen twisted, by skilled weavers of words, into a plot against theliberty of the individual. And Ghandi must be obeyed. 

Flamboyant posters in the city bewailed 'the mountain of calamity aboutto fall on the Motherland', and consigned their souls to hell whofailed, that day, to close their business and keep a fast. To spiritualthreats were added terrorism and coercion, that paralysis of the citymight be complete. 

It was understood that, so long there was no disorder, the authoritieswould make no move. But, by Saturday, all emergency plans were complete:the Fort garrison strengthened; cavalry and armoured cars told off to beavailable. 

Roy had no notion of being a mere onlooker, if things happened; and hefelt sure they would. Directly he was dressed he waited on the Colonel, and had the honour to offer his services in case of need;further--unofficially--to beg that he might be attached, as extraofficer, to Lance's squadron. The Colonel--also unofficially--expressedhis keen appreciation; and Roy might rest assured the matter would bearranged. 

So he went off in high feather to report himself to Lance, and discussthe afternoon's programme. 

Lance was full of a thorough good fellow he had stumbled on, a Sikh--anda sometime revolutionary--whose eyes had been opened by three years'polite detention in Germany. The man had been speaking all over theplace, showing up the Home Rule crowd, with a courage none too common inthese days of intimidation. After the sports, he would address the men;talk to them, encourage them to ask questions. 

It occurred to Roy that he had heard something of the sort in a formerlife; and--arrived on the ground--he recognised the very same man whohad been howled down at Delhi. 

He greeted him warmly; spoke of the meeting; listened with unmovedcountenance to lurid speculations about the disappearance ofChandranath; spoke, himself, to the men, who gave him an ovation; and, by the time it was over, had almost forgotten the astounding fact thathe was virtually engaged to be married. . . . 

 * * * * *

Driving out five miles to Lahore, he had leisure to remember, to realisehow innately he shrank from speaking to Rose of his mother. Though ineffect his promised wife, she was still almost a stranger; and thesacredness of the subject--the uncertainty of her attitude--intensifiedhis shrinking to a painful degree. 

She had asked him to come early, that they might have a few minutes tothemselves; and for once he was not unpunctual. He found her alone; and, at first sight, painful shyness overwhelmed him. 

She was wearing the cream-and-gold frock of the evening that had turnedthe scale; and she came forward a trifle eagerly, holding out her hands. 

"Wonderful! It's not a dream?"

He took her hands and kissed her, almost awkwardly. "It still feelsrather like a dream, " was all he could find to say--and fancied hecaught a flicker of amusement in her eyes. Was she thinking him an oddkind of lover? Even last night, he had not achieved a single term ofendearment, or spoken her name. 

With a graceful gesture, she indicated the sofa--and they sat down. 

"Well, what have you been doing with yourself--Roy?" she asked, palpablyto put him at ease. "It's a delightful name--Royal?"

"No--Le Roy. Some Norman ancestor. "

"The King!" She saluted, sitting upright, laughter and tenderness inher eyes. 

At that, he slipped an arm round her, and pressed her close. Then heplunged into fluent talk about the afternoon's events, and his acceptedoffer of service, till Mrs Elton, resplendent in flame-coloured brocade, surged into the room. 

It was a purely civil dinner; not Hayes, to Roy's relief. Directly itwas over the bridge players disappeared; Mr Elton was called away--anIndian gentleman to see him on urgent business; and they two, left aloneagain, wandered out into the verandah. 

By now, her beauty and his possessive instinct had more or less rightedthings; and her nearness, in the rose-scented dark, rekindled hisfervour of last night. 

Without a word he turned and took her in his arms, kissing her again andagain. "'Rose of all roses! Rose of all the world!'" he said in her ear. 

Whereat, she kissed him of her own accord, at the same time lightlypressing him back. 

"Have mercy--a little! If you crush roses too hard their petals dropoff!"

"Darling--I'm sorry!" The great word was out at last; and he feltquaintly relieved. 

"You needn't be! It's only--you're such a vehement lover. And vehemenceis said--not to last!"

The words startled him. "You try me. "

"How? An extra long engagement?"

"N-no. I wasn't thinking of that. "

"Well, we've got to think, haven't we? To talk practical politics!"

"Rather not. I bar politics--practical or Utopian. "

She laughed. There was happiness in her laugh, and tenderness and anundernote of triumph. 

"You're delicious! So ardent, yet so absurdly detached from the dullplodding things that make up common life. Come--let's stroll. Theverandah breathes heat like a benevolent dragon!"

They strolled in the cool darkness under drooping boughs, through whicha star flickered here and there. He refrained from putting an arm roundher, and was rewarded by her slipping a hand under his elbow. 

"Shall it be--a Simla wedding?" she asked in her caressing voice. "Aboutthe middle of the season? June?"

"June? Yes. When I get back from Gilgit?"

"But--my dear! You're not going to disappear for two whole months?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm awfully sorry. But I can't go back on Lance. "

"Oh--Lance!"

He heard her teeth click on the word. Perhaps she had merely echoed it. 

"Yes; a very old engagement. And--frankly--I'm keen. "

"Oh--very well". Her hand slipped from his arm. "And when you'vefulfilled your _prior_ engagement, you can perhaps find time--to marryme?"

"Darling--don't take it that way, " he pleaded. 

"Well, I _did_ suppose I was going to be a shade more important to youthan--your Lance. But we won't spoil things by squabbling. "

Impulsively he drew her forward and kissed her; and this time he kept anarm round her as they moved on. He must speak--soon. But he wanted anatural opening, not to drag it in by the hair. 

"And after the honeymoon--Home?" she asked, following up herall-absorbing train of thought. 

"Yes--I think so. It's about time. "

She let out a small sigh of satisfaction. "I'm glad it's not India. Andyet--the life out here gets a hold, like dram-drinking. One feels as ifperpetual, unadulterated England might be just a trifle--dull. But, ofcourse, I know nothing about your home, Roy, except a vague rumour thatyour father is a Baronet with a lovely place in Sussex. "

"No--Surrey, " said Roy, and his throat contracted. Clearly the momenthad come. "My father's not only a Baronet. He's a rather famousartist--Sir Nevil Sinclair. Perhaps you've heard the name?"

She wrinkled her brows. "N-no. --You see, we do live in blinkers! What'shis line?"

"Mostly Indian subjects----"

"Oh, the Ramayána man? I remember--I _did_ see a lovely thing of hisbefore I came out here. But then----?" She stood still and drew awayfrom him. "One heard he had married. . . . "

"Yes. He married a beautiful high-caste Indian girl, " said Roy, low andsteadily. "My mother----"

"Your--_mother_----?"

He could scarcely see her face; but he felt all through him the shock ofthe disclosure; realised, with a sudden furious resentment, that she wasseeing his adored mother simply as a stumbling-block. . . . 

It was as if a chasm had opened between them--a chasm as wide as theEast is from the West. 

Those few seconds of eloquent silence seemed interminable. It was shewho spoke. 

"Didn't it strike you that I had--the right to know this . . . Before. . . ?"

The implied reproach smote him sharply; but how could he confess toher--standing there in her queenly assurance--the impromptu nature oflast night's proceedings?

"Well I--I'm telling you now, " he stammered. "Last night Isimply--didn't think. And before . . . The fact is . . . I _can't_ talk ofher, except to those who knew her . . . Who understand. . . . "

"You mean--is she--not alive?"

"No. The War killed her--instead of killing _me_. "

Her hand closed on his with a mute assurance of sympathy. If they couldonly leave it so! But--her people. . . ?

"You must try and talk of her--to me, Roy, " she urged, gently butinexorably. "Was it--out here?"

"No. In France. They came out for a visit, when I was six. I've knownnothing of India till now--except through her. "

"But--since you came out . . . Hasn't it struck you that . . . Anglo-Indiansfeel rather strongly. . . ?"

"I don't know--and I didn't care a rap what they felt, " he flung outwith sudden warmth. "Now, of course--I do care. But . . . To suppose _she_could . . . Stand in my way, seems an insult to her. If _you_'re one ofthe people who feel strongly, of course . . . There's an end of it. You'refree. "

"_Free?_ Roy--don't you realise . . . I care. You've made me care. "

"I--made you?"

"Yes; simply by being what you are--so gifted, so detached . . . Sodifferent from the others . . . The service pattern. . . . "

"Oh yes--in a way . . . I'm different. "--Strange, how little it moved him, just then, her frank avowal, her praise. --"And now you know--why. I'msorry if it upsets you. But I can't have . . . That side of me accepted. . . On sufferance----"

To his greater amazement, she leaned forward and kissed him, deliberately, on the mouth. 

"Will _that_ stop you--saying such things?" There was repressed passionin her low tone, "I'm not accepting . . . Any of you on sufferance. And, really, you're not a bit like . . . Not the same. . . . "

"_No!_" She smiled at the fierce monosyllable. "All that lot--the poordevils you despise--are mostly made from the wrong sort of bothraces--in point of breeding, I mean. And that's a supreme point, inspite of the twaddle that's talked about equality. Women of good family, East or West, don't intermarry much. And quite right too. I'm proud ofmy share of India. But I think, on principle, it's a great mistake. . . . "

"Yes--yes. That's how _I_ feel. I'm not rabid. It's not my way. But . . . I suppose you know, Roy, that . . . On this subject, many Anglo-Indiansare. "

"You mean--your people?"

"Well--I don't know about Pater. He's built on large lines, outside andin. But mother's only large to the naked eye; and she's Anglo-Indian tothe bone. "

"You think . . . She'll raise objections?"

"She won't get the chance. It's my affair--not hers. There'd bearguments, at the very least. She tramples tactlessly. And it's plainyou're abnormally sensitive; and rather fierce under yourgentleness----!"

"But, Rose--I must speak. I refuse to treat--my mother as if she was--afamily skeleton----"

"No--not that, " she soothed him with voice and gesture. "Of course theyshall know--later on. It's only . . . I couldn't bear any jar at thestart. You might, Roy--out of consideration for me. It would be quitesimple. You need only say, just now, that your father is a widower. Itisn't as if--she was alive----"

The words staggered him like a blow. With an incoherent exclamation, heswung round and walked quickly away from her towards the house, hisblood tingling in a manner altogether different from last night. Had shenot been a woman, he could have knocked her down. 

Dismayed and startled, she hurried after him. "Roy, my dear--dearest, "she called softly. But he did not heed. 

She overtook him, however, and caught his arm with both hands, forcinghim to stop. 

"Darling--forgive me, " she murmured, her face appealingly close to his. "I didn't mean--I was only trying to ease things for you, a little--youquiver-full of sensibilities. "

He had been a fakir, past saving, could he have withstood her in thatvein. Her nearness, her tenderness, revived the mood of sheerbewitchment, when he could think of nothing, desire nothing but her. Shehad a genius for inducing that mood in men; and Roy's virginal passion, once roused, was stronger than he knew. With his arms round her, hisheart against hers, it was humanly impossible to wish her other than shewas--other than his own. 

Words failed. He simply clung to her, in a kind of dumb desperation towhich she had not the key. 

"To-morrow, " he said at last, "I'll tell you more--show you herpicture. "

And, unlike Arúna, she had no inkling of all that those few wordsimplied. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 28: Early tea. ]

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "The patience of the British is as long as a summer's day; but the arm of the British is as long as a winter's night. "--_Pathan Saying. _

They parted on the understanding that Roy would come in to tiffin onSunday. Instead, to his shameless relief, he found the squadron detailedto bivouac all day in the Gol Bagh, and be available at short notice. 

It gave him a curious thrill to open his camphor-drenched uniformcase--left behind with Lance--and unearth the familiar khaki of Kohatand Mespot days; to ride out with his men in the cool of early morningto the gardens at the far end of Lahore. The familiar words of commands, the rhythmic clatter of hoofs, were music in his ears. A thousand pitieshe was not free to join the Indian Army. But, in any case, there wasRose. There would always be Rose now. And he had an inkling that theirangle of vision was by no means identical. . . . 

The voice of Lance, shouting an order, dispelled his brown study; andRose--beautiful, desirable, but profoundly disturbing--did not intrudeagain. 

Arrived in the gardens, they picketed the horses, and disposedthemselves under the trees to await events. The heat increased and theflies, and the eternal clamour of crows; and it was nearing noon beforetheir ears caught a far-off sound--an unmistakable hum rising to a roar. 

"Thought so, " said Lance, and flung a word of command to his men. 

A clatter of hoofs heralded arrivals--Elton and the Superintendent ofPolice with orders for an immediate advance. A huge mob, headed bystudents, was pouring along the Circular Road. The police were powerlessto hold them; and at all costs they must be prevented from debouchingon to the Mall. It was brisk work; but the squadron reached the criticalcorner just in time. 

A sight to catch the breath and quicken the pulses--that surging sea ofblack heads, uncovered in token of mourning; that forest of arms beatingthe air to a deafening chorus of orthodox lamentation; while a portraitof Ghandi, on a black banner, swayed uncertainly in the midst. 

A handful of police, shouting and struggling with the foremost ranks, were being swept resistlessly back towards the Mall--the main artery ofLahore; and a British police officer on horseback was sharing the samefate. Clearly nothing would check them save that formidable barrier ofcavalry and armoured cars. 

At sight of it they halted; but disperse and return they would not. Theyhaggled; they imposed impossible conditions; they drowned officialparleyings in shouts and yells. 

For close on two hours, in the blazing sun, Lance Desmond and his mensat patiently in their saddles--machine-guns ready in the cars behindthem--while the Civil Arm, derided and defied, peacefully persuadedthose passively resisting thousands that the Mall was not deemed asuitable promenade for Lahore citizens in a highly processional mood. 

For two hours the human tide swayed to and fro; the clamour rose andfell; till a local leader, after much vain speaking, begged the loan ofa horse, and headed them off to a mass meeting at the Bradlaugh Hall. 

The cavalry, dismissed, trotted back to the gardens, to remain at handin case of need. 

What the Indian officers and men thought of it all, who shall guess?What Lance Desmond thought, he frankly imparted to Roy. 

"A fine exhibition of the masterly inactivity touch!" said he, with atwitch of his humorous lips. "But not exactly an edifying show for ourmen. Wonder what my old Dad would think of it all? You bet there'll be aholy rumpus in the city to-night. "

"And then----?" mused Roy, his imagination leaping ahead. "This isn'tthe last of it. "

"The last of it--will be bullets, not buckshot, " said Lance in hissoldierly wisdom. "It's the only argument for crowds. The soft-sawderlot may howl 'militarism. ' But they're jolly grateful for a dash of itwhen their skins are touched. It takes a soldier of the right sort toknow just when a dash of cruelty is kindness--and the reverse--indealing with backward peoples; and crowds, of any colour, are thebackwardest peoples going! It would be just as well to get the womensafely off the scene. "

He looked very straight at Roy, whose sensitive soul winced, at theimpact of his thought. Since their brief talk, the fact of theengagement had been tacitly accepted--tacitly ignored. Lance had apositive genius for that sort of thing; and in this case it was agodsend to Roy. 

"Quite so, " he agreed, returning the look. 

"Well--you're in a position to suggest it. "

"I'm not sure if it would be exactly appreciated. But I'll have a shotat it to-morrow. "

 * * * * *

The city, that night, duly enjoyed its 'holy rumpus. ' But on Mondaymorning shops were open again; everything as normal as you please; andthe cheerful prophets congratulated themselves that the explosion hadproved a damp squib after all. 

Foremost among these was Mr Talbot Hayes, whose ineffable air of beingin the confidence of the Almighty--not to mention the whole HinduPantheon--was balm to Mrs Elton at this terrifying juncture. For hermountain of flesh hid a mouse of a soul, and her childhood had beenshadowed by tales of Mutiny horrors. With her it was almost anobsession. The least unusual uproar at a railway station, or holidayexcitement in the bazaar, sufficed to convince her that the hour hadstruck for which, subconsciously, she had been waiting all her life. 

So, throughout Sunday morning, she had been a quivering jelly of fear;positively annoyed with Rose for her serene assurance that 'the Paterwould pull it off all right. ' She had never quite fathomed herdaughter's faith in the shy, undistinguished man for whom she cherishedan affection secretly tinged with contempt. In this case it wasjustified. He had returned to tiffin quite unruffled; had vouchsafed nodetails; simply assured her she need not worry. Thank God, they had astrong L. G. That was all. 

But authority, in the person of Talbot Hayes, was more communicative--ina flatteringly confidential undertone. A long talk with him had cheeredher considerably; and on Monday she was still further cheered by a pieceof news her daughter casually let fall at breakfast, between the poachedeggs and the marmalade. 

Rose--at last! And even Gladys' achievement thrown into the shade! Herewas compensation for all she had suffered from the girl's distractinghabit of going just so far with the wrong man as to give herpalpitations. She had felt downright nervous about Major Desmond. ForRose never gave one her confidence. And she had suffered qualms aboutthis new unknown young man. But what matter now? To your right-mindedmother, all's well that ends in the Wedding March--and Debrett! Mostsatisfactory to find that the father _was_ a Baronet; and Mr Sinclair_was_ the eldest son! Could anything be more gratifying to her maternalpride in this beautiful, difficult daughter of hers?

Consequently, when the eldest son came in to report himself, all thatinner complacency welled up and flowed over him in a volume of maternaleffusion, trying enough in any case; and to Roy intolerable, almost, inview of that enforced reservation that might altogether change her tone. 

After nearly an hour of it, he felt so battered internally that hereached the haven of his own room feeling thoroughly out of tune withthe whole affair. Yet--there it was. And no man could lightly break witha girl of that quality. Besides, his feeling for her--infatuationapart--had received a distinct stimulus from their talk about his motherand the impression made on her by the photograph he had brought withhim, as promised. And if Mrs Elton was a Brobdingnagian thorn on thestem of his Rose, the D. C. 's patent pleasure and affectionate allusionsto the girl atoned for a good deal. 

So, instead of executing a 'wobble' of the first magnitude, he proceededto clinch matters by writing first to his father, then to a Calcuttafirm of jewellers for a selection of rings. 

But he wavered badly over facing the ordeal of wholesalecongratulations--the chaff of the men, the reiterate inanities of thewomen. 

On Tuesday, Rose warned him that her mother was dying to give a dinner, to invite certain rival mothers, and announce her news with due éclat. 

"Hand us round, in fact, " she added serenely, "with the chocs and Elvasplums!--No! Don't flare up!" Her fingers caressed the back of his hand. "In mercy to you, I diplomatically sat down upon the idea, and remainedseated till it was extinct. So you're saved--by your affianced wife, whom you don't seem in a frantic hurry to acknowledge. . . !"

He caught her to him, and kissed her passionately. "You _know_ it's notthat----"

"Yes, _I_ know . . . You're just terror-struck of all those women. But ifyou will do these things, you must stand up to the consequences--like aman. "

He jerked up his head. "No fear. We'll say to-morrow, or Thursday. "

"I'll be merciful, and say Thursday. It's to be announced thisafternoon. Have you mentioned it--to any one?"

"Only to Lance. "

A small sound between her teeth made him turn quickly. 

"Anything hurt you?"

"You've quick ears! Only a pin-prick. " She explored her blouse for theoffending pin. "Do you tell each other everything--you two?"

"Pretty well--as men go. "

"You're a wonderful pair. "

She sighed and was silent a moment. Then, "Shall it be a ride onThursday?" she asked, giving his arm a small squeeze. 

"Rather. There are Brigade Sports; but I could cry off. We'll take ourtea out to Shadera, have a peaceful time there, and finish up at theHall. "

So it was arranged, and so it befell, though not exactly according todesign. 

 * * * * *

On Thursday they rode leisurely out through the heat and dusty haze, away from bungalows and the watered Mall, through a village alive withshrill women, naked babies, and officious pariahs, who kept Terryfuriously occupied: on past the city, over the bridge of boats thatspans the Ravi, till they came to the green secluded garden where theEmperor Jehangir sleeps, heedless of infidels who, generation aftergeneration, have picnicked and made love in the sacred precincts of histomb. 

Arrived at the gardens, they tethered the horses, drank thermos tea andate sugared cakes, sitting on the wide wall that looked across the riverand the plain to the dim huddled city beyond. And Roy talked ofBramleigh Beeches in April, till he felt home-sick for primroses and thecuckoo and the smell of mown grass; while, before his actual eyes, theterrible sun of India hung suspended in the haze, like a platter ofmolten brass, till the turning earth, settling to sleep, shouldered italmost out of sight. 

That brought them back to realities. 

"We must scoot, " said Roy. "It'll be dark, and there's only a slip of amoon. "

"It's been delicious!" she sighed; and they kissed mutually--a lingeringkiss. 

Then they were off, racing the swift-footed dusk. . . . 

Skirting the city, they noticed scurrying groups of figures, shouting toeach other as they ran; and the next instant, Roy's ear caught theominous hum of Sunday morning. 

"Good God! They're out again. Hi--You! What's the _tamasha_?" he calledto the nearest group. 

They responded with wild gestures, and fled on. But one lagged a little, being fat and scant of breath; and Roy shouted again. This time the noteof command took effect. 

"Where are you all running? Is there trouble?" he asked. 

"Big trouble, Sahib--Amritsar, " answered the fleshly one, wiping thedusty sweat from his forehead, and shaking it unceremoniously from hisfinger-tips. "Word comes that our leaders are taken. Mahatma Ghandi, also. The people are burning and looting; Bank-_ghar_, [29] TownHall-_ghar_; killing many Sahibs and one Mem-sahib. _Hai! hai_! Nowthere will be _hartal_ again; Committee _ki ráj_. No food; no work. _Hai! hai!_[30] Ghandi _ki jai_!"

"Confound the man!" muttered Roy, not referring to the woebegone one. "Look here, Rose, if they're wedged up near Anarkali, we must change ourroute. I expect the squadron's out; and I ought to be with it----"

"Thank God, you're _not_. It's quite bad enough----" She set her teeth. "Oh, _come_ on. "

Back they sped, at a hand-gallop, past the Fort and the Badshahi Mosque;then, neck and neck down the long straight road, that vibrant roargrowing louder with every stride. 

Near the Church they slackened speed. The noise had become terrific, like a hundred electric engines; and there was more than excitement init--there was fury. 

"Sunday was a treat to this, " remarked Roy. "We shan't get on to theMall. "

"We can go through Mozung, " said Rose coolly. "But I want to _see_--asfar as one can. The Pater's bound to be there. "

Roy, while admiring her coolness, detected beneath it a repressedintensity, very unlike her. But his own urgent sensations left no roomfor curiosity; and round the next swerve they drew rein in full view ofa sight that neither would forget while they lived. 

