_ 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; a soldier-administrator of mark, in his day. During the Sikh Wars there had been a Desmond in the Punjab; and at the time of the Great Mutiny there was a Punjab Cavalry Desmond at Kohat; a notable fighter, with a flowing beard and an easy-going uniform that would not commend itself to the modern military eye. In the year of the second Afghan War, there was yet 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 stationed there, in the self-same Punjab Cavalry Regiment. There was also by now, a certain bungalow in Kohat known as 'Desmond's bungalow,' occupied at present by Colonel Paul Desmond, now in Command.
That is no uncommon story in India. She has laid her spell on certain families; and they have followed one another through the generations, as homing birds follow in line across the sunset sky. And their name becomes a legend that passes from father to son; because India does not forget. There is perhaps nothing quite like it in the tale of any other land. It makes for continuity; for a fine tradition of service and devotion; a tradition that will not be broken till agitators and theorists make an end of Britain in India. But that day is not yet; and the best elements of both races still believe it will never be.
Certainly neither Paul nor Lance Desmond, riding home together from kit inspection, on a morning of early September, entertained the dimmest idea of a break with the family tradition. Lance, at seven-and-twenty--spare and soldierly, alive to the finger-tips--was his father 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 a brevet-Majority. Though Cavalry had been at a discount in France, Mesopotamia and Palestine had given the Regiment its chance--with fever and dysentery and all the plagues of Egypt thrown in to keep things going.
It was in the process of filling up his woeful gaps that Colonel Desmond had applied for Roy Sinclair, and so fulfilled the desire of his brother's heart: also, incidentally, Roy's craving to serve with Indian Cavalry. 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 he had secured an asset for the Regiment--the great Fetish, that claimed his paramount allegiance, and began to look like claiming it for life.
"He's just John over again," Lady Desmond would say, referring to a brother who had served the great Fetish from subaltern to Colonel and left his name on a cross in Kohat cemetery.
Certainly, in form and feature, Paul was very much a Meredith:--the coppery tone of his hair, the straight nose and steadfast grey-blue eyes, the height and breadth and suggestion of power in reserve. It was one of the most serious problems of his life to keep his big frame under weight for polo, without impairing his immense capacity for work. Apart from this important detail, he was singularly unaware of his striking personal appearance, except when others chaffed him about his look of Lord Kitchener, and were usually snubbed for their pains; though, at heart, he was inordinately proud of the fact. He had only one quarrel with the hero of his boyhood;--the decree that officially extinguished the Frontier Force; though the spirit of it survives, and will survive, for decades to come. Like his brother, he had 'snaffled' a few decorations out of the War: but to be in Command of the Regiment, with Lance in charge of his pet squadron, was better than all.
The strong bond of affection between these two--first and last of a family of six--was enhanced by their very unlikeness. Lance had the elan of a torrent; Paul the stillness and depth of a mountain lake. Lance was a rapier; Paul a claymore--slow to smite, formidable when roused. Both were natural leaders of men; both, it need hardly be added, 'Piffers'[3] in the grain. They had only returned in March from active service, with the Regiment very much the worse for wear; heartily sorry to be out of the biggest show on record; yet heartily glad to be back in India, a sadly changing India though it was.
Two urgent questions were troubling the mind of Lance as they rode at a foot's pace up the slope leading to the Blue Bungalow. Would the board of 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, after studying 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 yourself it's original!"
"I'm not in the mood to flatter myself or any one else. I'm in a towering rage. And if dear old Roy is to be turned down into the bargain----!" Words failed him. He had his father's genius for making friends; 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 officers were tumbling over each other in the service. If Roy was a Tommy they'd jolly 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 more wrong with Roy than mere doctoring can touch. Still--he doesn't seem keen on going Home."
Lance shook his head. "Naturally--poor old chap. Feels he can't face things, yet. It's not only the delights of Mespot that have knocked him off his centre. It's losing--that jewel of a mother." His eyes darkened with feeling. "You can't wonder. If anything was to happen----" He broke off abruptly.
Paul Desmond set his teeth and was silent. In the deep of his heart, the Regiment 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 into his 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 Roy came up at a round trot.
Lance sat forward and discarded the paper. An exchange of glances sufficed. Roy's determination to 'bluff the board' had failed.
He looked sallow in spite of sunburn; tired and disheartened; no lurking smile in his eyes. He fondled the velvet nose of his beloved Suraj--a graceful creature, half Arab, half Waler; and absently acknowledged the frantic jubilations of his Irish terrier puppy, christened by Lance the Holy Terror--Terry for short. Then he mounted the steps, subsided into the 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. Anyway they weren't impressed. They've dispensed with my valuable services. Anaemia, mild neurasthenia, cardiac symptoms--and a few other pusillanimous 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 argue with. And Cuthers always said I couldn't argue for nuts! Now then--how about pegs?"
