_ PHASE III. PISGAH HEIGHTS
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 Aruna's return to the freer life of the Residency was her very own verandah balcony. Here, secure from intrusion, she could devote the first and last hours of her day to meditation or prayer. Oxford studies had confused a little, but not killed, the faith of her fathers. The real trouble was that too often, nowadays, that exigent heart of hers would intrude upon her sacred devotions, transforming them into day-dreams, haloed with a hope the more frankly formulated because she was of the East.
For Thea had guessed aright. Roy was the key to her waverings, her refusals, her eager acceptance of the emergency plan:--welcome in itself; still more welcome because it permitted her simply to await his coming.
They had been very wonderful, those five years in England; in spite of anxieties and disappointed hopes. But when Dyan departed and Mesopotamia engulfed Roy, India had won the day.
How unforgettable that exalted moment of decision, one drenched and dismal winter evening; the sudden craving for sights and sounds and smells of her own land. How slow the swiftest steamer to the speed of her racing thoughts! How bitter, beyond belief, the--how first faint chill of disappointment; the pang of realising reluctantly--that, within herself, she belonged whole-heartedly to neither world.
She had returned qualified for medical work, by experience in a College hospital at Oxford; yet hampered by innate shrinking from the sick and maimed, who had been too much with her in those years of war. Not less innate was the urge of her whole being to fulfil her womanhood through marriage rather than through work. And in the light of that discovery, she saw her dilemma plain. Either she must hope to marry an Englishman and break with India, like Aunt Lilamani; or accept, at the hands of the matchmaker, an enlightened bridegroom, unseen, unknown, whose family would overlook--at a price--her advanced age and English adventures.
Against the last, all that England and Oxford had given her rose up in revolt ... But the discarded, subconscious Aruna was centuries older than the half-fledged being who hovered on the rim of the nest, distrustful of her untried wings and the pathless sky. That Aruna had, for ally, the spirit of the ages; more formidable, if less assertive, than the transient spirit of the age. And the fledgling Aruna knew perfectly well that the Englishman of her alternative was, confessedly--Roy. His mother being Indian, she innocently supposed there would be no trouble of prejudice; no stupid talk of the gulf that she and Dyan had set out to bridge. The fact that Dyan had failed only made her 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 of occupation. Her other self--deeply loving her grandfather--had urged her to 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 from touching any food except the portion set aside for her meals, that were eaten 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 Mataji; antagonistic as ever; sharpened and narrowed with age, even as her grandfather had mellowed and grown beautiful, with the unearthly beauty of the old, whose spirit shines visibly through the attenuated veil of flesh. Aruna, watching him, with clearer understanding, marvelled how he had preserved his serenity of soul through a lifetime of Mataji's dominion.
And the other women--relations in various degrees--took their tone from her, if only for the sake of peace:--the widowed sister-in-law, suavely satirical; a great-aunt, whose tongue clacked like a rice-husker; two cousins, correctly betrothed to unseen bridegrooms, entitled to look askance at the abandoned one, who was neither wife nor mother; and two children of a poor relation--embryo women, who echoed the jeers of their elders at her English friends, her obstinacy in the matter of caste and the inevitable husband.
Hai! hai! At her age, what did she fear? Had the English bewitched her with lies? Thus Peru, aged nine, jocosely proceeding to enlighten her; egged on by giggles and high-pitched laughter from the prospective brides. For in the zenana reticence is not, even before children. Aruna herself had heard such talk; but for years her early knowledge had lain dormant; while fastidiousness had been engendered by English studies and contact with English youth. Useless to answer. It simply meant tears or losing her temper; in which case, Mataji would retaliate by doctoring her food with red pepper to sweeten her tongue.
Meanwhile, sharpened pressure in the matter of caste rites and rumours of an actually maturing husband, had brought her very near the end of her tether. Again Thea was right. Her brave impulse of the heart had only been just in time. And hard upon that unbelievable good fortune followed the news that Roy was coming.
Tremulously at first, then with quickening confidence, her happy nature rose like a sea-bird out of troubled waters, on the wings of a secret hope....
* * * * *
And now he was here, under this friendly roof that sheltered her from the tender mercies of her own kind. There were almost daily meetings, however brief, and the after-glow of them when past; all the well-remembered tricks of speech and manner; and the twinkle of fun in his 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 way over the girl mother and two more starving children, picked up afterwards--had given her leave to take special charge of them and lodged 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 Dewali, thoughts of the future came flocking like birds at sundown. Because, on Dewali night, all tried their luck in some fashion; and Mai Lakshmi's answer failed not. The men tossed coin or dice. The maidens, at sunset, when the little wind of evening stirred the waters, carried each her chiragh--lamp of her life--and set it afloat on tank or stream, praying Mai Lakshmi to guide it safe across. If the prayer was heard, omens were favourable. If the lamp should sink, or be shattered, omens were evil. And the centuries-old Aruna--still at the mercy of dastur--had secretly bought her little chiragh; secretly resolved to try her fate on the night of nights. If the answer were unfavourable--and courage failed her--there was always one way of escape. The water that put out her lamp would as carelessly put out the flame of her life--in a little moment--without pain....
A small shiver convulsed her--kneeling there in her balcony; her bare arms resting on the balustrade. The new Aruna shrank from thought of death. She craved the fulness of life and love--kisses and rapture and the clinging arms of little children....
For, as she knelt in the moonlight, nominally she was invoking Mai Lakshmi; actually she was dreaming of Roy; chiding herself for the foolishness that had kept her from appearing at dinner; hoping he might wonder, and perhaps think of her a little--wishing her there. And all the while, perhaps he was simply not noticing--not caring one little bit----!
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 by heart.