The wide road, stretching away to the Lahori gate, was thronged with ashouting, gesticulating human barrier; bobbing heads and lifted arms, hurling any missile that came to hand--stones, bricks, lumps ofrefuse--at the courageous few who held them in check. 

Cavalry and police, as on Sunday, blocked the turning into the Mall; andRoy instantly recognised the silhouette of Lance, sitting erect andrigid, doubtless thinking unutterable things. 

Low roofs of buildings, near the road, were alive with shadowy figures, running, yelling, hurling bricks and mud from a half-demolished shopnear by. Two mounted police officers made abortive attempts to get ahearing; and a solitary Indian, perched on an electric standard, wellabove the congested mass, vainly harangued and fluttered a white scarfas signal of pacific intentions. Doubtless one of their 'leaders, ' againmaking frantic, belated efforts to stem the torrent that he and his kindhad let loose. 

And the nightmare effect of the scene was intensified by the oncomingdusk, by the flare of a single torch hoisted on a pole. It wavedpurposefully; and its objective was clear to Roy--the electric supplywires. 

"That brute there's trying to cut off the light!" he exclaimed, turningsharply in the saddle, only to find that Rose had not even heard him. 

She sat stone-still, her face set and strained, as he had seen it afterthe tournament. "_There_ he is, " she murmured--the words a mere movementof her lips. 

He hated to see her look like that; and putting out a hand, he touchedher arm. 

"I don't see him, " he said, answering her murmur. "He'll be coming, though. Not nervous, are you?"

She started at his touch--shrank from it almost; or so he fancied. "Nervous? No--furious!" Her low tone was as tense as her whole attitude. "Mud and stones! Good heavens! Why don't they _shoot_?"

"They will--at a pinch, " Roy assured her, feeling oddly rebuffed, and asif he were addressing a stranger. "Stay here. Don't stir. I'll glean afew details from one of our outlying sowars. "

The nearest man available happened to be a Pathan. Recognising Roy, hesaluted, a fighting gleam in his eyes. 

"_Wah, wah!_ Sahib! This is not man's work, to sit staring while thesethrow words to a pack of mad jackals. On the Border we say, _páili láth;pechi bhát_. [31] That would soon make an end of this devil's noise. "

"True talk, " said Roy, secretly approving the man's rough wisdom. "Howlong has it been going on?"

"We came late, Sahib, because of the sports; but these have been nearlyone hour. Once the police-_lóg_ gave buckshot to those on the roofs. Howmuch use--the Sahib can see. Now they have sent a sowar for the Dep'tySahib. But these would not hear the Lát Sahib himself. One match willlight such a bonfire; but a hundred buckets will not put it out. "

Roy assented, ruefully enough. "Is it true there has been big trouble atAmritsar--burning and killing?"

"_Wah, wah! Shurrum ki bhát. _[32] Because he who made all the troublemay not come into the Punjab, Sahibs who have no concern--arekilled----"

An intensified uproar drew their eyes back to the mob. 

It was swaying ominously forward, with yellings and prancings, withrenewed showers of bricks and stones. 

"Thus they welcome the Dep'ty Sahib, " remarked Sher Khan with grimirony. 

It was true. No mistaking the bulky figure on horseback, alone in theforefront of the throng, trying vainly to make himself heard. Still hepressed forward, urging, commanding; missiles hurtling round him. Luckily the aim was poor; and only one took effect. 

A voice shouted, "You had better come back, sir. "

He halted. There was a fierce forward rush. Large groups of people satdown in flat defiance. 

Again Rose broke out with her repressed intensity, "It's madness! Why on_earth_ don't they shoot?"

"The notion is--to give the beggars every chance, " urged Roy. "Afterall, they've been artificially worked up. It's the men behind--pullingthe strings--who are to blame----"

"I don't care _who's_ to blame. They're as dangerous as wild beasts. "She did not even look at him. Her eyes, her mind were centred on thatweird, unforgettable scene. "And _our_ people simply sitting there beingpelted with bricks and stones . . . The Pater . . . Lance. . . . "

She drew in her lip. Roy gave her a quick look. That was the secondtime; and she did not even seem aware of it. 

"Yes. It's a detestable position, but it's not of their making, " heagreed; adding briskly: "Come along, now, Rose. It's getting dark; and Iought to be in Cantonments. There'll be pickets all over theplace--after this. I'll see you safe to the Hall, then gallop on. "

Her lips twitched in a half-smile. "Shirking congrats again?"

"Oh, drop it! I'd clean forgotten. I'll conduct you _right in_--andchance congrats. But they'll be too full of other things to-night. Scared to death, some of them. "

"Mother, for one. I never thought of her. We must hurry. "

For new-made lovers, their tone and bearing was oddly detached, almostbrusque. They had gone some distance before they heard shots behindthem. 

"Thank goodness! At last! I hope it hurt some of them badly, " Rose brokeout with unusual warmth. She was rather unusual altogether this evening. "Really, it would serve them right--as Mr Hayes says--if we _did_ clearout, lock, stock, and barrel, and leave their precious country to bescrambled for by others of a very different _ját_[33] from the stupid, splendid British. I'm glad _I'm_ going, anyway. I've never felt insympathy. And now, after all this . . . And Amritsar . . . I simplycouldn't. . . . "

She broke off in mid-career, flicked her pony's flanks, and set off at abrisk canter. 

Pause and action could have but one meaning. "She's realising, " thoughtRoy, cantering after, pain and anger mingled in his heart. At such amoment, he admitted, her outburst was not unnatural. But to him it was, none the less, intolerable. The trouble was, he could say nothing, lesthe say too much. 

At the Lawrence Hall they found half a company of British soldiers onguard, --producing, by their mere presence, that sense of security whichradiates from the policeman and the soldier when the solid ground failsunderfoot. 

Within doors, the atmosphere was electrical with excitement anduncertainty. Orders had been received that, in case of matters taking aserious turn, the hundred or so of English women and children gatheredat the Club would be removed under escort to Government House. No onewas dancing. Every one was talking. The wildest rumours were current. 

At a crisis the curtains of convention are rent and the inner self peersthrough, sometimes revealing the face of a stranger. While the imposingMrs Elton quivered inwardly, Mrs Ranyard--for all her 'creeps' and herfluffiness--knew no flicker of fear. In any case, there were few whowould confess to it, though it gnawed at their vitals; and Roy's quickeye noted that, among the women, as a whole, the light-hearted courageof Anglo-India prevailed. It gave him a sharp inner tweak to look atthem all and remember that nightmare of seething, yelling rebels atAnarkalli. He wished to God Rose had not seen it too. It was the kind ofthing that would stick in the memory. 

On their appearance in the Hall, Mrs Elton deserted a voluble group andbore down upon them, flustered and perspiring. 

"My darling girl--thank God! I've been in a fever!" she cried, and wouldhave engulfed her stately daughter before them all, but that Rose putout a deterring hand. 

"I was afraid you'd be upset--so we hurried, " she said serenely; not theRose of Anarkalli, by any means. "But we were all right along the Mozungroad. "

That 'we, ' and a possessive glance--the merest--at her lover, broughtdown upon the pair a small shower of congratulations. Every one hadforeseen it, of course, but it was so delightful to _know_. . . . 

After the sixth infliction, Roy whispered in her ear, "I say, I can'tstand any more. And it's high time I was off. "

"Poor dear! 'When duty calls. . . ?'" Her cool tone was not unsympathetic. "I'll let you off the rest. "

She came out with him, and they stood together a moment in the darknessunder the portico. 

"I shall dream to-night, Roy, " she said gravely. "And we may not evensee the Pater. He's taken up his abode in the Telegraph Office. Motherwill want to bolt. I can see it in her eye!"

"Well, she's right. You ought all to be cleared out of this, instanter. "

"Are you--so keen?"

"Of course not. " His tone was more impatient than loverly. "I'm onlykeen to feel--you're safe. "

"Oh--safe!" she sighed. "_Is_ one--anywhere--ever?"

"No, " he countered with unexpected vigour, "or life wouldn't be worthliving. There are degrees of unsafeness, that's all. It's natural--isn'tit, darling?--I should want to feel you're out of reach of that crowd. If it had pushed on here, and to Government House, Amritsar doings wouldhave been thrown into the shade. "

She shivered. "It's horrible--incredible! I suppose one has to be alifelong Anglo-Indian to realise quite _how_ incredible it feels--tous. "

He put his arms round her, as if to shield her from the memory of itall. 

"I'll see you to-morrow?" she asked. 

"Of course. If I can square it. But we shall be snowed under withemergency orders. I'll send a note in any case. "

"Take care of yourself--on my account, " she commanded softly; and theykissed. 

But--whether fancy or fact--Roy had an under sense of mutual constraint. It was not the same thing at all as that last kiss at Shadara. 

There they had come closer, in spirit, than ever yet. Now--not two hourslater--the thin end of an unseen wedge seemed to be stealthily pressingthem apart. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 29: House. ]

[Footnote 30: Alas, alas!]

[Footnote 31: First a blow, then a word. ]

[Footnote 32: True talk. Shameful talk. ]

[Footnote 33: Caste. ]

CHAPTER IX. 

 "It has long been a grave question whether any Government not too strong for the liberties of the people, can be strong enough to maintain its existence in great emergencies. "--ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

Back in Cantonments, Roy found strong detachments being rushed to allvital points, and Brigade Headquarters moving into Lahore. 

It was late before Lance returned, tired and monosyllabic. He admittedthey had mopped things up a bit--outside; and left a detachment, insupport of the police, guarding the Mall. But--the city was in openrebellion. No white man could safely show his face there. Theanti-British poison, instilled without let or hindrance, was takingviolent effect. He'd seen enough of it for one day. He wanted things toeat and drink--especially drink. 'Things' were produced; andafterwards--alone with Roy in their bungalow--he talked more freely, inno optimistic vein, sworn foe of pessimism though he was. 

"Sporadic trouble? Not a bit of it! Look at the way they're going forlines of communication. And look at these choice fragments from one oftheir posters I pinched off a police inspector. 'The English are theworst lot and are like monkeys, whose deceit and cunning are obvious tohigh and low. . . . Do not lose courage, but try your utmost to turn thesemen away from your holy country. ' Pretty sentiments--eh? Fact is, we'reup against organised rebellion. "

Roy nodded. "I had that from Dyán, long ago. Paralysis of movement andGovernment is their game. We may have a job to regain control of thecity. "

"Not if we declare Martial Law, " said the son of Theo Desmond with akindling eye. "Of course, I'm only a soldier--and proud of it! But I'vemore than a nodding acquaintance with the Punjabi. He's no word-monger;handier with his _láthi_ than his tongue. If you stir him up, he hitsout. And I don't blame him. The voluble gentlemen from the South don'trealise the inflammable stuff they're playing with----"

"Perhaps they do, " hazarded Roy. 

"M-yes--perhaps. But the one on the electric standard this eveningdidn't exactly achieve a star turn!--You saw him, eh?" He looked verystraight at Roy. "I noticed you--hanging round on the edge of things. You ought to have gone straight on. "

Roy winced. "We'd heard wild rumours. She was anxious about the D. C. "

Lance nodded, staring at the bowl of his pipe. "When does--Mrs Eltonmake a move?"

"The first possible instant I should say, from the look of her. "

"Good. She's on the right tack, for once! The D. C. Deserves afirst-class Birthday Honour--and may possibly wangle an O. B. E. ! I'm toldthat he and the D. I. G. , with a handful of police, pretty well saved thestation before we came on the scene. It's been a nearer shave than onecares to think about. And it's not over. "

They sat up till after midnight discussing the general situation, thatlooked blacker every hour. And, till long after midnight, an uproariousmob raged through the city and Anarkalli, only kept from breaking allbounds by the tact and good-humour of a handful of cavalry and police;men of their own race, unshaken by open or covert attempts to suborntheir loyalty--a minor detail worth putting on record. 

 * * * * *

Friday was a day of rumours. While the city continued furiously to rage, reports of fresh trouble flowed in from all sides: further terribledetails from Amritsar; rumours that the Army and the police were beingtampered with and expected to join the mob; serious trouble at Ahmedabadand Lyallpur, where seventy British women and children were herded, inone bungalow, till they could safely be removed. Everywhere the sametale: stations burned, railways wrecked, wires cut. Fresh storiesconstantly to hand; some true, some wildly exaggerated; anger in theblood of the men; terror in the hearts of the women, longing to getaway, yet suddenly afraid of trains packed with natives, manned bynatives, who might be perfectly harmless; but, on the other hand, mightnot. . . . 

It was as Rose had said; to realise the significance of these things, one needed to have spent half a lifetime in that other India, in thegood days when peaceful loyal masses had not been galvanised intodisaffection; when an Englishwoman, of average nerve, thought nothing oftravelling alone up and down the country, or spending a week alone incamp--if needs must--secure in the knowledge that--even in a disturbedFrontier district--no woman would ever be touched or treated with otherthan unfailing respect. 

Yet a good many were preparing to flit: and to the men their departurewould spell relief; not least, to Roy--the new-made lover. Parting wouldbe a wrench; but at this critical moment--for England and India--the tugtwo ways was distinctly a strain; and the less she saw of it all, thebetter for their future chance of happiness. He felt by no means sure ithad not been imperilled already. 

But the exigencies of the hour left no room for vague forebodings. Emergency orders, that morning, detailed Lance with a detachment for theRailway Workshops, where passive resisters were actively on thewar-path. Roy, after early stables, was dispatched with another party, to strengthen a cavalry picket near the Badshahi Mosque, on theoutskirts of the city, where things might be lively in the course of theday. 

Passing through Lahore, he sent his _sais_ with a note to Rose; and, onreaching the Mosque, he found things lively enough already. The ironrailings, round the main gate of the Fort, were besieged by a hooting, roaring mob, belabouring the air with _láthis_ and axes on bamboo poles;rending it with shouts of abuse and one reiterate cry, "Kill the whitepigs, brothers! Kill! Kill!"

Again and again they stormed the railings, frantically trying to bearthem down by sheer weight of numbers--yelling ceaselessly the while. 

"How the devil can they keep it up?" thought Roy; and sickened to thinkhow few of his own kind there were to stand between the English womenand children in Lahore and those hostile thousands. Thank God, thereremained loyal Indians, hundreds of them--as in Mutiny days; but surelya few rounds from the Fort just then would have heartened them and beendistinctly comforting into the bargain. 

The walls were manned with rifles and Lewis guns, and at times thingslooked distinctly alarming; but not a shot was fired. The mob was leftto exhaust itself with its own fury. Part melted away, and part wasdrawn away by the attraction of a mass meeting in the Mosque, wherethirty-five thousand citizens were gathered to hear Hindu agitatorspreaching open rebellion from Mahommedan pulpits; and a handful ofBritish police officers--present on duty--were being hissed and hooted, amid shouts of "_Hindu-Mussalman ki jai!_"

From the city all police pickets had been withdrawn, since theirpresence would only provoke disturbance and bloodshed. And the bazaarpeople were parading the streets, headed by an impromptu army of younghotheads, carrying _láthis_, crying their eternal '_Hai!_' and '_Jai!_'with extra special '_Jai's_' for the 'King of Germany' and the AfghanAmir. 

Portraits of Their Majesties were battered down and trampled in the mud;and over the fragments the crowd swept on, shouting: '_Hai! hai! JargeMargya!_'[34] And the air was full of the craziest rumours, passed on, with embellishments, from mouth to mouth. . . . 

Roy, on reaching Cantonments, was relieved to find that the decision hadalready been taken to regain control of the city by a militarydemonstration in force; eight hundred troops and police, under theofficer commanding Lahore civil area. Desmond's squadron was included;and, sitting down straightway, Roy dashed off a note to Rose. 

 "MY DARLING, --

 "I'm sorry, but it looks like 'no go' to-morrow. You'll hear all from the Pater. I might look in for tiffin, if things go smoothly, and if _you_'ll put up with me all dusty and dishevelled from the fray! From what I saw and heard to-day, we're not likely to be greeted with marigold wreaths and benedictions! Of course hundreds will be thankful to see us. But I doubt if they'll dare betray the fact. I needn't tell you to keep cool. You're simply splendid. 

 "Your loving and admiring, ROY. "

It was after ten next morning, the heat already intense, when that mixedforce, British and Indian, and the four aeroplanes acting in concertwith them, halted outside the Delhi Gate of Lahore City, while an orderwas read out to the assembled leaders that, if shots were fired or bombsflung, those aeroplanes would make things unpleasant. Then--at last theywere on the move; through the Gate, inside the City, aeroplanes flyinglow, cavalry bringing up the rear. 

Here normal life and activity were completely suspended--hence more thanhalf the trouble. Groups of idlers, sauntering about, stared, spat, orshook clenched fists, shouting, "Give us Ghandi--and we will open!""Repeal Rowlatt Bill and we will open. "

And, at every turn, posters exhorted true patriots--in terms often asludicrous as they were hostile--to leave off all dealings with the'English monkeys, ' to 'kill and be killed. '

And as they advanced, leaving pickets at stated points--pausing that MrElton might exhort the people to resume work--mere groups swelled tocrowds, increasing in number and virulence; their cries and contortionsmore savage than anything Roy had yet seen. 

But it was not till they reached the Hira Mundi vegetable market, fronting the plain and river, that the real trouble began. Here werelarge excited crowds streaming to and fro between the Mosque and theMundi--material inflammable as gunpowder. Here, too, were the hotheadsarmed with leaded sticks, hostile and defiant, shouting their eternalcries. And to-day, as yesterday, the Badshahi Mosque was clearly thecentre of trouble. Exhortations to disperse peacefully were unheeded orunheard. All over the open space they swarmed like locusts. Theirwearisome clamour ceased not for a moment. And the mosque acted as astronghold. Crowds packed away in there could neither be dealt with nordispersed. So an order was given that it should be cleared and the doorsguarded. 

Meantime, to loosen the congested mass, it was cavalry to thefront--thankful for movement at last. 

There was a rush and a scuffle. Scattered groups bolted into the city. Others broke away and streamed down from the high ground into the openplain, sowars in pursuit; rounding them up, shepherding them back totheir by-lanes and rabbit-warrens. 

"How does it feel to be a sheep-dog?" Lance asked Roy, as he canteredup, dusty and perspiring. "A word from the aeroplanes would do thetrick. Good God! _Look_ at them----!"

Roy looked--and swore under his breath. For the half-dispersed thousandswere flowing together again like quicksilver. The whole Hira Mundiregion was packed with a seething dangerous mob, completely out of hand, amenable to nothing but force. 

And now from the doors of the Mosque fresh thousands, inflamed byfanatical speeches, were swarming across the open plain to join them, flourishing their _láthis_ with threatening gestures and cries. . . . 

It was a sight to shake the stoutest heart. Armed, they were not; butthe _láthi_ is a deadly weapon at close quarters; and their mere numberswere overwhelming. Roy, by this time, was sick of their everlastingyells; their distorted faces full of hate and fury; their senselessabuse of 'tyrants, ' who were exercising a patience almost superhuman. 

An order was shouted for the troops to turn and hold them. Carnegie, ofthe police, dashed off to the head of the column that was nearing thegate of exit; and the cavalry lined up in support of Mr Elton, who stillexhorted, still tried to make himself heard by those who were determinednot to hear. 

Directly they moved forward, there was a fierce, concerted rush;_láthis_ in the forefront, bricks and stones hurtling, as at Anarkalli, but with fiercer intent. 

A large stone whizzed past the ear of an impassive Sikh Ressaldar; halfa brick caught Roy on the shoulder; another struck Suráj on the flankand slightly disturbed his equanimity. 

While Roy was soothing him, came a renewed rush, the crowd pushingboldly in on all sides with evident intent to cut them off from therest. 

The line broke. There was a moment of sickening confusion. A howlingman, brandishing a _láthi_, made a dash at Roy, a grab at his charger'srein. . . . 

One instant his heart stood still; the next, Lance dashed in between, riding-crop lifted, unceremoniously hustling Roy, and nearly oversettinghis assailant--but not quite----

Down came the leaded stick on the back of his bridle hand, cutting itopen, grazing and bruising the flesh. With an oath he dropped the reinsand seized them in his right hand. 

"Rather neatly done!" he remarked, smiling at the dismay in Roy's eyes. "Ought to have floored him, though--the murdering brute!"

"Lance, you'd no business----"

"Oh, drop it. This isn't polo. It's a game of Aunt Sally. No charge fora shy----!" As he spoke, a sharp fragment of brick struck his cheek anddrew blood. "Damn them. Getting above themselves. If it rested with meI'd charge. We can hold 'em, though. Straighten the line. "

"But your hand----"

"My hand can wait. I've got another. " And he rode on leaving Roy with aburning inner sense as of actual coals of fire heaped on his unworthyself. 

But urgent need for action left no leisure for thought. Somehow the linewas straightened; somehow they extricated themselves from theembarrassing attentions of the mob. Carnegie returned with armed police;and four files were lined up in front of the troops; the warning clearlygiven; the response--fresh uproar, fresh showers of stones. . . . 

Then eight shots rang out--and it sufficed. 

At the voice of the rifle, the sting of buckshot, valour and furyevaporated like smoke. And directly the crowd broke, firing ceased. Afew were wounded; one was killed--and carried off with loudlamentations. An ordered advance, with fixed bayonets, completed theeffect that nothing else on earth could have produced:--and the GrandProcessional was over. 

It emerged from the Báthi Gate a shadow of itself, having left more thanhalf its numbers on guard at vital points along the route. 

"Scotched--not killed, " was Lance's pithy verdict on the proceedings. "As a bit of mere police work--excellent. As to the result--we shallsee. The C. O. Must have been thankful his force wasn't a shade weaker. "

This, unofficially, to Roy, who had secured leave off for tiffin at theEltons', and had ridden forward to report his departure and inquireafter the damaged hand, that concerned him more than anything else justthen--not even excepting Rose. 

It had been roughly wrapped in a silk handkerchief; and Lancepooh-poohed concern. 

"Hurts a bit, of course. But it's no harm. I'll have it scientificallycleaned up by Collins. Don't look pathetic about nothing, old man. Mysilly fault for failing to ride the beggar down. Just as well it isn'tyour hand, you know. Unpleasant--for the women. "

"Oh, it's all very well, " Roy muttered awkwardly. Lance in that vein hadhim at a disadvantage, always. 