"A bit demoralising--at midday," Lance murmured without conviction.
"Well, I
am demoralised; dead--damned--done for. I'm about to be honoured with a blooming medical certificate to that effect. As a soldier, I'm extinct--from this time forth for evermore. You see before you the wraith of a Might-Have-Been. After
that gold-medal exhibition of inanity, kindly produce said pegs!"
Lance Desmond listened with a grave smile, and a sharp contraction of heart, to the absurdities of this first-best friend, who for three years had shared with him the high and horrible and ludicrous vicissitudes of war. He knew only too well that trick of talking at random to drown some inner stress. With every word of nonsense he uttered, Roy was implicitly confessing how acutely he felt the blow; and to parade his own bitter disappointment seemed an egotistical superfluity. So he merely remarked with 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. Every moment emphasised increasingly all that the detested verdict implied. No more polo together. No more sharing of books and jokes and enthusiasms and violent antipathies, to which both were prone. No more 'shoots' in the Hills beyond Kashmir.
From the first of these they had lately returned--sick leave, in Roy's case; 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 their disappointment, in deep draughts of sizzling ice-cool whisky-and-soda. Moreover--ignominious, but true--when the tumblers were emptied, things did begin to look a shade less blue. It became more possible to discuss plans. And Desmond was feeling distinctly anxious on that score.
"You won't be shunted instanter," he remarked; and Roy smiled at the relief in his tone.
"Next month, I suppose. We must make the most of these few weeks, old man."
"And then--what?... Home?"
Roy did not answer at once. He was lying back again, staring out at the respectable imitation of a lawn, at rose beds, carpeted with over-blown mignonette, and a lone untidy tamarisk that flung a spiky shadow on the grass. And the eye of his mind was picturing the loveliest lawn of his acquaintance, with its noble twin beeches and a hammock slung between--an empty casket; the jewel gone. It was picturing the drawing-room; the restful simplicity of its cream and gold: but no dear and 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. His father, also invalided out; his left coat sleeve half empty, where the forearm had been removed.
"N--no," he said at last, still staring at the unblinking sunshine. "Not Home. Not yet--anyway."
Then, having confessed, he turned and looked straight into the eyes of his 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 he admired 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, one would go--anyhow."
"I doubt it. The place must be simply alive--with memories. We Anglo-Indians, jogged from pillar to post, know precious little about homes 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. I believe my father will understand. After all--here I am in India, as planned, before the Great Interruption. So--given the chance, I might as well take it. The dear old place is mostly empty, these days--with Tiny married and Dad's Air Force job pinning him to Town.
So--as I remarked before----!"
"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 out laughing; and their laughter cleared the air of ghosts.
"Jaipur it is, I suppose, as planned. Thea will be overjoyed. Whether Jaipur's precisely a health resort----?"
"I'm not after health resorts. I'm after knowledge--and a few other things. Not Jaipur first, anyway. The moment I get the official order of the 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 wilds of Rajasthan. Ever heard tell of it, you arrant Punjabi? Or does nothing exist 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 getting Vincent transferred. And the Burra Sahibs are as wax in her hands. If they happen to be musical, and she applies the fiddle, they haven't an earthly----!"
Roy's eyes took on their far-away look.
"It'll be truly uplifting to see her--and hear her fiddle once more, if she's game for an indefinite dose of my society. Anyway, there's my grandfather----"
"Quite superfluous," Desmond interposed a shade too promptly. "If I know Thea, she'll hang on to you for the cold weather; and ensure you a
pied a terre if you want to prowl round Rajputana and give the bee in your bonnet 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 her social talents don't get much scope down there. Only half a dozen whites; and old Vinx buried fathoms deep in ethnology, writing a book. But, being Thea, she has pitched herself head foremost, into it all. Got very 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 prescription for trouble. I rather fancy she's a cousin of yours."
Roy started. "What--Aruna?"
"She didn't mention the name. Only ructions--and Thea to the rescue!"
"Poor Aruna!--She stayed in England a goodish time, because of the War--and Dyan. I've not heard of Dyan for an age; and I don't believe they have either. He was knocked out in 1915. Lost his left arm. Said he was going to study art in Calcutta.--I wonder----?" Desmond--who had chiefly been talking to divert the current of his thoughts--noted, with satisfaction, how his simple tactics had taken effect.
"We'll write to-morrow--eh?" said he. "Better still--happy thought!--I'll bear down on Jaipur myself, for Christmas leave. Rare fine pig-sticking in those parts."
The happy thought proved a masterstroke. In the discussion of plans and projects Roy became almost his radiant self again: forgot, for one merciful hour, that he was dead, damned, and done for--the wraith of a 'Might-Have-Been.'
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: Punjab Irregular Frontier Force.] _