More likely, he was framing bold plans to find Dyan--now the answer to her letter had come. It was a strange unsatisfying answer; full of affection, but too full of windy phrases that she was shrewd enough to recognise as mere echoes from those others, who had ensnared him in a web of words.
"Fear not for me, sister of my heart," he wrote. "Rejoice because I am dedicated to service of the Mother, that she may be released from political bondage and shine again in her ancient glory--no longer exploited by foreigners, who imagine that with bricks and stones they can lock up Veda--eternal truth! The gods have spoken. It is time. Kali rises in the East, with her necklet of skulls--Giants of evil she has slain. It is she who speaks through the voice of the patriot: 'Do not wall up your vision, like frogs in a well.... Rise above the Penal Code to the rarefied atmosphere of the Gita and consider the actions of heroic men.'
"You ask if I still love Roy? Why not? He is of our own blood and a very fine fellow. But I don't write now because he would not understand my fervour of soul. So don't you take all his opinions for gospel; like my grandfather's, they are well meant, but obsolete. If only you had courage, Aruna-ji, to accept the enlightened husband, who might not keep you in strict purdah, then we could work together for liberation of the Mother. Sing
Bande Mataram,[11] forty thousand brothers! That is our battle-cry. And one of those is your own fond brother--Dyan Singh."
Aruna had read and re-read that bewildering effusion till tears fell and blotted the words. Could this be the same Dyan who had known and loved England even as she did? His eloquence somehow failed to carry conviction. To her, the soul of new India seemed like a book, full of contradictions, written in many strange languages, hard to read. But behind that tangle of words beat the heart of Dyan--the brother who was her all.
Still no address was given. But Roy had declared the Delhi postmark sufficient clue. Directly Dewali was over, he would go. And, by every right impulse, she ought to be more glad than sad. But the heart, like the tongue, can no man tame. And sometimes his eagerness to go hurt her a little. Was he thinking of Delhi down there--or of her----?
The shadow had turned and was moving towards her. There was a white splash of shirt-front, the glow of a cigarette.
Suddenly his pace quickened. He had seen her. Next moment he was standing under her balcony. His low-pitched voice came distinctly to her ears.
"Good evening--Juliet! Quit your dreaming. Come and be sociable down here."
Delicious tremors ran through her. Much too bold, going down in the dark. 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---- Hurry up. I'll be by the steps."
Then he
had been thinking of Delhi. But he wanted her now; and the note of command extinguished hesitation. Slipping on a cloak, she reached the verandah without meeting a soul. He put out a hand. Purely on impulse she gave him her left one; and he conducted her down the steps with mock ceremony, as if leading her out to tread a measure to unheard strains of the viola and spinet.
Happiness ran like wine in her veins: and catching his mood she swept him a curtsey, English fashion.
"Fit for the Queen's Drawing-room!" he applauded; and she smiled up at him under her straight lashes. "Why didn't you appear at dinner? Is it a whim--hiding your light under a bushel? Or do you get headaches and heartaches working in the ward, and feel out of tune with our frivol?"
The solicitude in his tone was worth many headaches and heartaches to hear again. But with him she could not pretend.
"No--not that!" she said, treading the grass beside him, as if it were a moonlit cloud. "Only sometimes ... I am foolish--not inclined for so many 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 Dyan. It suddenly struck me I'd have ten times better chance 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 bring him surprisingly nearer. "How exciting! How bold!"
"Yes--but not impossible. And no end of a lark. If I could lodge with some one who knew, I believe I could pull it through. Grandfather might arrange that. It would give me a chance to get in among Dyan's set and hear things. Don't breathe a word to any one. I must talk it all over with 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 blessing on my venture."
"And I will make
prasad for your journey!" Her unveiled eyes met his frankly now. "A portion for Dyan too. It may speak to his heart clearer than words."
"
Prasad? What's that?"
"Food prepared and consecrated by touch of mother or sister or--or nearest woman relation. And by absence of those others ... it is ... my privilege----"
"
My privilege. I would not forgo it for a kingdom," Roy interposed, such patent sincerity in the reverend quiet of his tone that she was speechless....
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 it was a transfigured Aruna who approached the verandah, where Thea stood awaiting them; having come out to look for Roy and found the clue to his prolonged meditations.
"What have you been plotting, you two?" she asked lightly when they reached her. To Roy her eyes said: "D'you call
this being discreet?" To Aruna her lips said: "Graceless one! I thought you were
purdah nashin this evening!"
"So she was," Roy answered for her. "I'm the culprit. I insisted. Some details 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 the better to look down on her. "Nothing on earth can put me off it--except Grandfather. And I know he'll back me up."
"In that case, I won't waste valuable verbal ammunition on you! Come along in--We're going to have music."
But as Roy moved forward, Aruna drew back. "Please--I would rather go to bed now. And--please, forgive, little Mother," she murmured caressingly. For this great-hearted English woman seemed mother indeed to her now.
For answer, Thea took her by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. "Not guilty this time,
piari.[12] But don't do it again!"
Roy's hand closed hard on hers, but he said not a word. And she was glad.
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 supreme moments. They come without flourish of trumpets; touch the heart or the lips with fire, and pass on....
While undressing, an impulse seized her to break her chiragh and treasure the pieces--in memory of to-night. Why trouble Mai Lakshmi with a question already half answered? But, lost in happy thoughts--inwoven with delicate threads of sound from Thea's violin--she forgot all about it, till the warmth of her cheek nestled against the cool pillow. Too lazy and comfortable to stir, she told her foolish heart that to-morrow morning would do quite as well.
But the light of morning dimmed, a little, her mood of exalted assurance. Habit and superstition prevailed over that so arrogant impulse, and the mystic chiragh of destiny was saved--for another fate.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 11: Hail, Mother.]
[Footnote 12: Darling.] _