"Don't be too late, " he added, as Roy turned to go. "We may be needed. Those operatic performers in the City aren't going to sit twiddlingtheir thumbs by the look of them. When's . . . The departure?"

"To-morrow or next day, I think. "

"Good job. " A pause. "Give them my regards. And don't make a tale overmy hand. "

"I shall tell the truth, " said Roy with decision. "And I'll be backabout six. "

He saluted and rode off; the prospective thrill of making love to Rosedamped by the fact that he had not been able to look Lance in the eyes. 

Things couldn't go on like this. And yet. . . ? Impossible to ask Roseoutright whether there had been anything definite between them. If shesaid "No, " he would not believe her:--detestable, but true. If she--well. . . If in any way he found she had treated Lance shabbily, he might findit hard to control himself--or forgive her: equally detestable andequally true. But uncertainty was more intolerable still. . . . 

He found the household ready for immediate flitting, and Mrs Elton in afluster of wrath and palpitation over startling news from Kasur. 

"The station burnt and looted. The Ferozepur train held up! Two of ourofficers wounded and two warrant officers _beaten_ to _death_ with thosehorrible láthis!" She poured it all out in a breathless rush before Roycould even get near Rose. "It's official. Mr Haynes has just beentelling us. An English woman and three tiny children--miraculously savedby two N. C. O. 's and a friendly native Inspector. Did you _ever_----! AndI hear they poured kerosene over the buildings they burnt, and thebodies of those poor men at Amritsar. So _now_ we know why the price ranup and why 'none was coming into the country!' Yet they say this isn'tanother Mutiny, --don't tell _me_! I was so thankful to be getting away;and now I'm terrified to stir. Fancy if it happened to _us_--to-morrow!"

"My dear Mother, it won't happen to us. " Her daughter's cool tones had atinge of contempt. "They're guarding the trains. And Fakir Ali wouldn'tlet any one lay a finger on us. "

Mrs Elton's sigh had the effect of a small cyclone. "Well, _I_ don'tbelieve we shall reach Simla without having our throats cut--or worse, "she declared with settled conviction. 

"You'll be almost disappointed if we do!" Rose quizzed her cruelly, butsweetly. "And now _perhaps_ I may get at Roy, who's probably tired andthirsty after all those hours in the sun. "

The Jeremiad revived, at intervals, throughout tiffin; but directly itwas over Rose carried Roy off to her boudoir--her own corner; itsatmosphere as cool and restful as the girl herself, after all the strifeand heat and noise of the city. 

They spent a peaceful two hours together. Roy detected no shadow ofconstraint in her; and hoped the effect of Thursday had passed off. Forhimself--all inner perturbations were charmed away by her tender concernfor the bruised shoulder--a big bruise; she could feel it under hiscoat--and the look in her eyes while he told the story of Lance; notcolouring it up, because of what he had said; yet not concealing itseffect on himself. 

"He's quite a splendid sort of person, " she said, with a little tug atthe string of her circular fan. "But _you_ know all about that. "

"Rather. "

She drew in her lip and was silent. If he could speak now. In this mood, he might believe her--might even forgive her. . . . 

But it was she who spoke. 

"What about--the Kashmir plan?"

"God knows. It's all in abeyance. The Colonel's wedding too. "

"Will you be _allowed_--I wonder--to pay me a little visit first?" Hersmile and the manner of her request were irresistible. 

"It's just possible!" he returned, in the same vein. "I fancy Lancewould understand. "

"Oh--he _would_. And to-morrow--the night train? Can you be there?"

He looked doubtful. "It depends--how things go. And--I rather barstation partings. "

"So do I. But still . . . Mother's been clamouring for you to come up withus and guard the hairs of our heads! But I deftly squashed the idea. "

"Bless you, darling!" He drew her close, and she leaned her cheekagainst him with a sigh, in which present content and prospectivesadness were strangely mingled. It was in these gentle, pensive moodsthat Roy came near to loving her as he had dreamed of loving the girl hewould make his wife. 

"I'm still jealous of the Gilgit plan, " she murmured. "And, of course, Iwish you were coming up to-morrow--even more than Mother does! But atleast I've the grace to be glad you're not--which is rather an advancefor me!"

Their parting, if less passionate, was more tender than usual; and Royrode away with a distinct ache in his heart at thought of losing her; anascent reluctance to make mountains out of molehills in respect of herand Lance. . . . 

Riding back along the Mall, he noticed absently an approachinghorsewoman, and recognised--too late for escape--Mrs Hunter-Ranyard. Bytimely flight on Thursday, he had evaded her congratulations. Intuitiontold him she would say things that jarred. Now he flicked Suráj withthe base intent of merely greeting her as he passed. 

But she was a woman of experience and resource. She beckoned him airilywith her riding-crop. 

"Mr Sinclair? What luck! I'm dying to hear how the 'March Past' wentoff. Did you get thunders of applause?"

"Oh, thunders. The Monsoon variety!"

"I saw you all in the distance, coming in from my early ride. You lookedvery imposing with your attendant aeroplanes!--May I?" She turned herpony's head without awaiting permission, and rode beside him at a foot'space, clamouring for details. 

He supplied them fluently, in the hope of heading her off personalities. A vain hope: for personalities were her daily bread. 

She took advantage of the first pause to ask, with an ineffable look:"Are you still feeling _very_ shy of being engaged? You bolted onThursday. I hadn't a chance. And I'm rather _specially_ interested. " Thelook became almost caressing. "Did it ever occur to your exquisitemodesty, I wonder, that I rather wanted, you for _my_ cavalier. Youseemed so young--in experience, that I thought a little innocuouseducation might be an advantage before you plunged. But shesnatched--oh, she did!--without seeming to lift an eyebrow, in herinimitable way. Very clever. In fact, she's been distinctly clever allround. She's eluded her 'coming man' on one side; and ructions over hersoldier man on the other----"

"Look here--I'm engaged to her, " Roy protested, trying not to be awareof a sick sensation inside. "And you know I hate that sort of talk----"

"I ought to, by this time!" She made tenderly apologetic eyes at him. "But I'm afraid I'm incurable. Don't be angry, Sir Galahad! You've wonthe Kohinoor; and although you seem to live in the clouds, you've hadthe sense to make things _pukka_ straightaway. 'Understandings' andprivate engagements are the root of all evil!"

"I'm blest if I know what you're driving at!" he flashed out, his temperrising. 

But she only laughed her tinkling laugh and shook her riding-whip athim. 

"_Souvent femme varie!_ Have you ever heard that, you blessed innocent?And the general impression is--there's already been one privateengagement--if not more. I was trying to tell you that afternoon to saveyour poor fingers----"

"It's all rot--spiteful rot!" The pain of increasing conviction made Roycareless of his manners. "The women are jealous of her beauty, so theyinvent any tale that's likely to be swallowed----"

"Possibly, my dear boy. But I can't tell my neighbours to their facesthat they lie! After all, if you win a beautiful girl of six-and-twentyyou've got to swallow the fact, with a good grace, that there must havebeen others; and thank God you're IT--if not the only IT that ever wason land or sea!--After that maternal homily, allow me to congratulateyou. I've already congratulated her, _de mon plein coeur_!"

"Thanks very much. More than I deserve!" said Roy, only half mollified. "But I'm afraid I must hurry on now. Desmond asked me not to be late. "

"Confound the women!" was his ungallant reflection, as he rode away. 

Mrs Ranyard's tongue had virtually undone the effect of his peaceful twohours with Rose. After that--clash or no clash--he must have the thingout with Lance, at the first available moment. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 34: "Hai! Hai! George is dead. "]

CHAPTER X. 

 "In you I most discern, in your brave spirit, Erect and certain, flashing deeds of light, A pure jet from the fountain of all Being; A scripture clearer than all else to read. " --J. C. SQUIRE. 

Roy returned to an empty bungalow. 

On inquiry, he learnt that the Major Sahib had gone over to see theColonel Sahib; and Wazir Khan--Desmond's bearer--abused, in lurid terms, the bastard son of a pig who had dared to assault the first Sahib increation. 

Roy, sitting down at his table, pushed aside a half-written page of hisnovel, and his pen raced over the paper in a headlong letter toJeffers:--an outlet, merely, for his pent-up sensations; and a salve tohis conscience. He had neglected Jeffers lately, as well as his novel. He had been demoralised, utterly, these last few weeks: and to-day, byway of crowning demoralisation, he felt by no means certain what the endwould be--for himself; still less, for India. 

The damaged Major Sahib--untroubled by animosity--appeared only just intime to change for Mess; his cheek unbecomingly plastered, his hand in asling. 

"Beastly nuisance; _Hukm hai_, "[35] he explained in response to Roy'sglance of inquiry. "Collins says it's a bit inflamed. I've beenconfabbing with Paul over the deferred wedding. But, of course, there'sno chance of things settling down, unless we declare martial law. Thepolice are played out; and as for the impression we made thismorning--the D. C. 's just telephoned in for a hundred British troops andarmoured cars to picket and patrol bungalows in Lahore. Seems he'sreceived an authentic report that the city people are planning to rushcivil lines, loot the bungalows, and assault our women--damn them. So, by way of precaution, he has very wisely asked for troops. --Are theyoff--those two?"

"To-morrow night, " said Roy, feeling so horribly constrained that theinflux of Barnard and Meredith was, for once, almost a relief. 

Then there was Mess; fresh speculations, fresh tales, and a certainamount of chaff over Desmond having 'stopped a brick'; Barnard, insatirical vein, regretting to report a bloody encounter: one casualty:enemy sprinkled with buckshot, retired according to plan. 

Before the meal was over, Roy fancied he detected a change in Lance; histalk and laughter seemed a trifle strained; his lips set, now and then, as if he were in pain. 

Later on he came up and remarked casually: "I'm not feeling very bright. I think I'll turn in. Perhaps the sun touched me up a bit. " ClearlyRoy's face betrayed him; for Lance added in an imperative undertone:"_Don't_ look at me like that. I'm going to slip off quietly--not toworry Paul. "

"Well, I'm going to slip off too, " Roy retorted with decision. "I feelused up; and my beast of a bruise hurts like blazes. "

"Drive me home, then, " said Lance; and his changed tone, no less thanthe surprising request, told Roy he would be glad of his company. 

They said little during the drive; Roy, because he felt vaguely anxious, and knew it would annoy Lance if he betrayed concern, or inquired aftersymptoms. It seemed a shame to worry the poor fellow in this state; butsilence had now become impossible. 

"Are you for bed, old man?" he asked when they got in. 

"Rather not. I just felt a bit queer. Wanted to get away from them alland be quiet. "

His normal manner eased Roy's anxiety a little. Without more ado, theysettled into long veranda chairs and called for 'pegs. ' The night wasutterly still. A red distorted moon hung just above the tree-tops. Yelling and spitting crowds seemed to belong to another world. 

Lance leaned back in the shadow, the tip of his cigar glowing like afierce planet. Roy sat forward, tense and purposeful: hating what he hadto say; yet goaded by the knowledge that he could have no peace of mindtill it was said. 

He was silent a few moments, pulling at his cigar: then, "Look here, Lance, " he said. "I've got a question to ask. You won't like it. I don'teither. But the truth is . . . I'm bothered to know what is . . . Or hasbeen . . . Between you and. . . . "

"Drop it, Roy. " There was pain and impatience in Desmond's tone. "I'mnot going to talk about _that_. "

Flat opposition gave Roy precisely the spur he needed. 

"I'm afraid _I_'ve got to, though. " The statement was placable butdecisive. "I can't go on this way. It's getting on my nerves----"

"Devil take your nerves, " said Lance politely. Then--with an obviouseffort--"Has she--said anything?"

"No. "

"Then why the hell can't you let be!"

"I _shall_ let be--altogether, if this goes on;--this infernalawkwardness between us; and the things she says--the way she looks . . . Almost as if she cares. "

"Well, I give you my oath--she doesn't. I suppose I ought to know?"

"That depends how things were before I came up. She's twice let yourname slip out, unawares. And at Anarkalli she was extraordinarily upset. And to-day--about your hand. Then, riding home, I met Mrs Ranyard. Andshe started talking . . . Hinting at a private engagement----"

"Mrs Ranyard deserves to have her tongue removed. She'd tell any lieabout another woman. "

"Quito so. But is it a lie? It fits in too neatly with--the otherthings----"

Lance gave him a sidelong look. Their faces were just visible in themoonlight. 

"Jealous--are you?"--His tone was almost tender. --"You damned luckydevil--you've no cause to be. "

That natural inference startlingly revealed to Roy that jealousy hadlittle or nothing to do with his trouble; and so great was the reliefof open speech between them, that instinctively he told truth. 

"N-no. I'm bothered about _you_. "

"Good God!" Desmond's abrupt laugh had no mirth in it. "_Me?_"

"Yes--naturally. If it amounted to . . . An engagement, and I charged inand upset everything . . . I can't forgive myself . . . Or her----"

At that Desmond sat forward, obstructive no longer. "If you're going sobadly off the rails, you must have it straight. And . . . Confound you!. . . It hurts----"

"I can see that. And it's more or less my doing----"

"On the contrary . . . It was primarily _my_ doing . . . As you justlypointed out to me a week or two ago. "

Roy groaned. The irony of the situation stung like a whip-lash. "_Did_it amount to an engagement?" he persisted. 

"There or thereabouts. " Lance paused and took a long pull at his cigar. "_But_--it was quite between ourselves--in fact, conditional on . . . Theheadway I could manage to make. She--cared, in a way. Not--as I do. Thatwas one hitch. The other was Oh 'Ell's antipathy to soldiers, ashusbands for her precious family. She--Rose--knew there would beructions; a downright tussle, in fact. Well--she'll go almost any lengthto avoid ructions; specially with her mother. I don't blame her. Thewoman's a caution. So--she shirked facing the music . . . Till she feltquite sure of herself. . . . "

"_Till_ she felt sure of herself, there should have been _no_engagement, " Roy decreed, amazed at his own rising anger. "Unfair onyou. "

Desmond's smile was the ghost of its normal self. "You always were a bitof a purist, Roy! Besides--it was my doing again. I pressed the point. And I think . . . She liked me . . . Loving her. She really seemed to becoming my way--till _you_ turned up----" He clenched his hand and leanedback again, drawing a deep breath. "I'm forcing myself to tell you allthis--since you've asked for it--because I won't have you blaming_her_----"

Roy said nothing. Remembering how, throughout, the initiative had beenhers, how hard he had striven against being ensnared, he did blame her, a good deal more than he could very well admit to this friend, whosesingle-hearted devotion made his own mere mingling of infatuation andpassion seem artificial as gaslight in the blaze of dawn. --But knowingso much, he must know all. 

"How long--was it on?"

"Oh, about three weeks before you came. _I_ was on a long while. BeforeChristmas. "

"Since when has it been--off?"

Lance hesitated. "Well--things became shaky after Kapurthala. Thatday--the wedding, you remember?--I spoke rather straight . . . About you. I saw you were getting keen. And I didn't want you to come acropper----"

"Why the devil didn't you tell me the _truth_?"

Lance set his lips. "Of course I wanted to. But--it was difficult. Shesaid--not any one. Made a point of it. Not even Paul. And I was keen forher to feel quite free; no slur on her--if things fell through. So--as Icouldn't warn you, I spoke to her. Perhaps I was a fool. Women arequeer. You can never be sure . . . And it seemed to have quite the wrongeffect. Then I saw she was really losing her head over you---- Naturalenough. So I simply stood by. If she really wanted _you_--not me, thatwas another affair. And it's plain . . . She did. "

"But when--did she _make_ it plain?" Roy insisted, feeling more and moreas if the ground were giving way under his feet. 

"Just before the Gym. That . . . Was why. . . . " He looked full at Roy now. His eyes darkened with pain. "I felt like murdering you that day, Roy. Afterwards . . . Well--one managed to carry on somehow. One always can--ata pinch . . . _you_ know. "

"My God! It's the bitterest, ironical tangle!" Roy burst out with asmothered vehemence that told its own tale. "You _ought_ to haveinsisted about me, Lance. I wouldn't for fifty worlds. . . . "

"Of course you wouldn't. Don't fret, old man. And don't blame _her_. "

"Blame or no, I can't pretend it doesn't alter things . . . Spoil things, badly. . . . "

He broke off, startled by the change in Desmond. His face was drawn. Hewas shivering violently. 

"Lance--_what_ is it? Fever? Have you been feeling bad?"

Desmond set his lips to steady them. "On and off--at Mess. Touch of thesun, perhaps. I'll get to bed and souse myself with quinine. "

But he was so obviously ill that Roy paid no heed. "Well, I'm going tosend for Collins instanter. "

"Don't make an ass of yourself, Roy, " Lance flashed out: but his handswere shaking: his lips were shaking. He was no longer in command ofaffairs. . . . 

While the message sped on its way, Roy got him to bed somehow; easedthings a little with hot bottles and brandy; nameless terrors knockingat his heart. . . . 

In less than no time Collins appeared, with the Colonel; and their facestold Roy that his terror was only too well founded. . . . 

Within an hour he knew the worst--acute blood-poisoning from the _láthi_wound. 

"Any hope----?" he asked the genial doctor, while Paul Desmond knelt bythe bed speaking to his brother in low tones. 

"Too early to give an opinion, " was the cautious answer. But the cautionand the man's whole manner told Roy the incredible, unbearable truth. 

Something inside him seemed to snap. In that moment of bewildered agony, he felt like a murderer. . . . 

 * * * * *

Looking back afterwards, Roy marvelled how he had lived through thewaking nightmare of those two days--while the doctor did all that washumanly possible, and Lance pitted all the clean strength of his manhoodagainst the swift deadly progress of the poison in his veins. It wassimply a question of hours; of fighting the devil to the last onprinciple, rather than from any likelihood of victory. With heart andhope broken, superhumanly they struggled on. 

For Roy, the world outside that dim whitewashed bedroom ceased to exist. The loss of his mother had been anguish unalloyed; but he had not _seen_her go. . . . 

Now, he saw--and heard, which was worse than all. 

For Lance, towards the end, was constantly delirious; and, in delirium, he raved of Rose--always of Rose. He, the soul of reserve, poured outincontinently his passion, his worship, his fury of jealousy--till Roygrew almost to hate the sound of her name. 

Worse--he was constrained to tell the Colonel the meaning of it all: tosee anger flash through the haunting pain in his eyes. 

Only twice, during the final struggle, the real Lance emerged; and onthe second occasion they happened to be alone. Their eyes met in the oldintimate understanding. Lance flung out his undamaged hand, and graspedRoy's with all the force still left him. 

"Don't fret your heart out, Roy . . . If I can't pull through, " he said inhis normal voice. "Carry on. And--_don't_ blame Rose. It'll hurt her--abit. Don't hurt her more--because of me. And--look here, stand by Paulfor a time. He'll need you. "

Roy's "Trust me, dear old man, " applied, mentally, to the last. Even atthat supreme moment he was dimly thankful it came last. 

Then the Colonel returned; and they could say no more; nor could Royfind it in his heart to grudge him a moment of that brief blessedinterlude of real contact with the man they loved. . . . 

There could be no question of going to Lahore station on Sunday evening. He was ill himself, though he did not know it; and his soul was centredon Lance--the gallant spirit inwoven with almost every act and thoughtand inspiration of his life. By comparison, Rose was nothing to him;less than nothing; a mushroom growth--sudden and violent--with no deeproots; only fibres. 

So he sent her, by an orderly, a few hurried lines of explanation andfarewell. 

 "MY DEAR, --

 "I'm sorry, but I _can't_ come to-night. We are all in dreadful grief. Lance down with acute blood-poisoning. Collins evidently fears the worst. I can't write of it. I do trust you get up safely. I'll write again, when it's possible. 

 "Yours, ROY. "

Yes, he was still hers--so far. More than that he could not honestlyadd. Beyond this awful hour he could not look. It was as if one stood onthe edge of a precipice, and the next step would be a drop into blackdarkness. . . . 

 * * * * *

By Monday night it was over. After forty-eight hours of fever andstruggle and pain, Lance Desmond lay at rest--serene and noble in death, as he had been in life. And Roy--having achieved one long, slow climbout of the depths--was flung back again, deeper than ever. . . . 

It was near midnight when the end came. Utterly weary and broken, he hadsunk into Lance's chair, leaning forward, his face hidden, his frameshaken all through with hard dry sobs that would not be stilled. 

Through the fog of his misery, he felt the Colonel's hand on hisshoulder; heard the familiar voice, deep and kindly: "My dear Roy, getto bed. We can't have you on the sick-list. There's work to do; a greatgap to be filled--somehow. I'll stay--with him. "

At that, he pulled himself together and stood up. "I'll do my best, Colonel, " was all he could say. The face he had so rarely seen perturbedwas haggard with grief. They looked straight at one another; and thethought flashed on Roy, 'I must tell him. ' Not easy; but it had to bedone. 

"There's something, sir, " he began, "I feel you ought to know. Byrights, it--it should have been _me_. That brute with the _láthi_ wasright on me; and he--Lance--dashed in between . . . Rode him off--and gotthe knock intended for me. It--it haunts me. "

Paul Desmond was silent a moment. Pain and exaltation contendedstrangely in his tired eyes. Then: "I--don't wonder, " he said slowly. "It--was like him. Thank you for telling me. It will be--some smallcomfort . . . To all of them. Now--try and get a little sleep. "

Roy shook his head. "Impossible. --Good-night, Colonel. It's a relief tofeel you know. For God's sake, let me do any mortal thing I can for anyof you. "

There was another moment of silence, of palpable hesitation; then onceagain Paul Desmond put his hand on Roy's shoulder. 

"Look here, Roy, " he said. "Drop calling me Colonel. You two--were likebrothers. And--as Thea's included, why should I be out of it. Let me--be'Paul. '"

It was hard to do. It was inimitably done. It gave Roy the very lift heneeded in that hour when he felt as if they must almost hate him, andnever wish to set eyes on him again. 

"I--I shall be proud, " he said; and, turning away to hide his emotion, went back to the bed that drew him like a magnet. 

There he knelt a long while, in a torment of mute, passionate protestagainst the power of so trivial an injury to rob the world of so muchgallantry and charm. Resignation was far from him. With all thevehemence that was in him, he raged against his loss. . . . 

 * * * * *

Next morning, they awoke, as from a prolonged and terrible dream, tofind Lahore practically isolated; all wires down, but one; the _hartal_continuing in defiance of orders and exhortations; more stationsdemolished; more trains derailed and looted; all available Britishtroops recalled from the Hills. But for five sets of wireless plant, urgently asked for, isolation would have been complete. 

By the fourteenth, the position was desperate. Civil authority flatlydefied; the police--lacking reserves--fairly played out; the temperaturechart of rebellion at its highest point. The inference was plain. 

Organised revolt is amenable only to the ultimate argument of force. Nothing, now, would serve but strong action, and the compelling power ofMartial Law. 

Happily for India, the men who had striven their utmost to avoid bothdid not falter in that critical hour. 

At Amritsar strong action had already been taken; and the soberingeffect of it spread, in widening circles, bringing relief to thousandsof both races; not least to men whose nerve and resource had beenstrained almost to the limit of endurance. 

In Lahore, notices of Martial Law were issued. The suspended life ofthe city tentatively revived. Law-abiding men of all ranks breathed morefreely; and for the moment it seemed the worst was over. . . . 

Roy, having slept off a measure of his utter fatigue, took up the deadweight of life again, with the old sick sensation, of three years ago, that nothing mattered in earth or heaven. But then, there had been Lanceto uphold and cheer him. Now there was only the hard unfailing mercy ofwork to be pulled through somehow. 

There was also Rose--and the problem of letting her know that he knew. And--their marriage? All that seemed to have suffered shipwreck with therest of him. He was still too dazed and blinded with grief to see aninch ahead. He only knew he could not bear to see her, who had madeLance suffer so, till the first anguish had been dulled a little--on thesurface at least. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 35: It is an order. ]

CHAPTER XI

 "Why did'st thou promise such a beauteous day, * * * * *

 To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke!" --SHAKSPERE. 

And away up in Simla, Rose Arden was enduring her own minor form ofpurgatory. The news of Lance Desmond's sudden death had startled andsaddened her; had pierced through her surface serenity to the deepplaces of a nature that was not altogether shallow under its veneer ofegotism and coquetry. 

On a morning, near the end of April, she sat alone in the garden underdeodar boughs tasselled with tips of young green. In a border, beyondthe lawn, spring flowers were awake; the bank was starred with whiteviolets and wild-strawberry blossoms; and through a gap in the ilextrees beyond, she had a vision of far hills and flashing snow-peaks, blue-white in the sun, cobalt in shadow. Overhead, among the higherbranches, a bird was trilling out an ecstatic love-song. 

But the year's renewal, the familiar flutter of Simla's awakening, sharpened, rather, that new ache at her heart; the haunting, incrediblethought that down there, in the stifling dusty plains, Lance Desmond laydead in the springtime of his splendid manhood; dead of his own generousimpulse to save Roy from hurt. 

Since the news came, she had avoided sociabilities and, unobtrusively, worn no colours. Foolish and fatuous, was it? Perhaps. She only knewthat--Lance being gone--she could not make _no_ difference in her dailyround, whatever others might think or say. 

And the mere fact of his being gone seemed strangely to revive thememory of his love for her, of her own genuine, if inadequate, response. For she had been more nearly in love with him than with any ofhis predecessors (and there had been several), who had been admitted tothe privileged intimacies of the half-accepted lover. More: he hadcommanded her admiration; and she had not been woman could she have heldout indefinitely against his passionate, whole-hearted devotion. 

After months of patient wooing--and he by nature impatient--he hadinsisted that matters be settled, one way or the other, before he wenton leave; and she had almost reached the point of decision, when Roy, with his careless charm and challenging detachment, appeared on thescene. . . . 

And now--Lance was gone; Roy was hers; Bramleigh Beeches and aprospective title were hers; but still. . . . 

The shock of Roy's revelation had upset her a good deal more than shedared let him guess. And the effect did not pass--in spite of determinedefforts to be unaware of it. She knew, now, that her vaunted tolerancesprang chiefly from having ignored the whole subject. Half-castes sheinstinctively despised. For India and the Indians she had little realsympathy; and the rising tide of unrest, the increasing antagonism, hadsharpened her negative attitude to a positive dislike and distrust, acutely intensified since that evening at Anarkalli, when the sight ofLance and her stepfather, sitting there at the mercy of any chance-flungmissile, had stirred the slumbering passion in her to fury. For onebewildering moment she had scarcely been able to endure Roy's touch orlook, because he was even remotely linked with those creatures, whomouthed and yelled and would have murdered them all without compunction. 

The impression of those few nerve-wracking days had struck deep. Yet, inspite of all, Roy's hold on her was strong; the stronger perhaps becauseshe had been aware of his inner resistance, and had never felt quitesure of him. She did not feel fundamentally sure of him, even now. Hisletters had been few and brief; heart-broken, naturally; yet scarcelythe letters of an ardent lover. The longest of the four had given her apoignant picture of Lance's funeral; almost as if he knew, and hadwritten with intent to hurt her. In addition to half the Britishofficers of the station, the cemetery had been thronged with the men ofhis squadron, Sikhs and Pathans--a form of homage very rare in India. Many of them had cried like children; and for himself, Roy confessed, ithad broken him all to bits. He hardly knew how to write of it; but hefelt she would care to know. 

She cared so intensely that, for the moment, she had almost hated himfor probing so deep, for stamping on her memory a picture that would notfade. 

His next letter had been no more than half a sheet. That was three daysago. Another was overdue; and the post was overdue also. 

Ah--at last! A flash of scarlet in the verandah and Fazl Ali presentingan envelope on a salver, as though she were a goddess and the letter anoffering at her shrine. 

It was a shade thicker than usual. Well, it ought to be. She had beenvery patient with his brevity. This time it seemed he had something tosay. 

Her heart stirred perceptibly as she opened it and read:--

 "DEAREST GIRL, --

 "I'm afraid my letters have been very poor things. Part of the reason you know and understand--as far as any one can. I'm still dazed. Everything's out of perspective. I suppose I shall take it in some day. 

 "But there's another reason--connected with _him_. Perhaps you can guess. I've been puzzled all along about you two. And now I _know_. I wonder--does that hurt you? It hurts me horribly. I need hardly say _he_ didn't give you away. It was things you said--and Mrs Ranyard. Anyhow, that last evening, I insisted on having the truth. But I couldn't write about it sooner--for fear of saying things I'd regret afterwards. 

 "Rose--what _possessed_ you? A man worth fifty of me! Of course, I know loving doesn't go by merit. But to keep him on tenterhooks, eating his heart out with jealousy, while you frankly encouraged me--you _know_ you did. And I--never dreaming; only puzzled at the way he sheered off after the first. Between us, we made his last month of life a torment, though he never let me guess it. I don't know how to forgive myself. And, to be honest, it's no easy job forgiving you. If that makes you angry, if you think me a prig, I can't help it. If _you'd_ heard him--all those hours of delirium--you might understand. 

 "When he wasn't raving, he had only one thought--mustn't blame _you_, or hurt you, on account of him. I'm trying not to. But if I know you at all, _that_ will hurt more than anything _I_ could say. And it's only right I should tell it you. 

 "My dearest Girl, you can't think how difficult--how strange it feels writing to you like this. I meant to wait till I came up. But I couldn't write naturally, and I was afraid you mightn't understand. 

 "I'm coming, after all, sooner than I thought, for my fool of a body has given out, and Collins won't let me hang on, though _I_ feel the work just keeps me going. It must be Kohat first, because of Paul. Now things are calming down, he is getting away to be married. The quietest possible affair, of course; but he's keen I should be best man in place of Lance. And I needn't say how I value the compliment. 

 "No more trouble here or Amritsar, thank God--and a few courageous men. Martial Law arrangements are being carried through to admiration. The Lahore C. O. Seems to get the right side of every one. He has a gift for the personal touch that is everything out here; and in no time the poor deluded beggars in the City were shouting 'Martial Law _ki jai_' as fervently as ever they shouted for Ghandi and Co. 

 "One of my fellows said to me: 'Our people don't understand this new talk of "Committee Ki Raj" and "Dyarchy Raj. " Too many orders make confusion. But they understand "_Hukm Ki raj_. "'[36] In fact, it's the general opinion that prompt action in the Punjab has fairly well steadied India--for the present at least. 

 "Well, I won't write more. We'll meet soon; and I don't doubt you'll explain a good deal that still puzzles and hurts me. If I seem changed, you must make allowances. I can't yet see my way in a world empty of Lance. But we must help each other, Rose--not pull two ways. Don't bother to write long explanations. Things will be easier face to face. 

 "Yours ever, ROY. "

"Yours ever, " . . . Did he mean that? He certainly meant the rest. Herhands dropped in her lap; and she sat there, staring beforeher--startled, angry, more profoundly disturbed and unsure of herselfthan she had felt in all her days. Though Roy had tried to write withmoderation, there were sentences that struck at her vanity, herconscience, her heart. Her first overwhelming impulse was to write backat once telling him he need not trouble to come up, as the engagementwas off. Accustomed to unquestioning homage, she took criticism badly;also--undeniably--she was jealous of his absorption in Lance. Theimpulse to dismiss him was mere hurt vanity. 

And the queer thing was, that deep down under the vanity and thejealousy, her old feeling for Lance seemed again to be stirring in itssleep. 

The love of such a man leaves no light impress on any woman; and Lancehad unwittingly achieved two master-strokes calculated to deepen thatimpress on one of her nature. In the first place, he had frontedsquarely the shock of her defection--patently on account of Roy. Shecould see him now--standing near her mantelpiece, his eyes sombre withpassion and pain; no word of reproach or pleading, though theresmouldered beneath his silence the fire of his formidable temper. Andjust because he had neither pleaded nor stormed, she had come perilouslynear to an ignominious _volte-face_, from which she had only been savedby something in him, not in herself. If she did not know it then, sheknew it now. In the second place, he had died gallantly--again onaccount of Roy. Snatched utterly out of reach, out of sight, his valuewas enhanced tenfold; and now, to crown all, came Roy's revelation ofhis amazing magnanimity. . . . 

Strange, what a complicated affair it was, for some people, this simplenatural business of getting married. Was it part of the price one hadto pay for being beautiful? Half the girls one knew slipped into it withmuch the same sort of thrill as they slipped into a new frock. But thosewere mostly the nice plain little things, who subsided gratefully intothe first pair of arms held out to them. And probably they had theirreward. 

In chastened moods, Rose did not quite care to remember how many timesshe had succumbed, experimentally, to that supreme temptation. Goodheavens! What would her precious pair think of her--if they knew! Atleast, she had the grace to feel proud that the tale of her conquestsincluded two such men. 

But Lance was gone--on account of Roy--where no spell of hers couldtouch him any more; and Roy--was he going too . . . On account ofLance. . . ? Not if she could prevent him; and yet . . . Goodness knew!

The sigh that shivered through her sprang from a deeper source than mereself-pity. 

Rattle of rickshaw wheels, puffing and grunting of _jhampannis_, heralded the return of her mother, who had been out paying a round ofpreliminary calls. It took eight stalwart men and a rickshaw of specialdimensions to convey her formidable bulk up and down Simla roads; andaffectionate friends hinted that the men demanded extra pay for extraweight!

A glance at her florid face warned Rose there was trouble in the air. 

"Oh, Rose--_there_ you are. I've had the shock of my life!" Waving awayher _jhampannis_, she sank into an adjacent cane chair that creaked andswayed ominously under the assault. "It was at Mrs Tait's. Mydear--would you _believe_ it? That fine fiancé of yours--after worminghimself into our good graces--turns out to be practically a_half-caste_. A superior one, it seems. But still--the deceitfulness ofthe man! Going about looking like everybody else too! And grey-blue eyesinto the bargain!"

At that Rose fatally smiled--in spite of genuine dismay. 

"I can't see anything _funny_ in it!" snapped her mother. "I thoughtyou'd be furious. Did you ever notice----? Had you the least suspicion?"

"Not the least, " Rose answered, with unruffled calm. "I knew. "

"You _knew_? Yet you were fool enough to accept him--and wilfullydeceive your own mother! I suppose he insisted, and you----"

"No. _I_ insisted. I knew my own mind. And I wasn't going to have himupset----"

"But if _I'm_ upset it doesn't matter a brass farthing?"

"It does matter. I'm very sorry you've had such a jar. " Rose had someado to maintain her coolness; but she knew it for her one unfailingweapon. "Of course, I meant to tell you later; in fact, as soon as hecame up to settle things finally----"

"Most con_sider_ate of you! And when he _does_ come up, _I_ propose tosettle things finally----" She choked, gulped, and glared. She wasrealising. . . . "The _position_ you've put me in! It's detestable!"

Rose sighed. It struck her that her own position was not exactlyenviable. "I've said I'm sorry. And really--it didn't seem the leastlikely. . . . Who _was_ the officious instrument of Fate?"

"Young Joe Bradley, of the Forests. We were talking of the riots andpoor Major Desmond, and Mrs Tait happened to mention Roy Sinclair. MrBradley asked--was he the artist's son; and told how he once went to teathere--when his mother was staying with Lady Despard--and had a stand-upfight with Roy. He said Roy's mother was rather a swell native woman--a_pucca_ native; and Roy went for him like a wild thing, because hecalled her an ayah----"

Again Rose smiled in spite of herself. "He would!"

"Would he, indeed! That's all _you_ think of--though you know I've got aweak heart. And I nearly fainted--if _that's_ any interest to you! TheBradley boy doesn't know--about us. But Mrs Tait's a perfect littlesieve. It'll be all over Simla to-morrow. And I was so pleased andproud----" Her voice shook. Tears threatened. "And it's so awkward--soundignified . . . Backing out----"

"My dear mother, I've no intention whatever of backing out. "

"And I've no intention what_ever_ of having a half-caste for ason-in-law. "

Rose winced at that, and drew in a steadying breath. For now, at last, the cards were on the table. She was committed to flat opposition orretreat--an impasse she had skilfully avoided hitherto. But for Roy'ssake she stood her ground. 

"It was--rather a jar when he told me, " she admitted, by way ofconcession. "But truly, he _is_ different--if you'll only listen, without fuming! His mother's a Rajput of the highest caste. Her fathereducated her almost like an English girl. She was only seventeen whenshe married Sir Nevil; and she lived altogether in England after that. In everything but being her son, Roy is practically an Englishman. Youcan't class him with the kind of people we associate with--the otherword out here----"

Very patiently and tactfully she put forward every redeeming argument inhis favour--without avail. Mrs Elton--broadly--had the right on herside; and the gods had denied her the gift of discrimination. She sawIndia as a vast, confused jumble of Rajahs and _bunnias_ and servantsand coolies--all steeped in varying depths of dirt and dishonesty, greedand shameless ingratitude. It did not occur to her that sharpdistinctions of character, tradition, and culture underlay the more orless uniform tint of skin. And beneath her instinctive antipathy, burnedfurious anger with Roy for placing her, by his deceitfulness (it _must_have been his) in the ironic position of having to repudiate theengagement she had announced with such éclat only three weeks ago. . . . 

The moment she had recovered her breath, she returned unshaken to thecharge. 

"That's very fine talk, my dear, for two people in love. But Roy's ahalf-caste: that's flat. You can't wriggle away from the damning fact bysplitting hairs about education and breeding. Besides--_you_ only thinkof the man. But are you prepared for your precious first baby to be asdark as a native? It's more than likely. I know it for a fact----"

"Really, Mother! You're a trifle previous. " Rose was cool no longer; aslow, unwilling blush flooded her face. Her mother had struck at hermore shrewdly than she knew. 

"Well, if you _will_ be obstinate, it's my duty to open your eyes; or, of course, I wouldn't talk so to an unmarried girl. There's anotherthing--any doctor will tell you--a particular form of consumptioncarries off half the wretched children of these mixed marriages. Amercy, perhaps; but think of it----! Your own! And you know perfectlywell the moral deterioration----"

"There's none of that about _Roy_. " Rose grew warmer still. "And _you_know perfectly well most of it comes from the circumstances, the stigma, the type of parent. But you can say what you please. I'm of age. I lovehim. I intend to marry him. "

"Well, you won't do it from _my_ house. I wash my hands of the wholeaffair. "

She rose, upon her ultimatum, a-quiver with righteous anger, even to therealistic cherries in her hat. The girl rose also, outwardly composed, inwardly dismayed. 

"Thank you. Now I know where I stand. And _you_ won't say a word to Roy. You _mustn't_--really----" She almost pleaded. "He worships his motherin quite the old-fashioned way. He simply couldn't see--the other pointof view. Besides--he's ill . . . Unhappy. Whatever _your_ attitude forcesone to say, can only be said by me. "

"I don't take orders from my own daughter, " Mrs Elton retortedungraciously. She was in no humour for bargaining or dictation. "But I'msure _I've_ no wish to talk to him. I'll give you a week or ten days tomake your plans. But whenever you have him here, I shall be out. And ifyou come to your senses--you can let me know. "

On that she departed, leaving Rose feeling battered and shaken, andhorribly uncertain what--in the face of that bombshell--she intended todo: she, who had made Lance suffer cruelly, and evoked a tragicsituation between him and Roy, largely in order to avoid a clash thatwould have been as nothing compared with this. . . !

Her sensations were in a whirl. But somehow--she _must_ pull it through. Home life was becoming intolerable. And--for several cogent reasons--shewanted Roy. If need be, she would tell him, diplomatically; dissociatingherself from her mother's attitude. 

And yet--her mother had said things that would stick; hateful things, that might be true. . . . 

Decidedly, she could not write him a long letter: only enough to bringhim back to her in a relenting mood. Sitting down again, she unearthedfrom her black-and-silver bag a fountain pen and half a sheet of paper. 

 "MY DARLING ROY" (she wrote), --

 "Your letter _did_ hurt--badly. Perhaps I deserved it. All I can say till we meet, is--forgive me, if you can, because of Lance. It's rather odd--though you _are_ my lover, and I suppose you do care still--I can think of no stronger appeal than that. He cared so for us both, in his big splendid way. Can't we stand by each other?

 "You ask me to make allowances. Will you be generous, and do the same on a larger scale for your sincerely loving (and not altogether worthless)

 ROSE?"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 36: Government by order. ]

CHAPTER XII. 

 "She had a step that walked unheard, It made the stones like grass; Yet that light step had crushed a heart As light as that step was. " --W. H. DAVIES. 

At last, Roy was actually coming. The critical moment was upon them; andRose sat alone in the drawing-room awaiting him. 

Her mother was out; had arranged to be out for the evening also. Thestrain between them still continued; and it told most on Rose. Thecat-like element in her loved comfort; and an undercurrent of clash waspeculiarly irritating in her present sore, uncertain state of heart. Weeks of it, she knew, would scarcely leave a dent on her mother'sleathern temperament. When it came to a tug the tougher nature scored, which was one reason why she had so skilfully avoided tugs hitherto. 

True, she was of age; and her father's small legacy gave her a measureof independence. But how could one set about getting married in the faceof open opposition? And--how keep the truth from Roy? Or tone it down, so that he would not go off at a tangent straightaway?

Assuredly the Fates had conspired to strip her headlong romance of itsgilded trappings. But her moment for marriage had come. She was sick todeath of the Anglo-Indian round--from the unattached standpoint, atleast. Roy fascinated her as few men had done; and she had beendeliberately trying to ignore the effect of her mother's brutalfrankness. Their coming together again, in these changed conditions, would be the ultimate test. Such a chasm of distance seemed to yawnbetween that tender parting in her boudoir and this criticalreunion--in another world. . . . 

Sounds of arrival brought her to her feet; but she checked the naturalimpulse to welcome him in the verandah. Her innate sense of drama shrankfrom possible awkwardness, a false step, at the start. 

And now he appeared in the doorway--very straight and slim in his greysuit, with the sorrowful black band on his arm. 

"Rose!" he cried--and stood gazing at her, pulses hammering, braindizzy. The mere sight of her brought back too vividly the memory ofthose April days that he had been resolutely shutting out of his mind. 

His pause--the shock of his changed aspect--held her motionless also. Helooked older, more sallow; his sensitive mouth compressed; no lurkinggleam in his eyes. He seemed actually less good-looking than sheremembered; for anguish is no beautifier. 

So standing, they mutely confronted the change in themselves--in eachother; then Rose swept forward, both hands held out. 

"Roy--my darling--_what_ you must have been through! Can you--willyou--in spite of all----?"

Next moment, in his silent, vehement fashion, he was straining her tohim; kissing her eyes, her hair, her lips; not in simple lover'secstasy, but in a fervour of repressed passion, touched with tragedy, with pain. . . . 

Then he held her from him, to refresh his tired eyes with the sheerbeauty of her; and was struck at once by the absence of colour; the wideblack sash, the black velvet round her throat and hair. 

He touched the velvet, looking his question. She nodded, drawing in herlip to steady it. 

"I felt--I must. You don't mind?"

"_Mind_----?--Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever really _mind_ thingsany more. "

His face worked. That queer dizziness took him again. With an incoherentapology, he sat down rather abruptly, and leaned forward, his headbetween his hands, hiding the emotion he could not altogether control. 

Rose stood beside him, feeling helpless and vaguely aggrieved. He hadjust got back to her, after a two weeks' parting, and he sat there lostin an access of grief that left her quite out of account. Inadvertentlythere flashed the thought, "Whatever Lance might have suffered, he wouldnot succumb. " It startled her. She had never so compared them before. . . . 

Then, looking down at his bowed head, compunction seized her, andtenderness, that rarely entered into her feeling for men. She couldthink of nothing to say that would not sound idiotically commonplace. Soshe laid her hand on his hair, and moved it caressingly now and then. 

She felt a tremor go through him. He half withdrew his head, checkedhimself, and capturing her hand, pressed it to his lips, that were hotand feverish. 

"Roy--what is it? What went wrong?" she asked softly. 

He looked up now with a fair imitation of a smile. "Just--an old memory. It was dear of you. Ungracious of me. "--Pain and perplexity went fromher. She slipped to her knees beside him, and his arm enclosed her. "Sorry to behave like this. But I'm not very fit. And--seeing you, brought it all back so sharply! It's been--a bit of a strain, this lastweek. A letter from Thea--brave, of course; but broken utterly. Thewedding too: and that beast of a journey fairly finished me. "

She leaned closer, comforting him by the feel of her nearness. Then herpractical brain suggested needs more pedestrian, none the lessessential. 

"Dearest--you're simply exhausted. How about tea--or a peg?"

He pleaded for a peg, if permissible. She fetched it herself; made tea;plied him with sandwiches and sugared cakes, for which he still retainedhis boyish weakness. 

But talking proved difficult. There were uncomfortable gaps. In theirfirst uplifted moment all had seemed well. Love-making was simple, elemental, satisfying. Beyond the initial glamour and passion ofcourtship they had scarcely adventured, when the fabric of their worldwas shattered by the startling events of those four days. Both wererealising--as they stepped cautiously among the fragments--that, for alltheir surface intimacy, they were still strangers underneath. 

Roy took refuge in talk about Lahore; the high tribute paid to theconduct of all troops--British and Indian--and police, under peculiarlyexasperating circumstances, the C. O. 's conviction that unless sternermeasures were taken--and adhered to--there would be more outbreaks, atshorter intervals, better organised. . . . 

He hoped her charming air of interest was genuine, but felt by no meanssure. And all the while, he was craving to know what she had to say forherself; yet doubting whether he could stand the lightest touch on hisopen wound. Lance had begged him not to hurt her. Had it ever occurredto that devout lover how sharply she might hurt him?

Tea and a restful hour in an arm-chair eased the strain a little. ThenRose suggested the garden, knowing him susceptible to the large healinginfluences of earth and sky; also with diplomatic intent to draw himaway from the house before her mother's meteoric visitation. 

And she was only just in time. The rattle of rickshaw wheels came up themain path two minutes after they had turned out of it towards afavourite nook, which she had strangely grown to love in the last twoweeks. 

"Poor darling! You've just missed Mother!" She condoled with him, smiling sidelong under her lashes; and she almost blessed her maternalenemy for bringing back the familiar gleam into his eyes. 

"Bad luck! Ought we to go in again?"

"Gracious, no. She's only tearing home to change for an early dinner atPenshurst and the theatre. Anyway, please note, you're immune from theformalities. We're going to have a peaceful time, quite independent ofSimla rushings. Just ourselves to ourselves. "

"Good. "

It was an asset with men--second only to her beauty--this gift forcreating a restful atmosphere. 

Her nook, in an angle above the narrow path, was a grassy bank, lookingacross crumpled ranges--velvet-soft in the level light--to the stillpurity of the snows. 

"Rather nice, isn't it?" she said. "I'm not given to mooning out ofdoors; but I've spent several evenings here . . . Lately. "

"It's sanctuary, " Roy murmured; but his sigh was tinged withapprehension. Flinging off his hat, he reclined full length on thegentle slope, hands under his head, and let the healing rays flow intothe deeps of his troubled being. 

Rose sat upright beside him, her fingers locked loosely round one raisedknee. She was troubled too, and quite at a loss how to begin. 

"So you've not been going out much?" he asked, after a prolonged pause. 

"No--how could I--with you, so unhappy, down there--and. . . . "--Shedeliberately met his eyes; and the look in them impelled her to ask:"_What_ is it, Roy--lurking in your mind?"

"Am I--to be frank?"

She shivered. "It sounds--rather chilly. But I suppose we'd better takeour cold plunge--and get it over!"

"Well"--he hesitated palpably. "It was only a natural wonder--if youcare . . . All that . . . Now he's gone, how could you deliberately hurt himso--while he lived?"

She drew in her lip. It was going to be more unsteadying than she hadforeseen. 

"How _can_ a woman explain to a man the simple fact that she isincurably--perhaps unforgivably--a woman?"

"I don't know. I hoped you could--up to a point, " said Roy, looking awayto the snows and remembering, suddenly, _that_ was where he ought to benow--with Lance--always Lance: no other thought or presence seemed vitalto him, these days. Yet Rose remained beautiful and desirable--andclearly she loved him. 

"It doesn't make things easier, you know, " she was saying, in her cool, low voice, "to feel you are patently regretting events that, unhappily, did hurt--him; but also--gave me to you. . . . "

Her beauty, her evident pain, penetrated the settled misery thatenveloped him like an atmosphere. 

"Darling--forgive me!" He reached out, pulling her hands apart, and hisfingers closed hard on hers. "I'm only trying--clumsily--tounderstand. . . . "

"And goodness knows I'm willing to help you, " she sighed, returning hispressure. "But--I'm afraid the little I can say for myself won't do muchto regild my halo--if there's any of it left! I gather you aren't verywell up in women, or girls, Roy?"

"No--I'm not. Perhaps it makes me seem to you a bit of a fool?"

"Quite the reverse. It's all along been a part of your charm. "

"My--charm?"

There was more of tenderness than amusement in her low laugh. "Precisely! If you didn't possess--_some_ magnetic quality, could I havebeen drawn away from a man--like Lance, when I'd nearly made up mymind--to face the music. "

For answer, he kissed her captured hand. 

Then: "Roy, if it doesn't hurt too much, " she urged, "will you tell mefirst--just--what Lance said?"

It would hurt, horridly. But it was as well she should know; and not aword need he withhold. Could there be a finer tribute to his friend? Itwas his own share in their last unforgettable talk that could not bereproduced. 

"Yes--I'll tell you, " he said. And, his half-closed eyes resting on thesunlit hills, he told her, in a voice from which all feeling wascarefully expunged. Only so could he achieve the telling; and shelistened without interruption, for which he felt grateful, exceedingly. . . . 

When it was over he merely moved his head and looked up at her; and shereturned his look, her eyes heavy with tears. Mutually their fingerstightened. 

"Thank you, " she said. "It makes me . . . Ashamed, but it makes me proud. "

"It made _me_ angry and bewildered, " said Roy. "If you really were . . . Coming his way, what the devil did _I_ do to upset it all? Of course Iadmired you; and I was interested--on his account. But--I had nothought--I was absorbed in other things----"

She nodded slowly, not looking at him. "Quite so. And I suppose--beingme--I didn't choose that a man should dance with me, ride with me, obviously admire me, and yet remain absorbed in other things. And--beingyou--of course it never struck you that, for my kind of girl, yourprovocatively casual attitude almost amounted to a challenge. Besides--as I said--you were charming; you were different. Perhaps--ifI'd felt a shade less sure--of Lance, if he'd had the wit even to_seem_ keen on some one else . . . He might have saved himself. As itwas--you were irresistible. "

She heard him grit his teeth; and turned with swift compunction. 

"My poor Roy! Am I jarring you badly? I suppose, if I talked tillmidnight, I'd never succeed in making a man like you understand howpurely instinctive it all is. Analysed, like this, it soundscold-blooded. But, it's just--second nature. He--Lance--understood up toa point. That's why he was aggressive that day: oh--furiously angry; allbecause of you. The pair you are! He said if I fooled you, and didn'tplay fair, he'd back out, or insist on a _pucca_ engagement. And--yes--it did have the wrong effect. It made me wonder--if I _could_marry a man, however splendid, who owned such exacting standards andsuch a hot temper. And there were you--an unknown quantity, with theBanter-Wrangle discreetly in pursuit. A supreme inducement initself!--Yes, distinctly, that afternoon was a turning-point. Just Lancelosing his temper, and you coolly forgetting an arrangement with me----"

She paused, looking back over it all; felt Roy's hold slacken andunobtrusively withdrew her hand. 

"Soon after Kapurthala, he was angry again. And that time, I'm afraid Ireminded him that our engagement was only 'on' conditionally; that if hestarted worrying at me, it would soon be unconditionally off----"

"So it _should_ have been!" Roy jerked up on to his elbow, andconfronted her with challenging directness. "Once you could speak likethat, feel like that, you'd no _right_ to keep him hanging on--hopingwhen there was practically no hope. It wasn't playing the game----"

This time she kept her eyes averted, and a slow colour invaded her face. There was a point beyond which feminine frankness could not go. Shecould not--would not--tell this unflatteringly critical lover of hersthat it was not in her nature to let the one man go till she feltmorally sure of the other. 

Roy had only a profile view of her warm cheek, her sensitive nostrila-quiver, her lip drawn in. And when she spoke, it was in the tense, passionate tone of that evening at Anarkalli. 

"Oh yes--it's easy work sitting in judgment on other people. I told youI hadn't much of a case--I asked you to make allowances. You clearlycan't. _He_ asked you--not to hurt me. You clearly feel you must. Yet--in justice to you both--I'm doing what I can. I've never beforecondescended to explain myself--almost excuse myself--to _any_ man; andI certainly never shall again. It strikes me you'd better apply your ownindictment . . . To your own case. If _you_ can think and feel . . . As youseem to do, better face the fact and be done with it----"

But Roy, startled and penitent, was sitting upright by now; and, whenshe would have risen, he seized her, crushing her to him, would she orno. In her pain and anger she more than ever drew him. In his utterheart-loneliness, he more than ever needed her. And the reminder ofLance crowned all. 

"My darling--don't go off at a tangent, that way, " he implored her, hislips against her hair. "For me--it's a sacred bond. It can't be snappedin a fit of temper--like a bit of knotted thread. I'll accept . . . What Ican't see clear. We'll stand by each other, as you said. Learn oneanother--Rose. . . ! My dearest girl--_don't_----!"

He strained her closer, in mingled bewilderment and distress. ForRose--who trod lightly on the hearts of men, Rose--the serene andself-assured--was sobbing brokenly in his arms. . . . 

Before the end of the evening, they were more or less themselves again;the threatened storm averted; the trouble patched up and summarilydismissed, as only lovers can dismiss a cloud that intrudes upon theirheaven of blue. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

 "Le pire douleur est de ne pas, pleurer ce qu'on a perdu. " --DE COULEVAIN. 

But as days passed, both grew increasingly aware of the patch; and bothvery carefully concealed the fact. They spent a week of peacefulseclusion from Simla and her restless activities. Roy scarcely set eyeson Mrs Elton; but--Rose having skilfully prepared the ground--he merelygave her credit for her mother's unusual display of tact. 

Neither was in the vein for dances or tennis parties. They rode out toMashobra and Fagu. They spent long days, picnicking in the Glen. Roydiscovered, with satisfaction, that Rose had a weakness for being readto and a fair taste in literature, so long as it was not poetry. He alsodiscovered--with a twinge of dismay--that if they were many hourstogether, he found reading easier than talking. 

On the whole, they spent a week that should, by rights, have been idealfor new-made lovers; yet, at heart, both felt vaguely troubled anddisillusioned. 

Pain and parting and harsh realities seemed to have rubbed the bloom offtheir exotic romance. And for Rose the trouble struck deep. She haddeliberately willed to put aside her own innate shrinking from theIndian strain in Roy. But she reckoned without the haunting effect ofher mother's plain speaking. At first she had flatly ignored it; thenshe fortified her secret qualms by devising a practical plan for gettingaway to a friend in Kashmir. There was a sister in Simla going to joinher. They could travel together. Roy could follow on. And there they twocould be quietly married without fuss or audible comment from theirtalkative little world. 

It was not precisely her idea of the manner in which she--RoseArden--should be given in marriage. But the main point was that--if shecould help it--her mother should not score in the matter of Roy. _Could_she help it? That was the question persistently knocking at her heart. 

And she was only a degree less troubled by the perverse revival of herfeeling for Lance. Vanished--his hold on her deeper nature seemedmysteriously to strengthen. Memories crowded in, unbidden, of theirgolden time together just before Roy appeared on the scene; till shealmost arrived at blaming her deliberately chosen lover for having comebetween them and landed her in her present distracting position. For nowit was the ghost of Lance that threatened to come between her and Roy;and the irony of it cut her to the quick. If she had dealt unfairly bythese two men, whose standards were leagues above her own, she was not, it seemed, to escape her share of suffering. . . . 

For Roy's heart also knew the chill of secret disillusion. The ardourand thrill of his courtship seemed fatally to have suffered eclipse. When they were together, the lure of her was potent still. It was in thegaps between that he felt irked, more and more, by incipient criticism. In the course of that first talk, she had unwittingly stripped herselfof the glamour that was more than half her charm; and at bottom hisEastern subconsciousness was jarred by her casual attitude to thesanctities of the man and woman relation, as instilled into him by hismother. When he quarrelled with her treatment of Lance, she saw itmerely as a rather exaggerated concern for his friend. There was that init, of course; but there was more. 

Yet undeniably Desmond's urgent plea influenced his own effort to ignorethe still small voice within him, that protested against the wholeaffair. At another time he would have taken it for a clear intimationfrom his mother; but she seemed to have lost, or deserted him, thesedays. All he could firmly hold on to, at present, was his loyalty toLance, his duty to Rose; and both seemed to point in the samedirection. 

It struck him as strange that she did not mention the wedding; and shehad been so full of it that very first evening. Once, when he casuallyasked if any fixtures were decided on yet, she had smiled and answered, "No; not yet. " And some other topic had intervened. 

It was only a degree less strange that she spoke so often of Lance, without attempting to disguise her admiration--and something more. Andin himself--strangest of all--this surprising manifestation stirred noflicker of jealousy. It seemed a link, rather, drawing, them nearertogether. She frankly encouraged talk of their school-days that involvedfresh revealings of Lance at every turn: talk that was anodyne oranguish according to his mood. 

She also encouraged him to unearth his deserted novel and read her theopening chapters. In Lahore, he had longed for that moment; now hefeared lest it too sharply emphasise their inner apartness. For theIndian atmosphere was strong in the book; and the Indian atmospherejarred. The effect of the riots had merely been repressed. It stillsimmered underneath. 

Only once she had broken out on the subject; and had been distinctlyrestive when he demurred at the injustice of sweeping indictmentsagainst the whole country, because a handful of extremists were tryingto wreck the ship. Personally he blamed England for virtually assistingin the process. It had come near to an altercation--very rare event withRose; and it had left Roy feeling more unsettled than ever. 

A few readings of his novel made him feel more uncomfortable still. Likeall true artists, he listened, as he read, with the mind of hisaudience; and intuitively, he felt her antagonism to the Indian elementin his characters, his writing, his theme. 

For three days he persisted. Then he gave it up. 

They were sitting in their nook; Rose leaning back, her eyes halfclosed, gazing across the valley. In the middle of a flagrantly Indianchapter, he broke off: determined to take it lightly; not to make agrievance of it: equally determined she should hear no more. 

For a few seconds she did not realise. Then she turned and looked up athim. "Well----? Is that all?"

"Yes. That's all--so far as you're concerned!"

Her brows went up in the old beguiling way. He felt her trying to hideher thought, and held up a warning finger. 

"Now, don't put it on! Frankly--isn't she relieved? Hasn't she borne theinfliction like a saint?"

The blood stirred visibly under her pallor. "It was _not_ an infliction. Your writing's wonderful. Quite uncanny--the way you get inside peopleand things. If there's more--go on. "

"There's a lot more. But I'm not going on--even at her Majesty's expresscommand!--Look here, Rose . . . Let be. " He suddenly changed his tone. "Ican feel how it bothers you. So--why pretend. . . ?"

She looked down; twisting her opal ring, making the delicate coloursflash and change. 

"It's a pity--isn't it?"--she seemed to muse aloud--"that more than halfof life is made up of pretending. It becomes rather a delicateproblem--fixing boundary lines. I _do_ admire your gift, Roy. And you'reso intensely human. But I confess, I--I _am_ jerked by parts of yourtheme. Doesn't all this animosity and open vilification affect your ownfeeling about--things, the least bit?"

"Yes. It does. Only--not in your way. It makes me unhappy, because thereal India--snowed under with specious talk and bitter invective--hasless chance now than ever of being understood by those who can't seebelow the surface. "

"Me--for instance?"

He sighed. "Oh, scores and scores of you, here and at Home. And scoresof others, who have far less excuse. That's why one feels bound to dowhat one can. . . . "

His thoughts on that score went too deep for utterance. 

But Rose was engaged in her own purely personal deliberations. 

"You might want to come out again . . . Afterwards?"

"Yes--I should hope to. Besides . . . There are my cousins. . . . "

"Indian ones----?"

"Yes. Very clever. Very charming. Rose . . . You've been six years inIndia. Have you ever met, in a friendly way, a cultivated, well-bornIndian--man or woman?"

"N-no. Not worth mentioning. "

"And . . . You haven't wanted to?"

He felt her shrink from the direct question. 

"Why press the point, Roy? It needn't make any real difference--needit--between you and me?"

Her counter-question was still more direct, more searching. 

"Perhaps not--now, " he said. "It might . . . Make a lot . . . Afterwards----"

At that critical juncture their talk was interrupted by a peon with anote that required immediate attention: and Roy, left alone, feltincreasingly disillusioned and dismayed. 

Later on, to his relief, Rose suggested a ride. She seemed suddenly in amore elusive mood than he had experienced since their engagement. Shedid not refer again to his novel, or to the thorny topic of India; andtheir parting embrace was chilled by a shadow of constraint. 

"_How_ would it be--afterwards?" he wondered, riding back to the Club, at a foot's pace, feeling tired and feverish and gravely puzzled as towhether it might not--on all counts--be the greater wrong to make afetish of a bond so rashly forged. 

To-day, very distinctly he was aware of the inner tug he had been tryingto ignore. And to-day it was more imperative; less easily stilled. Couldit be . . . Veritably, his mother, trying to reach him--and failing, forthe first time?

That thought prompted the test question--if _she_ were alive, how wouldhe feel about bringing Rose home as daughter-in-law, as mother of hergrandson . . . The gift of gifts? If she were alive, could Rose herselfhave faced the conjunction? And to him she was still verily alive--orhad been, till his infatuate passion had blinded him to everything butone face, one form, one desire. 

That night there came to him--on the verge of sleep--the old thrillingsensation that she was there--yearning to him across an impassablebarrier. And this time he knew--with a bitter certainty--that thebarrier was within himself. Every nerve in him craved--as he had notcraved this long while--the unmistakable _sense_ of her that seemed gonepast recall. Desperately, he strained every faculty to penetrate theresistant medium that withheld her from him--in vain. 

Wearied out, with disappointment and futile effort, he fellasleep--praying for a dream visitation to revive his shaken faith. Nonecame; and conviction seized him that none would come, until. . . . 

One could not, simultaneously, live on intimate terms with earth andheaven. And Rose was earth in its most alluring guise. More: she hadawakened in him sensations and needs that, at the moment, she alonecould satisfy. But if it amounted to a choice; for him, there could beno question. . . . 

 * * * * *

Next day and the day after, a sharp return of fever kept him in bed: anda touch of his father in him tempted him to write, sooner than face thestrain of a final scene. But moral cowardice was not among his failings;also unquestionably--if irrationally--he wanted to see her, to hold herin his arms once again. . . . 

On the third morning he sent her a note saying he was better; he wouldbe round for tea; and received a verbal answer. Miss Sahib sent hersalaam. She would be at home. 

So, about half-past three, he rode out to the house on Elysium Hill, wondering how--and, at moments, whether--he was going to pull itthrough. . . . 

Her smile of welcome almost unmanned him. He simply did not feel fit forthe strain. It would be so much easier and more restful to yield to herspell. 

"I'm so sorry. Idiotic of me, " was all he said; and went forward to takeher in his arms. 

But she, without a word, laid both hands on him, holding him back. 

"_Rose!_ What's the matter?" he cried, genuinely upset. Nothingundermines a resolve like finding it forestalled. 

"Simply--it's all over. We're beaten, Roy, " she said in a queer, repressed voice. "We can't go on with this. And--you know it. "

"But--darling!" He took her by the arms. 

"No . . . _no_!" The passionate protest was addressed to herself as muchas to him. "Listen, Roy. I've never hated saying anything more--but it'strue. You said, last time, --'Why pretend?' And that struck home. I knewI had been pretending hard--because I wanted to--for more than a week. You made me realise . . . One couldn't go on at it all one's marriedlife. --But, my dear, what a wretch I am! You're not fit. . . . "

"Oh, I'm just wobbly . . . Stupid, " he muttered, half dazed, as shepressed him down into a corner of the Chesterfield. 

"Poor old boy. When you've had some tea, you'll be able to face things. "

He said nothing; merely leaned back against the cushion and closed hiseyes--part of him rebelling furiously against her quiet yet summaryproceedings--while she attended to the sputtering kettle. 

How prosaic, after all, are even the great moments of life! They hadbeen ardent lovers. They had come to the parting of the ways. But akettle on the boil would wait for no man; and, till the body was served, the troubles of the heart must stand aside. 

She drew the table nearer to him; carefully poured out tea; carefullyavoided his eyes. And--in the intervals between her mechanicaloccupations--she told him as much of the truth as she felt he could bearto hear, or she to speak. Among other things, unavoidably, she explainedhow--and through whom--her mother had come to know about theirreservation----

"_That_ young sweep!" Roy muttered, so suddenly half-alert and fiercethat amused tenderness tripped up her studied composure. 

"You'd go for him now, just the same, I believe!"

"I would--and a bit extra. Because--of you. "

She sighed. "Oh yes, it was a _mauvais quart d'heure_ of the firstorder. And coming on the top of your crushing letter----"

He captured her hand. Their eyes met--and softened. 

"No, Roy, " she said, gently but inexorably releasing her fingers. "We'vegot to keep our heads to-day, somehow. "

"Has yours so completely taken command of affairs?"

"I'm afraid--it has. "

"Yet--you stood up to your mother?"

"Oh, I did--as I've never done yet. But afterwards I realised--it wasonly skin deep. She said . . . Things I can't repeat; but equally . . . Ican't forget; things about . . . Possible children. . . . "

The blood flamed in Roy's sallow face. "Confound her! What does _she_know about possible children?"

"More than I do, I suppose, " Rose admitted, with a pathetic half smile. "Anyway, after that, she refused to countenance the engagement--thewedding----"

Roy sat suddenly forward, scorn and anger in his eyes. 

"_Refused_----! After the infernal fuss she made over me, because myfather happened to have a title and a garden. And now----" his handclosed on the edge of the table. "I'm considered a pariah--am I?--simplyon account of my lovely little mother--the guardian angel of us all!"

His blaze of wrath, his low passionate tone, startled her to silence. Hehad spoken so seldom of his mother since the first occasion, that--although she knew--she had far from plumbed the height and depthof his worship. And instinctively she thought, 'I should have beenjealous into the bargain. '

But Roy had room just then for one consideration only. 

"Here have I been coming to her house on sufferance . . . Polluting herprecious drawing-room, while she's been avoiding me as if I was a leper, all because I'm the son of a sainted woman, whose shoe she wouldn't havebeen worthy . . . Oh, I beg your pardon----" He checked himself sharply. "After all--she's _your_ mother. "

Rose felt her cheeks growing uncomfortably warm. "I did warn you, inLahore, some people felt . . . That way. "

"Well, I never dreamed they would _behave_ that way. It's not as if I'dbeen born and reared in India and might claim relations in hercompound. "

"My dear--one can't make her see the difference, " Rose urgeddesperately. 

"Well, I _won't_ stay any longer in her house. I won't eat her food----"

He pushed aside his plate so impatiently that Rose felt almost angry. But she saw his hand tremble; and covered it with her own. 

"Roy--my dear! You're ill; and you're being rather exaggerated overthings----"

"Well, you put me in such a false position. You ought to have told me. "

She winced at that and let fall her hand. 

"That's all one's reward for trying to save you from jars when you wereknocked up and unhappy. And I told you . . . I defied her . . . I . . . Iwould have married you. . . . "

He looked at her, and his heart contracted sharply. 

"Poor Rose--poor darling!" He was his normal self again. "What a beastof a time you must have had! But--how _did_ you propose to accomplishit----?"

She told him, haltingly, of the Kashmir plan; and he listened, halfincredulous, leaning back again; thinking: "She's plucky; but still, allshe troubled about really was to save her face. "

And she, noting his impatient frown, was thinking: "He's like asensitive plant charged with gunpowder. Is it the touchiness of----?"

"I'm afraid I'd have kicked at that. " His voice broke in upon herthought. "Such a hole-and-corner business. Hardly fair on my father. . . . "

"Well, there's no question of it now, " she reminded him, with a touch ofasperity. "I've told you--the whole thing's defunct. Later--we'll beglad, perhaps, that I discovered in time that part of me could not becoerced--by the other part, which still wants you as much as ever. Weshould have been landed in disaster--soon or late. Better soon--beforethe roots have struck too deep. But you're so furiously angry with the_reason_--that you seem almost to forget . . . The fact. "

His eyes brooded on her, full of pain and the old, half-unwillinginfatuation. He could not so hurt her pride as to confess that theirdiscovery had been mutual. Let her glean what satisfaction she couldfrom having taken the lead--first and last. Part of him, also, stillwanted her; though in the depths, he felt a glimmer of relief that thething was done--and by her. 

"No, " he said, "I don't forget the fact. But--the reason cuts deep. Iwant to know----" he hesitated--"is all this . . . Antipathy you can't getover--you and your mother--the ordinary average attitude? Or is it . . . Exceptionally acute?"

She drew in her lip. Why _would_ he force her to hurt him more? For theyhad got beyond polite evasion. Clearly he wanted the truth. 

"Mother's is acute, " she said, not looking at him. "Mine--I'm afraid--is. . . The ordinary average feeling against it. The exception would be tofind a girl--especially out here--who could honestly . . . Get overit----"

"_Unless_--she cared in the real big way, " Roy interposed; his own paingoading him to an unfair hit at her. "To be blunt, I suppose it's thecase--of Lance over again. You've found . . . You don't love meenough----?"

"And _you_----?" she struck back, turning on him the cool deliberatelook of early days. "Do _you_ love me enough? Do you care--as he did?"

"No--not as he did. I've cared blindly, passionately--somehow we didn'tseem to meet on any other plane. In fact, it . . . It was realising howmagnificently Lance cared . . . And how little you seemed able toappreciate the fact, that made me feel--as I did, down there. In asense, he's been barring the way . . . Ever since. . . . "

"_Roy!_ How strange!" She faced him now, the mask of repression flungaside. "It's been the same--with me!"

"With _you_?"

"Yes. Ever since I heard . . . He was gone, he has haunted me todistraction. I've seemed to see him and feel him in quite a differentway. "

"Good Lord!" Roy murmured--incredulous, amazed. "Human beings _are_ thequeerest things. If only . . . You'd felt like that . . . Sooner----?"

"Yes--if only I had----!" she lamented frankly, looking straight beforeher. 

"I'm glad--you told me, " said her unaccountable lover. 

"I nearly--didn't. But when you said that, I felt it might--ease things. And that was his great wish--wasn't it?--to ease things . . . For us both. Oh--was there ever any one . . . _quite_ like him?"

Tears stood in her eyes, and Roy contemplating her--seeing, for thefirst time, something beyond her beauty--felt drawn to her in analtogether new way; and sitting there they talked of him quietly, likefriends, rather than lovers on the verge of parting for good. 

As real to them, almost, as themselves, was the spirit of the man whohad loved both more greatly than they were capable of loving oneanother; who, in life, had refused to stand between them; yet, in death, had subtly thrust them apart. . . . 

Then there came a pause. They remembered. . . . 

"We're rather a strange pair--of lovers, " she murmured shakily. "I feel, now, as if I can't bear letting you go. And yet . . . It wouldn'tlast. --Dearest, _will_ you be sensible . . . And finish your tea?"

"No. It would choke me, " he said with smothered passion. "If I've got togo--I'm going. "

He stood up, bracing his shoulders. She stood up also, confronting him. Neither could see the other's face quite clear. 

Then: "Only six weeks!" she said very low. "Roy--we ought to be ashamedof ourselves. "

"I am--heartily, " he confessed. "I was never more so. "

She was looking down now, twisting her ring. "I'm afraid . . . I'm nottalented in that line. Somehow . . . Except for Lance, I can't regret it. "She slid the ring over her knuckle. 

"Oh, _keep_ the beastly thing!" he flung out in an access of pain. "Orthrow it down the khud. I said it would bring bad luck. "

She sighed. "All the same--poor thing! It's too lovely. . . . "

"Well then, don't wear it; but keep it"--his tone changed--"as areminder. We have been something to one another . . . If it couldn't beeverything. "

Her eyes were still lowered, her lips not quite steady. 

"You've been . . . Very near it to me. Yet--it seemed, the more . . . Icared, the less I could get over . . . That. And I felt as ifyou--wouldn't get over. . Lance. "

"My God! It's been a bitter, contrary business all round! I can't bearhurting you. And--the talk and all that----" She nodded. For her thatwas not the least bitter part of it all. "And you----? Oh, Lord--willit be Hayes to the fore again?"

"_No!_" Reproach underlay her vehemence. "Mother may rage. I shall gowith Dolly Smyth to Kashmir. --And you----?"

"Oh, I'll go out to Narkhanda. "

"Alone? But you're ill. You want looking after. "

"Can't be helped. Azim Khan's a treasure. And really I don't care a damnwhat comes to me. "

"Oh, but _I_ do----!"

It was a cry from her heart. The strain of repression snapped. Sheswayed, just perceptibly----

In a moment his arms were round her; and they clung together a longwhile, in the only complete form of nearness they had known. . . . 

For Roy, that last passionate kiss was dead-sea fruit. For Rose, it washer moment of completest surrender to an elemental force she haddeliberately played with only to find herself the sport of it atlast. . . . 

When it was over--all was over. Words were impertinent. He held herhands close, a moment, looking into her tear-filled eyes. Then he tookup hat and stick and stumbled blindly down the verandah steps. . . . 

 * * * * *

Back in his bachelor room at the Club, he realised that fever was on himagain: his eyeballs burning; little hammers beating all over his head. Mechanically, he picked up two letters that lay awaiting him: one fromhis father, one from Jeffers, congratulating him, in rather guardedphrases, on his engagement to Miss Arden. 

It was the last straw. 

END OF PHASE IV. 

PHASE V. 

A STAR IN DARKNESS

CHAPTER I. 

 "Thou art with life Too closely woven, nerve with nerve intwined; Service still craving service, love for love . . . Nor yet thy human task is done. " --R. L. S. 

In the verandah of Narkhanda dák bungalow Roy lay alone, languidly atease, assisted by rugs and pillows and a Madeira cane lounge at aninvalid angle; walls and arches splashed with sunshine; and a tablebeside him littered with convalescent accessories. There were homepapers; there were books; there was fruit and a syphon, cut lemons andcrushed ice--everything thoughtfulness could suggest set within easyreach. But the nameless depression of convalescence hung heavy on hisspirit and his limbs. 

He was thirsty; he was lonely; he was mentally hungry in a negative kindof way. Yet it simply did not seem worth the trivial effort of will todecide whether he wanted to pick up a book or an orange or to press thesyphon handle. So he lay there, inert, impassive, staring across thevalley at the snows--peak beyond soaring peak, ethereal in the levellight. 

The beauty of them, the pellucid clearness and stillness of earlyevening, stirred no answering echo within him. His brain was travellingback over a timeless interval; wandering uncertainly among sensations, apparitions, and dreams, presumably of semi-delirium: for Lance was inthem and his mother and Rose and Dyán, saying and doing impossiblethings. . . . 

And in clearer intervals, there hovered the bearded face of Azim Khan, pressing upon his refractory Sahib this infallible medicine, that'chikken bráth' or jelly. And occasionally there was another beardedface: vaguely familiar, though he could not put a name to it. 

Between them the two had brought out a doctor from Simla. He remembereda sharp altercation over that. He wanted no confounded doctor messinground. But Azim Khan, for love of his master, had flatly defied orders:and the forbidden doctor had appeared--involving further exhaustingargument. For on no account would Roy be moved back to Simla. Azim Khanunderstood his ways and his needs. He was damned if he would have anyone else near him. 

And this time he had prevailed. For the doctor, who happened to be awise man, knew when acquiescence was medically sounder than insistence. There had, however, been a brief intrusion of a strange woman, in capand apron, who had made a nuisance of herself over food and washing, andwas infernally in the way. When the fever abated, she melted into thelandscape; and Roy had just enough of his old spirit left in him tomurmur, '_Shahbash!_' in a husky voice: and Azim Khan, inflated withpride, became more autocratic than ever. 

The other bearded face had resolved itself into the Delhi Sikh, JiwánSingh. He had been on a tramp among the Hills, combating insidiousHome-Rule fairy-tales among the villagers: and finding the Sahib veryill, had stayed on to help. 

This morning they had told him it was the third of June:--barely threeweeks since that strange, poignant parting with Rose. Not seven weekssince the infinitely more poignant and terrible parting with Lance. Yet, as his mind stirred unwillingly, picking up threads, he seemed to belooking back across a measureless gulf into another life. . . . 

"The Sahib has slept? His countenance has been more favourable sincethese few days?"

It was the voice of Jiwán Singh; and the man himself followed it--tautand wiry, instinct with a degree of energy and purpose almost irritatingto one who was feeling emptied of both; aimless as a jelly-fish strandedby the tide. 

"Not smoking, _Hazúr_? Has that scoundrel Azim Khan forgotten thecigarettes?"

Roy unearthed his case, and held it up, smiling. 

"The scoundrel forgets nothing, " said he, knowing very well how the twoof them had vied with one another in forestalling his needs. "Sit down, my friend--and tell me news. I am too lazy to read. " He touched anunopened 'Civil and Military Gazette. ' "Too lazy even to cast out thedevil of laziness. But very ready to listen. Are things all quiet now?Any more tamashas?"

"Only a very little one across the frontier, " said the Sikh with hisgrim smile: and proceeded to explain that the Indian Government hadlately become entangled in a sort of a war with Afghanistan; a rather'_kutcha bandobast_'[37] in Jiwán Singh's estimation; and not quite upto time; but a war, for all that. 

"You mean----" asked Roy, his numbed interest faintly astir, "that itwas to have been part of the same game as the trouble down there?"

"God has given me ears--and wits, _Hazúr_, " was the cautious answer. "_That_ would be _pukka bundobast_, [38] for war and trouble to come atone stroke in the hot season, when so many of the white soldier-_lóg_are in the Hills. Does your Honour suppose that merely by _chance_ theAmir read in his paper of riots in India, and said in his heart, 'Wah!Now is the time for lighting little fires along the Border'?"

"N-no--I don't suppose----"

"Does your Honour suppose Hindus and Moslems--outside a highly educatedfew--are truly falling on each other's necks, without one thought ofpolitical motive?"

"No, my friend--I do not suppose. "

"Yet these things are said openly among our people: and too few, now, have courage to speak their thought. For it is the loyal whosuffer--_shurrum ki bhát_![39] Is it surprising, _Hazúr_, if we, whodistrust this new madness, begin to ask ourselves, 'Has the British Rajlost the will--or the power--of former days to protect friends and smiteenemies'? If the noisy few clamouring for _Swaráj_ make India once morea battlefield, _your_ people can go. We Sikhs must remain, with Pathansand Afghans--as of old--hammering at our doors----"

At sight of the young Englishman's pained frown, he checked hisexpansive mood. "To the Sahib I can freely speak the thoughts of myheart; but this is not talk to make a sick man well. God is merciful. Before all is lost--the British Raj may yet arise with power, as in thegreat days. . . . "

But his talk, if unpalatable, was more tonic than he knew; because Roy'slove for India went deeper than he knew. The justice of Jiwán Singh'sreproach; the hint at tragic severance of the two countries mingledwithin him, waked him effectually from semi-torpor; and the process wasas painful as the tingling renewal of life in a frozen limb. By timelycourage, on the spot, the threat to India had been staved off: but itwas there still--sinister, unsleeping, virtually unchecked. 

'Scotched--not killed. ' The voice of Lance sounded too clearly in Roy'sbrain; and the more intimate pain, deadened a little by illness, struckat his heart like a sword. . . . 

 * * * * *

Within a week, care and feeding and inimitable air, straight from thesnowfields, had made him, physically, a new man. Mentally, it hadbrought him face to face with actualities, and the staggering question, 'What next'?

At the back of his mind he had been dreading it, evading it, because itwould force him to look deep into his own heart; and to make decisions, when the effort of making them was anathema, beclouded as he was by thedepression that still brooded over him like a fog. The doctor hadprescribed a tonic and a whiff of Simla frivolity; but Roy paid no heed. He knew his malady was mainly of the heart and the spirit. The truecurative touch could only come from some arrowy shaft that would pierceto the core of one or the other. 

This morning, by way of reasserting his normal self, he had risen veryearly with intent to walk out and spend the day at Baghi dák bungalow, ten miles on. Taking things easily, he believed it could be done. Hewould look through his manuscript; try and pick up threads. Suráj couldfollow later; and he would ride home over the pass in the cool of theevening. 

He set out under a clear heaven, misted with the promise of heat: theair rather ominously still. But the thread of a path winding throughthe dimness and vastness of Narkhanda Forest was ice-cool with thebreath of night. Pines, ilex, and deodars clung miraculously to ahillside of massive rock, that jutted above him atintervals--threatening, immense; and often, on the _khud_ side, droppedabruptly into nothingness. When the road curved outward, splashes ofsunlight patterned it; and intermittent gaps revealed the flash ofsnow-peaks, incredibly serene and far. 

Normally the scene--the desolate grandeur of it--would have intoxicatedRoy. But the stranger he was carrying about with him, and called by hisown name, reacted in quite another fashion to the shadowed majesty oflooming rocks and forest aisles. The immensity of it dwarfed one meresuffering man to the dimensions of a pebble on the path. And the pebblehad the advantage of insensibility. The stillness and chillness made himfeel overwhelmingly alone. A sudden craving for Lance grew almostintolerable. . . . 

But Lance was gone. Paul, with his bride, had vanished from human ken;Rose, a shattered illusion, gone too. Better so--of course; though, intermittently, the man she had roused in him still ached for the sightand feel of her. She gave a distinct thrill to life: and, if he couldnot forgive her, neither could he instantly forget her. 

Still less could he forget the significance of the shock she had dealthim on their day of parting. Patently she loved him, in her passionate, egotistical fashion--as he had never loved her; patently she hadcombated her shrinking in defiance of her mother: and yet. . . !

Rage as he might, his Rajput pride, and pride in his Rajput heritage, were wounded to the quick. If all English girls felt that way, he wouldsee them further, before he would propose to another one, or 'confess'to his adored Mother, as if she were a family skeleton or a secret vice. Instantly there sprang the thought of Arúna--her adoration, her exaltedpassion; Arúna, whom he might have loved, yet was constrained to putaside because of his English heritage; only to find himself put aside byan English girl on account of his Indian blood. A pleasant predicamentfor a man who must needs marry in common duty to his father andhimself. 

And what of Tara? Was it possible. . . ? Could that be the meaning of herfinal desperate, 'I _can't_ do it, Roy--even for you'! Was itconceivable--she who loved his mother to the point of worship? Stillsmarting from his recent rebuff, he simply could not tell. Thea andLance loved her too; yet, in Lance especially, he had been aware of atacit tendency to ignore the Indian connection. 

The whole complication touched him too nearly, hurt and bewildered himtoo bitterly, for cool consideration. He only saw that which had beenhis pride converted into a reproach, a two-edged sword barring the wayto marriage: and in the bitterness of his heart he found it hard toforgive his parents--mainly his father--for putting him in so cruel aposition, with no word of warning to soften the blow. 

Perhaps people felt differently in England. If so, India was no placefor him. How blatantly juvenile--to his clouded, tormented brain--seemedhis arrogant dreams of Oxford days! What could such as he do for her, inthis time of tragic upheaval. And how could all the Indias he hadseen--not to mention the many he had not seen--be jumbled together underthat one misleading name? That was the root fallacy of dreamers and'reformers. ' They spoke of her as one, when in truth she wasmany--bewilderingly many. The semblance of unity sprang mainly fromEngland's unparalleled achievement--her Pax Britannica, that held thescales even between rival chiefs and races and creeds; that had wrought, in miniature, the very inter-racial stability which Europe had vainlyfought and striven to achieve. Yet now, some malign power seemedconstraining her, in the name of progress, to undo the work of her ownhands. . . . 

All his thronging thoughts were tinged with the gloom of his unhopefulmood; and his body sagged with his sagging spirit. Before he had walkedfour miles, his legs refused to carry him any farther. 

He had emerged into the open, into full view of the vastness beyond. Naked rock and stone, jewelled with moss and young green, fell straightfrom the path's edge; and one ragged pine, springing from a group ofboulders, was roughly stencilled on blue distances empurpled withshadows of thunderous cloud. 

A flattened boulder proved irresistible; and Roy sat down, leaning hishead against the trunk, sniffing luxuriously--whiffs of resin andsun-warmed pine-needles. Oh, to be at home, in his own beech-wood! Butthe journey in this weather would be purgatorial. Meantime, there washis walk; and he decided, prosaically, to fortify himself with a slab ofchocolate. Instead--still more prosaically, he fell sound asleep. . . . 

But sleep, in an unnatural position, begets dreams. And Roy dreamed ofLance; of that last awful day when he raved incessantly of Rose. But inthe dream he was conscious; and before his distracted gaze Roy held Rosein his arms; craving her, yet hating her; because she clung to him, heedless of entreaties from Lance, and would not be shaken off. . . . 

In a frantic effort to free himself, he woke--with the anguish of hisloss fresh upon him--to find the sky heavily overcast, thebreathlessness of imminent storm in the air. Away to the North therewere blue spaces, sun-splashed leagues of snow. But from the South andWest rolled up the big battalions--heralds of the monsoon. 

He concluded apathetically that Baghi was 'off. ' He was in for adrenching. Lucky he had brought his burberry. . . . 

Yet he did not stir. A ton weight seemed to hang on his limbs, hisspirit, his heart. He simply sat there, in a carven stillness, staringdown, down, into abysmal depths. . . . 

And startlingly, sharply, the temptation assailed him. The tug of it wasalmost physical. . . . How simple to yield--to cut his many tangles at onestroke!

In that jaundiced moment he saw himself a failure foreordained; debarredfrom marriage by evils supposed to spring from the dual strain in him;his cherished hopes of closer union between the two countries he lovedthreatened with shipwreck by an England complacently experimental, anIndia at war with the British connection and with her many selves. Heseemed fated to bring unhappiness on those he cared for--Arúna, Lance, even Rose. And what of his father--if he failed to marry? He hadn't eventhe grit to finish his wretched novel. . . . 

He rose at last, mechanically, and moved forward to the unrailed edge ofall things. The magnetism of the depths drew him. The fatalistic strainin his blood drew him. . . . 

He stood--though he did not know it--as his mother had once stood, hovering on the verge; his own life--that she bore within her--hangingin the balance. From the fatal tilt, she had been saved by the voice ofher husband--the voice of the West. And now, at Roy's critical moment, it was the voice of the West--of Lance--that sounded in his brain:"Don't fret your heart out, Roy. Carry on. "

Having carried on, somehow, through four years of war, he knew preciselyhow much of casual, dogged pluck was enshrined in that soldierly phrase. It struck the note of courage and command. It was Lance incarnate. Itsteadied him, automatically, at a crisis when his shaken nerves mightnot have responded to any abstract ethical appeal. He closed his eyes amoment to collect himself; swayed, the merest fraction--thendeliberately stepped back a pace. . . . 

The danger had passed. 

Through his lids he felt the glare of lightning: the first flash of thestorm. 

And as the heel of his retreating boot came firmly down on the pathbehind, there rose an injured yelp that jerked him very completely outof the clouds. 

"Poor Terry--poor old man!" he murmured, caressing the faithfulcreature; always too close by, always getting trodden on--the commonguerdon of the faithful. And the whimsical thought intruded, "If I'dgone over, the good little beggar would have jumped after me. Not fairplay. "

The fact that Terry had been saved from involuntary suicide seemedsomehow the more important consideration of the two. 

A rumbling growl overhead reminded him that there were otherconsiderations--urgent ones. 

"You're not hurt, you little hypocrite. Come on. We must leg it. "

And they legged it to some purpose; Terry--idioticallyvociferous--leaping on before. . . . 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 37: Crude arrangement. ]

[Footnote 38: Sound arrangement. ]

[Footnote 39: Shameful talk. ]

CHAPTER II. 

 "I seek what I cannot get; I get what I do not seek. " --RABINDRANATH TAGORE. 

Then the storm broke in earnest. . . . 

Crash on flash, crash on flash--at ever-lessening intervals--thetearless heavens raged and clattered round his unprotected head. Thundertoppled about him like falling timber stacks. Fiery serpents darted allways at once among black boughs that swayed and moaned funereally. Thegloom of the forest enhanced the weird magnificence of it all: andRoy--who had just been within an ace of flinging away his life--feltirrationally anxious on account of thronging trees and the absence ofrain. 

He had recovered sufficiently to chuckle at the ignominious anti-climax. But, as usual, it was the creepsomeness rather than the danger that goton his nerves and forced his legs to hurry of their own accord. . . . 

In the deep of a gloomy indent, the thought assailed him--"Why do I knowit all so well? Where. . . ? When. . . ?"

An inner flash lit the dim recesses of memory. Of course--it was thatother day of summer, in the far beginning of things; the day of theGolden Tusks and the gloom and the growling thunder; his legs, as now, in a fearful hurry of their own accord; and Tara waiting for him--hisHigh-Tower Princess. With a pang he recalled how she had seemed thepoint of safety--because she was never afraid. 

No Tara waiting now. No point of safety, except a very prosaic dákbungalow and good old Azim, who would fuss like the devil if rain cameon and he got a wetting. 

Ah--here it was, at last! Buckets of it. Lashing his face, running downhis neck, saturating him below his flapping burberry. Buffetedmercilessly, he broke into a trot. Thunder and lightning were lessvirulent now; and he found himself actually enjoying it all. 

Tired----? Not a bit. The miasma of depression seemed blown clean awayby the horseplay of the elements. He had been within an ace of takingunwarranted liberties with Nature. Now she retaliated by takingliberties with him; and her buffeting proved a finer restorative thanall the drugs in creation. Electricity, her 'fierce angel of the air, 'set every nerve tingling. A queer sensation: but it was _life_. And hehad been feeling more than half dead. . . . 

Azim Khan, however--being innocent of 'nerves'--took quite another viewof the matter. 

Arrived at the point of safety, Roy found a log fire burning; and abrazier alight under a contrivance like a huge cane hen-coop, for dryinghis clothes. Vainly protesting, he was made to change every garment; wasinstalled by the fire, with steaming brandy-and-water at his elbow, andlemons and sugar--and letters . . . Quite a little pile of them. 

"_Belaiti dák, Hazúr_, "[40] Azim Khan superfluously informed him, withan air of personal pride in the whole _bundobast_--including the timelyarrival of the English mail. 

There were parcels also--a biggish one, from his father; another fromJeffers, obviously a book. And suddenly it dawned on him--this must bethe tenth of June. Yesterday was his twenty-sixth birthday; and he hadnever thought of it; never realised the date! But _they_ had thought ofit weeks ahead: while he--graceless and ungrateful--had deemed himselfhalf forgotten. 

He ran the envelopes through his fingers--Tiny, Tara. (His heart jerked. Was it congratulations? He had never felt he could write of it to her. )Arúna; a black-edged one from Thea; and--his heart jerked in quiteanother fashion--Rose!

Amazing! What did it mean? She wasn't--going back on things. . . ?

Curiosity--sharpened by a prick of fear--impelled him to open her letterfirst. And the moment he had read the opening line, compunction smotehim. 

 "Roy--my Dear, I couldn't help remembering the ninth. So I feel I must write and wish you 'many happy returns' of it--happier than this one--with all my heart. I have worried over you a good deal. For I'm sure you must have been ill. Do go home soon and be properly taken care of, by your own people. I'm going in the autumn with my friend, Mrs Hilton. Some day you will surely find a wife worthier of you than I would have been. When your good day comes, let me know and I'll do the same by you. Good luck to you always. --ROSE. "

Roy slipped the note into his pocket and sat staring at the fire, deeplymoved. A vision of her--too alluring for comfort--was flashed upon hisbrain. She was confoundedly attractive. She had no end of good points:but . . . With a very big B. . . . 

His gaze rested absently on the parcel from his father. What the deucecould it be? To the imaginative, an unopened parcel never quite losesits intriguing air of mystery. The shape suggested a picture. Hismother. . . ?

With a luxury of deliberation he cut the strings; removed wrapper afterwrapper to the last layer of tissue. . . . 

Then he drew a great breath--and sat spellbound; gazing--endlesslygazing--at Tara's face:--the wild roses in her cheeks faded a little;the glory of her hair undimmed; the familiar way it rippled back fromher low, wide brow; a hint of hidden pain about the sensitive lips andin the hyacinth blue of her eyes. Only his father could have wrought avision so appealingly alive. And the effect on Roy was instantaneous . . . Overwhelming. . . . 

Tara--dearest and loveliest! Of course it was her--always had been, downin the uttermost depths. The treasure he had been far to seek hadblossomed beside him since the beginning of things: and he, with hiseyes always on the horizon, had missed the one incomparable flower athis feet. . . . 

_Had_ he missed it? Had there ever been a chance? What, precisely, hadshe meant by her young, vehement refusal of him? And--if it were not thedreaded reason--was there still hope? Would she ever understand . . . Everforgive . . . The inglorious episode of Rose? If, at heart, he could pleadthe excuse of Adam, he could not plead it to her. 

Reverently he took that miracle of a picture between his hands and setit on the broad mantelpiece, that distance might quicken the illusion oflife. 

Then the spell was on him again. Her sweetness and light seemed toillumine the unbeautiful room. Of a truth he knew, now, what it meant tolove and be in love with every faculty of soul and body; knew it for amiracle of renewal, the elixir of life. And--the light of that knowledgerevealed how secondary a part of it was the craving with which he hadcraved possession of Rose. Steeped in poetry as he was, there stole intohis mind a fragment of Tagore--'She who had ever remained in the depthsof my being, in the twilight of gleams and glimpses . . . I have roamedfrom country to country, keeping her in the core of my heart. '

All the jangle of jarred nerves and shaken faith; all the confusion ofshattered hopes and ideals would resolve itself into coherence atlast--if only . . . If only----!

And dropping suddenly from the clouds, he remembered his letters . . . _her_ letter. 

A sealed envelope had fallen unheeded from his father's parcel: but itwas hers he seized--and half hesitated to open. What if she wereannouncing her own engagement to some infernal fellow at home? Theremust be scores and scores of them. . . . 

His hand was not quite steady as he unfolded the two sheets that borehis father's crest and the home stamp, 'Bramleigh Beeches. '

 "My Dear Roy (he read), "_Many_ happy returns of June the Ninth. It was one of our great days--wasn't it?--once upon a time. All your best and dearest wishes we are wishing for you--over here. And of course I've heard your tremendous news; though you never wrote and told me--why? You say she is beautiful. I hope she is a lot more besides. You would need a lot more, Roy, unless you've changed very much from the boy I used to know. 

 "It is _cruel_ having to write--in the same breath--about Lance. From the splendid boy he was, one can guess the man he became. To me it seems almost like half of you gone. And I'm sure it must seem so to you--my _poor_ Roy. I don't wonder you felt bad about the way of it; but it was the essence of him--that kind of thing. A verse of Charles Sorley keeps on in my head ever since I heard it:--

 'Surely we knew it long before; Knew all along that he was made For a swift radiant morning; for A sacrificing swift night shade. '

 "I _can't_ write all I feel about it. Besides, I'm hoping your pain may be eased a little now; and I don't want to wake it up again. 

 "But not even these two big things--not even your Birthday--are my reallest reason for writing this particular letter to my Bracelet-Bound Brother. _Do_ you remember? Have you kept it, Roy? Does it still mean anything to you? It does to me--though I've never mentioned it and never asked any service of you. _But_--I'm going to, now. Not for myself. Don't be afraid! It's for Uncle Nevil--and I ask it in Aunt Lilámani's name. 

 "Roy, when I came home, the change in him made me miserable. He's never really got over losing her. And you've been sort of lost too--for the time being. I can see how he's wearing his heart out with wanting you: though I don't suppose he has ever said so. And you--out there, probably thinking he doesn't miss you a mite. I _know_ you--and your ways. Also I know him--which is my ragged shred of excuse for rushing in where an angel would probably think better of it!

 "He has been an angel to me ever since I got back; and it seems to cheer him up when I run round here. So I do--pretty often. But I'm not Roy! And perhaps you'll forgive my bold demand, when I tell you Aunt Jane's looming--positively _looming_! She's becoming a perfect ogre of sisterly solicitude. As he won't go to London, she's threatening to cheer him up by making the dear Beeches her headquarters after the season! And he--poor darling--with not enough spirit in him to kick against the pricks. If _you_ were coming, he would have an excuse. Alone--he's helpless in her conscientious talons!

 "If _that_ won't bring you, nothing will--not even my bracelet command. 

 "I _know_ the journey in June will be a nightmare. And you won't like leaving Indian friends or Miss Arden. But think--here he is alone, wanting what only you can give him. And the bangle I sent you That Day--_if_ you've kept it--gives me the right to say 'Come--_quickly_. ' It may be a wrench. But I promise you won't regret it. Wire, if you can. 

 "Always your loving TARA. "

By the time he had finished reading that so characteristic and endearingletter his plans were cut and dried. Her irresistible appeal--and the noless irresistible urge within him--left no room for the deliberations ofhis sensitive complex nature. It flung open all the floodgates ofmemory; set every nerve aching for Home--and Tara, late discovered; butnot too late, he passionately prayed. . . . 

The nightmare journey had no terrors for him now. In every sense he was'hers to command. '

He drew out his old, old letter-case--her gift--and opened it. There laythe bracelet, folded inside her quaint, childish note; the 'ribbin' fromher 'petticote' and the gleaming strands of her hair. The sight of itbrought tears of which he felt not the least ashamed. 

It also brought a vision of himself standing before his mother, demurring at possible obligations involved in their 'game of play. ' Andacross the years came back to him her very words, her very look andtone: 'Remember, Roy, it is for always. If she shall ask from you anyservice, you must not refuse--ever. . . . By keeping the bracelet you arebound . . . '

Wire? Of course he would. 

Before the day was out his message was speeding to her: "Engagement off. Coming first possible boat. Yours to command--ROY. "

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 40: English mail. ]

CHAPTER III. 

 "Did you not know that people hide their love, Like a flower that seems too precious to be picked?" --WU-TI. 

Sanctuary--at last! The garden of his dreams--of the world before thedeluge--in the quiet--coloured end of a July evening; the garden vitallyinwoven with his fate--since it was responsible for the coming of JoeBradley and his 'beaky mother. '

Such gardens bear more than trees and flowers and fruit. Human lives andcharacters are growth of their soil. With the wholesale demolishing ofboundaries and hedges, their influence may wane; and it is aninfluence--like the unobtrusive influence of the gentleman--that humannature, especially English nature, can ill afford to fling away. 

Roy, poet and fighter--with the lure of the desert and the horizon inhis blood--knew himself, also, for a spiritual product of thisparticular garden--of the vast lawn (not quite so vast as heremembered), the rose-beds and the beeches in the full glory of theirincomparable leafage; all steeped in the delicate clarity of rain-washedair--the very aura of England, as dust was the aura of Jaipur. 

Dinner was over. They were sitting out on the lawn, he and his father; asmall table beside them, with glass coffee-machine and chocolates in asilver dish; the smoke of their cigars hovering, drifting, unstirred byany breeze. No Terry at his feet. The faithful creature--vision ofabject misery--had been carried off to eat his heart out in quarantine. Tangled among tree-tops hung the ghost of a moon, almost full. Somewhere, in the far quiet of the shrubberies, a nightingale wascommuning with its own heart in liquid undertones; and in Roy's heartthere dwelt an iridescence of peace and pain and longing shot throughwith hope----

That very morning, at an unearthly hour, he had landed in England, afteran absence of three and a half years: and precisely what that means inthe way of complex emotions, only they know who have been there. Thepurgatorial journey had eclipsed expectation. Between recurrent feverand sea-sickness, there had been days when it seemed doubtful if hewould ever reach Home at all. But a wiry constitution and the will tolive had triumphed: and, in spite of the early hour, his father had notfailed to be on the quay. 

The first sight of him had given Roy a shock for which--in spite ofTara's letter--he was unprepared. This was not the father heremembered--humorous, unruffled, perennially young; but a man so changedand tired-looking that he seemed almost a stranger, with his emptycoat-sleeve and hair touched with silver at the temples. 

The actual moment of meeting had been difficult; the joy of it so deeplytinged with pain that they had clung desperately to surfacecommonplaces, because they were Englishmen, and could not relieve theinner stress by falling on one another's necks. 

And there had been a secret pang (for which Roy sharply reproachedhimself) that Tara was not there too. Idiotic to expect it, when he knewSir James had gone to Scotland for fishing. But to be idiotic is thelover's privilege; and his not phenomenal gift of patience had beenunduly strained by the letter awaiting him at Port Said. 

They were coming back to-night; but he would not see her tillto-morrow. . . . 

In his pocket reposed a brief Tara-like note, bidding her 'faithfulKnight of the Bracelet' welcome Home. Vainly he delved between the linesof her sisterly affection. Nothing could still the doubt that consumedhim, but contact with her hands, her eyes. 

For that, and other reasons, the difficult meeting had been followed bya difficult day. They had wandered through the house and garden, verycarefully veiling their emotions. They had lounged and smoked in thestudio, looking through his father's latest pictures. They had talkedof the family. Jeffers would be down to-morrow night, for the week-end;Tiny on Tuesday with the precious Baby; Jerry, distinctly coming round, and eager to see Roy. Even Aunt Jane sounded a shade keen. And he, undeserving, had scarcely expected them to 'turn a hair. ' Then theydiscussed the Indian situation; and Roy--forgetting to be shy--raged atfinding how little those at Home had been allowed to realise, tounderstand. 

Not a question, so far, about his rapid on-and-off engagement, for whichmercy he was duly grateful. And of her, who dwelt in the foreground andbackground of their thoughts--not a word. 

It would take a little time, Roy supposed, to build their bridge acrossthe chasm of three and a half eventful years. You couldn't hustle alapsed intimacy. To-morrow things would go better, especially if. . . . 

Yet, throughout, he had been touched inexpressibly by his father'sunobtrusive tokens of pleasure and affection: and now--sitting togetherwith their cigars, in the last of the daylight--things felt easier. 

"Dad, " he said suddenly, turning his eyes from the garden to the manbeside him, who was also its spiritual product. "If I seem a bitstupefied, it's because I'm still walking and talking in a dream;terrified I may wake up and find it's not true! I can't, in a twinkling, adjust the beautiful, incredible _sameness_ of all this, with thestaggering changes inside me. "

His father's smile had its friendly, understanding quality. 

"No hurry, Boy. All your deep roots are here. Change as much as youplease, you still remain--her son. "

"Yes--that's it. The place is full of her, " Roy said very low; and atpresent they could not trust themselves to say more. 

It had not escaped Sir Nevil's notice that the boy had avoided thedrawing-room, and had not once been under the twin beeches, hisfavourite summer retreat. No hammock was slung there now. 

After a considerable gap, Roy remarked carelessly: "I suppose they musthave got home by now?"

"About an hour ago, to be exact, " said Sir Nevil; and Roy's involuntarystart moved him to add: "You're not running round there to-night, oldman. They'll be tired. So are you. And it's only fair I should havefirst innings. I've waited a long time for it, Roy. "

"_Dads!_" Roy looked at once penitent and reproachful--an engaging trickof schoolroom days, when he felt a scolding in the air. "You neversaid--you never gave me an idea. "

"_You_ never sounded as if the idea would be acceptable. "

"Didn't I? Letters are the devil, " murmured Roy--all penitence now. "Andif it hadn't been for Tara----" He stopped awkwardly. Their eyes met, and they smiled. "Did you know . . . She wrote? And that's why I'm here?"

"Well done, Tara! I didn't know. I had dim suspicions. I also had a dimhope that--my picture might tempt you----"

"Oh, it _would_ have--letter or no. It's an inspired thing. "--He hadalready written at length on that score. --"You were mightily clever--thetwo of you!"

His father twinkled. "That as may be. We had the trifling advantage ofknowing our Roy!"

They sat on till all the light had ebbed from the sky and the moon hadcome into her own. It was still early; but time is the least ingredientof such a day; and Sir Nevil rose on the stroke of ten. 

"You look fagged out, old boy. And the sooner you're asleep--the soonerit will be to-morrow! A pet axiom of yours. D'you remember?"

Did he not remember?

They went upstairs together; the great house seemed oppressively emptyand silent. On the threshold of Roy's room they said good-night. Therewas an instant of palpable awkwardness; then Roy--overcoming it--leanedforward and kissed the patch of white hair on his father's temple. 

"God bless you, " Sir Nevil said rather huskily. "You ought to sleepsound in there. Don't dream. "

"But I love to dream, " said Roy; and his father laughed. 

"You're not so staggeringly changed inside! As sure as a gun, you'll belate for breakfast!"

And he did dream. The moment his lids fell--she was there with him, under the beeches, their sanctuary--she who all day had hovered on theconfines of his spirit, like a light, felt not seen. There were no wordsbetween them, nor any need of words; only the ineffable peace ofunderstanding, of reunion. . . . 

Dream--or visitation--who could say? To him it seemed that onlyafterwards sleep came--the dreamless sleep of renewal. . . . 

 * * * * *

He woke egregiously early: such an awakening as he had not known formonths on end. And out there in the garden it was a miracle of amorning: divinely clear, with the mellow clearness of England; massedtrees, brooding darkly; the lawn all silver-grey with dew; everywhereblurred outlines and tender shadows; pure balm to eye and spirit afterthe hard brilliance and contrasts of the East. 

Madness to get up; yet impossible to lie there waiting. He tried it, forwhat seemed an endless age: then succumbed to the inevitable. 

While he was dressing, clouds drifted across the blue. A spurt of rainwhipped his open casement; threatening him in playful mood. But beforehe had crept down and let himself out through one of the drawing-roomwindows, the sky was clear again, with the tremulous radiance ofhappiness struck sharp on months of sorrow and stress. 

Striding, hatless, across the drenched lawn, and resisting the pull ofhis beech-wood, he pressed on and up to the open moor; craving itssweeps of space and colour unbosomed to the friendly sky that seemed somuch nearer earth than the passionate blue vault of India. 

It was five years since he had seen heather in bloom--or was it fivedecades? The sight of it recalled that other July day, when he hadtramped the length of the ridge with his head full of dreams and theache of parting in his heart. 

To him, that far-off being seemed almost another Roy in another life. Only--as his father had feelingly reminded him--the first Roy and thelast were alike informed by the spirit of one woman; visible then, invisible now; yet sensibly present in every haunt she had made her own. The house was full of her; the wood was full of her. But the pangs ofreminder he had so dreaded resolved themselves, rather, into a sense ofindescribable, ethereal reunion. He asked nothing better than that hislife and work should be fulfilled with her always: her and Tara--if sheso decreed. . . . 

Thought of Tara revived impatience, and drew his steps homeward again. 

Strolling back through the wood, he came suddenly upon the open spacewhere he had found the Golden Tusks, and lingered there alittle--remembering the storm and the terror and the fight; Tara and herbracelet; and the deep unrealised significance of that childish impulse, inspired by _her_, whose was the source of all their inspirations. Andnow--seventeen years afterwards, the bracelet had drawn him back to themboth; saved him, perhaps, from the unforgiveable sin of throwing up thegame. 

On he walked, along the same mossy path, almost in a dream. He had foundthe Tusks. His High-Tower Princess was waiting--his 'Star far-seen. '

Again, as on that day--he came unexpectedly in view of their tree:and--wonder of wonders (or was it the most natural thing on earth?), there was Tara herself, approaching it by another path that linked thewood with the grounds of the black-and-white house, which was part ofthe estate. 

Instantly he stepped back a pace and stood still, that he might realiseher before she became aware of him:--her remembered loveliness, her newdearness. 

Loveliness was the quintessence of her. With his innate feeling forwords, he had never--even accidentally--applied it to Rose. Had she, too, felt impatient? Was she coming over to breakfast for a 'surprise'?

At this distance, she looked not a day older than on that criticaloccasion, when he had realised her for the first time; only morefragile--a shade too fragile. It hurt him. He felt responsible. Andagain, to-day--very clever of her--she was wearing a delphinium bluefrock; a shady hat that drooped half over her face. No pink rose, however--and he was thankful. Roses had still a too baleful association. He doubted if he could ever tolerate a Maréchal Niel again--as much onaccount of Lance, as on account of the other. 

Tara was wearing his flower--sweet-peas, palest pink and lavender. And, at sight of her, every shred of doubt seemed burnt up in the clear flameof his love for her:--no heady confusion of heart and senses, but ararefied intensity of both, touched with a coal from the altar ofcreative life. The knowledge was like a light hand reining in hisimpatience. Poet, no less than lover, he wanted to go slowly through thegolden mist. . . . 

But the moment he stirred, she heard him; saw him. . . . 

No imperious gesture, as before; but a lightning gleam of recognition, of welcome and--something more----?

He hurried now. . . . 

Next instant, they were together, hands locked, eyes deep in eyes. Thesurface sense of strangeness between them, the undersense of intimatenearness--thrilling as it was--made speech astonishingly difficult. 

"Tara, " he said, just above his breath. 

Her sensitive lips parted, trembled--and closed again. 

"_Tara!_" he repeated, dizzily incredulous, where a moment earlier hehad been arrogantly certain. "_Is_ it true . . . What your eyes aretelling me? Can you forgive . . . My madness out there? Half across theworld you called to me; and I've come home to _you_ . . . With every atomof me . . . I'm loving you; and I'm still . . . Bracelet-bound. . . . "

This time her lips trembled into a smile. "And it's not one of thePrayer-book affinities!" she reminded him, a gleam of that other Tara inher eyes. 

"No, thank God--it's not! But you haven't answered me, you know. . . . "

"Roy, what a story! When you know I really said it first!" Her eyes weresaying it again now; and he, bereft of words, mutely held out his arms. 

If she paused an instant, it was because she felt even dizzier than he. But the power of his longing drew her like a physical force--and, as hislips claimed hers, the terror of love and its truth caught her and swepther from known shores into uncharted seas. . . . 

This was a Roy she scarcely knew. But her heart knew; every pulse of herawakened womanhood knew. . . . 

Presently it became possible to think. Very gently she pushed him back alittle. 

"O-oh--I never knew . . . You were . . . Like _that_! And you've crushed mypoor sweet-peas to smithereens! Now--behave! Let me _look_ at you . . . Properly, and see what India's done to you. Give me a chance!"

He gave her a chance, still keeping hold of her--to make sure she wasreal. 

"High-Tower Princess, are we truly US? Or is it a 'bewitchery'?" heasked, only half in joke. "Will you go turning into a butterflypresently----?"

"Promise I won't!" Her low laugh was not quite steady. "We're US--truly. And we've got to Farthest-End, where your dreams come true. D'youremember--I always said they couldn't. They were too crazy. So I don'tdeserve----"

"It's _I_ that don't deserve, " he broke out with sudden passion. "And tofind you under our very own tree! Have you forgotten--that day? Ofcourse _you_ went to the 'tipmost top; and I didn't. It's queer--isn'tit?--how _bits_ of life get printed so sharply on your brain; and greatspaces, on either side, utterly blotted out. That day's one of my bits. Is it so clear--to you?"

"To _me_----?" She could scarcely believe he did not know. . . . Unashamedly, she wanted him to know. But part of him was strange toher--thrillingly strange: which made things not quite so simple. 

"Roy, " she went on, after a luminous pause, twisting the top button ofhis coat. "I'm going to tell you a secret. A big one. For me that Daywas . . . The beginning of everything. --Hush--listen!"--Her fingers justtouched his lips. "I'm feeling--rather shy. And if you don't keep quiet, I can't tell. Of course I always . . . Loved you, next to Atholl. Butafter that . . . After the fight, I simply . . . Adored you. And . . . And . . . It's never left off since. . . . "

"Tara! My loveliest!" he cried, between ecstasy and dismay; andgathering her close again, he kissed her softly, repeatedly, murmuringbroken endearments. "And there was _I_. . . !"

"Yes. There were you . . . With your poems and Aunt Lila and your dreamsabout India--always with your head among the stars. . . "

"In plain English, a spoilt boy--as you once told me--wrapped up inmyself. "

"No, you weren't. I won't _have_ it!" she contradicted him in her oldimperious way. "You were wrapped up in all kinds of wonderful things. Soyou just . . . Didn't see me. You looked clean over my head. Of course itoften made me unhappy. But--it made me love you more. That's the way wewomen are. It's not the men who run after us; it's the other kind. . . ! Iexpect you looked clean over poor Arúna's head. And if I asked her, privately, she'd confess that was partly why . . . And the other girl too. . . If . . . "

"Darling--_don't_!" he pleaded. "I'm ashamed, beyond words. I'll tellyou every atom of it truthfully . . . My Tara. But this is _our_ moment. Iwant more--about you. --Sit. It's full early. Then we'll go in (of courseyou're coming to breakfast) and give Dad the surprise of his life. . . . Bother your old hat! It gets in the way. And I want to see your hair. "

With a shyness new to him--and to Tara, poignantly dear--he drew out herpins; discarded the offending hat, and took her head between his hands, lightly caressing the thick coils that shaded from true gold to warmdelicate tones of brown. 

Then he set her on the mossy seat near the trunk; and flung himself downbefore her in the old way, propped on his elbows--rapt, lost in love;divinely without self-consciousness. 

"I'm _not_ looking over your head now, " he said, his eyes deep inhers:--deep and deeper, till the wild-rose flush invaded the delicatehollows of her temples; and leaning forward she laid a hand across thosetoo eloquent eyes. 

"Don't blind me altogether--darling. When people have been shut awayfrom the sun a long time----"

"But, Tara--why _were_ you. . . ?" He removed the hand and kept hold of it. "I begged you to come. I wanted you. Why _did_ you. . . ?"

She shook her head, smiling half wistfully. "That's a bit of my old Roy!But you're man enough to know--now, without telling. And I was womanenough to know--then. At least, by instinct, I knew. . . . "

"Then it wasn't because . . . Because--I'm half . . . Rajput?"

"_Roy!_" But for all her surprise and reproach, intuition told him theidea was not altogether new to her. "What made you think--of _that_?"

"Well--because it partly . . . Broke things off--out there. That startledme. And when Dad's miracle of a picture woke me up with a vengeance . . . It terrified me. I began wondering. . . . Beloved, are you _quite_ sureabout Aunt Helen . . . Sir James. . . ?"

She paused--a mere breathing-space; her free hand caressed his hair. (This time, he did not shift his head. ) "I'm utterly sure about Mother. You see . . . She knows . . . We've talked about it. We're like sisters, almost. As for Father . . . Well, we're less intimate. I did fancy heseemed the wee-est bit relieved when . . . Your news came. . . . " The pain inhis eyes checked her. "My blessed one, I won't have you _daring_ toworry about it. I'm feeling simply beyond myself with happiness andpride. Mother will be overjoyed. She realises . . . A _little_ . . . WhatI've been through. Of course--in our talks, she has told me frankly whattragedies often come from mixing such 'mighty opposites. ' But she saidall of you were quite exceptional. And she knows about such things. And_she's_ the point. She can always square Father if--there's any need. Sojust be quiet--inside!"

"But . . . That day, " he persisted, Roy-like, "_you_ didn't think ofit----?"

"Faithfully, I didn't. I only felt your heart was too full up with AuntLila and India to have room enough for me. And I wanted _all_ theroom--or nothing. Vaguely, I knew it was _her_ dream. But my wickedpride insisted it should be _your_ dream. It wasn't till long after, that Mother told me how--from the very first--Aunt Lila had planned andprayed, because she knew marriage might be your one big difficulty; andshe could only speak of it to Mummy. It was their great link; the ideabehind everything--the lessons and all. So you see, all the time, shewas sort of creating me . . . For you. And the bitter disappointment itmust have been to her! If I'd had a glimmering . . . Of all that--I don'tbelieve I could have held out against you----"

"Then I wish to heaven you'd had a glimmering--because of her andbecause of _us_. Look at all the good years we've wasted----"

"We've not--we've _not_!" she protested vehemently. "If it had happenedthen, it wouldn't have come within miles--of this. You simply hadn't it_in_ you, Roy, to give me . . . All I can feel you giving me now. As forme--well, that's for you to find out! Of course, the minute I'd done it, I was miserable: furious with myself. For I couldn't stop . . . Lovingyou. My heart had no shame, in spite of my important pride. Only . . . After _she_ went--and Mother told me all--something in me seemed to knowher free spirit would be near you--and bring you back to me . . . Somehow:_till_ . . . Your news came. And--_look_! The Bracelet! I hesitated a longtime. If you hadn't been engaged, I'm not sure if I would have ventured. But I did--and you're here. It's all been her doing, Roy, first andlast. Don't let's spoil any of it with regrets. "

He could only bow his head upon her hand in mute adoration. The courage, the crystal-clear wisdom of her--his eager Tara, who could never waitfive minutes for the particular sweet or the particular tale she craved. Yet she had waited five years for him--and counted it a little thing. Ofa truth his mother had builded better than she knew. 

"You see, " Tara added softly. "There wouldn't have been . . . The deeps. And it takes the deeps to make you realise the heights----"

 * * * * *

Lost in one another--in the wonder of mutual self-revealing--they werelost, no less, to impertinent trivialities of place and time; till thevery trivial pang of hunger reminded Roy that he had been wandering forhours without food. 

"Tara--it's a come down--but I'm fairly starving!" he criedsuddenly--and consulted his watch. "Nine o'clock. The wretch I am! Dad'sfinal remark was, 'Sure as a gun, you'll be late for breakfast. ' And itseemed impossible. But sure as guns we _will_ be! Put on the precioushat. We must jolly well run for it. "

And taking hands, like a pair of children, they ran. . . . 

CHAPTER THE LAST. 

 "Who shall allot the praise, and guess What part is yours--what part is ours?" --ALICE MEYNELL. 

 "Perhaps a dreamer's day will come . . . When judgment will be pronounced on all the wise men, who always prophesied evil--and were always right. "--JOHAN BOJER. 

Two hours later Roy and his father sat together in the cushioned windowseat of the studio, smoking industriously; not troubling to saymuch--though there was much to be said--because the mist of constraintthat brooded between them yesterday had been blown clean away by Roy'snews. 

If it had not given Sir Nevil 'the surprise of his life, ' it had givenhim the deepest, most abiding gratification he had known since his innerlight had gone out, with the passing of her who had been his inspirationand his all. Dear though his children were to him, they had remainedsecondary, always. Roy came nearest--as his heir, and as the one in whomher spirit most clearly lived again. Since she went, he had longed forthe boy; but remembering her plea on that summer day of decision--hermountain-top of philosophy, 'to take by leaving, to hold by lettinggo'--he had studiously refrained from pressing Roy's return. Now, at aword from Tara, he had sped home in the hot season; and--hard on theheels of a mysteriously broken engagement--had claimed her at sight. 

Yesterday their sense of strangeness had made silence feeluncomfortable. Now that they slipped back into the old intimacy, it feltcompanionable. Yet neither was thinking directly of the other. Each wasthinking of the woman he loved. 

By chance their eyes encountered in a friendly smile, and Roy spoke. 

"Daddums--you've come alive! I believe you're _almost_ as happy overit--as I am?"

"You're not far out. You see"--his eyes grew graver--"I'm feeling . . . Mother's share, too. Did you ever realise. . . ?"

"Partly. Not all--till just now. Tara told me. "

There was a pause. Then Sir Nevil looked full at his son. 

"Roy--_I've_ got something to tell you--to show you . . . If you candetach your mind for an hour----?"

"Why, of course. _What_ is it--where?"

He looked round the room. Instinctively, he knew it concerned hismother. 

"Not here. Upstairs--in her House of Gods. " He saw Roy flinch. "If _I_can bear it, old boy, you can. And there's a reason--you'll understand. "

The little room above the studio had been sacred to Lilámani ever sinceher home-coming as a bride of eighteen; sacred to her prayers andmeditations; to the sandalwood casket that held her 'private god'; forthe Indian wife has always one god chosen for special worship--not to benamed to any one, even her husband. And although a Christian Lilámanihad discontinued that form of devotion, the tiny blue image of theBaby-god, Krishna, had been a sacred treasure always, shown, on rareoccasions only, to Roy. To enter that room was to enter her soul. AndRoy, shrinking apart, felt himself unworthy--because of Rose. 

On the threshold there met him the faint scent of sandalwood thatpervaded her. For there, in an alcove, stood Krishna's casket. In largerboxes, lined with sandalwood, her many-tinted silks and saris laylovingly folded. Another casket held her jewels, and arranged on a rowof shelves stood her dainty array of shoes--gold and silver and palebrocades: an intimate touch that pierced his heart. 

Near the Krishna alcove, hung a portrait he had not seen: a thing offragile, almost unearthly beauty, painted when her husband camehome--and realised. . . . 

An aching lump in Roy's throat cut like a knife; but his father's remarkput him on his mettle. And, the next instant, he saw. . . . 

"_Dad!_" he breathed, in awed amazement. 

For there, on the small round table stood a model in dull red clay:unmistakably, unbelievably--the rock fortress of Chitor: the wallsscarped and bastioned; Khumba Rána's tower; and the City itself--noruin, but a miniature presentment of Chitor, as she might have been inher day of ancient glory, as Roy had been dimly aware of her in thecourse of his own amazing ride. Temples, palaces, huddled houses--notdetailed, but skilfully suggested--stirred the old thrill in his veins, the old certainty that he knew. . . . 

"Well----?" asked Sir Nevil, whose eyes had not left his face. 

"_Well!_" echoed Roy, emerging from his trance of wonder. "I'mdumfounded. A few mistakes, here and there; but--as a whole . . . Dad--howin the world . . . Could you know?"

"I don't know. I hoped you would. I . . . Saw it clearly, just likethat----"

"How? In a dream?"

"I suppose so. I couldn't swear, in a court of law, that I was awake. Ithappened--one evening, as I lay there, on her couch--remembering . . . Going back over things. And suddenly, out of the darkness, blossomed--that. Asleep or awake, my mind was alert enough to seize andhold the impression, without a glimmer of surprise . . . _till_ I came to, or woke up--which you will. Then my normal, sceptical self didn't knowwhat to make of it. I've always dismissed that sort of thing as merebrain-trickery. But--a vivid, personal experience makes it . . . Not soeasy. Of course, from reading and a few old photographs, I knew it wasChitor: and my chief concern was to record the vision in its firstfreshness. For three days I worked at it: only emerging now and then tosnatch a meal. I began with those and that----"

He indicated a set of rough sketches and an impression in oils; a ghostof a city full of suggested beauty and mystery. "No joke, trying tomodel with one hand; but you wouldn't believe . . . The swiftness . . . Thesureness . . . As if my fingers knew. . . . "

Roy could believe. Occasionally his own fingers behaved so. 

"When it was done, I put it in here, " his father went on, masking, withstudied quietness, his elation at the effect on Roy. "I've shown it tono one--not even Aunt Helen. I couldn't write of it. I felt it wouldsound crazy----"

"Not to me, " said Roy. 

"Well, I couldn't tell that. And I've been waiting--for _you_. "

"Since--when?"

"Since the third of March, this year. "

Roy drew an audible breath. It was the anniversary of her passing. "Allthat time! How could you----? Why didn't you----?"

"Well--_you_ know. You were obviously submerged--your novel, Udaipur, Lance. . . . You wouldn't have forgone all that . . . If I know you, for amere father. But you're here, at last, thank God. And--I want to know. You've seen Chitor, as it is to-day. . . . "

"I've seen more than that, " said Roy. "I can tell you, now. Icouldn't--before. Let's sit. "

And sitting there, on her couch, in her House of Gods, he told the storyof his moonlit ride and its culmination; told it in low tones, in swiftvivid phrases that came of themselves. . . . 

Throughout the telling--and for many minutes afterwards--his father satmotionless; his head on his hand, half shielding his face from view. . . . 

"I've only spoken of it to Grandfather, " Roy said at last. "And with allmy heart, I wish he could see . . . That. "

Sir Nevil looked up now, and the subdued exaltation in his eyes waswholly new to Roy. 

"_I've_ gone a good way beyond wishing, " he said. "But again--I waswaiting for you. I want to go out there, Roy--with you two, when you'remarried--and see it all for myself. With care, one could take the thingalong, to verify and improve it on the spot. Then--what do you say?--youand I might achieve a larger reproduction--for Grandfather: a gift toRajputana--my source of inspiration; a tribute . . . To her memory, whostill lights our lives . . . With the inextinguishable lamp of herspirit----"

The last words--almost inaudible--were a revelation to Roy; anillumining glimpse of the true self, that a man hides very carefullyfrom his fellows; and shows--at supreme moments only--to 'a woman whenhe loves her. '

Shy of their mutual emotion, he laid a hand on his father's arm. 

"You can count on me, Dad, " he said in the same low tone. "Whoknows--one day it might inspire the Rajputs to rebuild their Queen ofCities, in white marble, that she may rise again, immortal through theages. . . . "

When they stood up to leave the shrine their eyes met in a steadfastlook; and there was the same thought behind it. She had given them toeach other in a new way; in a fashion all her own. 

 * * * * *

For that brief space, Roy had almost forgotten Tara. Now the wonder ofher flashed back on him like a dazzle of sunlight after the dim sanctityof cathedral aisles. 

And down in the studio it was possible to discuss practical issues ofhis father's inspiration--or rather his mother's; for they both felt itas such. 

Roy would marry Tara in September; and in November they three would goout together. There were bad days coming out there; but, as Roy had oncesaid, every man and woman of goodwill--British or Indian--would count inthe scale, were it only a grain here, a grain there. The insignificanceof the human unit--a mere fragment of star-dust on sidereal shores--isoff-set by the incalculable significance of the individual in thehistory of man's efforts to be more than man. In that faith these twocould not be found wanting; debtors as they were to the genius, devotion, and high courage of one fragile woman, who had lived littlemore than half her allotted span. 

They at least would not give up hope of the lasting unity vital to bothraces, because political errors and poisonous influences and tragicevents had roused a mutual spirit of bitterness difficult to quell. . . . 

Conceivably, it _might_ touch the imagination of their India--Rajputana(Roy was chary, now, of the all-embracing word), that an Englishmanshould so love an Indian woman as to immortalise her memory in a formpeculiar to the East. For a Christian Lilámani, neither temple, nortomb, but the vision of a waste city rebuilded--the city whose name waswritten on her heart. In their uplifted moment, it seemed not quiteunthinkable. 

"And it's India's imagination we have most of us signally failed totouch--if not done a good deal to quench, " said Roy, his eyes broodingon a bank of purple-grey cloud, his own imagination astir. . . . 

It was his turn now to catch a flitting inspiration on the wing. 

Would it be utterly impossible----? Could they spend a wander-year inRajputana--the cities, the desert, the Aravallis: his fatherpainting--he writing? The result--a combined book, dedicated to hermemory; an attempt to achieve something in the nature ofinterpretation--his arrogant dream of Oxford days; a vindication of hisyoung faith in the arts as the true medium of mutual understanding. Inany case, it would be a unique achievement. And they would feel they hadcontributed their mite of goodwill, had followed 'the gleam. '. . . 

"Besides--out there, other chances might crop up. Thea, Grandfather, Dyán. . . . And Tara would be in in it all, heart and soul, " heconcluded--remembering, with a twinge, a certain talk with Rose. "And itwould do _you_ all the good on earth--which isn't the least of itsvirtues, in my eyes!"

The look on his father's face was reward enough--for the moment. 

"Well done, Roy, " said Sir Nevil very quietly. "That year in Rajputanashall be my wedding present--to you two----"

 * * * * *

Later on the 'inspired plan' was expounded to Tara--with amplifications. She had merely run home--escorted, of course, through the perils of thewood--to impart her great news and bring her mother back to lunch, whichRoy persistently called 'tiffin. ' Food disposed of, they steppedstraight out of the house into a world of their own--the world of their'Game-without-an-End'; the rose garden, the wood, the regal splendoursof the moor, gleaming and glooming under shadows of drifting cloud: onand on, in a golden haze of content, talking, endlessly talking. . . . 

The reserve and infrequency of their letters had left whole tracts, outer and inner, unexplored. Here, thought Roy--in his mother'sbeautiful phrase--was 'the comrade of body and spirit' that hissubconsciousness had been seeking all along: while he looked over theheads of one and another, lured by the far, yet emotionally susceptibleto the near. Once--unbidden--the thought intruded: "How different! Howunutterably different!"

Reading aloud to Tara would seem pure waste of her; except when it cameto the novel, of which he had told her next to nothing, so far. . . . 

And Tara carried her happiness proudly, like a banner. The deliciousnessof being loved; the intoxication of it, after the last spark of hope hadbeen quenched by that excruciating engagement! Her volcanic heart held acapacity for happiness as tremendous as her capacity for daring andsuffering. But the first had so long eluded her, that now she daredscarcely let herself go. 

She listened half incredulous, wholly entranced, while Roy drew rapidword-pictures of the cities they would see together--Udaipur, Chitor, Ajmir; and, not least, Komulmir, the hill fortress crowned with the'cloud-palace' of Prithvi Raj and that distant Tara, her namesake. Together, they would seek out the little shrine--Roy knew all aboutit--near the Temple of the Mother of the Gods, that held the mingledashes of those great lovers who were pleasant in their lives and indeath were not divided. . . . 

 * * * * *

It was much later on, in the evening, when they sat alone near the twinbeeches, under a new-lighted moon, that Roy at last managed to speak ofRose. In the dimness it was easier, though difficult at best. But allday he had been aware of Tara longing to hear; unable to ask; toosensitive on his account; too proud on her own. 

Sir James and Lady Despard were dining, to honour the event: and if SirJames had needed 'squaring' no one heard of it. Jeffers had arrived, large and genial--his thatch of hair thinned a little and white asdriven snow. Healths had been drunk. It was long since the Beeches hadknown so hilarious a meal. Yet the graceless pair had made haste toescape, and blessed Lady Despard for remaining with the men. 

Tara was leaning back in a low chair; Roy on a floor cushion, veryclose; a hand slipped behind her, his cheek against her arm; yet, in adeeper sense, she wanted him closer still. Surely he knew. . . . 

He did know. 

"Tara--my loveliest--shall I tell you?" he asked suddenly. "Are youbadly wanting to hear?"

"Craving to, " she confessed. "It's like a bit of blank space inside me. And I don't want blank spaces--about you. It's the house swept andgarnished that attracts the seven devils. And one of my devils isjealousy! I've hated her _so_, poor thing. I can't hate her more, whatever you tell----"

"Try hating her less, " suggested Roy. 

"Try and make me!" she challenged him. "Are you--half afraid? Were you. . . Fearfully smitten?"

"Wonderful Tara! 'Smitten' is the very word. " He looked up at hermoonlit face, its appealing charm, its mingling of delicacy andstrength. "I would never dream of saying I was 'smitten'--with _you_. "

For reward, her lips caressed his hair. "What a Roy you are--with yourwords! Tell me--tell from the beginning. "

And from the beginning he told her: first in broken, spasmodicsentences, with breaks and jars; then more fluently, more unreservedly, as he felt her leaning closer--more and more understanding; more andmore forgiving, where understanding faltered, where gaps came--onaccount of Lance, and of pain that went too deep for words. She hadendured her own share of that. She knew. . . . 

When all had been said, it was she who could not speak; and he gatheredher to him, kissing with a passion of tenderness her wet lashes, hertrembling lips----

At last: "Beloved--_has_ the blank space gone?" he asked. "Are youcontent now?"

"Content! I'm lifted to the skies. "

"To the tipmost top of them?" he queried in her ear; and mutely sheclung to him, returning his kisses, with the confidence of a child, withthe intensity of a woman. . . . 

 * * * * *

All too soon it was over--their one mere day: the walk back through thewood--never more enchanted than on a night of full moon: Tara, droppedfrom the skies, lost to everything but the sound of Roy's voice in thedarkness, deep and soft, like the voice of her own heart heard in adream. It seemed incredible that there would be to-morrow--andto-morrow--and to-morrow, world without end. . . . 

Back in the garden, Jeffers--a miracle of tact--wandered away to communewith an idea, leaving father and son alone together. 

Sir Nevil offered Roy a cigarette, and they sat down in two of the sixempty chairs near the beeches and smoked steadily without exchanging aremark. 

But this time they were thinking of one woman. For at parting Tara hadsaid again, "It's all been her doing--first and last. " And Roy--withevery faculty sensitised to catch ethereal vibrations above and belowthe human octave--divined that identical thought in his father'ssilence. Her doing indeed! None of them--not even his father--knew itbetter than himself. 

And now, while he sat there utterly still in the midst of stillness--nostir in the tree-tops, no movement anywhere but the restless glow ofBroome's cigar--the inexpressible sense of her stole in upon him, flooding his spirit like a distillation from the summer night. Moment bymoment the impression deepened and glowed within him. Never, since thatmorning at Chitor, had it so uplifted and fulfilled him. . . . 

Surely, now, his father could feel it too? Deliberately he set himselfto transmit, if might be, the thrill of her nearness--the intimacy, theintensity of it. 

Then, craving certainty, he put out a hand and touched his father'sknee. 

"Dad, " the word was a mere breath. "Can you feel. . . ? She is here. "

His father's hand closed sharply on his own. 

For one measureless moment they sat so. Then the sense of her presencefaded as a light dies out. The garden was empty. The restless red planetwas moving towards them. 

On a mutual impulse they rose. Once again, as in her shrine, theyexchanged a steadfast look. And Roy had his answer. 

He slipped a possessive hand through his father's arm; and without aword, they walked back into the house. . . . 

_Parkstone, February_ 1920. 

_Parkstone, March_ 27, 1921. 

THE END.